After putting Ben Harper’s “Sexual Healing” on blast in the teachers’ room of my conservative Islamic middle school, I started to wonder how pessimistic I’ve become since joining Peace Corps. It’s definitely not Peace Corps’ fault. I’m here. I’m doing my job. It’s just I have seven months left, and all I can think about is getting out. Since I refuse to end my contract, I’ve turned to some self-destructive habits. A few months ago, I wrote a piece on my relationship with Wilson. Wilson is a reference to the film Cast Away in which Tom Hanks’ character develops a weird and dependent relationship with a Wilson volleyball he’s named Wilson.
I’ve removed my Wilson from my life for the past five months. It was easy. I was in a good relationship, and I was convinced I didn’t want Wilson’s attention anymore.
Last week, I spent some time with my Wilson. Things were so good. He was so sweet, so cute, and so kind. Most important, I was desperate for attention. The emotional situation after my break-up was so delicate. I could have chosen to blast some Beyoncé and run away from Wilson that day or I could have revisited an even worse situation with him.
I’m so glad I chose Beyoncé. She has saved my life more than one time in this country. That voice has the power to shake the self-destructive bullshit out of me.
I biked home. There was a baby living at my house for a few days. I love hanging out with babies. They have a similar Beyoncé-esque power to make me reprioritize and realize how stupid my past actions have been. So I just hanged out with the baby at home. He threw up on me. It was still a better time than one I’ve ever had with Wilson. I plan to choose Beyoncé each and every time. And baby vomit.
No comments:
Post a Comment