Bleux Stockings Vol. 1: Alayna Tucker

We are delighted to reprint Alayna Tucker's piece from our January show.

God, Have I Got A Rant For You

God, make me into one of those beautiful lesbians at the coffee shop — their cable knit

sweaters tucked primly into a­line skirts, wide­rimmed glasses over unplucked

eyebrows, so unabashedly natural, so fashionable in their unfashionable loafers

dangling at the ends of thin vegan legs — God! Could I ever be as interesting as they

are?

Or those girls that show up at festivals with hula hoops. I still think about that one girl

with the blond dreadlocks twisted up all fuzzy and clean, her tiny tits pressed gently

under a bandeau top, eyes closed tightly, gyrating to the rhythm of hands slapping skins

and she spins in that passionate dance­like trance­like way and never bumps into

anyone. God, I bet her nipples don’t even have bumps on them! I bet she has those

pretty pink puffy nipples that look like little angel hickies.

Hey, God? I feel like I should tell you that I just don’t know if I can believe in you if some

people can have ugly nipples. Like, what’s even the point of that?

But before you think I just want some divine sugar daddy to bless me with a boob job

(cause this is totally not about that, the boobs you gave me are cute, they look like hot

fluffy little Chinese steamed buns) let me just assure you, God, that it’s about so much

more. Let me explain:

I see people everywhere I go — charging through the crosswalk ahead of the signal,

drinking alone at the bar without texting anyone, confidently selecting the butternut

squash and bleu cheese pizza in the frozen section of Trader Joe’s — and they all just

seem so sure. So confident, so comfortable... so happy. And I’m happy, God, but I just

wonder sometimes: could I be happier? If I tried out their scenes, if I chatted up the

same people, could I find some secret reserve of extra happiness that was previously

unknown to me but totally just sitting out there for me to take?

Cause I tried to find it last year when I decided I was going to be one of those girls who

wears nothing but dresses all summer. I bought a bunch of cute dresses that I really

thought were practical and wearable and wouldn’t make me feel like too much of a tart

in line at the library and would finally save me from the godawful summer crotch sweat

that makes me feel like I’m perpetually pissing myself, but the only truth I discovered

was that I really, really, really hate shaving and that you absolutely can make four ratty

t-­shirts last seven days.

And if you think that sounds petty and shallow, God, then you’re not listening. Cause it’s

not about like, for example, my face being too round to pull off a pixie cut; it’s about

missing out on the life I might live with that pixie cut. It’s like, I know I’m just not a

person who wears dresses every day...or a lesbian, or a hula hooper, but maybe I

would be happier if I were?

Maybe I’d be happier if I got all super muscley like one of those Crossfit tweakers. Like,

I don’t think so, I think I would hate that, but how do I really know, ya know? Maybe if I

spent less time dicking around on Reddit I could teach myself sign language, or

Tagalog, or how to solve a Rubix Cube, or how to make sushi! Hell, I’d be happy if I

could figure out how to wear a kimono as an evening jacket without looking like a

gift­wrapped dwarf. God, why do I look so frumpy in skirts?!

Now hold on a minute God, I know what you’re thinking, but if one more asshole tells

me, “you just have to love yourself,” I swear I’m gonna volunteer for the Mars mission.

Sometimes love is just not enough.

I do love myself. I’m smart, I’m totally cute, and I make art that might actually be kinda

good if you know anything about art. Love has never been the issue. It’s just that I can

never get comfortable with the way I’m choosing to spend my one shot at existence.

Like, if I had started Japanese katana lessons five years ago I could be a total badass

right now. But maybe, I’d just wish that I’d spent all that time guerrilla knitting every bike

rack in Atlanta, or raising awareness for some totally sad disease, or like, turning my

home into a sanctuary for abused sugar gliders that got squished in some drunk

asshole’s hoodie pocket and have to live with their terrifying PTSD flashbacks and

damaged sense of personal safety.

That just isn’t even fair, God! I just don’t know if I can live in a world where helpless

sugar gliders can get squished and nobody will step up to do anything about it!!!

God, I’m just so, so scared all the time. Can you give me any kind of reassurance that

I’m not completely wasting my life? What’s the difference between loving oneself and

being complacent? Where’s the line between wanting the most out of life and ruining the

one you have with doubt?

I feel all the time like I’m the last person at the table to order and the waiter is standing

over me asking what I really truly want and the menu is like a million pages long so

there’s no way I could possibly go over every choice and pick the very best one but

everything that everyone else ordered looks so, so good so I wonder if I can just sample

a little bit of what they have and see if I might like it too, but I’m too afraid to ask so I just

sit and pick at my salad, and it’s a really good salad and I know I’m enjoying it but it’s

just a starter, you know, like it’s not the main course and I’m sure I’ll like whatever I

choose for the main course as much as I like this really good salad but how can I

possibly know unless I order everything on the menu and try a bite of every single thing

and every possible combination of those things until I’m sure that I got the very best

thing and there’s no way I could be happier with anything else?

Cause I’m so, so sorry God, but I really think that this is all that there is. This life is all

I’m ever going to experience, so I’ve gotta get it right, right now. I’m gonna die some

day, and I know I won’t have the consciousness to reflect on all my missed opportunities

and crushing regrets, but I sure as hell can now and I gotta tell you, it’s no way to live.

And I know that I can’t just choose to be something I’m not. I can’t just decide to be a

lesbian and try that life on like I might try on a cute sundress, but it just aches to know

that there are avenues to potential happiness that are completely closed off to me. I

wish that I could charge ahead with confidence, but there are no clearly­marked roads

through the dark forests of our lives, only the bent twigs and crushed leaves of the

passion paths made by those that tread before us, somehow vetting their choices by

having made them at all — endorsing their existence by existing.

So, I don’t know, could you please, like, just put a good samaritan in my path to stop me

randomly on the street and tell me that I’m a good writer...and that my skin is flawless?

That would make my goddamn day, I swear.

But I’m sure you have like, a million people praying your ear off for like, food or a cure

for AIDS or whatever and probably don’t have time for some narcissistic atheist’s

first­world existential rant, so I’ll let you get back to it.

I think I just needed someone to hear me.

Thanks, God, if you’re even there to give a shit.

Amen.

#AlaynaTucker #sugargliders #essay