My doorman thinks I'm a whore because every Wednesday, a brigade of my drunk friends with no less than three substances in their bodies find their way to room 409. They're not here for sex, or even me, really. Instead, they rummage through my fridge, where I keep popsicles and gelato especially for these nights. They lie on my carpet, petting my stuffed raccoon that I've named after Ratatouille, kicking the foot of my fan with their big toe. They challenge me to a Pitch Perfect Riff-Off and get visibly frustrated when I burst into Me-hee-hee by Taylor Swift. When they're less sober, I'll receive texts in the middle of the night with snippets of a story about jailbreak and bouncers that I'll have to piece together tomorrow. When they're more sober, they'll decide that my fashion choices make complete sense given that I don't have a mirror in my room (I do.). They'll claim that one dinner I had over the summer was a date (it wasn't), and by the look in their eyes I can tell I will never live this down. "I didn't know!" I explain profusely, up in arms even though I know I'm just being provoked. "Yeah, how would you," one of them responds, and perhaps I'm just laughing at everything now but somehow this is the funniest conversation I've ever been a part of. It's midnight, and I have a midterm tomorrow, but this is magic. We say we're only angry when the joke is mean and stupid -- "like, pick a struggle, twin" -- but we're never really mad. And that's part of the magic, too.
Because when I hobble home on an injured back or break down crying at the gym, a car pulls up to the curb and we're driving to our taco joint. Well, ours because the employees know our names and order, not because we own it. But we might as well, the way it's featured in all of our spams and mains over the last six weeks since we discovered it. And when nothing fits right, a second closet magically opens up for me, and the guys sit in the corner throwing vague thumbs ups at us while we loudly compare our chest sizes and make every shirt as cropped and plunging as possible. We don't have to say how much we care, and in fact when I do I'm boo-ed, or, other times, awkwardly fist-bumped. And it is not lost on me that this is unbeautiful and mundane. But nothing is wrong, and I am so completely known, and I am so completely safe, and I am so completely myself. Everything becomes about this; I could've been anywhere, done anything, filled myself to the brim with hatred or ego or lunacy or arrogance and somehow I wound up here, singing Kiss You by One Direction, which is conveniently always on aux. I didn't fill myself up with anything at all, I realize -- there is no identity formation here, no sculpture molded as I slide out of the car. I don't move forward at all, actually... I just drip chili oil down my sleeve and try to catch the cheese sliding down my chin before it makes a mess on my jeans. I just hold your bag while you hold mine and try not to make everything about an inside joke that should be dead by now. I just left my apartment, and walked outside, and looked like a pink highlighter with a backpack on. I remember crying to my sister that, I just don't know who I am, to which she said: "You don't need to. You can still do stuff." Is this what she meant? That I can go to Spain without the swimsuit I wanted, and I can make plans without an occasion to be celebrating, and set goals without it being embarrassing to fail at them. Perhaps more profoundly: I don't have to love myself to love this -- the world I'm surrounded by. After all, what is a beautiful thing? I'm not sure -- but my belly is full, and I've seen the sun, and I've told the truth, and I've touched a living creature, and I've put my pen to paper, and I'm drinking enough water, and I'm giving myself grace (or at least a little rest). When I sit up tall and unclench my jaw, everything feels a little better. I can say a kind thing for me to me. Whatever happens, who do I want myself to be? is hard. But what if it was just this easy? What if it was all okay? Death and taxes, Life and a little help. The only four things I know that will surprise us in their constancy.
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