by Amy Reed
I am a parasite on this world. I suck the life out of the things I love. I multiply and spread until I’ve consumed you. And even when you’re gone, even after I’ve licked up every last crumb of you, I’m still hungry. I’m starving, Connor. I’m empty and lonely and lost and I’m starving, and there isn’t enough in the whole wide world that could make me feel whole.
Somebody shoot me. Somebody put me out of my misery. Please.
Love,
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Wednesday, January 18—7:41 PM
Subject: Re: baby birds
Dear Isabel,
Don’t you see? Neither of us fits in. That’s why we have each other. We can build our own little world full of weird, beautiful things. We can make a new normal, just for us. There are fewer of us, but we exist. And it’s pretty amazing if you think about it—we get to create our own reality instead of just accepting the old, used one everyone else gets. We’re the lucky ones, Isabel. When are you going to start seeing that?
Love,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Thursday, January 19—12:05 AM
Subject: Re: baby birds
Connor,
I wish I could believe you, but I can’t. I’m not like you. You think I’m this wild and free thing, but I’m not. I’m not free at all.
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Thursday, January 19—5:13 PM
Subject:
You’re not coming this weekend, are you?
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Thursday, January 19—8:08 PM
Subject: Re:
I’m sorry. I’m so tired again. Forgive me.
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Thursday, January 19—10:19 PM
Subject: Re:
Isabel,
No. I will not forgive you. I am sick of always forgiving you. It’s practically all I do anymore. You promise something, I get excited, then you go crazy and break your promise and I have to pretend it doesn’t hurt because I’m afraid that if I tell you how I actually feel, you’ll run away even more. You get mad, and I apologize for things I didn’t even do wrong. You disappear, and I wait for you to come back. It’s always about you, Isabel. Everything is always about you.
You’re always talking about what phonies everyone else is, how they’re always letting you down, but why don’t you look at yourself for a second? You say you’re going to do something, and then you don’t. That’s pretty phony if you ask me. You’re the one who’s letting someone down. You’re the one without integrity. You, Isabel. You’re just like everyone you say you hate. For once, just try to follow through on something you say you’re going to do, even if it’s hard, even if you don’t want to. Just try to grow the fuck up.
Connor
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Saturday, January 21—8:17 AM
Subject: sorry
Isabel,
Shit. I’m sorry. That was harsh. But I meant it.
I wish you were here.
Love,
Connor
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Monday, January 23—6:09 PM
Subject: sorry part 2
Dear Isabel,
Didn’t we always talk about how it was great that we could be so honest with each other? Don’t you want me to be able to tell you how I feel?
Love,
Connor
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Friday, January 27—10:18 PM
Subject:
Isabel,
You can’t just fucking disappear like this. You’re not this selfish. This isn’t you. You’re the girl who gets a room full of kids to think about art. You’re the girl who stops the car so you can pick up litter on the side of the road. Remember that time this summer when those mean girls were picking on that little girl with glasses, and how you made them stop and think about it and apologize, and that girl looked at you like you were a fucking angel, like you saved her life? That’s you, Isabel. Not this girl who disappears.
What’s happening to you? Talk to me. Let me help you.
Love,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Sunday, January 29—11:58 PM
Subject: Re:
Dear Connor,
I used to think I was that girl you remember. And maybe I was, maybe those memories are real, maybe that girl who looked like me really was an angel. But maybe angels fall, maybe the wind blows and just like that they can be twisted into something unrecognizable.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. Maybe if I did, I could fix it. Maybe if I could name it, if I could say it out loud, it would lose some of its power.
Why do you keep writing me back? Why do you keep wanting to see me? After all I’ve done, after all I’ve not done? Why do you keep putting up with my shit? What if I can’t ever be who you want me to be? What if I keep letting you down?
Love,
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Monday, January 30—7:01 PM
Subject: Re:
Dear Isabel,
I don’t know the answers to your questions. I don’t know if anyone can ever really explain why they believe in someone. But I do. I believe in you. I hope that’s worth something.
Love,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Thursday, February 2—9:39 PM
Subject: football
Dear Connor,
The director of my school called my parents yesterday and told them I’m almost failing all of my classes. Needless to say, my parents are not happy. Nothing new. I think there is a limit to the amount of anger and disappointment a person can feel, and if you try to add any more, it just spills out and splatters everywhere. My parents have reached this level, so their reaction to this news barely registered. They just added it to the long list of disappointments that they’ll have to get around to feeling eventually.
