Say the things you’re not supposed to say. Sit there and spew them out. Choking on chunks of word vomit while messy they smear all across this current social situation which was, up until this moment, clean and devoid of the nihilistic truth telling that has suddenly sat up and choked a lot of joy out of these passing moments.
You smile. Being the one who has said all those terrible things. Bomb dropping them on dinner conversations with the nonchalance of an uninformed drone pilot playing video games. Sit back and marvel at the destruction.
Be a fucking bitch. Smile. Be sadistic. Make your mother cry. Make the cashier at Whole Foods cry. Shock everyone in this room into changing there heretofore nonexistent impression of you from innocuous to calculating. Filters are for fuckers who know too much weakness.
“Yeah, I lost my virginity way before my older sister,” I say to my mother as we sit at this nice table and this nice restaurant drinking nice wine which I fully plan on paying for.
“What?” She’s drunk, so she probably isn’t going to process it as much as she would if she were more about her wits and sober.
“Oh, you know…”
“What? How old were you?”
“Oh, you know, in high school.”
“Who? Who was he?”
“Oh, some boy. From Berkeley High.”
“Did I know him?”
“Um, maybe, I don’t know.”
I really have no idea why I say these things. They just…come out. Like a silent compulsion metastasizing through my daily interactions with perfectly normal, thoroughly content people who don’t need to know about the inner workings of my post-abuse mind state, but, alas. Here we are. And there I am. Saying something stupid again.