Scorched Earth
Strictly Business
I am writing this, not from a place of powerlessness, but from a place of purging.
I know I said I’m taking a break from talking about niggas, but please bear with me. I can sense your exasperated sighs already. This will be a longer read, but I promise I’m making a point. Just follow me.
No seriously, follow me if you haven’t already FR..
I do a great deal of people watching and observing, and sometimes I see things I wish I hadn’t. This was one of those times. I nearly found myself crying in the back of a Nissan a few Fridays ago—not really, but I did sit in silence when I got home—and that is unacceptable. I also discovered how much of a hypocrite I can be. My first substantial Nun Lyf failure happened earlier than expected, and I am here to tell both stories. This just goes to show that growth is not linear and introspection is constant.
That day started with a jolt. I woke up late for work. My usual. Barbie sent a text regarding an event that night. When the time came, my fingers moved swiftly to claim my tickets. No notes there. Work was slow and boring as I looked forward to the evening. I logged off and dilly-dallied on the phone a while before putting my new bike together. I went for a ride, listening to Drake, Odeal, and their likes. It was a soft, breezy ride. The perfect start to fall. (Sidenote: Cycling is going really well! I was in a state of decision paralysis for just over a month, pondering if I should get a bike, and if so, what kind. When I enter these states, nothing gets done for months or even years. I say all this to admonish you to just do it. Whatever that “it” is, just do it. There’s no such thing as a perfect time or perfect circumstances in which you will have all the necessary details before taking an action. So don’t waste time. Just do it and see how things fall into place!)
I got home and rushed to get ready. All black because I wanted to give Blade. Big curly hair with my 4C, unmatching leaveout. Baby claw clips. And lashes. Very Y2K—my favorite aesthetic. While this wasn’t my favorite fit and the majority of my summer wardrobe had been unfortunately exhausted, it worked. We’d be in a dark room, anyway. Barbie and her Ken (also known as Gen) picked me up. Then off to Michael’s. Not the artsy-fartsy store we know and love, but Michael’s building. (Sidenote: If you’re unfamiliar with Michael, I spoke briefly about him in “Nun Lyf”. Basically, he’s a feeling I’m trying hard to shake, a humiliation ritual. But it’s not so easy given my circumstances and connections. Still a standup guy though.)
Before I get into the meat and potatoes of this story, I’ll set the scene with some context. I’ve known Michael a few years, and we share mutuals. I told him I liked him dramatically around Christmas last year (won’t go into detail there) and I’ve resided in the deepest, darkest, and dingiest part of the trenches since. I’m not sure I should’ve said anything at all. But we live and we learn. In recent months, I’ve fought myself against employing my standard coping mechanism: the scorched earth policy.
relating to or being a military policy involving deliberate and usually widespread destruction of property and resources (such as housing and factories) so that an invading enemy cannot use them
directed toward victory or supremacy at all costs; ruthless
I lean towards the latter definition. As a war strategy, yes, this is tragic and detrimental to innocent parties. Yes, it destroys everything worth saving in its path. And yes, it is bad business. However, in the context of our emotional wellbeing where we must be selfish at times —because at the end of the day everyone always looks out for themselves— is it really that bad? Cutting someone off? Removing them on socials? Blocking them? I tend to think not. What lengths do we go to to protect our peace? I personally don’t think I’d stop at anything. I valiantly defend it without shame or fear. But in this case with Michael, it’s not so black-and-white anymore.
We transferred to his car. I remember smearing eyeliner on the ceiling by accident on MLK Day. The stain never went away. A solemn reminder of the sin. On the way to the venue, I felt antsy. Was my hair ok? Did I look too whore-ish? Pudgy? The men spoke amongst themselves as men do. Michael remarked about the fine shyt we were bound to encounter and joked about potentially ending up on the other side of morality. I sat silent, brooding over what would become of the evening.
We parked a block over from the venue. Michael tried on two shirts. The first, a dark blue cuffed short sleeve, with buttons down the middle. He wasn’t a fan. He decided on a tan suede jacket, with a white wife-beater underneath. Impractical for the heat but a good look nonetheless. I made it to the entry line with Barb and Ken before he did. As we waited, I saw him taking in the scene, and the people within it. He looked at a woman as she got out of a car, and other ladies that walked by. From what I can remember, they were beautiful. Rich complexions, smooth baby hair, curvy (but slim), in flowy date night attire. On theme for the evening. While he wasn’t gawking at them, I saw his double takes as they walked by, so as not to meet their glance or make them uncomfortable. And it made me tense. Barbie noticed my all too common withdrawn face and asked if I was ok, to which I lied and said I was. I wasn’t about to dampen the mood with the same shit I whined to her about for months at this point. I had to put on a brave-ish face. Michael joined the line.
A few minutes later, I entered the venue first, and the others followed close by. Barbie and I went upstairs to the restroom. We had a brief check-in.
“You sure you’re ok?”
“Yea. I’m just trying to keep in mind some things my therapist told me in our last session. About not making negative comparisons to others. Instead of thinking, ‘They’re more this or that than me,’ think of it like ‘If they can do that, why can’t I?’”
“She’s right.”
“Yea.”
“But did I say or do anything to make you compare?”
“Oh no, not at all. It’s just me in my head. As per usual.”
She proceeded with the hotgirl encouragement. Then we went back down to the bar with the guys. Everyone needs a Barb.
Eventually the drinks came through. Slow but steady. We even caught up with other friends, one of them being “49” (a young man who is in fact not 49, and a recently former interest of mine). I saw Ken, Michael, and 49 do their regular catch up while Barb and I tipsily danced to some 2000s R&B. At a point I looked over to Michael, and I saw him looking at a girl as she walked away from the bar. When she passed, he looked again at her backside and smirked at 49. Sick to my fucking stomach is an understatement of what I felt. It’s gross seeing a man be a man, and I had to see that. But I kept pushing. Barb, Ken, and I made our way back to the dancefloor, in the center. I’ve third wheeled them before, so it was always a good vibe, but I just couldn’t shake how I was feeling.
