Inspired by Shelia Heti’s brilliant Alphabetical Diaries, Marie Lachance’s “Money Body Boys” is an attempt to understand what makes up a life. Marie kept a diary for eight years, wrote around 100,000 words, transcribed everything she wrote from 2018 - 2026, and alphabetized it on the sentence level. She got rid about 94% of it, and discovered that the remaining 6% was primarily about three things: Money, body, boys.

This is an abridged version of Money Body Boys, a magazine forthcoming from Nice Marie Mags, the one-woman zine press Marie runs. She is accepting submissions to the magazine until August 31st. Please email her at marie.e.lachance@gmail.com with your writing, photographs, or visual art about money, body, or boys.

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A caretaker of broken men who cannot save themselves. A couple months ago when we went to that movie, I couldn’t believe you left me to do drugs with your friends. A couple of days ago, I seriously wanted to die. A girl can freaking dream. 

A long time ago, in the fourth grade, during a snow day spent locked deep away in my basement, I gathered my friends and told them I had a friend in California dying of cancer for no other reason than to finally earn their attention. 

A memory: Buying David coke at a party; buying Mickey booze for his birthday. 

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After reading my short story, Sabrina told me that confession was the only antidote to shame, and for the first time, I felt like I could breathe, like I could finally see a path forward. Again it feels made up. Again! All locked up. All of a sudden I want a new life. All of my ideals crumble. All of the time.

And it is the feeling of being chosen by someone who chooses so carefully. And its effects are real. And stroke my hair. And take up space. And that I am very unkind to him in those specific moments. And that in my own way, I am grateful. And that in my own way, I am sorry. And that’s not healthy, because when I say I want sex, what I really mean is I want for you to put your fucking phone away. And then eventually, it catches up to you, and you realize that you are nothing but the amalgamation of these people, of these choices, so even the stupid stuff, even the embarrassing stuff, you can accept, and you can forgive. 

Anyways, I am in Greenpoint sitting on a park bench overlooking the river, and wondering what will happen to me this year. As I wrote Sara a letter, watching the horizon turn from blue to yellow to orange, I tried very hard to write only about her — not about myself — but I kept relating everything back to me, I could not understand how to separate us in my mind, so I cried, realizing for the thousandth time, that I am a narcissist. 

At hot spring spa sipping a piña colada and reading Transcription like I’m fucking Sydney Sweeney in the White Lotus. At least I feel at peace. At least, this time, I actually want to. 

At some point, at some time, this will all feel important to me. 

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Back in my bag; changing everything about myself overnight. Back into my brain I go. Back into my motherfucking masturbation zone. Because I am so desperately craving his affection. Because I don’t think that’s true — but what if it is? Because it will mean admitting something to my parents. Because I’ve become someone I resent so deeply. Been stressed about money. Being a person in D.C. didn’t feel good. Being grateful because without it, you wouldn’t be where you are now. Being impulsive and reckless. Berlin — went to the wrong airport — difficult. Breathe in. Breathe out. Brush your teeth!

But anyways, I was on the top of the Brown University Lifeguard tower and Mickey wasn’t Snapping me back or something completely insane like that, and I was so completely lovesick and uncertain I ate an entire Whoopie Pie, and then I realized it had like 1,500 calories, and then I threw it all up. But I am always a person inspired by possibilities… But is that too much? But it happened to me! 

Changed myself into someone that he would like. Cheers to that! Claims he wants to be a good role model for men and then he just... does this! Classic bad feeling. Clearly, I am anxious. Clearly, I don’t value my body. Continue reading. Continue to be haunted by the dream where I cannot prevent Sara from being raped. Cooking, eating well, packing my lunches, making coffee. COVID has not gone away. COVID is a huge fucking bitch. Died my hair pink. Distract, distract, distract. Drove 200 miles this morning, feeling crazier each one. Eating well. Either way, I am depressed. End of story. Enough to want to self-destruct. Escape, escape, escape. Especially with regard to my queerness. Even my nightmares burden you, and you do not hesitate to let me know. Even my pleasure comes with some sadistic sense of pain. Even when I think I am safe, I am not. Every time I write it comes out far too dramatic. Everything feels so insidious right now. Everything feels so precarious right now. Everything has fallen into place. 

Had breakfast. Had some apples! Had soup by myself. Having a cappuccino and an expensive breakfast sandwich. Having dinner with Mom. Here, I am forced to drink out of your cups and eat cold cereal from your bowls. Here, I am indebted to your vessels. Here, I say, say what you want about the guy, but he has really nice shit, and Sara laughs, because it’s true. Here, there, or nowhere at all. His power, revoked? Holy shit, yes! How are we going to distribute our finances? How are we going to distribute our household labor? How are we going to determine cleanliness expectations? How can I say I want to be in a true partnership if I also want to make all of these decisions by myself? How could I ever stop something that beautiful and perfect from entering the world? How could I know there was a little being — part me and part him — that could exist, and not let it. How could they? How could you not. 

