I've Moved! http://www.sep.typepad.com

i designed muhself. please come and comment and support me on my new blog. hopefully i will be more consistent, productive and make progress worth mentioning with this one.  ¶ 9:39 PM 0 comments

  Peace out. I'm sick of this ugly thing, officially. I'm saving up some green to find myself a designer (albeit an amatuer and low-charging one) to help me start over. I need structure, I need a set theme, I want white space and a tale-telling image. I want categories. I want to be an organized Blogger. I'm packing my bags and leaving this here so I can redirect you nerdbombs once I relocate at a classier, more savvy locale. Be good.

Peace out.

- SP  ¶ 12:41 PM 0 comments

  Sad Nauseam I often wonder if the reason I write is to celebrate sadness. Sadness is an emotion so true. When I am sad, I am somewhat connected to joy in a sense. Joy is often a high, an extremely fortunate moment. Perhaps I celebrate and chronicle my sadness because the depth of it all is a type of fortune. Crazies who ride rollercoasters and enter haunted houses insist it’s a thrill to survive. Being upside down 200 feet in the air then walking away without a bump or bruise says “Wow, I’m alive!”
Sadness does the same for me.

The years I did best in school were my saddest. Why? Sadness motivates me, sadness forces me to writhe into the dark nooks of my mind, into only my own desire, my own need to succeed or define the daily. When I am sad, I can get anything done. Wax the floor, organize anything left unkempt, write a novel. Feeling down inspires a strong demand for improvement. When I’m down, I want to be better. I want to cure the temporary pleasurepain that consumes my world. I feel the sadness, pull it together, then I look like I’d never cried or had a reason to cry at all.

Because tears can be wiped away and pain can be erased with words. Vicki Lynn argues that I can get over anything in record time, perhaps worth Guiness Book merit. Dead people, being a rock-throwing target, witnessing infidelity, losing everything to an unquenchable drug addiction, years haunted by evil and sleepless, panicked nights. With the blink of an eye, the licking of a tear-soaked lip, and the secure tying of my shoes, I can walk away from sadness and pain like they never happened.

I am not the kind of person who bottles their emotions then goes home and cries for hours. I am the kind of person who bottles their emotions, bottles their emotions once they should be going home and crying, then waits for the planets of Murphy’s Law to align to call Mommy, cry for an hour, then get over it. Right before the call, I’ve historically grabbed my journal and run to a location public enough to keep me from crying but private enough in case I might need to feel the sensation of puddles resting on my bottom lashes. The feeling of crying has produced my best work. The feeling of crying inspires me to render dramatic phrases and hurry up with what I have to say so I can run home.

Hurry up and enjoy this sad moment while you can, Sara. Any second now, you’ll be over it, then you’ll have to smile it all off. You’ll go back to being a bumpkin of blasé phrases and unimpressive metaphors.

I am special when I am sad. Feeling down, being the victim of something extraordinary – this is my ticket to a fully-saturated life. A fully saturated life and soaked t-shirt to boot. When I cry, I don’t lie to anyone. When I am heaved over my knees staring at my unpedicured toes, rocking rhythmically, the truth is apparent. My truth is mended on bathroom floors, curled up in balls, hunched over legal pads. Not because the truest emotion is sadness, but because the most novel my life has been was during the sadness. I cannot be wise, undefeated or colorful if I’ve been happy all my life. To call my life’s greatest tragedy the death of my 18 year old Golden Retriever would be so disappointing. It would be so Leave it to Beaver. I prefer that life only look so good and be revealed as a rather unordinary and effed-up occasion. Perhaps this is a reason I watch American Beauty on a regular basis. A $750,.000 box and two smiling parents doesn’t necessarily mean apple pies and flower beds.

Only when I hunker down and let the sadness sink in can I be reminded that I am a good person, a great success. We all want to give ourselves credit for the turbulence of growth. To say that all I experienced was the bog of humanity would be a lie, an insult, a complete dismissal of the millions who don’t even know what it means to be happy. But what I did experience follows me, what I do experience reminds me, and what I will experience will improve me.

