Why I am Different from Margaret Atwood and What I Don't Gain from Humping Duvets
Me and Margaret
An Evening Not Being Margaret Atwood
I have nothing to show for my evenings humping duvets. Surely Margaret Atwood never spends her evenings humping duvets. When such evenings occur, the nervous-void, anxious-boredom evenings, Margaret Atwood gathers her creativity together and amalgamates familiar objects and universally deep occurrences in order to arrive at stunning and poignant similes. Her similes become poems. Her poems are recited at shrines. Margaret Atwood would not open a bottle of screw top wine and roll up her lime green, turquoise daisied duvet and hump it profusely so that she wouldn’t be horny for her date with a man she has no desire of sleeping with. She does not go on dates with men she doesn’t want to sleep with. She does not live on streets where they forget to pick up the recycling.
I get up from my time with my lime green, turquoise daisied duvet. I decide that I am about as aroused as I can possibly be considering that it is not an extraordinary occasion and that I am not extraordinarily drunk. Once, with François, I ejaculated liquid goo. Then I started crying. Margaret Atwood would not find this very interesting, but it’s the most aroused I’ve ever gotten. And I was too drunk to remember. François never got a chance to ejaculate liquid goo all over me. We were supposed to write a bilingual epistolary novel together, but I told him I was too uninspired. He told me that he didn’t want to hear from me ever again.
My cheek that has pale pink foundation on it appears redder than my cheek without make-up. Once François wrote me a poem in French about kissing my ass cheeks. And I got his cheeks wet like the morning. Maybe one day I will be famous for my ass cheeks. I wrote François a poem about plants and spines and wet roots. It didn’t rhyme. François didn’t like it very much. I am preparing my eyelids with a four part eyeshadow paint-by-number kit by Maybeline. Eye shadow for dummies. Something Margaret Atwood wouldn’t use. There are four squares of different colours. The medium purple square is labelled LID. Light pink is BROW. The CREASE square is dark glittered purple. I have a crease and I am not yet 25. Margaret Awood did not have creases at my age. There’s another dark, brown square that reads CORNER. I don’t bother with the dark brown. If I screw up, I will look obscene.
My mascara comes in two parts too. The wand undoes at both ends. Inside the end marked “step one” there is clumpy white liquid. It is probably thicker than the wet morning goo I watered François with, but I don’t know because I never got to see it. Step One looks more like white out. Liquid paper. Between step one and two, I brush my teeth. I regret this immediately, and pour myself another glass of wine. Margaret Atwood would have more foresight. Step Two is Pro Black. I coat it over the white out. Step One and Two are waterproof. I will look somewhat groomed for at least 72 hours. Or else I will look like somewhat of a racoon. I finish the wine, but do not brush my teeth. Brushing so soon after drinking may cause enamel erosion. My enamel already erodes in my dreams. At nighttime, my teeth collapse. I look in the mirror at my red and pink cheeks and multi-process eyes. Yes, I say. You’re good. You’re drunk enough.
For Margaret Atwood, alcohol is not a remedy for disappointment. Or a pre-buffer for future disappointments. For me, it will never matter if my date and the music and the beer are lame, because I’m drunk. For Margaret Atwood, it will never matter, because she’s Margaret Atwood.
I am reading Cat’s Eye. Once I saw Margaret Atwood, I tell my date. Twice, actually. She was witty. Intelligent. Remarkable.
You’re that smart, too, he assures me. When I look at him, my vagina stays dry.
He says that smoking gives him what I seem to have naturally. An ease of expression. A grace of movement. I feel guilty because I drank 3 glasses of wine before I met with him.
It’s over. I can have cereal, then go to bed. Margaret Atwood would have washed her face before going to bed. She would have flossed and brushed her teeth. I do none of these things. I insert my night guard over my decaying enamel.
I am not compelled to roll up my futon and hump it. I fall asleep quickly. I hope that I won’t smell like beer at yoga tomorrow morning.
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