Heartbreak to me feels like the bed indentation of Norma Bates’ corpse in Psycho. Literally, I have felt how that bed feels. Metaphysically. Metaphorically. Except, my heart is the indentation and the corpse, and the mattress, just sinking under the weight of death. Underneath another corpse that was a relationship, but now is just my son dressing up in my clothes, and talking to himself as me.
I guess the only way I can describe this is through a metaphor.
The first time I had sex with my son...what? Sorry. No.
The first time I had sex with my son, I thought, wow. This is incredible. Two beings not hindered by time, or space, or ancestry. Sharing a motel of love and vulnerability and sexiness. I touched him, and he touched me. I had a little bit of whipped cream on my boobs and he licked it off.
We started out as friends, well I raised him. Then, we became friends and eventually started dating and made sex together. He told me he liked me for a really long time. He was really funny, he looked like his father. Then, and I don’t really remember this next part, we were arguing because he was sexting another woman with my same name but not me, and then he lied about it, and I told him to leave. But, when you see your own son on your bed, I mean, can you blame me? So, we did it again, and then I told him, “Go Home!” which was here, so he stayed, and we had sex again.
I woke up the next day and he told me he was cheating on me for a long time. Then he killed me.
Except not because I was engaged and stopped showing him attention. No. Some other very rude lady stayed at our motel and they ruined our motel of love, and then killed me and left me in a bed for a long time. And I decomposed into a skeleton.
It is what it is.
I lost my best friend. And the protective casing around my heart shattered into hundreds of pieces, stabbing me multiple times in different ways. It’s the kind of pain you can’t move away from. You just have to wait for it to heal.
I guess the greatest lesson I learned from this was that it had nothing to do with me. I mean I did have sex with my son, but it was consensual, and that’s beside the point. He wasn’t gonna stay unless he wanted to. He was just a boy, and maybe would never become a man. And if he really loved me, he would have treated me like he actually loved me.
I stood on the sidewalk and yelled at him, “As your mother, I will hold you accountable for your actions.” I said, “You don’t treat people this way, especially people you care about, especially people like me. So, figure your shit out!”
Heartbreak is hard. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what I did wrong and missing everything that I thought was right. Letting go of it is the hardest thing, but the most important thing.
For the record, I did not have sex with my son. Do I even look old enough? To have had a son? Who would then be old enough to fuck me so good I'd call him "Daddy"? No. But, as someone with experience, I recommend staying away from that. It’s sexy, but it’s not worth it. You will end up a hollow skeleton. Also, don’t date people who make you feel like you’re their mom.
We hope you enjoyed Emily's piece from our last It's Personal show: Heartbreak.
The sun was shining, a nice breeze was blowing, and I was vomiting into my roommate’s plastic witch cauldron.
This is Rock Bottom.
I don’t know if you know Rock Bottom, but she’s fickle. She leaves a bittersweet taste on your tongue. The hopeful flavor of things can only get better from here accompanied by the cruel tinge of you know this isn’t over. She doesn’t accept a breakup. She doesn’t let you sleep. She crawls right into your ear and up into your brain and she sets up camp. She’s got a pup-tent that fits her and her friend Shame comfortably. They’ll light a fire. You’ll feel it back by your spine, burning hotter and hotter and you'll think you can ignore it. But it will burn until it lights your brain on fire. And suddenly you’re gone, a pile of ashes where a person used to be.
I tried to outrun her. But she kept catching up.
Rock Bottom ruined my favorite Mexican cantina. She ruined my favorite shirt. She ruined 2015. And a bonfire in my brain wasn’t enough. She unzipped my skin, crawled in, and stretched out until she was at the tips of my fingers and toes. And then she touched everything she could and wouldn’t let go until it burned.
Rock Bottom told me she was everything. That she was past, present, and future. That she was the red in my eyes and the ache in my body. She’d say this was her last visit. And then she’d turn around and laugh. And I could hear her. And we both knew she’d be back.
