Patient blog followers, I humbly ask your forgiveness for my extended absence. I promise to be more diligent with my updates and insights from now on.
I am wistful when I think back to when I started this blog. It was the summer after I graduated college. I felt something like a female Kerouac; clever, cocky and ready to break some hearts. But I'm not that woman anymore. She was so confident, so sure that her education, youth and verve would be enough to get here there, wherever she decided there might be. She was hungry to write and fuck and see the world and she never thought for a second that she would lose her grip on that feeling. She imagined herself spending every spare hour in cafes, feverishly pecking at the keys of her laptop, trying to spit out the words as quickly as they came. She imagined some tedious day job working as a nanny for the children of East Bay yuppies would be worth it as long as she was able to clock out at 5, come home and bleed red all over some paper. That girl is gone. And god damnit, I miss her.
But Eve never left. Eve is still here. When I walk on stage, I can feel their eyes roaming my thighs, the sweep of my breasts. The adrenaline floods my veins, metallic and quick. I'm back, I think. I watch myself in the mirror, a reflection of a reflection. My body moves without permission from my brain and I become my own voyeur; I fall in love with the girl in the mirror.
But when I put my clothes back on, I take off the cloak of certainty and control. I can't find her outside the doors of the peepshow. But I know she can't have gone far. I know she's waiting for me somewhere, pen in hand, feet on the ground.