I’m trying to develop a new technique for dealing with myself. The technique is called “Ignore Isabel.” For instance, yesterday afternoon, I started thinking about how maybe some of the crap adults say is actually true, like maybe how well you do in high school really does affect how well you do in college, which does affect the kind of job you get, which does affect how happy you end up being. And maybe the academic disaster that my senior year is turning out to be will create an even bigger disaster in college, and maybe I can’t cut it at Reed after all, and maybe I’ll have to drop out and I’ll never get a degree, and I’ll never get a job, and then I’ll have to live with my parents for the rest of my life like my sister almost did, except I won’t find a nice wife like Karen to save me. The luckiest I’ll get is a disgusting old sugar daddy with weird sexual fetishes who I’ll have to marry because I could never support myself and it’d be the only way to get out of my parents’ house and no one else would want me—but then I decided FUCK THAT, I’m going to force myself to think about something else, so I called my sister. You heard that right, I actually called her on the phone, but she wasn’t there, and then I thought about calling you, but that scared me and I chickened out. I can’t explain why the phone scares me so much. It just feels unsafe, the way someone can hear you but they can’t see you, so it’s like they’re in control of how they want to interpret your words because you’re not there to make sure they’re hearing you right, and they can be doing all sorts of weird things and you won’t even know about it because you can’t see them, and you can’t go back and edit everything like you can in email.
So I was standing there in the middle of my room with these bad t
houghts waiting there under the surface. I could feel them heating up and getting ready to take over, and I was thinking about how I’m just so sick of it, so sick of myself and my own company, sick enough to think my dad’s company would be a better alternative, that WATCHING FOOTBALL would be a better alternative. That shows you how desperate I am. So I spent the next hour sitting on the floor in front of the couch listening to my dad clap and yell at the little men running around on the screen, and I played about a thousand games of solitaire, and there was something oddly comforting about it, about just wasting my time in the company of someone who doesn’t feel the need to talk all the time. When I first showed up, Dad said something like, “To what do I owe this honor?” to which I replied something like, “The rest of the house is infested with poisonous vipers,” and then he just allowed me to sit there in silence with him. My dad’s not so bad. He’s kind of a loser, but he’s a nice loser.
You asked me to let you help me. Distract me, Connor. Distract me with all your might.
Now I have something serious to ask you. It’s something I’ve always wondered: Where do guys get skinny jeans?
Love,
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Thursday, February 2—10:12 PM
Subject: Re: football
Dear Isabel,
There’s a wise voice inside me that warns against forgiving you so quickly. But I never listen, do I? Señor is giving me that look again, like she’s sick of my shit. So am I, but I will continue.
You are asking the wrong guy about skinny jeans, since I vowed long ago to never, under any circumstance, wear them. It’s a good question, though. Maybe Jeremy will know. Except he doesn’t wear skinny jeans either. Crap, was that totally homo-prejudiced of me to just assume he knows about that kind of thing?
Love,
Connor
Thursday, February 2—10:28 PM
condorboy: hi
yikes!izzy: hi
condorboy: what are you doing?
yikes!izzy: trying to do research for a history paper about the renaissance
yikes!izzy: got distracted by stuff about FURRIES
condorboy: what’s “furries”?
yikes!izzy: they’re these people who are obsessed with anthropomorphic animals
yikes!izzy: they have conventions where they walk around in animal costumes
yikes!izzy: sometimes there are furry sex orgies where they all hump each other in costume
condorboy: during the renaissance?
yikes!izzy: no, now
condorboy: humans are amazing
yikes!izzy: yes they are
condorboy: i have a question for you
yikes!izzy: uh oh. is it serious?
condorboy: yes. very
yikes!izzy: ok. go
condorboy: what did the hipster say when he walked into the bar?
yikes!izzy: i don’t know. what?
condorboy: “let’s get out of here, there are too many fucking hipsters”
yikes!izzy: haha! i have to tell that one to my sister
condorboy: i texted jeremy about the skinny jeans question. he doesn’t know where guys get skinny jeans either
yikes!izzy: they must all be wearing women’s pants
condorboy: yes. most likely.
condorboy: jeremy says hi, by the way. he thinks you’ve been a dick lately, but he still wants to meet you.
yikes!izzy: tell him i say hi too
yikes!izzy: also, how many hipsters does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
condorboy: how many?
yikes!izzy: it’s such a cool number, you’ve probably never heard of it
condorboy: ha
condorboy: jeremy wants to know when you’re coming to visit
yikes!izzy: how many hipsters does it take to flush a toilet?
condorboy: how many?
yikes!izzy: you can’t touch that toilet, it’s art
condorboy: is that referencing Duchamp’s Fountain?
yikes!izzy: you are such a hipster for saying that
condorboy: Duchamp was totally a hipster
yikes!izzy: i actually studied for my math test yesterday. i think i did ok.
condorboy: good job!
condorboy: señor cuddlebones caught a squirrel yesterday and buried its bloody carcass under my bed
yikes!izzy: karen’s belly is getting really big. she gave me a picture of the ultrasound.
