āIfĀ you'reĀ having girl troubles I feel bad for you son. I got 99 problems but a bitch aināt oneā
I think what Jay Z is trying to say here is that love is the hardest of all things, that even someone with 99 problems pitys the poor bastard that is romantically toubled - letās think about the enormous weight of this statement. 99. ItĀ takes over one and a half minutes only to count to 99, let alone to list.
#1
F. must know that we are soul mates. I once wrote a poem onto my wall and when F. saw it he took out a thick black sharpie pen, water-resistant, and copied it onto his left arm
very nice,
he said
thank you,
i said and hereby confirming my authorship of the poem, not telling him that i stole the poem from someone else but justifying this implied lie with a wikiquote I once read of Picasso, or some other iconic art person, who said that all creation is only the act of putting theft into a different context, or something. And now I ask, who decontextualised this two lined verse onto a shitty, moulding wall in East London ? It was not Picasso, it was not some incredibly verbose american writer, it was me.
thank you,
he said and suddenly it seemed as though it was him, who was the author all along, anyway.
#2
No one can talk about Italian Tomatoes the way F. and I can.
They smell of tomatoes,
I would say
tomatoes they don't smell like tomatoes in this country.
yes,
he would say,
they smell of nothing. most things in this country smell of nothing. Ā
and then he would look over my right shoulder and there'd be a twinge of sadness appearing in his blue eyes which were born under a kind of sun that makes tomatoes smell like tomatoes. I am of Italian descent, too, so I would say,
Pomodori,
which means
Tomatoes.
#3
I wrote a poem about F. whilst sitting in a Park, it was a meaningful moment simply because I wrote it instead of stealing. But when I reached the peaking line a big fat black bug was crawling out of my sleeve. I jumped up and identified this incidence as a bad omen, when suddenly my new standing perspective allowed me to spot F. sitting across from me on the lawn. I went over and we had a passionate conversation about many things, including, of course, tomatoes and I thought that there was something very soul-matey about all of this.
#4
F. is what you would call 'a flower child'. Once he wanted to make us some homemade toothpaste with my virgin coconut oil and his special sea salt and baking soda mix. But his roommate threw away what must have looked like dried sperm in a teacup before F. could give me my share of natural toothpaste.
F. also began to make intricate jewellery, the kind of jewellery that I paid 20$ for in Williamsburg, the kind of jewellery that makes you think that by adorning yourself with overpriced wood and stones you make an anti capitalistic yet fashionable statement, when in fact, you're just as bad if not worse than all that overtly-obvious-1Ā£-china silver, which is in a way more authentic than that weird green stone hanging on your necklace and you don't even know its name but the guy, whose tattoos match the decoration of the shop, told you that it resonates with your third chakra.
F. didn't say anything when I gave him two shells, which I had kept after having eaten snails in Morrocco. I never thought I'd like snails but I did. I also never thought that I would be in love with someone who looked like my father if he would have been a hippie, but I was. The next day I found the shells dangling on my ear.
I thought that this was interesting because, incidentally, around this time last year I was making earrings too. I only pierced plastic stolen jellyfish through a bit of wire but I even made it as far as modelling them on someone, who I thought was my soulmate at that time, S.
#5
S. was different to F.; S.always knew. He was tall and looked like a pretty pirate, especially when he was wearing my earring with the jellyfish. His big toe was grown together with his index toe and I thought that this was only adding to the whole pirate thing, seeing that it would give him an advantage in case of a ship-wreck because of having a natural mini-flipper on his feet which would probably make it easier to swim or something.
#6
The first time we met we ended up in my room but at 5am we were still plucking innocently on my collection of miniature string instruments. It was strangely magical until we kissed. S. jumped up and left. I thought it was the end but the next day i found a note slipped under the door.
From then on we kept each other company throughout the hot new yorker summer haze. S. read Poe while I read Goethe and something in that combination melted us together.
He had a girlfriend back in Paris, or rather, an other-wordly nymph who I imagine to be constantly followed by a soft breeze so as to blow her long red locks and silky long skirts elegantly in the wind.
#7
Once we were on a moonlit rooftop all alone. S. and me had a way of undertaking highly romantic ventures only to heighten our purely platonic love affair: such as these solitary, badly lid rooftops, or throwing sesame seeds at birds while waiting for the first bagel bakery to open up, or endless walks under infinite rumbling train tracks, or philosophising over 1$ pizza slices, or smoking too many cigarettes while the sun is rising on a corny couch in someone's backyard. Ā
We were not allowed to be on this particular rooftop and maybe it was an adrenalin kick of illegality that made him say
i am too lonely to love you. i need to love someone else and you need to, too.
and as I kept silent he added
I wish i was bad/better,
because of his french accent i didn't understand which one he had meant, bad or better, but I would have been equally confused by both statements, so I didn't bother asking. Perhaps this was the moment of shipwreck, and as expected I could not keep up.