Context

I'm not Violet. Not anymore.

So, anyway.

Yeah.

So, anyway, here's something. Your eyes see everything, except themselves.

Do you know what it is to live inside a context?

Most of you don't. You don't even know what a context is, or that everything you do is inside a context, and that context that you chose.

What is a context?

It's nothing, and it's everything. You think it's the air you breathe. No, you never think about your context, just like you never think about breathing the air. It just is.

Just like everything. And you have no idea, don't you. I know.

So, every statement you make, just think this: 'context.'

"Oh, that's just the way I am."

Context.

"Oh, I'm too fat. I'm too skinny. I'm not smart like you. I had a bad childhood. I'm too young. I'm just a girl."

Context.

"I want to die. I hate myself. What a shitty day!"

Do I need to write it?

Yes, I do: context.

And why? Well, that's my context. And I see yours, God do I see yours, so clearly, in everything you write to me and in everything that you don't. Hey, get real, I know you're reading this, and you're breathing, and you're not reaching out to me, and why?

"Oh, I have nothing to say to her. Oh, I'm scared of her. Oh, I'm much too busy with my life. Oh ..."

And here's the funny thing (context) ... there is no such thing as context. Does a tree sprout leaves because it's 'Spring'? Does a cougar pounce on her prey and fuck the shit out of her all night long because "that's the way things are, and that's how I am, and damn she looks cute with her shy looks and I really need a good fuck from a sweet little thing like her"?

... oh, ... um, oops! Mixing up my contexts a bit there. Sorry.

So, um, back on track (context) ... you have no idea that you see your whole life, what you 'can' do and what you 'can't' ... how things 'are' and how they 'aren't' ... your whole life though a context. And the context doesn't even exist.

A panther doesn't prowl around a context. A little mouse doesn't hop around the context in the barn. You don't cross the street and trip over a context and fall flat on your face.

Life. It's all empty and meaningless. It's just there. It exists. But we, us, me, we're meaning-making machines (context) and so we have to explain and then we believe our explanations and then we live not our life and in the world; no, we live, trapped inside a context we constructed to explain why suddenly everything went to shit when we were one or two years old and we suddenly realized there's a 'me' and there's this whole, big dangerous world out there populated by mean people who want to hurt us.

It all means nothing (context) and even nothing means nothing (context).

Don't you see?

No, you don't. Not for the most part. You just buy it all and live your life according to the rules that everybody else lives their lives to, and why? Because they're scared, and you bought into it just because everybody else did, too.

And then you say, 'Oh, but I see my context now.'

Nice try.

Can your eyes see your eyes? No.

I've seen my context twice in my life. Both times I ended up on the floor. One time they carted me away.

You can't see your context. You have to be outside yourself to do that (context) ... and good news (ha!) once you see it, it's no longer context, because now it's something, not nothing, so now it's content, not context, and guess what, what framed your life that you now see? ("Oh, that's a frame!" or, more honestly: "I've been framed!") Well, now that's framed in your new context of 'Oh, I'm enlightened now. I'm not gonna live my life like that anymore, 'cause now I see it.'

So you carry around your enlightenment, totally oblivious to the fact that you just stepped out of one frame, by seeing it, and into another, much, much deeper one. Once you see a context, it disappears as context.

So ... but then that disappears, and now you live oblivious again, or you have to look so much harder, and then it just gets harder and harder and harder, disappearing these contexts, these superstitions (context), and finding yourself unanchored, adrift, until ... bingo a new context establishes itself (by you selling yourself to it!) and you are once again safe and sound in your nice little prison cell.

(context)

Breathe in. Context. Breathe out. Context.

So, I quit my job.

What does that mean to you?

You instantly made it mean something, didn't you? And you invented this whole story around it. And you reacted, instantly, feeling deeply and with conviction about it.

Didn't you.

Or you went numb. Or you didn't care. Or anything.

So, I turned in my mini green apron, and the sun still burns in the heavens. Does the Sun care? No. The Sun exists.

So you wanna know why I quit my job?

So, St. Paddy's day, and I was all ... panthery. As I shared. But I didn't tell you why I was giddy.

So I'll tell you now.

So, there's this girl.

Yeah.

(context)

And, well, okay, let's call her Traci, and she's short and sweet and blond and you know how some people wear jeans? Various ways? Like classy or frumpy or ... so fucking hot that I just wanna peels those off and fuck the bejesub out of her look?