There was a time when I was drowning in the open air. I’d wake up choking on the day, unable to breathe, afraid to get out of bed, to open my door, to walk right into her again.
But slowly, like the winter months, the Rock Bottom days became shorter and shorter. The sun caressed her face less and less, until she was merely the silhouette of what once was. The plastic witch cauldron resumed her duty as decor. Bottles of liquor started gathering dust. Nights no longer sleepless, days no longer filled with regret. Rock Bottom put out her fire and picked up camp. I could breathe.
They say time heals all wounds. I don’t know that that’s true. But time softens hurt. We exist with it forever, our bodies covered in burn scars, invisible, permanent. But they won’t ache. They become the landscape of our bodies. A part of the self, something for new fingers to graze, your hands to caress, a good lover’s lips to kiss.
This is Rock Bottom.
This is me now.
Anna Snedden always surprises us with the great pieces she writes. We hope you enjoyed Anna's piece about Moving On.
To my boss
To my present
I must confess, the amount of resent I feel
Now, in your present, in my present
Each day I clock out and vent in the hallway
Walking back to my car
Locking it tightly, sitting in the driver’s seat
Sobbing ever so slightly
Screaming, roaring from afar
From you, from your assumptions
From your well-intended future of me
Promoted, to go far with my job,
Your job, your career.
Misunderstanding my smiles
To put it simply, pure denials
Of my current situation
Of the choice I had made
Call it fate that we happened to cross paths
Well-laid plans, certainly none of mine
But what I did find, unknowingly, surprisingly:
Balance, humility, financial security
Foreign artifacts as a tour guide
As I then let my self-worth slide
Punctured as I walked, self-deprecated sharp knives
Believing I had less of myself to give
So I fibbed to myself that I could ever find
A chance, a way to escape
The confines of a safety net
Because who would ever let a good thing go?
Who would be willing to move on?
I could, I would and I did.
This is what hero myths are based upon
As scary as it was, as tough as it may have been
Leaving then did more growth for me within
My talents, my friendships, illuminated
Acquaintances scattered to the wind
So many I believed would stay
My naiveté finally plateauing
No longer would I serve the undeserving
I could continue on, maturing
Into a better performer, a writer, a man
To which I plan in becoming in the future, in my future
Away from the desk that I detest with each passing day
Which brings this back to you.
You took a chance on me
You rescued me from my plight
I don’t know what I might have done
At that time, feeling stagnant
Feeling pressure with my time, my youth, my talents
Just ticking away as I fought away for a future
I am now coming to terms with
See, if I was ready to settle down
If my life was already bound for this need
Then of course I would nurture this seed, planted
Expecting bountiful fruit from all the hard work,
What a harvest it could have been
But as I said before, as history is bound to repeat itself
I simply refuse to shelf my passions aside
The passions continually and cravenly difficult to hide
As I try to escape from my cage
That on occasion you aid in the steps of my escape
With each new meeting, and new performances I give
I inch closer and closer to the end
So that I can live.
So when the day does come
Sooner than what you might have imagined
My two weeks notice
Hopefully won’t offend you, as I hope that you will understand
How my life cannot be contained in safety
This Nightingale sings poetry
Of blue clear skies
Of the sunlight touching his eyes
As he soars, as he breathes
Fulfilling his dreams at last
Feeling tasked with taking his destiny by his hands
So I thank you for this
For the self-discovery found
In your present
For my present.
Andy Quintana is a core member for It's Personal, and we are lucky to have him! We hope you enjoyed Andy's piece about moving on.
I woke up, changed my clothes, and started my 40 minute commute (thanks, traffic) from Studio City to West Hollywood. I went to bed last night telling myself to “just breathe” and woke up with Anna Nalick’s “Breathe (2 am)” stuck in my head. I hooked up my iphone’s bluetooth and played the song in my car. On repeat. For forty minutes.