I am at Chicago Midway. I am at Dulles airport. I am at the Korean Spa in LA. I am at Wonderland Ballroom. I am constantly self-sabotaging, limiting my own potential. I am done avoiding. I am done with my junior year of college. I am drinking a smoothie. I am enough, I just don’t believe it or act like it. I am going to Edinburgh. I am going to get a job. I am going to move in with David. I am going to move to Philly. I am going to quit vaping too, I promise! I am going to ruin myself.

I am in Malibu at a gorgeous beach and I’ve spent the day buying expensive lattes and juices and swimming in the ocean and collecting sea shells and laying in the sun, yet I am still depressed. I am in Rhode Island with the girls post-reunion. I am in the most beautiful place I have ever seen in my entire life. I am interesting enough. I am thinking about distance and how I weaponize it. I am thinking about kissing her. I am tired all of the time, yet all of my labor is mental. 

I began the year throwing up on Mickey after doing coke in the bathroom. I begged for him to stop the car and let me out, but he kept driving. I bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked one. I bought a refurbished Apple Watch and then a scale. I bummed a cig from your best friend at the party. I call my parents enough. I came to terms with my sexuality. I did explicitly blame myself for that and while I don’t think of myself as a victim, I do think of myself as a stupid idiot slut; someone who allowed bad things to happen to herself, perhaps, even encouraged it. 

I didn’t undo what was done.

I do feel guilty for how I’ve acted. 

I do feel like he blamed me. 

I do feel rather lonely.

I do feel relief. 

I don’t blame Sabrina for being frustrated with my condition; we are surrounded by beauty and have so few material worries, and yet, I am so unhappy. I don’t even think what I need is to talk to David, or to see him, or even to hear him apologize; but rather, to be reassured that we are still linked to a certain extent, that my memories are the same as his, that the mythology we’ve created around our relationship is a shared one, not something I’ve independently crafted to serve my own ego. I don’t feel like a real person. I don’t feel like that the vast majority of the time. I don’t feel significant until I remember everything I’ve lost. I don’t know the word for losing a raffle you really thought you’d win. 

I fear I am constructing a test of my own will and I know at the center of my stomach that I will fail it. I fear I am thinking of myself too much, but there’s nothing else to do. I got fucking dumped! I got the freaking job. I graduated college. I grew enough. I guess I didn’t know the word for mercy. I guess I didn’t want to swallow it whole. I guess I knew electoral politics would not save us. I had $10,000 more in my bank account last year at this time. I had no idea my poem would make everyone so mad, simply because it was bad. I had one complete moment in my body, and I laughed. 

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I long to be clean. I long to lose weight. I looked back at the girl that got herself raped and spent the next four years freaking out. I lost it somewhere along the way. I lost my keys. I lost so much of my life to you. I moved into my dream apartment. I must not tell. I need no witness. I needed a piece of my mother wherever I was, even if she refused to see me. I never escaped. I never have. I quit quitting and bought a vape. I ran out of boys on Bumble. I reached out to Sabrina for help.

I remember going to bed early, salty beer still on my tongue, thinking that depression can sometimes feel like slow, haunting signs of liberation. I remember my father taking me here to fish when I was young, bribing me to participate with McDonald’s Happy Meals. I remember my mother crying, her only response, I did all of this just for you to still get hurt. I remember picking out a pair of diamond earrings from her scattered jewelry box, and for the first time, daring to take them. I remember the bench and the coffee and the smoke and that one crazy woman who told us about her God. I remember the most prominent feeling was: I’m trapped. I remember the scent of the field. I remember the soap Mickey bought me for Christmas, and how it dyed my entire tub blue. I said I would move to Philly in August, September, October, and November, and then I just never did. I sang karaoke when I shouldn’t have. I sat alone in your room. I sent you a picture of the smallest scooter I’ve ever seen. I used to scoff at addiction. I wake up on the couch of our shared friend in Philadelphia with blood splattered across my thighs. 

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I want a jammy egg. I want so much money. I want to adore and be adored. I want to know if I could be great. I want to inflict pain on myself. I want to know what her body looks like and what her apartment looks like and what she does for work and where she lives and how much they had sex and how good it was and what she feels for him and how exactly he’s thought about her. I want to walk to your car, open up the trunk, and steal something precious from you. I want you to hug me around the bare part of my waist. I want you to see my perfect pink room. I want you to still be in my dreams.

I was raised to be a perfect member of the middle class and I am not brave enough to abandon its privileges. I will be perfect, and then I will stop. I wish so badly I could abandon the mindsets I grew up with, but in my heart, I’ve always known myself to be a conformist. I wish that I could get my ass to the GW encampment, but I genuinely don’t know what I would do when I got there. I’ve been wrestling with my morality or apparent lack of it. In my Lolita class, we were discussing what we are meant to make of Dolores saying she loved Quilty, and no one seemed to understand that you can love someone who has ruined you so thoroughly. It feels different this time, but isn’t that what every addict says in the wake of a successful high? It feels like instant relief. It’s a sickness. It’s a step. It’s definitely a bit of both. It’s gorgeous and beautiful and alive, and so am I. 

