return to materiality
I rarely finish things. This text might not be an exception. I never had a best or worst day, nor did I ever love or hate someone the most. If I had to relive a moment, I’d probably go back to my childhood summers in Holland. A time I believe to have been sincerely happy and was convinced my family would stay (like that) forever. We’d slurp chocolate yoghurts and build imaginary homes and cars out of people’s junk by the ocean, while mother would sunbathe her naked soft body and read a crime­-something bestseller until her skin had turned crimson like the cover of the book. The brief notion of immortality promised in each of our swollen happy faces. I swear to God I thought we’d live forever then. The cawing of seagulls brings back these particular moments.

I don’t know why I’m afraid of changes. It’s not new beginnings that scare me, just unwanted ends. As a child I loved watching horror movies, but as soon as my father would leave me alone in the car, I’d panic, thinking he’d never return. So I’d run into the shop, or wherever he had gone to, desperately making sure he was still alive. I still love my parents but they make me sad now. I know my mother will die before my father. She is too unhappy and he is too optimistic. She takes too many naps and he takes too many trips. My sister is more like my father, whereas I’m more like my mother. I’m always so goddamn tired. (God, why am I always so fucking tired.) I don’t think exhaustion and tiredness are the same. I’d much rather be exhausted than tired. Like I’d much rather transform than transit. Is that the same?

I look up suicide dates of famous people and try to remember whatever I did at that specific time and day. For the most part I exaggerate or make up my memories. I’m grateful that suicide is accessible to everyone. I’m not sure I’ve ever contemplated suicide. How do you actually know? I’ve had those intangible what­-if-­and-­how-­would-­it-­be moments in restrooms and beds and parties. But is that proper contemplation or a mere fantasy that usually happens with so many other things, too? My mother frequently reintroduces the idea of suicide when she is not feeling too well. Like she’s talking about stomach cancer or something just as involuntary. I doubt she’ll ever kill herself. Sometimes, however, when I look into her pale blue eyes that leisurely seem to fade with purpose, I can’t recognize her frustration anymore and feel anxious. But, really, I doubt she’ll ever kill herself.

Most days I think I’m beautiful. Other days I don’t mind. I’ve only once eaten alone in a restaurant. I prefer individual solitude to social solitude. But I prefer smoking and drinking in company. I try not to bite off my fingernails and skin when I’m anxious or bored. When a nail has been picked too much and blood runs, I’m pissed at myself and promise it’ll be the last time. I’ve promised boyfriends I’ll be faithful more than I’ve promised myself I’ll quit smoking. I break promises to myself. I think most people misunderstand the idea of individuality. I used to feel freest when I’m someone’s possession. Now I don’t know. When I notice people are disinterested in my conversation, I just stop talking. People don’t ask enough questions. Since 2010 I don’t think my mother is the greatest anymore. When I was 18, I got eaten out by a boyfriend for the first time. While my mother took a nap in the bed of my studio apartment, he laid me down on the floor and imperviously pressed his mouth around my pussy and stuck his tongue into me as far as he could. While I pretended to cume in his mouth, my mother came back to being awake and asked if we were ready to go grocery shopping at Whole Foods. I hate the word ‘pussy.’

I miss being loved more than I miss my ex­-boyfriend(s). I’d like to think anal sex is a fetish of mine, but it’s not. I usually swallow cum when I give head. The moment cum enters the mouth and washes down the throat, temporarily covering tongue and everything else in human-­made silk, seems romantic to me. I think intimacy becomes harder with growing older, but caring becomes easier.

When I’m in someone else’s bathroom I sometimes go through their medical cabinet. I’m curious about their pharmaceutical addictions, their condom or tampon size, if they use lubrication or floss their teeth. It’s frightening how many people turn out to be normal. Most people bore me, but I could never survive without them. I wonder if people feel honored when I find them interesting. I enjoy observing them perform everyday tasks. Cleaning dishes, crossing the street, waiting for the train – these are the few incidents where I recognize humans’ vulnerability and become endeared to them. In Fall 2008 I watched a neighbor’s gay gang-bang with a friend. We smoked pot and ate Lucky Charms on my balcony, while two massive cocks entered and exited my neighbor’s asshole. We didn’t really have an opinion, other than cereal being the best night snack. The next day we swear someone got murdered in that very same building.

