Plural Singular
Y (the girl I hooked up with) just got the word psychedelic tattooed, probably in Helvetica Neue, with a realistic blue mushroom above it. I had to compliment her. It was cute, looked real, but insufferable to stare at. I can’t imagine how bad the color will look once it fades. She basically bought a birthmark; now I’m tethered to her story every time someone asks about it. Every time I see a blue mushroom, I think of her. A host-parasite relationship. It got worse when the blue in her tattoo matched the cocktail I ordered, blue Daiquiri served in a bird-shaped glass that looked exactly like old Twitter. She booked two nights at a four-star hotel so we could gorge ourselves on the buffet during the day. I kept getting distracted by the background music, wondering who curated the playlist, who decided what fits the taste of the average guest. Was playing Take Five by Minoru Muraoka a carefully chosen, brand-consistent gesture? What if they accidentally queued up coworker music or today’s news channel? We were too drunk to even call a cab. Still, I was impressed with myself; despite all my recklessness, I’ve never lost my phone, nor my direction home either. A lot of wands, coins, and The Devil have recurred in recent tarot spreads, suggesting difficult decisions, the ongoing burden of craving more. It’s tiring: working double yet still unemployed. I came across a line from Baudrillard: “we still have the rights to unemployment!” [1] with an exclamation mark. I found that funny in a targeted way. I touched her upset face, ran my fingers through her hair, reminded her not to leave hickeys on my neck, only where they couldn’t be seen. I hate being asked about marks like that, hate explaining. The idea of any part of me belonging to her unsettled me.
Sometimes I think I’m a little homophobic toward myself. We were playing a drinking game with her friends: a typical finance bro and a nepo baby (a predictable match). I could smell their thick designer fragrances, influencer knock-off aesthetics. They all start to blend together; put them on a conveyor belt, I wouldn’t know who was who. The guy kept staring at me during the game; it made my skin crawl. I’m used to being looked at (people stare all the time) but he had the look of someone who thought he could “make me straight.” Too many questions, too much interest. Maybe that’s just what passes for small talk, how “normal” people communicate. I was repulsed by what I saw, what I thought. She told the couple I was her wife to dodge the inquisition, spun some story about a secret marriage in France, a divorce in Taiwan. I liked her more for this. Honestly, that’s the only part that brings me comfort. Y ranted about hating her well-paid job at TikTok, then confessed couldn’t stop dead-scrolling every day. She gossiped about dramatic colleagues I’ll never meet, as if I was supposed to remember their names. I nodded (I’m a good listener) but it felt like a form of domestic abuse when the whole world is orbiting around extroverts. She went on about future travel plans, 8cm Valentinos that made her toes bleed, a new obsession with cooking, finally a lecture on freedom and burnout. The urge to escape crept back in. I couldn’t help wishing I was my ex’s cat.
She smells like Gucci Guilty. So I forgive her.
I must admit, the Mont Blanc cake at the buffet was incredible, made even better by the fact that she paid for it. I was curled up in her arms in the lounge, but I didn’t feel her arm, just needing something to lean on temporarily. She had sensed it from the start.
But she never knew I’m actually lactose intolerant.
Street lights flickering on the window, I’m back at the McKittrick Hotel, walking into a dim-lit room, half-awake in Sleep No More. Sitting in the passenger seat, perhaps the radio playing nostalgic music set the scene. Instead of masks, I held the eight of spades in my hand, a healer card, they said. The desire to be admired and prestigious, known for sacrificing loved ones in a drive to get things done. I was looking for someone to show me the way. Like the masked actors in the show: silent, exact, all-knowing. I made a promise to myself: no more tarot readings on YouTube. They’ve stopped being convincing. I need the real deal, the private ones that I have to pay for. I know that she lives close by; we ended up hanging out quite often during my holidays in town. But, we never talked after I flew back to where I live now. She just keeps liking my posts, stories, no DMs, no comments, nothing. I cannot look into her eyes, those with artificial lash extensions. Her self-proclaimed pop star style rejected any smooth talk. No space for truth, only the aura and mystery. What we left were some voice messages, unread. My father texted me at 2:30 A.M. on (another) Saturday. I'm more awake than ever. “We don’t have time for your fantasies, so let’s deal in reality. You keep insisting you’re capable, but where is the proof? You talk about being compatible with others, but you can’t even sustain yourself. Confidence without evidence is arrogance, and that’s all I see. If you can’t live on your own, then you deserve the weight of your failures. Don’t mistake this for selfishness, I simply refuse to carry dead weight. At your age, I was already independent, already valuable. That’s your greatest flaw: you’re not. Until you stop expecting the world to tolerate your weakness, you will remain nothing more than a liability.” 2 hours later, he sent me some money, with one message: get your shit together but don’t expect help, period. Okay Boomer! What a strategic approach to motivation, carrot and stick, huh? I’ve learned my lesson. He hasn’t sent a single message since, not even in the family group chat. It’s a challenge to weigh whether his absence bothers me more, his sudden appearance, or his response with one smile emoji after I sent him a long, perfectly punctuated paragraph.
[1]Jean Baudrillard, The Transparency of Evil: Essays on Extreme Phenomena (Verso, 1993).