Tiffany Blues

Disclaimer: This post was NOT written by me. This is an excerpt from "Fall Out Toy Works: Tiffany Blues", a graphic novel by Pete Wentz. The reason I am sharing it is that it captures exactly how I feel, how I've always felt. The uncertainty that lies at the base of every single human being. We are all lost and looking for someone to feel connected with. We are all wanders, looking for a purpose. While it feels lonely, and the world can be discouraging, we have to remember that we are all in the same boat. Regardless of status, money, choices, childhoods... We are all missing a vital piece, something that just might have the answer. Ask yourself: What makes you feel alive? What will/has saved your life?

Can a robot cry?
Can it feel alive?
Can a robot love?
Can anyone? 

I always said I danced because it made me feel... I don't know. I guess I lied and said "alive". When you start out around people who pray that a neighborhood bar will close down its most popular bar, you can't help wanting to - or needing - to uneath that world for yourself. That's the romantic reason. I stayed because the people who drank stayed. Before that, I had no way of knowing, aside from that old show [Cheers], that people don't flow in and out of bars like they do restaurants. People crawl into bars and hide there like they've found the bedroom missing from their own homes. Turns out I'm somewhat of a voyeur.

How could I not love my front-row view of people at that moment where they don't pretend to love their awful jobs. People who don't pretend to love their fucked up spouses. It's not that the bar-people were negative, it's that liquor showed them that honesty is worth so much more than phony happiness. What good are all those picket fences, anyway? If the raw, broken creature inside you really just wants to meet one other person who will look you in the eye and say, "I can't fucking stand this either."

It's like this: Maybe we can't stand homeless people because we're somehow jealous. They answer to no one. They aren't tied down to places. They do find community, but in the strangest of places. Except, they're not forced to make conversation with all the fuzzy background people we secretly wish didn't exist. Their lives are the epitome of honesty. And that's the best thing about the bars - They are all just people. The same. I had regulars who were prostitutes. Regulars who were homeless... Or attorneys, fathers, whatever. Girls with PHD's who wanted nothing more than to fuck somebody and not tell a soul the next day, just to see if they could. But unless these people told you whether or not their whiskey made them, you really couldn't tell the difference. There was no way to know who was the whore and who was going to hand you three books about Jesus on your last day of work.

My world, worlds, have been filled with two kinds of people. One group telling me over and over how non-existent and manmade God is. That's how I knew that God was real. There's no sense why we cry and break and hurt and love and kill ourselves trying to find "family" in the deadest of places unless we subconsciously know we are missing something bigger.

So in my opinion, getting bloody Mary's on a Sunday morning with a deeply hungover friend is far more important than going to a church service. And God is the only one who seems to get that.


Really, it's amazing how normal I turned out. Here I am, so incapable of living a relatively sheltered life. I started writing as a survival skill. I had to write so that I wouldn't forget. And I started to think of it as a kind of dancing. Dancing because I don't want to forget everything I'm starting to remember. I'm afraid of losing my thoughts. I'm afraid of forgetting everything I know now. Because even though today, God is real, tomorrow, he is not. Even if I feel loved today, tomorrow I will believe that I have never been loved at all. So, if before, I was dancing to express things I didn't know how to make into words yet... Then maybe now it's a way to hold on to memories. And maybe, writing isn't the only kind of dancing that can save my life.
Tiffany Blues Tiffany Blues Reviewed by Ali Larsen on April 10, 2020 Rating: 5

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