I think it’s sad how some people have learned nothing. Ballet fucked up my spine but makes me more interesting to men. Nostalgia is my favorite sedative, which is a childish thing to say. I envy the cleaning lady’s purpose from across the street. Most people mistake realism for pessimism. I never know what to say when I’m asked about my favorite color. Is it possible to be indifferent about favorite colors? People think I’ve eating disorders. The kind doesn’t matter. If I could choose the illness they suppose I suffer from, I’d go for anorexia just because the name reminds me of a beautiful young girl. As a child I hated the presumption of always being sick. Now I feel fortunate whenever someone comments on my body being too narrow.

When I’m surrounded by people who talk in abbreviations, I feel special but outdated. I’d say post­-everything is almost always appropriate—a pretentious thing to say. Sometimes when I pass bars and restaurants, I pretend to speak on the phone in languages I don’t speak. My self-­made dialogue mainly consists of catching a plane to nowhere and creating some ridiculous debate about my work. I have only dated beautiful men. I get easily flattered when people think I’m beautiful, but never consider it a compliment. I’ve snorted more cocaine than I’ve smoked joints. Doing bumps in the bathroom or in cabs used to turn me on. I’ve never had a one-­night stand. I prefer perhapses to maybes. Once I let a homeless woman sleep in my apartment. We smoked a few cigarettes and I made her a grilled cheese while she took a shower. I wish someone would invent a synonym for xo, or xx, or x, or o. Isn’t there a nicer way to say goodbye? I appreciate words like ‘blood’ or ‘perversion’ for their dismal, lyrical beauty. When I’m high on cocaine, I tend to give people ‘what­-I­-think-­is-­mature’ advice. I start sentences like “Trust me…” over and over and over again. When I’m high on MDMA I like to hold my friends’ hands and caress my cheekbones until I can’t differentiate anymore where my face starts. I’m often disappointed when meeting someone for the second time. Sometimes I’m moved by the simplicity of a sentence, but can’t explain why. In general I’m bad at explaining things. I don’t think reality is boring nor artifice is really fascinating. I exchange obsessions for new obsessions. I prefer chaos to disorder. I think a mind can disintegrate, but never splinter. I always catch myself using the word ‘always,’ which then I tend to (always) erase.

I’m not surprised when love ends, but (always) disappointed. I’ve abandoned so many bodies that they all seem to have melted into one singular entity. All my relationships have started and ended the same. I like to think convergence is a myth. I don’t feel guilty being German but I’m not proud of it. I wish I’d believe in God like my father does. I don’t believe in tragedy nor in accidents. Fashion magazines make me feel desirable. I don’t mind vulgar language, but it doesn’t turn me on.

I tend to romanticize extremist ideologies, but would never act on them. I need to leave Paris before becoming too spent. I think we are always coming down from something. My sister says I have to learn how to look into people’s eyes when I talk about myself. I wonder if symbolic castration is irreversible like memory. I lament situations that have passed, places that are too far. Sometimes I remember things, and the harder I remember the more I forget. A person who has murdered doesn’t frighten me as much as someone who silently seeks vengeance. I don’t know what it feels like to just be satisfied. I’m always too something. Like I am too hungry, too full, too tired, too motivated, too high, too sad, too excited, too nervous, too hungover, too anxious, too distracted, too in love, too destructive, too lonely, too negative, too nostalgic, too unconditional, too ready to j ust be. I can’t remember the last time I was shocked by something. It often takes me hours to write one logical sentence. I get frustrated when the ideas inside my head don’t come out as they are supposed to. I’m not sure everything I just wrote makes sense. I’ll have expected more from this text.