Juliette Miranda

I wonder what it says when two different people give me vibrators for Christmas.

To be fair, they weren’t obvious vibrators. I didn’t open any boxes to find a faux penis or a large wand disguised as a “massager” staring back at me. Still, there was no denying the purpose of either gift, despite one having the multi function of also being a keychain flashlight and the other featuring a rather creepy plastic Hello Kitty figure on the top. Somehow, those “speed” knobs are always a dead giveaway.

Not that either person would know this, but I actually already have a fair collection of vibrators, all given to me by an ex boyfriend who had an affinity for sex toys. Even after five years, the vibrators are all still going strong, which is more than I can say for the two relationships they’ve accompanied me through.

With that kind of durability, it’s tempting to launch a “vibrators are better than men” attack. Though part of me realizes doing so would be utter nonsense, considering my recent interactions, I’m more convinced there’s some validity to the argument.

Admittedly, I am something of a challenge to know, which can put one at a disadvantage. It’s not often that I have much to say to people in general, and strangers especially. Whether that’s because I’m a bitch or just an overly cautious woman who hasn’t shaken the stranger-danger mantra of her childhood depends on whom you ask.

What I can say for certain is that unless a person enjoys a seething shoot down, they had better offer up at least a modicum of character and intelligence upon approaching me. Barring that I’ll take courtesy, though that too seems to have been squashed by brute stupidity.

Really, how is it socially acceptable to approach a woman sitting by herself, set up camp, and insist, “A pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be alone”? I suppose I should have known better than to head out to a rock club unaccompanied, but at the time a night out sounded like a good idea.

It would have been nice to have the armor of a friend waiting for me in the wings as I attempted to shoo the cheap beer-drenched jackass from my table. “C’mon,” he slurred. “Let me buy you a drink.”

I had already declined his first two offers, why he thought asking a third time would generate a different reply was beyond me. So I sighed and said, “If I take the cash will you leave me alone?”

He looked a bit shaken at that, and stammered something about just wanting to be my friend, but he did beat retreat to another corner of the club where perhaps the women would appreciate his “friendly” sentiments more than I.

The counterpoint could be raised that I should expect no less from the crowd at a rock show. This would be a valid point, except that uncouth behavior and general stupidity seem to run rampant these days.

“You know, that guy was a total misanthrope.”

For a minute, I was actually intrigued. If you’re going to approach me, particularly in a bookstore as I flip though a Bukowski novel, this is certainly not a bad way to get my attention.

“Really?” I asked. “What makes you say that?”

My would-be suitor leered. “Well, hell!” he said. “He must have fucked a hundred women. How cool is that?”

How cool, indeed. I pointed to the opposite end of the store. “The dictionaries are that way, asshole.”

It would be nice if I could say these interactions were limited to complete strangers and my unfortunate knack for attracting whack jobs. I suppose the whack job part is true enough, seeing as how even guys I’ve known for years are crawling out of the woodwork with untoward requests.

I suppose they smell blood in the water now that word of my relationship being over has spread. A friend recently revealed he’d had feelings for me for years but was scared to act on them. Apparently, my having a boyfriend was an obstacle for him, but his having a girlfriend is not.

“Yeah, I’m going home to her,” he sputtered. “But she means nothing to me. I’ve always wanted you.”

How poetic.

There’s a great deal of debate over what it is that women want: nice guys, bad boys, assholes. Maybe that’s why there are so many guys running around with the notion that it’s okay to be presumptuous, or excessively flirty, or overwhelmingly insistent.

Truth be told, no woman in her right mind wants any of that. What she wants is a good man.

Considering the apparent shortage of such in my part of the world, suddenly, my Christmas gifts seem a lot more appealing.

(NOTE: I’m not sure any of this makes sense, seeing as how it has been written while otherwise intoxicated. It sounds good right now, which is why I’m posting it… we’ll see how it reads in the light of day.)

Right about now I rather wish I was writing with a quill and ink. It would be more fitting given the circumstances, seeing as how I’m reveling in the effects of absinthe. And although there are no Moulin Rouge-style fairies dancing about, I still feel somewhat Parisian in my indulgences. Were this a movie, I’d be inclined to stand atop a brick wall, shouting at the stars about how love will conquer all. Suddenly, Toulouse-Lautrec and Van Gogh’s ear make more sense.

And colors do seem closer than they appear.

I’ve prided myself for a while on being the decadent rock chick, my bottle of Jack tucked under an arm. And to be sure, I do enjoy the debauched aspect of tilting that dark bottle back and feeling the encompassing warmth flooding my body. But it lacks the ritual of absinthe, and it certainly lacks the literal fire. Absinthe is indeed a curious liquid. First there’s the odd green color illuminating your glass, then the bright purple flame from the soaked sugar in spoon rising into the air. The flavor is sweet and rich – too much so, honestly. But the result is profound and astute, as intoxicating as it is illuminating.

I haven’t felt much like drinking lately; I haven’t felt like much of anything, really. My world seems to have shrunk into itself from a stifling depression that keeps me locked inside myself. It’s a bit constrictive to be so tightly wrapped into a singular world, but there’s no other place I feel safe. Until I’m able to accept that my world has changed, it’s best for me to stay close to home.

Still, when a girlfriend called me out, suggesting we spend some time together before the holidays, I couldn’t refuse. And that’s when the absinthe came out.

I’d never indulged before; she and the others, all world travelers and old hands at deviance, had. So the spoons came out, the liquid flowed, and I suddenly had a bit of feeling back in my skin.

I certainly can’t give full credit to a vaguely hallucinogenic, mildly legal drink for bringing me out of my funk, and I expect as soon as this wears off I’ll be more or less back where I started, but it did spur a vivid new trend of thought, giving me far less dismal ideas than I had when I woke up.

I wonder what Bukowski would have written under the influence of absinthe.

In my case, I can only hope that that vibrant superiority I’ve experience in this guise lasts long enough to carry me through the holidays I’ve so been dreading. Because despite having a loving and wonderful family, their company, even with their best intentions, seems to make my involuntary aloneness seem all the more clear. I have not accepted that fact that my guy left my life and I have to live here still.

At the moment I’m closer to coping with the situation than I have been; whether that’s a direct result of the absinthe current buzzing in my system or a neuron that finally snapped into place in my over crowded brain, I can’t exactly be sure.

But at the very least, I feel more alive than I have in a while. It’s unfortunate that it had to come from a green-tinted liquid, but sometimes, there’s no accounting for hope.