Yeah.

And she was ... not really my type, I thought, and she wasn't really interested in me 'cause she had her boyfriends, that she brought with her into sbux. sometimes more than one, and not serially, all the time anyway. And she had her life and I had mine and we never expressed interest in either. Not my type.

For a lot of reasons. (context)

And, anyway, I'm not stupid. I'm not supposed to shit where I eat.

So why do they have little girls' rooms at sbux?

And why do people who say 'I'm not stupid' only say that when they are so fucking stupid you just want to end them before they hurt themselves and everybody around them more?

"I'm not stupid, I can control my habit."

"I'm not stupid, it's just a date."

"I'm not stupid, I drive better with a few drinks in me anyway."

So, I'm not stupid, and she made her contempt of me very well known. And I don't date coworkers. I don't share my life. I don't anything. I go to work. I smile. I go home. I sleep. I go back to work. blah-blah-blah.

So, yeah.

So, on St. Paddie's day, Traci is suddenly sweet ... but to me and ... interested. You know? Friendly.

And I'm like WTF?

But I couldn't help being flattered, you know? I mean, okay, here I go, this stuck up bitch who thinks she's better than (boy, `phfina, take a good look in the mirror as you say that) is suddenly friendly, and you know ... well, I know when I'm on the hunt, and I know when I'm being hunted. I'm not stupid, as I've said.

And I was very flattered. And ... needy. And lonely, and if I could just have somebody in my arms, holding me, at night, maybe I wouldn't be crying myself to sleep praying for God to take me. Just maybe tonight would be different, you know?

And ... it's been a while and I needed a good, hard fuck. (context) and I was ready for ... well, a very cute, young blonde to ...

And what the fuck is it with me and blondes, for God's sake? Or is it because, like with every other girl (yes, I'm a slut), that her eyes lit up when she looked at me with interest and I just wanted to feel alive next to somebody who's alive.

But I'm not stupid. And I don't shit where I eat. Or work. Or live. Or whatever.

But then, you know, she asked what I was doing after work, and then she offered to go out for some food and drinks at an Irish pub. And I was like, 'um.'

And then she said the magic words, 'I'll pay.'

And she could have asked for my liver then, and I would have carved it out and handed it to her. Ice pack would be nice but optional.

So she was fishing, and she caught me, all right. And she said some other stuff about knowing a good pub and she'd drive and all that but I was like...

Okay, I was already making plans and schemes, and they were not sweet, chaste ones, either. I was gonna fuck the living daylights out of this girl. Gift horses, and all that. I was not asking questions.

You know, every time (context) I say to myself, 'oh, things are looking better' or 'I'm on top of the world.' or 'I haven't had a drink in two weeks' ... every time it all just goes to shit. I should, you know, have learned by now and brace for the bottom to fall out, but no. I was on top of the world, a panther with her prey, and I was so gonna ...

Well, anyway.

The night was going swimmingly, and I was all excited to be going into a pub with this social butterfly and she was my social butterfly tonight (so that meant (context) that I wasn't this lonesome loser ... not tonight, anyway).

And then I got an email from a friend who read my post and she asked 'should you be drinking?'

'Should you be drinking?' How did that make me feel? All empowered and shit?

I got fucking smashed. Starting right after I closed that email. Started with beer to go along with the fish and chips, but the mug kept getting empty.

Traci was impressed. She kept refilling my mug, looking very ... proud? ... pleased? ... smug?

And then she said something about ordering something special, and I was like, dessert?

And she smiled and asked the waiter what Scotches they had.

And she turned to me and smiled and asked, 'Your favorite is the Glenlivet, right?'

And I was like ...

I have a really good memory, you know. And it's not that I don't remember what happened, it's like when things get ... out of control, off the track, I get ... confused. I lose track of my body. I lose track of what's going on, and who says what, and what I'm doing.

I know I asked her about what she meant or how she knew. No, I can't ask that, right? Because she can't know, right?

And she said, and I remember this very clearly, "I know a lot about you ... Melissa."

And I felt like I was punched. Nobody at work knows that name. My name is 'violet' the color of my eyes. not ... not that. omg does she know brenda and ... omg i started getting very, very sick i couldn't feel anything and ...

But that wasn't the punch, because then she said, "Or should I call you `phfina?"