“No one can find the rewind button, girl,” she sang as I glanced at the once blooming and colorful foliage of Laurel Canyon now looking soggy and droopy from last night’s downpour. I contemplated how I used to confidently correct people on the punctuation, informing other eleven year olds she was addressing particular people in that song. Instead of having the comma between button and girl or boy, I thought said comma didn’t exist. I told my friends it was “rewind button girl” and “rewind button boy”. I believed these rewind button people could close their eyes and project themselves into the past, like magic. I laughed, recollecting that passionate fallacy I once possessed regarding the punctuation of a music stanza. I’d like to believe I’m a little wiser than I was in 2004, but I could be wrong.
Thoughts blossomed throughout my previously quiet mind. The next thing I knew, the car stopped. Okay, that was dramatic, the car was already stopped (thanks again, traffic). I considered that I was onto something back then. “Rewind button girl,” I thought. “Why did I think there was no comma? Did I want to be one all those years ago, too? Or solely now?”
Rewind Button Girl goes back and tells her parents the first time her younger brother mentioned suicide, breaking his trust but ensuring his future. Rewind Button Girl comes home from college on weekends she’s not doing anything to visit him and the rest of her family. Rewind Button Girl takes him somewhere special on his sixteenth birthday instead of skipping it to party with her friends. Rewind Button Girl magically returns to fix the mistakes.
Rewind Button Girl isn’t afraid to talk to her older sister after their brother’s death. Rewind Button Girl takes her out for a drink to help numb the pain. Rewind Button Girl doesn’t run away from the unknown, and treats her sister like...a sister. Rewind Button Girl ignores her parents wishes and drives two and a half hours to see her sister in the hospital before she dies.
Rewind Button Girl rewinds to her last relationship and makes her slow down. Rewind Button Girl takes away any of her actions that ever caused any pain. Rewind Button Girl doesn’t makeout with guys with girlfriends. Rewind Button Girl goes to therapy sooner. Rewind Button Girl knows exactly what to say and when to say it. Rewind Button Girl isn’t a prick to her family when all she needs is a long hug from someone who cares. If I were a rewind button girl, I could breathe. Just breathe.
Breathe. I forget how to breathe. Crown me The Queen of Reflection, constantly wishing I was one of those rewind button girls. I learn from my mistakes, but I wish was smart enough to not make them in the first place. That’s why I’m never relaxed. I’m always on the go, working like the madwoman I am and chiseling down my never-ending to do list. Rewind Button Girl is chill. I am not, nor do I have any “chill.” I go full force into everything I know: my career, my friendships, my relationships, events, social media, my writing, my music, every little thing I love. I’m a train going at full speed yet running on empty. Rewind Button Girl stops to refuel every now and then.
Anna Nalick’s “Breathe (2 am)” haunted me for a month, playing at the airport, on the radio, at work, Target, The Grove. Each time I heard the strum of the first chord, an irritating question sprang into my head. Over and over again, I rolled my eyes and dismissed it. Today as I’m off to work, driving along the traffic-jammed Laurel Canyon, that song plays once again. I look out the window and notice the plants along the road starting to bloom. Traffic lightens up. I breathe and let the question I ignored for seemingly so long take over me. “How do I become a person who doesn’t feel the perpetual need to be a rewind button girl?”
Then it hits me. I don’t.
Wanting to be a rewind button girl taught me that I shouldn’t need one. I will never be able to live my life without wishing I was a rewind button girl if I can’t let go of my regrets. No longer can I live like that, attempting to fill the empty void with solutions for problems I can never fix. The traffic is vastly out of my control, so there is no need to be bothered by it. Furthermore, I might as well admire the plants. You know what helps? Remembering to breathe. Just breathe.
Jackie Webb has been one of our guest stars for a number of It's Personal shows. She is joining us again for our 2nd show of the year, Gross. We hope you liked her piece about Letting Go.
No poems this time. This is me talking strictly to you, so buckle up.
A dear friend of mine recently told me, “you have a memory like an elephant. It means your memory is really sharp. Elephants don’t forget anything.” She couldn’t be any more right. As a matter of fact, you could say I live as elephants do: constantly carrying a trunk wherever I go. Forgive the pun but hear me out.
