I pranced in place while I waited for the elevator at midnight. Heels in one hand and five hundred dollars in ones in the other. My cheap makeup was slightly smeared across my lips. I always hated the walk of shame, but for me, it was nothing more than an occupational hazard.

“Dang it!” I cursed. “When is the elevator going to get here?”

“Try cursing some more.” A man behind me suggested. “I’m sure that’ll make it come faster.”

“Sorry,” I muttered.

The man walked up next to me.

“So, why are you up this late?” I asked.

“Stress-induced insomnia.”

“Oh.”

“And you?”

I smirked and gestured to my assemble. “Take a guess.”

He hesitated in his answer. “You’re a… sexual-type worker?”

“Stripper. I’m a stripper. Just got off from a late night bachelor party. It’s okay to say it. I know who I am.”

“If you’re so self assured, can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Why do you do it?”

Rolling my eyes, I held up the wad of cash. It’s not like I’ve haven’t heard this question a million times before. “Why else?” I remarked.

“No, I mean, why this? Why not go to college and get a degree? Find a—no offense—respectable job?”

“Academics were never really my thing. Not point in going thousands into debt for something I’m not really passionate about.”

“That’s fair.”

I turned to him. “So what about you?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“And you actually like a stiff job like that?”

The man shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced around. “Not really. No.”

“Then, why do you do it?”

He blankly looked at me. “I—I don’t quite know.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what.” I offered, picking up a hotel pen from a nearby coffee table. Setting down my heels, I wrote a number on his arm.

“Let me guess, if I’m ever in the mood, I can call you to… ‘make it better’?”

“Yes.” I confirmed. “If you’re ever in the mood for a different job, you’ve got a pretty face that’ll work wonders for you.”

The man stayed silent, not sure if my words were a joke or sincere. Unfortunately, the elevator didn’t give him any time for an answer as it dinged open. “See you later, love.” I called out as the doors closed behind me.

It was maybe a week later he called. Asking for a new life. Funny, he’s the third guy I know who had a catharsis about his life by talking to a stripper. Fourth if you count the one with the prostitute.

“Walk of Shame” by P!nk

Blurred lines falling

misty eyes bright

holding your hand

staying silent,

open my eyes

turn away

afraid to speak up

or go away

I know they don't like me

I know they don't like you

I know they don't like us

But do you like me?

I'm too scared to ask

Leave me here

but never let me go

I'll be home

one day,

I'll wake up,

one day,

I won't be afraid.

----------------------

Song: Afraid - The Neighbourhood

I’m dragged back into the day

I knew you were someone special to me.

Goosebumps erupt in my ribcage

And my teeth attach themselves to my lip

And my head begins to spin again.

It was nice, being special to someone,

Though the song isn’t about us at all.

Nothing romantic, nothing special.

It’s why I’m attached to it and to you

Honestly, because I liked the casual thing

But with gossamer strings of budding interest.

Starting to get comfortable, starting to be used to

Waking up to someone waiting and sleeping

Knowing someone would be mad if I didn’t.

Distractions in class, difficulty with paying attention

Because the other was so damn captivating,

Drinking like it was a party than a funeral.

But it’s a funeral now, and the song is on

And my bottle is nearly empty once again.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

LA CANCIÓN (The Song by J. Balvin and Bad Bunny)

translated to English, but I can put a link to the original one

[Bad Bunny]

I thought I already forgot you

But I heard the song

That we sang so drunk

That we danced so drunk

We kissed each other very drunk

I thought I already forgot you

But I heard the song

That we sang so drunk

That we danced so drunk

We kissed each other very drunk

I thought I already forgot you

[J Balvin]

Just when I believed

That by making love to others, I would forget you

I took a breath and didn’t pay attention

And like a fool, I didn’t know what I was doing

I never got over it, I never got over you

I even learned all the ballads in English

I breathed and counted to three

You’re the dark fantasy of Kanye West, baby, hey

Long ago the cheap thing left me expensive

I just tweet, crazy bullets shot

How can we forget the times we had sex in the car?

What did he lead alone?

[Chorus]

I thought I already forgot you

But I heard the song

That we sang so drunk

That we danced so drunk

We kissed each other very drunk

I thought I already forgot you

But I heard the song

That we sang so drunk

That we danced so drunk

We kissed each other very drunk

I thought I already forgot you

[Bad Bunny]

And I have not thought about you for a long time

But I’ve already had a couple of beers

And I remembered how you kiss me

Of all the orgasms you had on the table

And in the car, the beach, the motel

In your dad’s house, when I was going to see you

The times that your mom found us making love

You jumping on me with your Chanel clothes

I know that ours is over

And it makes me happy that you’re doing well with another

I didn’t miss you nor did I want to see you

But I heard the song that you liked so much

And I remembered you, when you made me happy

It’s over, then, I went I laugh at myself

[Chorus]

I thought I already forgot you

But I heard the song

That we sang so drunk

That we danced so drunk

We kissed each other very drunk.