Out of the blue, I excused myself to the restroom. I got in a stall, locked it, and just stood there, leaning my forearm against the door. Grounding myself in a pissy ladies restroom. Drunk girls calling out to their friends in the background. Forcing myself to remember the things Ms. Carpenter said. I’ve been seeing Ms. Carpenter, my therapist, for a couple months now. I call her a carpenter because she’s helping me pick up the pieces to build something worthwhile. Something beautiful. The day prior, she told me to work on negative comparisons and reality checking. What is really going on versus whatever narrative I’m stringing together. In that stall, I repeated that I needed to drop the comparison, and that I’m valuable regardless. Still, leaving the bathroom after my inebriated pep talk, the only reality I fully came to terms with that night was that I could never be what Michael needs.
The rest of that night I kept to myself until I was dropped off. When I got to my couch, I sat in my dimly lit living room, reminiscing over the night, and began writing this piece. A few hours later, I was off to see mumsy and my sisters out of town. A needed mental break. In the two weeks I was there, I decompressed and came to a shocking conclusion while on one of my long, music-less, “touch grass” walks: I’m an utter hypocrite.
This jarring experience —me witnessing Michael being a normal man— reminded me of Labor Day Weekend just a few days before that night out. In the weeks leading up to Labor Day, I came into contact with a man, Florida, on Instagram. The dreamy start of all modern romances, of course. We exchanged messages and a single call. He wanted to meet me that weekend as we were attending the same backyard barbecue and boat party in Jersey. He then asked me out to lunch for the following day, to which I agreed. He was nice and a decent conversationalist, but I was anxious about seeing him in person.
Day 1 of the weekend was the barbecue. We communicated throughout the day, and were to meet at the party. When I arrived, I saw him before he saw me. I got scared and decided to chill out to the side for a bit. I wasn’t attracted to him. I promise I’m not trying to sound shallow. Soon enough, I went up to him and we spoke throughout the evening. From time to time, I checked in with Barb and Ken, mingled with others. Among these “others” was Toronto. His accent was distinct. Very Drake. He was attractive and charismatic in a dorky way. Which I liked. He was unsure if he would make it to the boat party as he didn’t have a ticket, but said he’d go to the afters following it.
The next evening, I saw him from afar lining up to get on the boat. I quickly met up with Flo, though. I felt like I needed to. Looking back on that, in a talk with the carpenter, it was unnecessary pressure I placed on myself. Deeper into the evening, Toro and I caught up at the bar, talking about ourselves, the evening, and general light banter. Flo rejoined me later and Toro stepped away.
“Do you know those guys?” he asked, referencing Toronto and his friends.
“No, I met them yesterday at the backyard thing, actually.”
I felt bad. Like I wasn’t giving him enough time and attention. We talked on a quieter floor for the rest of the evening. I stepped away on my own at the end. Toronto and I passed each other, and he said he was going to ask me to dance but couldn’t find me. By then it was too late and we docked soon thereafter.
Flo and I exited the vessel together and dissected our evening before going to the afterparty. He said I seemed distant. Closed off. He wasn’t wrong. I said we were still new to each other and how some of his questions were fast-paced for me. But I knew what my true issue was. He left not long after we arrived at the afterparty venue. The weight of the self-inflicted responsibility was lifted for the rest of the evening.
Toronto asked for that dance finally. I handed Barb and a random girl my things. Women supporting women. It was konpa. Close. Sensual. His hand on my hips and the small of my back. A casual sway. Intermittent spins. I can’t put my finger on how long we danced, but it must have been a while. Then again, I was three drinks in by now, so who knows? What I do know is that we talked about a number of things: where we’re from, what we do, even a little about our families. It was nice.
When the party came to an end, he asked for my Insta. He played it too safe in my opinion, but alright. We’ve remained in contact since. I still went to lunch with Florida the following afternoon. I was quiet within myself, thinking about how I didn’t want to lead him on after that.
Looking back on Labor Day weekend and that evening with Michael, it dawned on me that we were in a similar boat. He was my likee (pronounced “like-E”), and I his liker. Just as I was Flo’s likee, and he my liker. Am I a bad person for entertaining fine shyt all weekend knowing Flo liked me? No, I am a normal heterosexual woman. Conversely, is Michael a bad person for also looking at fine shyt that night at the club? No, he is a normal heterosexual man. Would I compare myself to Florida exactly? Not necessarily. While I do not believe I’m Michael’s type, I do not think he thinks I am unattractive. But the comparison and the point still stands: one person, the liker, likes the likee, and the likee does not feel the same for one reason or another. Is the likee beholden to the liker? Is the likee responsible for the liker’s hurt feelings? Does the liker have a right to be upset at the likee for appreciating fine shyt? Although I am mature enough to answer no to all of the above, asking these questions made it evident that, as it stands now, I am not capable of being Michael’s friend in the purest sense of the word. I have given him much more power than he deserves. Power he never asked for.
In moments like these, I acknowledge my disingenuous nature. I used to think men were strange for falling back coolly after unrequited feelings, but I get it now. Yes, it’s imperfect, unfair, and people that we consider friends are not disposable. All I’m saying is that I get it. I scorched the earth many times before, but as you can tell by the bulk of my writing, it hasn’t helped. So I am taking a more sustainable approach. I won’t be hitting any unfollow buttons, failing to respond to group chats, or letting invites go unanswered. I’m confronting the discomforts head on, and ultimately, I will be OK. This too shall pass.
One of your best pieces, very vulnerable!