bethofalltrades

In the summer of 2004, I dabbled in the art of spoken word. I wrote a piece called "101 Reasons Why You Shouldn't Love Me (or, Simple Mathematics)" and it was very well received at the little open mic I frequented.

I have been feeling more poetry recently. I haven't written any in months. When I think about it, that summer was my most prolific, because I'd take my little notebook to open mic and I'd write while the guitar players strummed up on the stage.

Life in 2004 was very inspiring.

I was a pretentious little fuck.

But, I think we all were, so it was okay. I was 22 that summer.

Below the cut is "101 Reasons." I've crossed out everything that no longer applies and that is just plain wrong.* Almost everything was true at the time.

If I were to write this piece today, I would call it, "101 Reasons Why I Am Fucking Awesome-- Because If I Don't Believe It, No One Else Will (or, Math Is Hard.)"

Love,
Beth



I bite my nails.
I daydream.
I fall in love with strangers at bus stops.
I hit on my friends with no intention of following through.
I hit on my friends with every intention of following through.
I can’t dance.
I can’t even clap my hands to the beat.
I hate songs without lyrics.
I go incoherent when I’m excited.
I’m even more incoherent after I have an orgasm.
I idealize people.
I demonize people.
Sometimes I idealize and demonize people at the same time.
I stack my dirty dishes in the sink until the fruit flies take over.
I can’t cook.
I read cheap crime novels.
I only let Republicans have an opinion if they admit they’re wrong.
I pay for coffee with pennies.
I fidget.
I stare.
I can’t look you in the eye.
I fantasize about you while you’re trying to talk about politics.
I secretly hate your boyfriend.
I hate your girlfriend more.
I’m a pathetic romantic who fantasizes about kisses, not lays.
I hope to run into you every day and I’m sad when I don’t.
I confuse lust with love.
I confuse love with lust.
I flirt with straight girls.
I sleep with virgins.
I don’t want to cuddle after sex.
And don’t even think about talking.
I’m “just a friend.”
I’m not really attracted to you.
I’m hopelessly attracted to you.
I want to go down on you until you writhe and sob and cry out in whatever language cascades through your brain when you come.
I want to take naked photos of you.
I’m practically a pornographer.
I want to seduce you and leave you high, dry, and still fully clothed.
I’m bad in bed with men.
I’m bad in bed with women, but in a good way.
I’m a control freak who loves losing it.
I compulsively arrange the debris on tables at restaurants.
I can’t say “I love you.”
I won’t say “I love you.”
I’ve said “I love you” when it was a lie.
I’m needy.
I’m emotionally unavailable.
I’m too understanding, more like a shrink than a lover.
I believe that I should be able to marry whomever I want.
I don’t know if I ever want to get married.
I try too hard to fix people.
I don’t want you to fix me.
I get crushes.
I don’t like to talk about my feelings.
I get nervous when I’m with you.
I get lonely when you’re gone.
I ramble.
I say the wrong thing.
I say the right thing at the wrong time.
I know the right answer, but I don’t raise my hand.
I think of a witty comeback but I’m too timid to say it.
I’ll steal your life and put it in a play.
I slept with my best friend from third grade.
I love drama.
My gaydar is miscallibrated—I fall for gay men and straight women.
I like pain.
I leave my dirty clothes on the bathroom floor.
I get high and I like it.
I have my nipple pierced and I’ll show you if you ask nicely.
I hate scrubbing the bathtub.
I’d fuck Conan O’Brien.
I know God exists, but sometimes I hate him.
I used to get paid to kill rabbits.
I like sex. A lot.
I hate the gym, but I go for the hot girls.
Rape makes me very, very angry.
I’ll never take Prozac because it kills my art.
I want to name my first daughter “George.”
I want to make love in a theatre.
I fall down a lot.
I think bruises are sexy.
I start projects but don’t finish them.
My inner child is five.
I’m really close with my mother.
My father owns a shotgun.--- was this ever true? I think not.
I have a family history of mental illness.
I’ve been fatter and I’ve been thinner and I know how happy I am has nothing to do with the number on the scale.
I cannot manage money.
Which is okay, because I’m an artist so I’ll never make any.
I’m too dependant on my best friend.
After I graduate, I’m going to run away to New York City.
I dodge my landlord when I can’t pay the rent.
My last girlfriend had a coke habit.
I can’t have one night stands with women because I get too emotionally involved.
I can’t get emotionally involved with men.
I talk too much.
I try too hard.
I have no fashion sense.
I avoid conflict.
I once spent an entire afternoon daydreaming about kissing you.

The only reason you should love me is that there are 101 reasons why I shouldn’t love you—but I do anyway.



* I dance, I cuddle after sex, I look people in the eye, I say I love you, I have rhythm, I don't bite my nails, I cook, I gave up on straight girls and now THEY all flirt with ME, I don't get high, the nipple ring is gone, I'm not in the least bit timid, I don't go to the gym, I've never been thinner, I can handle conflict, fucking in a theatre would be chilly and lame, and my fashion sense is AWESOME, thank you very much.