Bridges: essay cover


I am so sick of bridges as metaphors. Sometimes I just like walking on a bridge, dammit. Sometimes I like climbing the scaffolding. Sometimes I like jumping in a river (really for real, not, like, figuratively). When the hell and why did it all have to start meaning anything more? I love bridges. I love the functionality arched or flat, covered or open, static or, for want of a better word, drawable (retractable? Upendable? No, not better words…). This asshole the other day was telling me about bridging his past selves with his future self as a way to balance his chi and I wanted to hit him very hard. I wanted to, with tweezers, pluck every pubic hair off his body slowly, testing each one’s tensile strength. Maybe pulling two at a time. Maybe three. How many pubes do you have to yank simultaneously before they don’t break? That is, before the skin rips first? Give me a bridge any day. Give me a metaphor only with a glass of gin so that I have something to occupy my hands and dull my senses while you bore me… My mother once told me, “No one likes a whiner, Kirstin.” If I didn’t rant, what would I say? If I couldn’t speak, what good would I be at all? I sometimes feel like roadkill not yet killed, merely hit, bleeding on the concrete while so many others speed by happily going wherever it is happy people go. I sometimes wish that I really were about to die like that—how self-important, right? “No one wants to hear you bitch about death.” I think my mother would say that if she had the nerve to say bitch, which she doesn’t. When I’m up on a bridge alone and in the country those thoughts slip away. Something about solitude and a bird’s-eye perspective and the nearness of the brief rail-to-ground abyss and proximity of the fulfillment of the death wish allow me to feel comfortable in myself, in my silly, verbally diarrhetic existence. “Can’t you ever shut up,” I think 3,000 of my ex-boyfriends and friends and lovers have said to me. Like, no, fuckers. And why should I? I’m way up here. I got rain on me nose and breezy breeze breezing breezily on me toes. Doing okay.
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