Because when things get to sucking and I’m singing the blues all over town in coffee shops and under yellow lamps, I can recreate the truths that makes me love the past. I can pay tribute to what has given me me. I am sad, and I know what’s really going on. I know that I’ve reached a point of important change. So I jot down a few paragraphs, pages, books of what did it, why I let it, and what I’ll do about its. I write myself out of holes, even after what I’ve written has gotten me down into them. I let myself feel sad with strategically colored pencils, expensive art pens and expensive lattes. I prepare for the sadness so I can discover myself more deeply. So I won’t make the same mistakes again. So the tears will be new tears rather than ad nauseam. Each time I am sad, I learn something new and I know myself a little bit better.

Sadness reminds me of the things in my life that make it worth thoughts on paper. So I write on paper. And my life feels worth it.  ¶ 5:17 PM 0 comments

  Presence/Presents I walked around corners expecting to see you there.
But you weren't.

Just like those Christmas seasons when Mom would tell me we were poor, so I thought she was planning a big surprise Christmas filled with presents.
But she wasn't.

Perhaps I too easily allow my mind to ruin surprises. I have to know everything. So I overanalyze your comments about the weather and allow my wish that you'd be here sooner consume me.

I think you're playing a game with me,
that you say you are somewhere else doing other things.
I think you're teasing me by asking questions about the train stop to get to my work.

You won't be here until Saturday (or Sunday).
Why would you ask me this unless it was a tease,
Unless you had tulips in hand and were traveling in my direction?
Unless you are trying to entice me.
You love it when I squirm and show anxious emotion about us.

So I swivel in a chair clenching my jaw,
Tapping my fingers,
Bouncing my knees frantically.
Half-crazed, one-hundred percent sure you aren't here.
But I'm letting the hope sink in and fool my better judgment.
I'm pretending you'll be under the tree.
Because the thought of you waiting for me fills me with a presence I have never known.  ¶ 9:07 PM 0 comments

  I told him I wouldn't say I love you when I hung up the phone.
He told me to have a good life.

What a lie.  ¶ 7:04 PM 1 comments

  Help Me. Do I have any readers with good html skills? I would like to design my own web page. This business is so outdated. I can't vibe with ugly.  ¶ 4:48 PM 0 comments

  Oh, the things I'd do to you. When Janet Jackson came back from her first get fit quick hibernation in the late 80s, she was svelte. Svelte is the only word to describe the ridges that replaced lumps and the smooth cocoa skin she revealed somewhere between her tattered jeans and sandy, sophisticated hair. A busty, fragile-waisted woman emerged where a timid and frumpy teenager once was. I remember seeing her music video, age six, understanding what sexy meant. Love Will Never Do (Without You) featured an ancient-like tribal man with a long neck and muscular legs and a desert of Janet Jackson’s subtle side smile and seductive hip movements. When she later released the self-titled album Janet, she was officially crowned a racy, sexual creature with a provocative message. She was calling the shots on her album, telling men what to do, taking control and letting everyone know she was sought after. She got credit for saying a lot of things she wouldn’t have said before, that most women wouldn’t say. She appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone with some man’s hands covering her nipples. But I don’t think she’s ever been sexier than Love Will Never Do. A little midriff, fallen strands of hair, an innocent smile – those things go a long way. A lot longer than jumping out of doors looking like She Ra, bossing men around like slaves and telling them to get in line. In her debut as a swan, she really showed the ugly duckling side of herself, smiling where “sexy” would be serious, wearing jeans and a half shirt where “sexy” would have worn something leather and blatantly dominant, being simple where “sexy” would have gone crazy with details and proper lighting. Janet was humble then. She sang about love, not lust. She was art in that music video. And I will hold it on a pedestal for a long time, remembering her dainty little naval peeking out, her feminine head band holding back her long strands of hair. She looked so soft, so petite. And she did it without being a makeup goddess riding horses into a well choreographed music video of half-dressed men and women worshipping her feet. I hate the “If” video. Fine, we all danced to it and tried to imitate Janet’s sick moves, lip-synching the naughty parts, like "oh, the things I'd do to you"; but the video was just too much for me. Miss Jackson is a lot nastier when she’s admitting love and her carnal desire to be intimate. In the one-on-one sense, in a tone of voice that seems she’s letting us in on a secret, that we’re the only ones in the room. Enough of the screaming and being heard. Bring it down to the private level. Where sexy and provocative make the best impression. Sexy isn’t a revealing dance in public, it’s a hand drifting under the table to an unexpecting lap. Sexy doesn’t walk around naked, sexy puts on his shirt and lets it drape off her shoulder. Sexy is personal. It’s not a general attitude, a lesson taught for the exhibitionists of the world to get off in public. Sexy is a message. And it’s most effective when written like a folded note in cursive, not planted on a giant billboard. No man wants what’s his to be sexy for everyone. He wants what’s his to be sexy for him. To look at him a certain way. To wear perfume right there, where he likes it. To tell him that love would never do without him. Not to tell him he better get his act together and get in line because everyone wants a piece.  ¶ 8:26 PM 4 comments

