1986

Let me preface this complaint with an I AM HAPPY, I AM GRATEFUL.
It’s 4 in the morning, 2 minutes into the sleeping pill I finally surrendered to, and I’m angry. Angry because I have to be awake, afraid that some pervert clown is going to bust into my apartment and strangle me. “Pourquoi?” vouz me demandez. The top five reasons I can fathom are 1) I watched Gangs of New York tonight 2) Mademoiselle Galmiche is absent for her first and possibly last night (I know, I should be dancing around, slapping my cheeks with aftershave, I know. Feeding city pigeons, I know). 3) the flashing, 4) my family of cats who, in the haze of late night, sound and smell very human indeed. And then again, 5) the fucking flashing.
Tonight I covered my golden locks with a hijab and ran my broken body home. My perspiration, dry heaving, and full-body heartbeat put me at about 6.2 mph (not to toot my own horn, but fear brings out my 12 year-old star athlete). Though impressed by my swiftness, it sucked. When did I stop looking 14 and start looking old enough to be flashed? Is getting flashed all it takes for me to want a big hairy boyfriend with a gap in his teeth and a baseball bat to rock me to sleep? Oh, here come the drugs. Oh yes. I take it all back. Daniel Day-Lewis. I take it all back.