The Color of Milk

Over the weekend I tried to write a bio. If you know anything about me at all, you’ll realize I’m a high school dropout with no credentials whatsoever and not a single accomplishment to my name, so asking me to write about my life is like asking for a page of lyricism about the color of milk. I drove out to the desert and sat for hours in the silence with my blank notebook in front of me and thought about how much time I’ve spent in my own head, the only sure escape from many an intolerable situation.

It’s strange to be at this point, to be asked to step out from behind the work and answer the cold-blooded question, Who are you? Who have you been?

Truly, no one. No one at all.

I became desperate eventually and sent back a bio that read like a litany of johns from the Mayflower Madam, because what is true of me is that my life has revolved around men. It always has and probably always will. Women are my sisters, one and all, but men are something else, more difficult and complex and tricky to deal with, harder to please, a wall of muscle I can never break through. I gravitate ineluctably toward the men most likely to inflict psychic pain when I fling myself against them. This is why I write the way I do–the fascination itself is my credential.

The bio was poorly written, with a wit born of shame, but I am sure as hell not going to volunteer the rewrite. I don’t want to think about me.

What’s your fatal fascination?


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