True Life: I’m Turning Blueish-Green

Note: If you don’t want to read the swing-and-a-miss intro to this entry, skip down to A Letter From A Boy To My Ring.

Today, I am happy.

But now I’m unhappy because I just started a blog saying “Today, I…” which is the #1 indication of a travel blog or a really mediocre journal entry so I’m going to start again.

My copper ring is turning my finger greenish blue. Or blueish green*. I wouldn’t mind that much, except that it’s actually very noticeable depending on how much I sweat during the day. Also summertime rings and watches and swimsuits are only made to be removed. I learned that eye patches weren’t for lost eyes—they were just for sailors to always have one eye dilated in order to see under the (I don’t fucking know any boat lingo, I’m sorry. In the gulley? Galley? Under the deck? In the belly of the boat?). That’s what rings and watches and swimsuits (edit: swimsuit bottoms. Nous sommes en France, n’est-ce pas?) are to me. They guard my reference skin from the bronzing sun so that Summer Me and Winter Me can look at each other and doubt that they’re actually related. Which happens a lot. Green* skin is not good reference skin. Hence, summer rings serve no purpose.

Which brings to me being happy with myself. Winter me is fucking jealous of summer me right now. My tits are tan, my body is less amoeba-y (copyright: YOnTheEnd), and my hair is (almost naturally) blonder than ever. Of course, if I was spending more time with gorgeously slim and perfect françaises, that would probably change. Actually, that would definitely change and does change about 10 times a day for about 30 seconds each. Which I guess happens to everyone.

Bleh. This blog is definitely on the self-serving brain fart side of the brain feces scale. I apologize. I’m turning up the music.

From A Boy To My Ring:

You make me skeptical. Framed by her turquoise skin, you stand out much more than you should. You’re obviously below average. She flips you off too easily. You spin too freely. You change fingers constantly. You’re sizeless and shapeless and precarious. I see the stains on that third finger, but it’s only a temporary home. Her fingers never stop moving you, playing with you, spinning, spinning, spinning. Fucking wish she’d stop spinning you because she’s making me dizzy too. Her eyes are on mine but her fingers are on you. She caresses some memory constantly: You’re just uncomfortable enough for her to find comfort in rolling you over in her subconscious like a wave on the shore. I never wanted to call myself xenophobic, but I’m scared of where you come from. The other day, she thought about taking you off to get rid of the blueish-green hue. But she didn’t go through with it. I think she likes being blue. You and blue rolling over and over in her mind. God I wish I knew where you came from. Your tiny engraved bear mocks my efforts to engage her in conversation. Your inanimate lines will always hold more interest than my fraught compliments. She absentmindedly holds your copper to her lips, tastes your acidity, as she laughs at my jokes and flashes those whitened teeth. Sometimes she tries to hook you like a lip ring or a nose ring, always failing, never minding.

Why doesn’t she give up? Why don’t you roll away? Maybe you also long for that soft skin. Maybe you don’t mind her sweaty palms either. Maybe you love the way she taps you against every surface; you shine at me and tap and laugh and tap and sneer at my frustration. You’re her inner music. You’re her stress control. You’re her ugly habit that she can’t let go of.

One day she’ll be swimming and she’ll forget to remember you as her naked body slips into the ocean. You’ll try to hold on, but silently and gently you’ll slide off that stubby and lovely finger and she won’t even notice. She will go home and wash her naked hands. She’ll check her sandy pockets, her steamy car, her empty bags, and then forget. And when the blue finally wears off, I’ll be there to slip my hand around those fingers that you once walled in.

*Today, I** was with art students discussing the color of Montagne Saint Victoire. It was gray but they said it was either purple or yellow or orange or green. So now I feel like the George Foreman Grill of color perception.

**Shit. I fucking did a “Today, I…” again.


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