I think I could die from lack of attention
mom brain or mold poisoning?
I’m coming to terms with my shortcomings. For example I’m a liar. This publication description reads it was in my addiction to isolation that I began to set myself free. Drama, I know — always. Diluted, in comparison to the women that raised me. I claim isolation the same way I will say I haven’t eaten all day after having three small, probably not super delicious meals. Should I change it back to: intense, takes things personally, has never gotten over anything, writes well?
More on my shortcomings in a minute, but MUTHA reached out to feature me in their Women’s History Month spotlight on the rise of independent publishing on Substack. It’s very nice to be noticed. Actually, it depends.
I have three hundred people blocked on instagram. Everyone hates instagram now. I feel like they’re using it wrong. The best way to enjoy instagram is to approach it like a love-bombing narcissist. Post. Only look at your own stories. Watch them a hundred times. The mute button is your only real friend. Rearrange your memories. Smile for the peanut gallery! Don’t be a weirdo. Like your friends’ stories. Choose an acquaintance at random and and piece together random mysteries. Go back to your grid. Marvel at yourself. At your life!
I’ve always loved attention. I used to be insatiable. When I was fifteen my friends went go-karting for Ryan’s birthday and then back to his house to go in the pool. Because I was the first to change into my bikini, my boyfriend at the time called me an attention whore and didn’t talk to me for the rest of the party. Or we spent the entire time fighting, I can’t remember.
I feel comfortable saying that I love instagram because it’s true. I want to be in full control of a stranger’s perception of me (obviously?) I like a little slice of internet to be the attention whore that I am in the privacy of my own home. Honestly I think I am still recovering from the pandemic mentally. Everyone went back to normal so quick.
So now what I like is when my friends remember things about me and we text for a little and then it stops and it’s fine. I like that you’re reading this. I like the quiet intimacy of being seen without being watched. In my day to day, I don’t want to be seen at all. I wear loose clothing to yoga and the grocery store. I stopped going to my favorite breakfast spot when the waiter kept asking me out for dinner, and when I said no, insisted on just a coffee.
Every day I drive by 8M murals and graffiti for the 8 million Mexican women lost to femicide. The man next to me in Eli’s class begins to snore one minute into shavasana. Six foot three, blue eyed, American. I wonder what it’s like to feel so safe in public.
Lauren sends me a new song that was inspired by Mateo. We FaceTime on my laptop while I listen to the song on my phone with headphones and she watches me cry. We usually do this ritual in the car but — life. We spend the next two hours hanging out and I don’t care what I look like in my camera bubble because I’m looking at her and we can’t stop talking. I feel like a millionaire.
It’s been three weeks since Influenza A tried to take me out. I spent three nights hallucinating in the guest bedroom and many more in pain. I’m good at separation, and being lonely, but I don’t know what it is to be alone, God forbid, untouched. My three year old falls asleep twirling my hair, soothing us both. The day my disgusting cough finally disappears for good, impatience gets the best of me, and I tell Marcello he’s been treating me like a cousin. Mind you I haven’t slept because no one was twirling my hair, I haven’t moved my body, I haven’t felt the sun. But it must be his fault. I’m not a cousin.
I seem evolved but I’m petty and angry. I seem petty and angry but I swear I’m evolved.
I emerge from quarantine with three new freckles. I like them. I knew my year wouldn’t start until March anyway. March is good, April is better. Marcello is texting with Andrew Shulz. We met him at the market next to the padel courts. When I asked him what he was doing here he grinned babymoon. It’s been a year and now we’re watching his Netflix special, Life. Life!!!!!
I continue failing my way towards optimal health. Mold results are in — not good. But it’s okay because my doctor has a plan. Step one: get the house tested. Depending on those results: move.
Mateo says Guys we need to make a plan of the three of us. Papi, you are the leader.
It’s been three years of just us three. And the three cats. Three friends. People here assume we’re married and I usually don’t correct them. I should though. I love being boyfriend and girlfriend and parents.
Because we only get three years, and then until seven, to create our tiny person’s foundation. I will half ass whatever it takes to do this job right. Being here keeps us focused. Which is what I mean when I write on isolation. On being in hermit mode. I’m not really a liar. I’m actually a terrible liar.
And in honor of being honest, this is a list of who can call me mama without it causing a visceral reaction:
Labor and delivery nurses
Children
People from Miami
More mom talk in my essay Mom Talk <3
I think this is my new favorite thing you’ve written
🩷🩷🩷-so cool Mutha reached and featured you!✨
Amazing work!