If I had to measure when I started my journey, when I began to: form concrete memories and critical thought of the world, first grade would do it. That would place it to almost 25 years ago. I was around five/six years old, trying to make sense with what little I understood at the time. I mean I was too young to understand how to understand, so whatever experience came my way, whether a success or a mistake, I was given an automatic pass.
I can remember growing up, sheltered yet willing to open myself to others. I remember sharing my favorite toys, my favorites games, words, food, shows, and anything else kids loved to talk about at that age. The one thing that I learned quickly, and unfortunately then, is how children, by no fault of their own, are completely unfiltered, real, Freudian Id personified. Whatever came to their minds, they just spoke it out, whether it’s cute, crude or hurtful. Now, I realize the argument on how children are far too young to realize what they say or do could potentially affect each other. Naturally, bullied children would face the brunt of this commonality society has to deemed to be “kids being kids”. However, I am a true believer in which whatever happens in the process of growing up, can have potential lasting impacts onto adulthood either positively or negatively; but that discussion is for another time. I just know what I’ve been through. Scars never fade away.
It was at that time until maybe, the tail end of college where I closed myself off from others. I never truly got along with people my age. Teachers and adults in general, were the ones I stood close with because teachers would never harass you about your weight, or leave you to have lunches by yourself at the bench tables. Sure, I had some friends I could talk with but it few and far between. I learned quickly about betrayal, deceit, aggression, cliques, isolation, mob-rule and I didn’t even hit middle school yet. Those building blocks I would carry in my truck as I slowly matured. Think of it this way: if kids were the hares of growing up, I was the tortoise; I would get there eventually but I would always be late to the party.
As I’m about close to turning thirty years old, I realize now that some things are beyond my control. Till now, I’ve always had one foot in the past and one foot into the future, yet I never stepped into the present. I never truly enjoyed what I had in front of me. I just couldn’t let go. Letting go meant leaving the trunk behind. The large, black heavy trunk I’ve carried well past its prime. Whenever I felt sad, angry, disappointed, they would go right into the trunk. You see I always make it a point to never forget anything. There are people I knew, and even people I know now, hopefully reading this, where if they bring happiness to me, or if I’m slighted negatively, I would carry that with me, into the trunk. It could’ve happened ten years ago or ten days ago, each instance is catalogued. I believe it’s a somewhat petty coping defense mechanism.
I realize now that I have to leave the trunk behind. I have to let go of that part of myself. As clichés as it might sound, I truly know now who I am, what I can give, and what I want in a life. I know now not to waste my energy on things and people that don’t bring me joy, or aren’t there for me. I know whom I care for, and whom I can leave behind because that’s life. Life moves on, and I can’t take everyone with me, including my former self, still sitting at that bench having lunch by himself; that boy, I can safely say as he turns thirty soon, knows how to enjoy his own company. He doesn’t need others to define who he is, what he should be doing, or what his choices are. He can survive with people, and without people. A fortress on a lone island: welcomes visitors but can manage on it’s own. A fortress guarded by the most fearsome, dangerous yet kind, lovable elephants in the world.
Andy Quintana is here again in a slightly different style. We hope you enjoyed his piece!
“Take a long shower, Em. It’ll help.”
The water was hot. I had heard it’s not good for your skin, but I needed it that way. I needed it.
Leaning my head back, I felt the heat moving through my hair and down my shoulders, running over my face, my eyes, lips. My body was made of stone, and not even water could smooth me. I put my hands on my face and held them there. It stung. I breathed.
I used to dream of feeling this way. It was nicer in the dream. Then, I’d imagine myself floating into space, weightless. My arms and legs spread out, my chest lifting my body up, out of itself. I didn’t know if that was possible now, once I’d turned to stone. I tried. I tried to float out of the tub, through the ceiling, into the clouds.
