Something happened on Christmas where I got broken (in a good way.) It wasn’t when my mom told me in the car that I act on things and always have to prove myself (to men, say)and that I don’t have the ability to just let things be. “You? Just let things stand?” Like, “You? Find someone with a dick MORE massive than mine?” (Ohhhh, but that’s not a nice thing to say.) Feels bad I don’t plan on children or don’t think about husband-fairies. Us surprising each other. That wasn’t what broke me, though.

Nor was it when my brother walked into the room to find me on the couch, him rolling his eyes, sorry for what he was about to tell me. “Mom wants you to stop writing and come and sit with everyone else.” Eyes looking off to the corner – borrowing face expressions of mine. Not happy to be a messenger with bad news. i was done with indulging anyone. All i wanted from this xmas (which started at 6 a.m, with fat, with talking of the past and dead relatives and with how it felt like 10 p.m. for the past five hours) was to AT LEAST write something good. That wasn’t it, either.

Nor was it when she shuffled in saying “you brought your laptop?” I might have to use it later.” (Well, flip me over while my pants are down to my ankles, why doncha?) (And… that wasn’t it either.)

It was when I came out and sat with the happy people (not jealous, just observing) around the kitchen table. OH! by the way… my Massachusetts cousins are gorgeous. I mean that in all ways. And this house is like a Wedding Crashers house and dinner was everything except a grandmother saying BIg Dyke. Well, it was just pretty, is what i mean. So. I rejoin the living almost done with the necklace i was working on, talking to my uncle about Frank Capra WWII movies when he pops a mini pretzel into his mouth and yells down to my brother: “How was the shower?” Raffi nods, his arms crossed awkwardly over his stomch. A deep voice “Awesome.” “You didn’t see any clowns staring at you through the window, didja?” IT WAS GREAT. FUCKING HYSTERICAL. I threw the kitchen table across the room, cheering – all the Round Two xmas snacks flung against the wall – banging on my chest for that fucking breath of fresh air. (not really.) CLOWNS! outstanding! How we managed to make it to Clowns, i’ll never know. Bravo.

Who hates clowns? Everyone. Not me, i say. Being that one person who says “OH, i LIKE the rain” when everyone’s upset that it’s, ya know, raining. (analogy.) Maybe I am afraid, though. He says, “A woman in a hospital asked the nurse to please take that clown statue out of the room, when she replied, ‘WHAT clown statue?'” Turns out it was a patient from the Psychiatric Ward who came into her room at night.” THAT SCARED ME. Psychiatric Clowns. Crazy Clowns. But i won’t say anything. I woke up at 5 a.m. Day after Christmas. Dark. I forgot where I was. I didn’t see my usual alarm clock in my room. Then I realized i was in my cousin’s room. And that, I dunno, maybe, there might be a clown standing in the corner. Ok, if there WAS a clown in my room, how loud could I scream? My cousin wasn’t in there and Ill just remind myself he’s just a normal guy named Ben or Roger who just needs to feel pretty with makeup once in a while.

I liked being shaken. I needed it. ‘Cause so far it’s been being put down and bored then flipped over and mindfucked and lending my laptop to people who snore loudly next to me on a couch where my self-conscious brother widens his eyes for me to nudge her awake slightly cause everyone else is quietly watching the movie. They were like softer nudges… Cause that’s what i do – I CARE/WORRY, ya know? Sonofabitch.

What the clown scare DID do was teach me how to appreciate all the people around, who WOULD come and protect me, should they hear screaming or a mini rumble in the next room.


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