A casual look to the side, she's approaching.

Quick, put on a smile.

Good morning, how's your day?

The words matter not;

They're just to cope with the shared experience of life.

Laugh at her story, it's easier than making observation.

Interaction over. Whew, made it through another one.

The worst of it is over.

Or, not. Surprise!

A casual conversation takes a sharp turn.

Time to contribute. Maybe it's time for a story.

Stories always placate. The more personal the better.

It's not time for desperation. An intimate story of success it is.

Are they placated yet?

Say something to end this interaction. Anything to hide.

Being human, like any other endeavor, can be streaky.

Just remember: don't overact. That's a little too human.

To say that I don't feel human is a bit of a misstatement. It's not really a feeling, but more an observation. I observe the action, emotion, personality of others. They're all easily replicated, yet an actor is never truly the subject they interpret. In this sense, it would be easy to mistake the outward appearance of humanity one might detect as their gaze fell upon me. I would, however, caution one to not make the mistake of concluding that lacking humanity is inhumanity. There are no cruel concoctions, malicious motivations. Just the emptiness of a sweet breeze whipping about the open ocean.

Self-hatred is like the rot on a log that has been floating in a river for far too long and is close to breaking apart and separating forever. It's like a termite that eats at an old house, chewing through a beam that once destroyed will bring the entire house collapsing down. It's a disease, a monster, a creature that never dies but only grows and grows and grows until you can't see a single thing about yourself besides flaws and ugly traits.

Self-hatred festers when left unchecked, but in its duality also gnaws at you when you do your best to ignore it. It's a jail-cell made of mold and tiny insects that bite at your toes and nip at your skin until everything about you is ugly, and you don't have a single redeeming quality. Through that jail-cell people may try to break you out, may try to show you that your cell isn't really a cell at all, but an open room in which one can flourish. But you know the truth, the truth that your hatred towards yourself has shown you; that there is no hope for you anymore, no matter who tries to convince you otherwise.

You are ugly. You are stupid. You are undesirable and selfish and a waste of space. What good are you alive if the world would be better off with you dead?

And that, my friend, only touches the surface of what self-hate is.

It’s a sick joke to call it an emotion, but disconnection is my least favorite feeling. Detachment, distance, and disinterest from the goings-on of the world.

My mentor teacher, a couple years older than my parents, had me over for a couple beers one afternoon. He, like me, is a Catholic who lost faith. A cluster of finches hopped about the yard, searching for food while we sat on his patio. “Look at them,” he said. “No thoughts at all, just following instinct like they’re part of huge computer program.” For a few moments, his worldview slipped into his larynx and came out in casual conversation, and it was cold. I knew the man just a little bit better, and I loved him all the more for it.

For my own part, I delight in birds. Most of the time. But when I feel disconnected, they are merely the irrelevant automatons my friend saw, and people are little more. They go through motions I cannot understand for all their predictability, and that I cannot influence. They hold no wonder. My attempts to help them, or teach them, or love them are meaningless because we all belong to the same void. This is the feeling of disconnection: nihilistic ennui.

Kafka wrote, “A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside of us.” I’ve found that’s only half right for me. A book can warm the currents and make them flow rapidly, but when my sea is truly frozen, books do not break it apart. They take too much interpretation and require me to draw on emotion I do not then feel. Movies and music work best for me, preferably ones I feel strong attachment to and know well, because I’ll be on autopilot for the first while. Vertigo, American Beauty, Ikiru. The Smashing Pumpkins album Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness works well, perhaps because it’s so overtly emotional in its swings from melancholy to nostalgia, anger, love, joy. I don’t feel like putting it on, but I do anyway because I’ve learned it helps. The swelling strings and choruses of “Tonight, Tonight” might start to work on me. By the time I get to the verses of “Muzzle” I’m usually feeling more myself again. The opening lines are anxious: “I fear that I am ordinary, just like everyone.” By the second verse, the attitude has shifted: “My life has been extraordinary, blessed and cursed and won.” That’s a better feeling.

Disconnection returns periodically. I recognize it, now, and before an evening’s over I can usually show it the door.