The room was empty when I got out of the shower. It felt weird and different. Weird, like when someone is with you one day and the next, they're not. Different, like something you have to get used to. I unwrapped my towel and looked at myself in the mirror. My skin was red from the heat. I looked at my face, my stomach, my knees. There was a small bruise on my right thigh that was unaccounted for. It was the same height as my nightstand. Bodies look different when you stare at them. I lifted my toes up and pressed them into the ground.
I'm not sure when it was that I'd abandoned everything I cared about. They say that by letting go, you will end up finding yourself in the process.
Over the next 6 months, I reacquainted myself with everything that mattered to me. I used to play piano; I don’t know why I stopped. After a while, I moved my fingers over the piano keys again, remembering what they felt like, relearning how to touch them. I’d forgotten the songs I used to play, but I knew it would be different this time. It sounded different. Gradually, my fingers started to move, skipping over the octaves, building a melody. It was mine.
We hope you enjoyed Emily's piece about letting go.
Deep in the recesses of my sock basket lies a pair of well-worn, well-made men’s gold-toe socks. They have lived with me for over three years and in more than three apartments. I almost never wear them, save times of extreme laundry crisis. Or the rare episode of an early morning freezing floor. But, if Marie Kondo were to blast through my wall like a petite Kool-Aid man and politely hold the socks up in front of my face, I would have to say, “No, Marie. They do not spark joy.” Then why haven’t I let them go?
They did belong to a guy I dated in college, a guy that I once loved. Our love ended. The socks endured.
I hadn’t thought much of what holding on to them might mean until now. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m in denial. Maybe there are pieces of my college relationship woven into the fibers of those socks. Maybe that’s why they’ve stayed in my basket for so long. A token to love lost.
I open my closet and rip through my basket, flinging socks about, none of them paired. Of course not. Chaos is a sock drawer. These ones are easy to find, though, because they are rolled together. Rolled together because I never wear them. I hold them for a while, pressing the fabric between my fingers. That stupid gold-toe. It’s funny to me that not even socks are immune to fashion trends.
I wait for that Marie Kondo spark. I wait for the fire of the past to burn strong enough for me to feel its warmth again. I hold the socks and prepare to remember. To remember a time when I didn’t think I could walk without the feet that filled these socks beside me. See memories of a girl who could not make one step forward had he not made it first. The silhouette of my longest love. The echo of my biggest heartbreak.
But nothing comes. No such fire burns.
So I put them on. My feet drown in them, the gold toe not reaching my own, the ankles pulling up to an unflattering length. 100% Certified Dad Socks. I peel them off, roll them back up, and return them into my chaos basket.
Nothing sparked in me. No joy. No sentiment. No romance, anger, hurt, heartache. They really, truly mean nothing at all. They’re just socks I haven’t bothered to get rid of.
Letting go is a funny little thing. I don’t know that I believe in it. If I did, these socks would probably mean more to me. Because if I just let my relationship go, I would never have really moved on. I simply would have allowed it to move beyond me. Loosen my grasp on it and set it free. A passive act. But that’s not what I did. The socks are not that relationship because I didn’t just let go of that love. I ran the fuck beyond it. I cried, wrote, quit drinking for good, worked hard, spoke sweeter, laughed harder, mastered being alone. Don’t loosen your grasp on what needs to change. Tighten your grip on your own life and never let go.
My life is in my hands now. And sometimes, too, is a pair of my ex-boyfriend’s socks.
Anna Snedden is one of our guest performers, and we are in love with her writing style. We hope you all enjoy her work as much as we do! Thanks Anna!
I drove to the beach, parked my Buick Le Sabre next to a Subaru and sat my butt down in the sand. Closing my eyes, I listened to the waves. It was calm. Clear. It took me a minute to relax entirely, but gradually I could feel my breathing pair up with the rhythm of the water. I pressed both hands to the center of my chest in search of a pulse and realized I didn’t have one. Kidding. I did have one, and it felt ok. Warm and consistent. I took a deep breath and felt my stomach turn and my throat lump and my eyes swell. I exhaled and tilted my face up toward the sun.
