Fiona apple dating
It was a particular form of hell, to feel everything in my life so intensely through the void of this person I would never know. Two Fiona Apple posters were pinned to the walls: one of Fiona Apple in her underwear from the “Criminal” video and the other a giant poster of Fiona Apple gripping a microphone. Throughout this time of obsession, I would casually mention Fiona Apple many times throughout the day as if I knew her, as if we were best friends. Every time I pack up my things, I consider throwing it away. I had brought a plastic bag of weed with me, mostly shake.I was adult enough to admit that from far away the microphone looked like a penis. It makes me think of abject despair and isolation and my teenage bedroom. He loved Tori Amos, which I thought was weird for a man. I remembered that in 1999, Fiona Apple stayed at the Hyatt downtown.I decided it was time to run away from my obsession and disappointment.
Obsession can feel powerful, overwhelming, and really fucking sad. Whenever I went into my room and noticed the towels had been taken down and folded neatly into small piles on the bed, I was reminded of how a spider works so diligently to spin its web, and then a human being comes along and tears it all away. I believed my depression stemmed from my earliest abandonment: being taken to an orphanage the day I was born. “I’ll buy it myself.” I never thought to ask why he wanted to read that book again. As the years went on, his stories became more and more outlandish. When he was little he liked to dress up as a detective. Some years after my obsession with Fiona Apple, I went to Thanksgiving in Wisconsin coming off of drugs. I spent a couple days at their home locked in the bathroom, vomiting water. “I am not a lesbian,” I said to anyone who would listen.
He brought a few rolls of paper towels and a bottle of Windex and he helped me clean my piece-of-shit apartment.
On a shelf there was a bag of weed and a glass bowl. He lifted up my combo and carried it out to the car.
When you’re obsessed with someone or something, you are almost impossible to locate, you are sucked down into the abyss. I would come across Fiona Apple’s photo in a magazine at a store and start squealing. According to my orphan file, the first six months of my life I was a mild, nap-loving, bottle-sucking baby. One day, I finally agreed to see a therapist and a psychiatrist. I don’t remember much about How to Stop Time and I never asked him why he was so interested in reading it again. I never asked him anything because questions made him uncomfortable. He was attending the University of Chicago Law School without a college degree thanks to Attorney General Eric Holder’s letter of recommendation. A woman I was dating gave me a pill, which I thought was a painkiller, and it turned out to be methadone. Thanksgiving Day I fell asleep on the couch in front of a movie or a football game. I believe I said three words to my relatives and my family: “I’m doing fine.” At that point in my life, I did not identify as a lesbian even though I dated women. Many of the women I dated were ostensibly straight. My obsession had been transferred onto a woman in a seven-year relationship. But I couldn’t stop myself from calling them in a state of despair to tell them I was about to do something I knew I shouldn’t do. I vacillated between two extremes: a monastic code of living to fucking anyone who wanted to fuck me.
Then I would tuck the magazine into the waist of my pants, and walk out of the store. But my life as a Korean orphan, however brief it was, left a traumatic psychic and physical void that no one, not even my fellow Korean-adoptee brothers, could understand. I thought the therapist was an idiot, but the psychiatrist had real power, medicinal and prescription-drug power. There was a new Rolling Stone magazine with Fiona Apple on the cover. Fiona Apple is floating in a bluish green pool and her hair whirls around above her head like Medusa. I really liked that book.” He was referring to How to Stop Time: Heroin from A-Z by Ann Marlowe. My relatives hosted Thanksgiving every year at their farmhouse near the border of Minnesota. She and I slept together a couple times and it was and it was stiff, awkward, and disgusting. How could I be so obsessed with someone who was so bad at sex? The thing about obsession is the object doesn’t matter.