Crying Game

When I was 12, I realized that I cry. A lot. As in, gushing broken bucket lot. My father would ask: "What's wrong?" And I wouldn't know. The only thing wrong was that I was crying. Heave-sobbing. My little shoulders would raise and fall, my little ribs would cave, my lip would quiver, and my face would bloat like a rotted sausage. And I would cry enormous onscreen tears and wail and shake.

When I was 17, I realized I was beautiful when I cry. I was working at the Ponderosa Lodge Best Western in Sisters, Oregon and my precious little vulva was wracked with a yeast infection. Nature hath no fury like an overgrowth of yeast. I was still working though, and crying heavily. A Mexican fellow, Gustavo, commented that when I look so sorrowful I remind him of the Virgin of Guadalupe. "So beautiful, so sad."

When I was getting home yesterday to make some dinner for my famished self, I cried. There were either absolutely no reasons for it, or a perfectly explainable million and one reasons that I could neatly list for anyone unable to accept the reasonless event. I'm tired. I just finished two years of university and now I'm back home. There's no place to hang my clothes yet. My grandmother is dying. I'm hungry for orgasm. I need to stretch. I'm feeling too big to fit in the world today. My sisters are squabbling. I'm still sick. I hate Nyquil.

Lots of reasons. But none of them was directly connected to the crying. I just cry. Usually I save this for private time when I'm unable to make anyone else uncomfortable with the tears. But I broke open at the sink surrounded by new male room mates.

I explained as hot salt skittered down my freckles and fell into the salad I was trying to tear that this just happens to me, and please don't be alarmed. I tried to explain that my body was rippling and thrilling with energy, and that the tears just come. No reason (except for a million ones) and I'm not going to die. Just please, let me cry without trying to fix me.

One slightly uncomfortable male room mate looks at me across the kitchen, shrugs, and pantomimes taking a deep breath.

Breathe.
Breathe.
I am the sexiest woman alive when I cry.
Take me.