I’ll become a lesbian and finally eat pussy again. I’ll get so ripped and have so many friends. I’ll learn how to be nice to myself. I’ll make some dinner and let the day pass; I know it will. I’ll quit vaping. I’ll read all of Das Kapital. I’ll take my ex-boyfriend to Joshua Tree. I’ll text my other ex-boyfriend, “I’m in New York this weekend - let me know if you want to talk.” 

I’m getting a tattoo. I’m getting my period. I’m getting nervous. I’m going to download Tinder and ask her out. I’m going to have the willpower to deny today and tomorrow and tomorrow. I’m going to help the homeless. I’m going to serve major cunt in my bikini! I’m going to take a Xanax. I’m going to write a manifesto. I’m not even sure you can be held responsible for the way your harm compounded something already existing; festering; generational. I’m not sure I would. I’m slowly learning. I’m sorry for sitting on my phone during lunchtime. I’m sorry for taking your recommendations too seriously. I’m sorry I get excited to write blogs and make websites. I’m sorry I’m half-ass reading a book. I’m sorry I’ve never written a song. I’m sorry you’re an alcoholic and you will be for a while. I’m sorry. I’m terrified to ask for what I need because asking and not receiving is so much more devastating than never asking at all. 

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I’m thinking about being alone. I’m thinking about my dying grandmother, and my life. I’m thinking I squandered it. I’m thinking of Katie Alice Greer, her shiny pink coat and mint blue dress, midnight blue heels and unkempt hair, how she unapologetically wails and flails and screams, and then begs so gently. I’m thinking of David’s hair texture and oddly angular right ear. I’m thinking we’d make a good life together. I’ve always been a liar; honesty has never compelled me. I’ve always been a nostalgic person, I’ve always looked towards the past. I’ve always been a vessel. I’ve confessed. I’ve gotten answers for everything I used to blame myself for.

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Less attention on aesthetics and more on quality. Like actually, I am such a fraud. Like am I ever going to learn? Like I choose to regress. Like I genuinely can’t imagine getting myself into this situation again, but I remember saying that the last time I paid off my credit card debt — and then I just did it again. Like I’m a totally sick individual. Like why do I keep letting this happen! Like, bitch… 

Mostly glad it happened. My brain is so zapped. My checking account dropped to zero yesterday. My childhood imbued me with this specific polarity. My friends say I am a good person but I'm unsure what they are referring to. My good spirit? My goodhearted, jovial nature? My head feels messed up and empty. My life is beautiful and perfect. My mom didn’t say anything. My overwhelming generosity conceals something dirtier and meaner. My sense of self was rendered so impossibly weak. My stories can be divided into what I’ve told myself in order to live, and what I’m telling myself now that I have. My therapist keeps telling me to interrogate my obsession with victimhood, my perverted savior complex that has driven my life since childhood, but all I want to do is slap her in the face. My will power is a weapon I press against your neck. My world is burning and my grandmother is dying and the person I love the most told me everything I’ve ever wanted to hear, but it was too late. My worries are small and insignificant.

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Neither of us have been perfect. Nor was I ever. Nor will I ever be again.

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Of course, my parents. Of course, no matter where you go, there you are. Often to the point where I have considered killing myself. Patterns and behaviors. People are desperate for a solution. Perfect nails, clean hair, nice skin, good body. She is the first person that helped me heal and helped me want to heal. She makes me feel less crazy. She replied — “but you are still here.” The unbearable feeling. The warm yellow glow of your room and me, standing, looking up at you from the street outside. 

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The world is burning again and I am one of the guilty. The year 2020 is about creation, sacrifice, and alignment. Then again, I do have really nice things. 

There is no objective truth; knowing this is how I can live with no attachment to honesty. There is something legitimately evil inside me that doesn’t come out often, but when it does, it wants to fucking crush him. There’s so much of me that has been created and destroyed in his presence. There’s too much hate, too much resentment, too much distrust; regardless of how much we may want this in theory, it will always be more painful in practice. 

Today I went on a walk, and when I returned I told Sabrina I have been spiritually disturbed, and she looked at me like “yeah bitch, I know.” Two weeks of nothingness. Two weeks since we've talked. Two years better. Two years clean.

We escape girlhood in blood. We lose purity in blood. We spent months listening to it together, analyzing lyrics and hypothesizing meaning. We went to the beach and ate blackberries and drank wine out of a can and got freckled and danced to Angel Olsen in the river and got sandy and sunburnt and I was happy. We were two sinking ships in mutual agreement that if we were going down, we may as well go together. We won’t ever speak again; not a hyperbole, just the truth. What a concept! What a cruel reality. What a freaky reality. What a fucking loser. 

Who am I without him? Who cares! Who is that person? Who knows. 

Yes, learn from my mistakes, but at what expense? 

Yesterday I got an alert that an AirTag followed me from New York to West Philadelphia, and before I remembered to be scared, I felt hopeful. 

You are doing your best. You are going to grow and nurture new friendships. You are going to learn more about yourself. You are learning to respect your boundaries. You are smart and kind and beautiful and radiant. You are still grieving. You cannot be everything. You cannot lie about your own thoughts. You were always mine. You will learn from your mistakes and make different decisions next time. You will learn to value yourself the way the people who love you do. Your house in Brooklyn is almost set up, and then, you will be free.