Buffy Plays With Demons

Whenever I issue ultimatums to folks I know, demanding that they stop their racist/misogynist/whateverist problematic behavior, I get this sick clench in my stomach. And I know that’s just my socially-ingrained fear of going too far. But I’ll get over it.

And I’m happy ‘cause I’m healthy and ‘cause I’m in the city I love, and I’m happy ‘cause of coffee and meeting cool grrrlz and because RVIVR is playing tonight at Slabtown [[ GO TO THEIR SHOW IF YOU’RE IN PDX !! ]] and I’m happy ‘cause I have nothing to do all day, which means I get to writewritewrite in dreamy/cheerful/lovely seclusion.

My shoulder is blossoming a dark red and violet bruise. Someone walking by asked me what happened. I said, “I made someone cum.”

And on the morning following her birthday, she woke up feeling a little lost.

I want to sing for a band again. And write. I’m going to do both.

I’m out of a place to sleep again. I should be more upset, but honestly, I was so fucking miserable with the weird social climate of my last house, I feel liberated. I spent last night at a friend’s house and had the most pleasant morning — got to walk around barefoot, had a lovely shower, and got to listen to my friend play the most beautiful riffs on his electric. The sun is shining. If only every morning could be so lovely.

This is not a joke. You’re not being at all clever. It’s dark and I’m alone and you’re bigger than I am. Probably stronger. So when you cruise by and say, “Hey baby, you don’t need to call me, I’m already here” and “Your ride’s here, baby girl”, you’re nothing to me but another threat — another obstacle between me and my way home. But you get pissed off because I refuse to laugh. Well, I don’t have to smile. I don’t fucking owe you my goddamn smile. My smile is not some fucking peace treaty between us. Your attempt at humorous flirtation is gross and misplaced. Get lost.

There are nights that I dream — tightly locked up inside the nightmare, sweat-drenched, needle-stabbing dread — that they will find me. That they will follow me home, lie in wait. That I will wake up to being seized, big hands gripping my arms. Weakened and alone. They have found me. The man with the round black sunglasses laughs and laughs. His face looks like a skull, those empty black sockets.

Some days I worry —

— that my luck will run out.

That the group of tall wannabe toughs blocking my path to the bus stop won’t always play nice when I cheekily say, no, I won’t give them sugar, and no, I won’t come back so they can get a better look at the color of my hair. I wish I wasn’t wearing my high heels as I walk away from them.

That the spacey dude with dreads won’t be so pleasant when I sweetly say I won’t accept his number, and no, I am not giving him mine. He says with a smile he will find me at the shop I work at. I let TLC run through my head while pretending I don’t feel queasy dread at the idea of running into him again.

That the fierce stranger won’t be there for me on the MAX, silently lending me strength while I get shit-talked by a 41 year old man. She locks eyes solemnly with me as if saying she will be my comrade if this creep decides to get physical. He insults my nose and my body and calls me racist because I repeatedly refuse to tell him where I live or where I am going. She tells him off. I have gone numb with surprise, realizing I am re-living the shame I once felt in middle school and little white boys used me as their verbal whipping post — a degradation free-for-all. I want to scream: “I’m not even white, you piece of shit! I just don’t want to fuck you!” When she gets off at a stop, he immediately reaches for my hair as the train starts up again. I think of Mia Zapata and shove off his hands, bolting to stand by the nearest exit. He doesn’t pursue me, even looks momentarily confused by how long he has sustained this harassment. I am relieved when he turns his back on me, but then I see him take the small vial out of his coat. I have a very private terror at the idea of acid attacks. Rationally, I realize the likelihood of one is zero, but even if it’s water, I am gone as soon as the MAX doors slide open. I look over my shoulder, to see him suddenly twist and splash the spot where I stood. His timing was wrong. My instincts were right. I got lucky.

Confession: I would love to be one of those perfume counter girls. To be surrounded by such delicious smells and pretty bottles all day, and being able to help someone find the perfect, possibly romantic scent for themselves? Celestial.