It feels very weird to finally do something you’ve been dreaming of since you were 13. It’s never really what you imagined it to be, but in some ways it’s better. In others, it’s worse. In general, it’s good. I grabbed an apple out of my grocery bag and took a bite out of it. My journal sat next to me in the sand, but I didn’t write in it—not when I should anyway—only when it was convenient, or when it made me seem insightful, or when it made me look smart. Most of what I did were for those reasons, I realized.
I sat there and fantasized about people reading my journal years after my death and saying, “Wow, she was brilliant.” Only, there was a problem with that because, so far, the only material I had was, “He doesn’t love me!” and, “Life is pain!” and, “Why aren’t I pretty?!” followed by scribbles and scribbles and blah blah blah and drawings and lots of “Fuck!”s. You know, just really deep, real shit. Although, I did say to myself, “I’m my own worst enemy,” once. That was pretty accurate. ‘Cause at 18, I really knew.
Sitting there, I tried to picture what I wanted for my life moving forward. You know, they say you’re supposed to envision it. You imagine it vividly and the more specific you are, the more likely it is that it’ll actually be. Only problem was, mine was incredibly vague, and I wasn’t even sure how to make it more specific. I wanted to be open to every possibility, but then how was I also supposed to know it so vividly that I could draw it? This is bullshit, I thought.
I wish I could relive the year I was 8 years old. I had a cool haircut and sweet “Fit ‘N Flare” jeans that were a little too short. There was a gap where my front right tooth was, and my new adult tooth was just barely showing up. I mean, I was killing. I played on a softball team that lost every single game, and then I quit. That was a good year. I made friends, had fun all the time, and found everything exciting. Everything. I knew who I was and what I liked, and I wasn’t afraid. Things were just what they were. There was no trying for anything other than that.
Since then, I’ve been constantly trying to figure out what things are to me. I’ve been in a constant state of practice, learning what is right for my life and what’s wrong and how to balance it equally. Which is good, I want to be. But it’s not easy. It’s kind of like fine tuning an instrument. I’m trying to get as close as possible to the most honest version of myself.
I took a bite out of a peanut butter sandwich and looked at the water. How can something be so flexible and have so much power? How is that even possible? It can drip through the cracks between your fingers, and it can hit you like a brick wall. And, like, we need it to live, but also it can kill us. Sorry, just not entirely sure how or why that’s just a normal thing, casually. Water is the shit but, like, scary as shit. Like, we don’t know what’s out there in the ocean. But it’s there regardless of whether we appreciate it or not. There’s no vanity or ego about it, it just is. It’s flexible and powerful. Calm and collected and consistent.
Maybe I need to be a little more like water.
Emily Dorsett is on instagram as @coolgirlemily.
Question to think about:
If a caged bird is released into the world,
Will he stay free or return?
You cannot simply unlearn new
Eye opening truth
The farther that I flew
From my trip where I somehow knew
My tiny life, could not be confined
To one place, to one nest
Where it all began, just as my parents have
California, so large, so vast
Realizing how sad I was in the past
To have not explored it sooner
I was a high school junior
Bus traveling up north
Experiencing every college tour
Gliding by every new city
Perching a gander
With my friends, flocking together
Imaging a future, truly rife of possibilities
Turlock, Fresno, Stanislaus
San Francisco, Pismo Beach
Santa Cruz’s god-like tall redwood trees
Reaching high towards the heavens
I must confess the beauty of it all
Simply jaw dropping
Nature in its rawest form
So much green, blue and brown
As I looked around
Roaming, as much as I was allowed
I noticed, compared to my home
The landscape, the calmness, the overall tone,
Northern California is its own little world
Such a slower speed
Farmlands at every corner
The roosters are crowing
As each tractor is mowing
The grain, the feed into the ground
Such sounds are foreign in cities
And the beach; a gorgeous sea
Beyond my reach is a horizon
Wondering if I fly there
How much fun I could have
Would I dare?