condorboy: alice says she has an internet girlfriend now
yikes!izzy: do you think you ever want to have kids?
condorboy: probably. you?
yikes!izzy: i don’t know. i’m afraid i’m too selfish. i’m afraid i’d fuck it up too bad
condorboy: i don’t think there’s any such thing as a perfect parent. everyone fucks up their kids. that’s what builds character or something.
yikes!izzy: hipsters totally don’t have kids
condorboy: hipsters eat babies for breakfast
yikes!izzy: hipsters don’t eat breakfast. that’s how they stay so skinny.
yikes!izzy: your mom seems pretty perfect. she raised you, after all
condorboy: my mom’s not perfect
yikes!izzy: this is too much like a real conversation
condorboy: i’m definitely not perfect
[yikes!izzy is offline.]
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Friday, February 3—11:45 PM
Subject: what’s the opposite of angst?
Dear Isabel,
You said my mom seems perfect. Yes, she is great, I’ll be the first to admit it. Why do I feel so embarrassed saying that? As if liking your parents is something to be ashamed of? Like I’m going to get kicked out of teenage-dom because I enjoy my mom’s company?
But she’s not perfect, either. Sometimes she drinks too much when she’s stressed out, and sometimes she loses her temper and yells for no reason. And she can be really judgmental and mean. For someone who claims to be so tolerant, she can say some really nasty things about people she doesn’t agree with. Sometimes I think she’s just as prejudiced as the people she calls prejudiced, but she thinks she’s right so it doesn’t count.
But maybe her hypocrisy is a good thing. Maybe it’s taught me to try to be even more honest. Maybe the point of all of our parents’ failings is to serve as examples of what not to do. Maybe being a grown-up is all about figuring out how to not become our parents.
In that case, I should become a Republican who hates gay/black/poor/disabled/Muslim/immigrant women and tortures cats and drives a Hummer and eats only genetically modified food full of high-fructose corn syrup and preservatives. I should refuse to go to college because the cult of Higher Education is full of lesbians and commies. I should buy some guns and wear a fur coat and join the military and kill babies in third-world countries while picketing a woman’s right to choose. That’ll show her.
Sadly, I don’t think I have too much to rebel against. Even when she’s full of shit, my mom is a pretty decent person, which totally sucks. How can I possibly be an artist without any good angst? But of course we’ve already gone over this.
Love,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Sunday, February 5—7:01 PM
Subject: Re: what’s the opposite of angst?
Dear Connor,
I have angst oozing out of my pores that puddles on the ground. I should mop it up and sell it to nice, well-adjusted kids like you.
My mom started talking to me again. I think it was probably only because Gennifer and Karen came over for dinner last night, but it’s still a start. Maybe it’s also because my brother ended up in jail again, so she realizes that I’m not all that bad in comparison.
Jesse got caught buying heroin from an undercover cop. He totally wins the award for most-fucked-up member of my family. My mom told us all over dinner, and my sister just put her
head in her hands, and Karen said something like, “It’s obscene that they’re going after the users instead of the dealers,” and I think I dropped my fork on the floor. My dad just looked at his plate, sadly shaking his head.
“He’s at the King County jail right now,” my mom said. “You all can go visit him if you want.” She did not say “we.” No one said anything. “His attorney is going to try to get the judge to order him to go to rehab instead of getting jail time.” Karen sat there nodding, and Gennifer was shaking her head, and for some reason I started crying, and no one even seemed to notice. I don’t know why. I wasn’t feeling particularly emotional, and then all of a sudden I saw Jesse on the floor like I found him when I was little, saw him lying in the hospital bed with tubes in his arms. And then I started thinking about before he was like that, when he was just a normal, pimply fourteen-year-old who no one really worried about. That’s the weirdest part—he was just so normal, like he got Bs in school, never really got in trouble, had a few friends he did things with. Then it was like, all of a sudden when he was around my age, something just broke. All of a sudden, everything seemed to piss him off and he would walk around in these rages all the time. And then he just started hiding from everyone, which I guess is when he started doing drugs. I started thinking about how my grandmother killed herself before I was born, how my mom is such a perfectionist it’s impossible for her to feel joy, then of course there’s my brother, and then it just hit me—my family is cursed. It’s written into my DNA to self-destruct.
I got up and went to the bathroom and tried to distract myself long enough to stop crying. But every time I thought I was getting a handle on things, I’d start thinking about my brother when he was around twelve and I was six and he’d humor me by coming to my stupid tea parties, and he was always so patient, and he’d even make his voice all high and pretend to talk for my stuffed animals, and he’d compliment the invisible tea and say what a wonderful time he was having. That was a different person from the guy who’s in jail right now. And what does that mean about how I’m going to turn out? How different am I going to be from that girl you knew this summer? You may have been the last person to see her.