I know some things happened. I know I got up from the table. And I know I threw some money down. I know I was walking very quickly toward the door. I had to get away. I heard my name being called. but i didn't know what name it was and if i answered would i be caught? i had to get out.

And I was putting my keys to my car door, but my car was different and my keys didn't fit.

And Julia took my keys from me, as she always did when I get all drunk and invincible, and she drove me home, with me just swirling in the stew, saying how hard im gonna fuck her when we get home and she said 'you're really drunk'

... kindly, like Julia, but pityingly, not like Julia. And I laughed and Julia carried me back to my apartment, but don't we live together and she dropped me onto the bed.

And then, I remember me saying 'c'mon' and I tried to pull her down with me, but then it got really fuzzy after that. And I remember just really snarling and humping and crying and sleeping.

I don't remember getting to the 'oplz! ogod! ofuck!' part.

And then I woke up. And it was late, late, oh, my fucking God, 9 am late, I'm so screwed late.

And there was a pillow between my legs. And I tried to piece together what happened.

And I did. All that happened. And I fell asleep, fucking my pillow. And I didn't even cum.

I fuck so boring, I put myself to sleep.

(context)

And I'm fucking late to work. And ... Traci knows. How?

Well, it's not like I don't check my phone, like, every 30 seconds, and oh, so discreetly, too.

Loser.

But eyes see what eyes see, and some people are curious as to why the quiet girl who doesn't have a life or boyfriends is always checking her email on her phone, checking her stories, checking her fanfiction that she's just published and waiting so desperately for the reviews and being so elated when they do.

No, I'm not a crack ho addict. I'm worse. (context)

So Traci was curious. Bicurious? Or did she want to have some fun? Or ...?

You know: Jesus knew what the nails would feel like before they drove them into his hands.

That drive to work was the worst in my life.

And then the walk of shame into the sbux. But everybody was cool. Cool as a cucumber, so I thought maybe, *whew*, she didn't blab, and I got to work.

... and then.

This ... kid ... he slides up to me and asks casually, "So, did you pat your kitty last night, ... `phfina?"

And.

So, okay.

So, what do I do when I'm confronted. I run. I run hard. I run fast. I run far. (context)

So, what did I do?

You know I wish I was a girl who could scream at the top of her lungs, 'Suck my dick!' and throw a chair through the window. I mean, Natalie? Fuck. I would kiss her feet as she was kicking my, and everybody else's, ass.

But I'm not. (context)

I'm just a ... oh, `phfina, fill in the slots: fucking scared of her own shadow little cvnt with delusions of her own significance. So what did I do. I stopped. And I looked at my life going forward. And I said, okay, they know, and they can tease me now when I post, and I'll get snide little comments, so what? I can rise above. Be the mature one. Show I'm a good sport about it.

But really ... living my life like that? Putting on this pretense that everything's okay, and I'm okay with being the ... God! I don't know, silly little girl with her silly little thoughts and her oh-so-queer-gay-fag-lezzy ...

No. I could pretend I'd be fine, but really why live that life?

I took off my apron and turned it in, and I left. Right then. That ... okay: fucking kid looked stunned and said he was only kidding but ...


I didn't look at Traci. I didn't look at any of them. I just left.

Then I got in my old beater and drove and drove and drove around the beltway and ended up at this ritzy strip mall and went to a Baja Fresh and it was Friday so I ordered the fish, and I sat down with my diet coke and started eating, and I nearly choked when I realized the irony of what I was eating.

I was eating a fish taco.

Little lezzy `phfina packs her own lunch of fish tacos. Well, she has leftovers, you know, from last night's stunning success!

And then after I wolfed down lunch and got out of there before people started pointing at me and laughing I got into my car and wouldn't you know it wouldn't turn over.

Towed. My beater. To 'my' repair shop. ... then the bill. oh, my god. and I don't have a paycheck to cover that.

So now what?

Well, I've been taking the bus. I've been going to parks. I've been reading poetry.

Well, Saga's ... concerned. What am I going to do now? Am I going back to school? Am I going to get another job?

But why? I mean: school? jobs? Why do you go to school? Why do you have a job?

Because everybody else does. Because they need money. Do you know what money is? Money is paper that everybody else says you need. So you buy into that lie. It's just paper. It's just a job or school and you're gonna spend every waking hour doing something everybody else does because everybody else does it?