To soar into the cool crisp air?
I could not have even fathomed
Such clear blue waters
“Wow”, I whispered
“Was this always beyond my nest?”
My entire life has been one big test
As I sat down on my seat
Finding everything so neat, looking through my pictures
Hoping one day to return
To the memory of those four days
Four days to call my own
Growing up beyond my home
SO I will ask again regarding the caged bird
Will he remain free, or simply return?
The answer is he will return
But the cage is no longer there
His wings have grown
As he was sufficiently shown
The next destination can be anywhere.
This is one of our favorite pieces by Andy Quintana. Andy has been involved in It's Personal for the past two years.
He always shows incredible attention to the details of his pieces and the metaphors within them.
We love Andy and are so lucky to have him. Enjoy!
“Please, just stay in Vegas,” my mom said over the phone. She reserved a hotel room in Las Vegas on a Tuesday night because she didn’t want me up driving until morning. Caesar’s Palace. Thank u, Mom, I love u. I was 23, and Vegas is awesome especially when you’re me, by myself. I drove in late at night in my clunker, everything I owned squished into my backseat. The lights were fluorescent in contrast to the black hole I’d been staring into for the past 7 hours. I squinted, leaning forward to get a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower through my windshield. One of my pillows was shoved up against the window, blocking my side view. It looked like a marshmallow. I pulled up to the In & Out drive through and ordered a cheese burger, animal style, and a strawberry shake.
Sitting in my Buick and parked next to the In & Out, I ate my burger alone, in silence, in Las Vegas, Nevada. A little bit of ketchup landed on my shirt. Don’t feel sorry for me, this was my choice. With my back end pointing toward the strip, I looked forward into the darkness. Then, I remembered I read somewhere that the valleys around Vegas are where many people have died or gone missing or have been killed and disposed of. I scrunched up my plastic burger wrapping and stuffed it into my cup holder.
Caesar’s Palace wasn’t hard to find. I pulled into the parking lot and looked for the first open space. I walked around a little, afraid to leave my car because, well, it was everything I owned. I locked the doors, then unlocked them and tried to cover everything with a blanket. I realize I sound like a serial killer, but I promise I did come here to dispose of someone’s body. After repeating these steps three more times, I paused, finally accepted what it was and walked up to the Palace. They greeted me with roses and Champagne and endless applause.
Check in was easy. I grabbed my bag and walked through the slot machines, wandering around until I found the elevator. I thought about how, like, what if I died tonight. Alone in a Vegas hotel room, wearing only socks. What a shitty ending to the story. Before I even do anything cool, I trip and hit my head on the night stand. And as I’m lying there, bleeding out...I realize I’m wearing nothing but socks and a pearl necklace—my hearse full of dead bodies, just chilling in the lot. I fucking hope no one finds my vibrator.
I pressed the button for the 8th floor and pretended I was a rich person wearing better clothes than my Gap sweatshirt. My diamond bracelet was really my hair tie, but the entire scenario seemed so ironic to me that I, an actual grandma, would even be there. I said, “Fuck it. I’m rich.”
Really the whole night was just boring. I got to my room and went to bed almost right away. It’s funny how one minute you’re packing up to leave everything you know in this momentous way, and the next, you’re in a hotel room alone in Vegas for a long enough amount of time that you actually start to look into yourself. Like, you think things in your head. Like, on an existential level. You think things in your head and wonder why you thought them. Then, you realize you just said something out loud, to yourself.
I left early the next morning around 6am and thought, what a waste—that I, of all people, would party that hard in Vegaaaasssss, yeeeeaaaaaa. But, regardless of what you do there, Vegas does something to you. I pulled into Starbucks, got my coffee, buried the bodies and hit the road.
Emily Dorsett has been with It's Personal, LLC since 2017. She has been writing quirky, honest, pieces for the past two years and we are always pleasantly surprised by what she is going to say... Aren't you excited to hear what she has to say?!