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My mother has been here in my house with me for one week. When I got up this morning, on my way to pee, she stopped me in the hallway and told me that I need to start recycling, and that I need to stop drinking pop because it leaches calcium from my bones. That was just one trip to the bathroom. I've been told I need to stop eating so late at night. That people shouldn't eat after 7 p.m. I've been told that my guy friend will break my heart. I've been told "Well fuck you too" when I never said fuck you in the first place. I've been told that I will end up in a nursing home by the time I'm fifty because of the way I treat my body, and that I will be all alone. My mother threatened to clean my room so I opened the top drawer of my dresser and showed her my glass dildo. "Oh yuck" was the response. She's left my bedroom alone since then.

Guy Friend saved me from my mother and I waited in the car with my legs propped up on the dash while he went into Walmart to buy a new car battery. It's this one Walmart in a particularly impoverished part of town. My favorite one to people-watch at. The late night customers saunter in and out, unlike the daylight Walmart trippers with a purpose. Watching these late night people makes me sad, and feeling sad makes me feel better. Maybe that makes me a bad person.

Mom and I sat down to eat dinner in front of the tv the other night. The night before I'd played a detective show, lots of blood and guts, my mom grimacing as she tried to eat her food. I forget sometimes about the gore factor. When we sat down in front of the tv this time, I went through my tivo list two or three times, trying to find something upbeat and blood-free. The best I could do was play a documentary about a young woman who was raped in Sudan. We tried watching for ten seconds and could not continue. Then I chose a documentary about sexual abuse at the hands of a Catholic priest. It's too bad that I'd already watched this weeks America's Next Top Model episode.

Sitting outside of Walmart Guy Friend told me that he had a pit in his stomach. I had been wondering, since I heard his voice on the phone, what was going on. Aloof. Withholding. "I don't want to be the man who makes you give up on all men forever," he said.

I miss the relationships of my youth. Believing in romance and fate. Optimism in anything that feels good to the skin, to the lips.

Guy Friend hadn't shaved since I last saw him, days ago. He was wearing a ball cap and a white t-shirt with holes around one armpit -- holes from repeated washings and repeated wearings. I watched him walk into Walmart, the sense of familiarity subsiding when I realized that perhaps this was the first time I'd watched him walk away from me.

The most intimate details of a person -- you find it funny what strikes you as sexy. For me it's to see how he acts in public, not knowing that I'm watching. Who is he when he's not with me? Almost as good is when he knows that I am watching and doesn't know quite how to change his mannerisms into those that would be most appealing.

Sexy is the awkwardness another feels when being watched. I am cruel, lusting after that which causes insecurity in the people I claim to care about.

Before my mother arrived I imagined that she would find my bottles of whiskey in my kitchen and dump out most of the liquor and replace it with water. Like what I did to her vodka when I was in the ninth grade, the light pencil mark almost invisible on the white label. I suppose if I drink it and can't tell, we'll all be better off.

We sat outside of Walmart, in the car. I've had this song in my head for days, one that repeats a lot on my favorite alt country station. It played in my head as Guy Friend spoke about how we'd never make it work, like a soundtrack making the moment seem a lot more hopeless and sad. Thinking that at the time made me laugh. I will see him tomorrow morning and try to figure out what exactly we were talking about. Or maybe I'll ignore it all and kiss him until I'm thinking of nothing. I have never kissed anyone as much as I've kissed him. He may be the best lover I've had.

Side note: We do stupid, hurtful things not realizing how much hurt we cause. All we can do is feel truly sorry and try to never do it again. But we do do it again. Not the same way as before, but in another way. Stupid humans. We are. And my efforts to be a better person, to be less selfish, to cause no harm -- all of this just annoys people. Maybe we should just be who we are.

I gave head to a twenty one year old boy a few weeks ago. It was incredibly mechanical and, ultimately, a non-event. Afterwards he explained to me why superheroes are so cool, and for the first time ever, it made sense to me. Superheroes ARE cool. We all have our things. I have documentaries on genocide. He has comic books and role playing games. It's all the same, isn't it?