  Because I Can Can Cannot I was walking through boutique after boutique in a stylish little niche of Chicago yesterday, and I felt like an awkward little duckling quacking about, wet from the rain, unfashionable in my pratical walking gear.

Plain tees cost $85.
Pants cost $385.
The only dress I wanted cost $460.

Earrings became life investments, where Target used to make them cool at the price of a box of Easy Mac. I saw new accessories, like stretchy mid-drift covering belts meant to turn long shirts into dresses or dresses into long shirts worn over jeans. A lot of wool goes unspoken for on clearance racks around here. Wool is boring in a town where everyone wants to be seen. Or at least envied. And I hate wool. So clearance soon became passe, and I soon became rotten with anger.

$100 for a shirt? Kiss my ass.

I don't care how much money I make. I don't care that after paying what I have to pay every month, I'm at least $1000 in the clear. Yes, I have to make college debt disappear eventually with that expansive surplus. And yes, I should start saving some money. Sure, fashion comes at a price.

But why so indecently? I want to buy something that won't make me feel guilty. Or at least trendy beyond reasonable justification. Hand-crafted these or those and fine prints of silk and other fabrics matter to me, but the one shirt I ever spent $100 would have to be accompanied by equally stunning jeans, shoes with pretentious points, watches with bands threaded and manufactured in Milan.

Mannequins are walking around this joint, wearing what I could be wearing. Because I can wear what they wear. I make a decent wage, I have few expenses, I could fill in all those blanks will finely sewn blazers and deliciously fitted tees from snobby boutiques. But I'm not so lavish, not so flashy, not so Moulin Rouge, dancing about in my frill, drinking 'til dawn, singing "Because we can can can!" all about. I still buy canned vegetables. I don't even have cable. I can't imagine strutting around in so much prim.

I almost spent $49 at the United Colors of Benetton. On a pencil skirt. For work. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was left on the rack because I can can cannot! imagine, even for a second, that I need another skirt. But I feel sad and empty for wearing comfy shoes and dingy old green pants from Old Navy. I should probably go spend $17 on a plate of food then drink a few glasses of $7 wine. Because Sara Pellicori can handle that kind of tab. One meal: $30. Fine by me. One shirt, likely to last a while longer than an hour and a half: $100. Hell no.

I'm messed. But that's a whole nutha story...  ¶ 3:53 PM 1 comments

  Eating Meat “I would be glad if he ordered for me.”
“Yeah right.”
"No, really. If my date ordered for himself, then said ‘and she’ll have the same’, I’d be glad.”
“That’s very traditional.”
“No, that’s easy. Obviously anyone who took me on a date would know I’m a meat-eater.”
“I wish I had recording equipment right now.”
“Seriously, guys. I’m not being extreme. It’d be very helpful if I didn’t have to order, and he did. That’s all. Not to mention, it says a lot if a guy is perceptive enough to know what I want. And of course, a guy wouldn’t try this at Chili’s or something. A very nice restaurant is where this would happen. And we all know he’s paying, so he might as well pick what I eat.”

I felt logical. I didn’t feel like I was stripping the female race of her dignity and independence. Or is that what it is? Am I reserving myself to old traditions in order to remain attractive to potential alpha males? I am. And for a second, that feels wrong. But I realize quickly that I’m in the right. If I want an alpha male, I need to open myself up to beta moments. Moments when I am not the head of household, moments when I’m not winning the bread, moments when I’ll also have the porterhouse steak. Perhaps, in dating, I am easily drawn to situations that alleviate confrontation. Which just so happens to mean that I take a submissive, easily-pleased role. I am easily pleased. I am submissive. I am certain that any guy who could afford to take me into an expensive restaurant overlooking a body of water or reeking of expensive wine and clean cloth, that I would be in good hands. I would be in the hands of a man who would order the wine, judge good wine service, make a brief yet meaningful toast to us, then reach his hand across the table to hold mine. This kind of man, the kind of man who I’d be head over heels infatuated with, could order my entrée. This isn’t because I’m old fashioned. This is because I’m conditional.

