confusion.
that is the word my neural impulses have etched into my brain since i became conscious of what the world was.
who am i?
in the morning i wake up, i am a bad ass who's occupation is a bounty hunter like in the days of the wild west, body covered in scars from bullet wounds and slashes where i've been previously stabbed and slashed in the line of duty, covered in a navy blue suit jacket with matching trousers, in yellow button down shirt, with two leather holsters draped off my shoulders holding two 9mm glocks. quiet and cool. sitting at a bar drinking glasses of bourbon on ice, smoking cigarettes without ever showing any signs of being intoxicated.
just suave and sophisticated. confident. able to take care of myself. courageous and confident with the ability to pick up the mysterious woman in the black dress at the end of the bar without any trepidation or self consciousness. she sips a vodka tonic, hiding her complicated life with down turned hazle eyes that stare into her half full glass, and through her ability to turn down drunk assholes in gelled spiked hair, tight designer brand t-shirts, and drenched in a mixture of axe body spray and $50 cologne bought at some department store in some mall in some town in america with a sharp tongue and carefully poignant words that flow out her mouth effortlessly.
and if these men can't take no for an answer, and get violent i step in and handle the situation with a numerous amount of martial art kicks and punches. laying them out before we both escape in a taxi cab, while the cops are on there way. making out in the back seat, before sleeping together all night, and telling our life stories to each other in the intervals in between with our clothes strewn across the bedroom floor of the hotel room we held up in for the night. falling in love, in a single night, with each of us knowing due to one reason or another if will never last, because she's pregnant with her second child, her husband's in jail, and getting out soon, but until then, on top of her day job, she now has to work as a stripper at night just to support her three year old son, and soon to be newborn daughter. so we both move on never forgetting about each other, and this night for the rest of our lives. hoping maybe fate can intervene but knowing it won't. so we move on. we deal with it. and live out the rest of our lives in our own separate ways.
then the next morning i wake up. i am an anxious woman, who classifies myself as less of a woman and more of a mixed up girl. who looks in my bathroom mirror in the morning ashamed of who i am because of how other people defined me when i was growing up. No one ever taught me how to do my make-up when i was younger, or what color goes with this or that. or any female fashion sense. so i did my best to figure it out on my own by experimenting with this and that, and yeah sometimes it would come out horrendous, looking like some hideous clown slut, but other times i actually felt cute, beautiful. sexy. but, even then, i never had the courage to go out in public because i was too scared about what they would think: the few people i knew, my handful of "friends," coworkers, family, and even for some stupid reason strangers. the only time i felt confident was behind closed doors. the only time i felt happy was behind closed doors. when i would slip my black lace thong on with matching bra, curly brunette wig, tight black dress, strappy high heels, black stalkings over shaved legs, and choker around my neck, after my only friend did my make up in a way that actually accentuated my features and made me feel sexy, for the first time i felt like a woman, not a mixed up girl. ready to go out in public without apprehension. ready to have fun.
the next morning i wake up...
who am i?
who the fuck am i?