Do you know how long I worked at that sbux? What do I do now? Work at another one?

I don't know about your area, but in the D.C. area the sbux are incestuous. Everybody knows everybody else, and with Traci, ever-popular Traci, knowing about me ... well, she has friends. And they have friends.

Friends. Must be nice to have. (context)

So not sbux. Not around here. So, another job? With a degree in what? and can you spell that please? and it's all greek to me, har-har-har! and can you type and do you mind if I fuck you up the ass as you're typing, 'cause your my secretary-bitch, I mean administrative assistant ho, and how bad do you want this entry level job and are you a cute little thing ... are you interning from high school? I like interns.

Yes, I know no jobs are like that, it's not the 50's anymore, but so I'd be somebody's fetch me some coffee girl and didn't I just leave that job?

You know, Nana put up my Mensa certification on her wall. Before she died. One of my aunts saw it and was looking at it. She told me her husband, my uncle, is in mensa, too, but they didn't put up a certificate. Nobody does in our family.

That's when I found out Pepe said that Mensas are too smart for their own good and can't keep jobs.

And kill themselves.

Pepe was never in Mensa. He worked all his life. He was a contributing member of society. Not a burden on it.

He killed himself when I was a baby. Put a bullet through his head after he was partially paralyzed from a stroke. Didn't want to be a burden on society.

Like I am.

(context)

So what am I going to do now?

I read (yeah: 'read,' aren't you just so fucking la-di-dah and hoity-toity!) that a family homesteaded out west. Marked out a plot of land on a National Park and renamed themselves John Smith and Apple Blossom. So here was the part where I was going to walk out into the forest, like I so wanted to do this past Christmas, and keep walking until I can't anymore. And lie down. And close my eyes.

And, unlike Bella, not be found, and not name myself 'violet' anymore, 'cause I'm not violet anymore. Apple Blossom? Cute name. Maybe I'll go for cute this time. 'Cute' doesn't get you into trouble like 'smart' does.

(context)

That would last all of what? Three seconds? And then I'd be on the run again, when they find out. Like at school. Like not at the hospital, or else I'd still be there, probably lobotomized.

So maybe I'll walk the Appalachian Trail. Dad was so pleased to meet a man wearing a 'I walked the Appalachian Trail' who actually did just that. I'd like Dad to be proud of me.

For something, anyway.

Or maybe I'll bike to Pittsburgh. The Allegheny trail goes straight there.

I would need a bike to do that, though, wouldn't I.

You know Dad rescues bikes from land fills? He fixes them up and ships them, by the hundreds, to Africa?

He was in the newspaper and everything, along with my uncle who went there and drilled wells for water.

This is the part where I'm supposed to say something affirming, like how this break from work actually is good for me, and how I'm discovering things about myself and the world.

But I'm tired now. So tired. And ready to continue crying into sleep.

This was supposed to be an object lesson on how contexts are pervasive and how the run how we live our lives. I think it succeeded there, pretty well, but I'm not overjoyed at my success.

Oh, did you get from this part that I have a girlfriend and I, without a second's hesitation, planned a rendez-vous with somebody else? This is where I own up to that. It's not at all what you were expecting, Saga, is it? She thought I left sbux out of care and concern for the girl. Saga thinks way too much of me. It's definitely a better story than what actually happened.

What actually happened is that I got my hopes up and my puss tingly, got shit-faced drunk, got exposed, just like my fucking dream, and walked out, with my head held high as I ran away squeak-squeak-squeak with my tail between my legs, 'cause I'm a scared, sad little (full of) shit.

So what now?

I have absolutely no fucking idea. Move back in with Mom? "Oh, hi, Brenda ... and Cate ... and Julia ... and ..."

Nice idea, except for all the 'oh, hi,' awkward moments that would turn, oh, my God, I'm gonna die if one word slips out. I have an idea: let's have an ex-girlfriends convention and invite Mom. Bookclub meeting anyone? And then they'd take out their portfolios and compare notes, looking at me and giggling occasionally, and maybe pass out numbers, for electroshock or revenge/hate smex or please-come-back smex, or ...

Fuck.

I can't go home. I can never go home, 'cause home is different now, and so am I.

I can't go back. So I have to (context) go forward. But forward into what? The dawn?

Time for some sleep. Good night, moon.