Chapter Two

The first thing to say about all of this is that I am not a nice person. Was I born not nice, or raised not nice? That's for you and anyone else to figure out, but not here. The root of the matter is not important, only the effect.

The first not nice thing I can remember doing is feeding my baby sister watercolor paints. I thought that if she ate them, she would piss colors. Which she did. Which freaked the fuck out of my mom. I didn't do this out of any evil intention towards my sister. She was a non-entity to me at that point, a thing that existed in the house, like a couch or a bathroom. I did it because I was curious what would happen. No, thats not true. I knew what would happen, I just wanted to see it happen.

The second not nice thing I did was steal from my mother. First I would look. I couldn't stop looking through her things. And when I found something of hers I wanted, I took it. I didn't think of it as something that belonged to someone else. I thought since I had found it, in this house, it was as much mine as anyone elses.

Now, today, I am not what I would consider a bad person. I know what is the right thing to do in most situations, which came from a childhood of reading Agatha Christie novels and watching public television. I smile and talk to all my co-workers. I buy my friends presents, even when I forget their birthdays and they don't remember mine. When I go to a party, I remember to bring a gift of some sort, a bottle of wine, or a blender. I am very courteous and unfailingly polite and incredibly embittered.

My best friend Allison moved to Australia, and now I never write or talk to her. Not because I don't like her, but because it is inconvenient to my life. My best friend Peter died a few years ago at 28, coincidentally the age I am now. To tell you the truth, I don't know if he was 28 or 29, and I can't even remember his birthday though for years I spent almost every day with him. When he died, I guess I cried, though I can't remember now. But I felt worse about not being there when it happened, sudden heart attack. Because all the rest of his friends saw it and I didn't. And when I think about him now, he is a character that happened to me. He meant a lot to me alive, but even more dead? I can't say that for sure, but I am anxiously awaiting the next death of someone close to me, to see if I feel anything then either.

I could attribute this to no fear of death. But I am afraid of my own death. Just not anybody elses.

I keep wanting to see things. Things that are hidden from me. Things people don't want me to see. Things they are thinking that they won't tell me. Things happening outside of me that I am unawares. I feel very sorry for polar bears, but I accept their extinction as an inevitable conclusion and therefore my heart is softened, but in a Velveteen rabbit sort of way.

I wish this story were about a rabbit. Rabbits have a way of encapsulating all soft human emotions, making them fuzzy, joyful, and neccesary for survival. But I can't write a book about a bunny. I am scared of what would happen to it. I have read Watership Down. As a consequence, I am scared of picking up real rabbits, even pet ones.

So reading this, please keep in mind that while I am a wonderful person to watch your kids, I am exactly the type of woman who should never have kids. I am a wicked witch deprived of my silver shoes, and this is my attempt to reclaim them.

If I was an angel?
I'd be the kind that talked in pretentious riddles.
And gives you weird sidelong looks to make you think you said something stupid.
And I'd make you think I was mad at you all the time until you were in love with me.
And then I'd shoot you.
But only when you finally got the girl.

I'd wear sweaters all the time and glasses to hide my beauty and I'd run around drawing lipstick pictures on cars.
And then I'd send thunderstorms across the country and spell out I love you in lightning.

Cheshire Sphinx: Most of what happens in my life doesn't happen to me.