Page 20 of Bad at Love
Empty as a shotgun shell, spent and discarded, a vessel for destruction.
No, I tell myself, shaking my head.That’s total crap. Don’t write that down. You can do better.
I can do better. I know this. And that’s why it makes it even more difficult to write. There are tons of poets out there who are absolutely brilliant, whether it’s Charles Bukowski or Rumi. I don’t bother comparing myself to them—there’s no point. They’re them, I’m me. I just compare myself to the work I’ve done before.
And right now, everything that’s coming out of me is stilted and forced. I’m trying to force a feeling when there’s no feeling at all.
My phone flashes with a notification and I pick it up, eager for a distraction.
It’s a message on Instagram.
I open it up and see that same blogger, Courtney, who messaged me last week about doing a collaboration together. She might be totally sincere but her message had definitely been on the flirty side.
Hey Lazarus, I hate to bother you again. I know you probably get a ton of messages and probably don’t checkthese (especially with your book coming out, congrats on that), but I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for drinks at some point. I really think our accounts could help each other out and reach different followers. I don’t have one million of them like you, but I do have half that and it’s quickly growing. I’m in the LA area too. Let me know. I hope to hear from you soon.
Xoxo Courtney.
I’ve collaborated with bloggers before, but usually it’s another poet or writer. This would be the first time I’ve had a fashion blogger reach out, but she might have a point when it comes to reaching a new audience. I know I have a million followers, but the truth is, that million isn’t going to buy my book. I know from the publishers what my pre-order stats are. They’re happy with them, but if you think every person that follows you and gets your work for free is going to pay up, you’re sadly mistaken.
The more followers you have, though, the more chances that people will pay. It’s a numbers game and one I should probably start taking seriously. There is no point in this business where you can sit back and rest on your laurels—I don’t care if you have a million followers or book deals. You have to keep improving, you have to keep growing.
Which is probably why I’m dealing with the block right now. The pressure is fucking on.
I want to say yes to Courtney, but not right away, so I go to her account and her blog and check her out. She’s pretty in the way all fashion bloggers are. Really skinny legs, tall, long wavy hair with highlights,Itbags on their arms, posing by angel-winged murals in downtown LA.
I don’t really have a type, but she fits the bill regardless. I’m not sure I could be with someone who is that obsessed with selfies and the camera but I’m willing to give it a shot.After all, Marina has her own successful account and she’s often taking selfies too and I have no problem with that.
But Marina is inherently pure about it. As I said, she doesn’t wear a lot of makeup, her hair is usually a mess, and most of the time she’s wearing her beekeeping suit anyway. Not exactly the point of high fashion. But her smile is genuine and she honestly does it all because of her love of bees, not because she’s fishing for likes and compliments.
She’s come a long way since we first met. I know that all this “dating” stuff seems out of the blue, but the night I first laid eyes on her, the attraction was instant, more than I thought it would be. Not just because she’s insanely pretty, but she was charming in an odd way. Blurting out what was on her mind, not acting like girls normally act around me. Something drew me to her already and all I could think was, shit, if only I was single. If only she wasn’t my sister’s friend. If only…
Now, though, I’m glad that nothing ever came of it. If I had dated Marina, our relationship would have been over in a few weeks, as usual, and it would have made this bloody awkward for Jane.
Instead, we became friends. A few weeks after that show at The Joint, I saw her again at a show with her friend Naomi. I’m not even sure which girlfriend I had at the time. She wasn’t there, though, so after the show, even after Naomi and Jane left, Marina and I stayed at the bar and talked all the way until closing.
After that, we started hanging out more and more. I watched as she started keeping hives at a small farm in the valley, then moved to Havisham’s (my nickname for her landlord) and started keeping her own hives on the property. That soon turned into her own business as she not only harvested and sold honey, but was teachingclasses, doing live hive removals—she even has her own hotline.
I’m proud of her for living her dream and I guess that’s one reason why we’ve bonded so well. While she was working hard and her career was rising, the same was happening for me.
That, and we’ve both had to deal with loss.
“Hey, man,” Scooby says, leaning against the door and munching on a cucumber. Just one long, very phallic-looking cucumber.
“Hey,” I tell him. “Good snack?”
He shrugs. “Cucumbers are great for rehydrating. Sometimes you have to ask yourself, am I drinking enough water?”
I look Scooby over, brows raised. Short and pale, with bug eyes and big teeth, Scooby gets attention wherever he goes, particularly because he’s fond of wearing top hats as a daily uniform and you can often find him riding a penny farthing up and down Venice Beach.
Despite living with him for the last three years, I still don’t know his real name or why people call him Scooby (it might have something to do with him being a major stoner), but he’s at least clean, pays the rent on time, and is a great source of entertainment.
He also reminds me of Marina in some ways, being this fathomless pit of random information, but less cute and more like the adult version of that kid fromJerry McGuire.
“Did you know,” he goes on, as if to prove my point, “that there can be a twenty-degree difference between the temperature outside and the inside of a cucumber? Hence the expression,cool as a.”
I get to my feet. “Tell me more about cucumbers,” I ask him wryly.
“That’s all I got,” he says. He munches some more. “I’m surprised to see you home. Thought you’d be at Simone’s.”
