Borrowed Whole
My life doesn’t break down into years or school grades or apartments. The way I actually remember it, the whole thing divides itself into women—the ones I chased, the ones who wrecked me, the ones I probably wrecked first. Female creatures, life companions, months and years spent together until one of us ripped the other’s heart out. And whatever those women were—holy or sloppy, tender or completely unhinged—every last one of them proved me the same thing: I’ve always needed a woman at my side who either inspires me or kicks me in the ass. Preferably both. Doesn’t even matter if we’re together.
Sometimes I picture myself as some ridiculous Care Bear, overflowing with warmth that has nowhere to go, so it gets aimed at whoever’s nearest. Love thy neighbor. And once I find a woman whose creativity I can actually parasitize—and I will find her, I always do—I latch on and suck until there’s nothing left. What music do you listen to? What sneakers? What are you watching lately? Oh, that one? Yeah. Obviously.
Muse—that embarrassing stadium rock band—I only listen to them because of Ana, no question. The Adidas Superstars I’ve worn for years? Chrissy had them first. And this habit I have of hurling unprovoked verbal abuse at cashiers for no reason? Pure Jenny. Like a red thread, the characteristics of past loves run through everything I am and apparently have no intention of leaving.
Sometimes I genuinely can’t tell anymore how much of my messed-up personality is original and how much is just accumulated residue from a dozen women I no longer talk to. Most of my reference points—bands, films, books—come packaged with a face. A specific face appears before I can even remember the title.
But maybe the fear of a borrowed personality is overblown. Everyone arrives in the world as an original and dies as a copy of a thousand others. Given that, isn’t it better to absorb the sharpest qualities of the most magnetic women who’ve passed through your life, rather than letting an algorithm or a well-meaning relative build you by committee? I say yes. And I’m already curious about the next one—whoever she is, whatever she’s into, whatever corner of herself she’ll leave behind without knowing it.