If you can handle the heat, stay in the kitchen. And order my dinner. Because anyone who can lasso me in close and pull out all the stops is more than equipped to make my decisions for me. I give that privilege to what I consider an elite and seasoned group of men. I don’t give that to an amateur on the first date. I don’t give that at the Cheesecake Factory. I give that to romance, chivalry, effort. There are moments when you know a man is doing something because it makes him feel like more of a man. He feels like an accomplished, successful, victorious man when he’s in the company of a beautiful woman. When he can be among the social elite, ordering the finest wines and rarest dishes. He can be a real man, with real clout, when his date’s gentle, lamb-like persona smiles humbly in his presence. He knows a thing or two about the right way to prepare a good cut of beef, he has already determined the kind of restaurant that offers the premium blend of traditional entrees with unique twists. He orders your dinner because he already knows what’s good. Just like he picked you, knowing what’s good.  ¶ 3:50 PM 0 comments

  My (Your) World I don't regret loving you. I don't regret being the person you talk to first in the morning, or the person you talk to last before you go to sleep. I don't regret the fights. I don't regret postponing us. I don't regret the lies I told. I don't regret forgiving you. I don't regret crying. I don't regret letting the skeletons loose. I don't regret meeting you. But I do regret something.

I regret letting my world be your world.

There came a point when I stopped being me and I started being yours. A point when power plays came down to tones and using the word "ya" instead of "you". Control, jealousy, leaving parties early, sleeping late because I don't know how to apologize enough and you don't know how to let go of our past. I've lost all sense of self, even when you think I'm being selfish. I can't remember the last time I left my apartment dressed in something I picked for me.

He likes it when I wear coral, I think. So I wear coral. And I keep at an arm's length around other men. And I sleep alone at night. My loneliest moments are spent waiting for you to call. In the times when I used to occupy my time and hang out with friends. The time when I used to get busy so waiting didn't feel so long. Because I used to think for myself. I used to do what I wanted to do all the time, and you came second. I spend moments with others half-assed while I text message love and miss to you. You're an eternal distraction from me being me.

And I miss me. But when I'm away from you, I miss you. So I can't make my world mine, because when it's mine, you're not in it. I guess this will have to be your world, always and forever. And we both know it will never be called our world. That'd be too easy. And that'd be too democratic to work for our passionate, romantic, jealous ways. Our world wouldn't care about opposite sex friends and waiting five years to have kids. Our world would recognize healthy paces and wait to say I love you until meeting in person. Our world would have started out in person, the way most people start relationships.

And if we called it my world, I'd hate the weight. So it has to be your world. Even if it was originally mine. Because I'm intoxicated by the moments that feel right, in all their wrongness. When I'm yours, and I give up being me.  ¶ 3:48 PM 0 comments

  Say Anything I am in love with a man who loves me more than I love him. When he wants to play the "No, I love you more" game, I let him win. Because he's right. He loves me more. He says it more, he insists it more, he shows it more. He's the winner of the loving someone else more than they love you game.

And I hate it. He hates it. It's a headache. It's about to create a thing called a "break," and I don't like it one bit. I am losing something because I can't win the game. Because whenever there's a competition in love, losses double. He loses the confidence that I love him. I lose the confidence that I will ever love him enough.

But I can't give up on it.

We fight constantly about terms. About ways to say things better so they don't sting as much. I scream and he tells me to calm down. He avoids talking to avoid being screamed at, so I scream at him for not talking and letting me listen to myself breathe. He dwells on our past, and I refuse to let him get too far ahead of us in the future. Where we sit is a difficult view; one that makes believing in progress near impossible because we're always looking out. We're never looking in. He needs too much. I don't need enough. He moves too quickly because he's an adult, and I relent because I'm still a kid. I like to use the word asshole. He likes to use the phrase "have a good night."

We've recently opened the gates of long-distance relationship speak. I didn't hold back the reality of it. I told him it wouldn't work for me in the long-term. It opened a conversation/fight/crying spell that lasted until the early morning. I've never been one to cry about much of anything other than irreversible mistakes and good-byes. I've just been inducted into the Girls Who Cry So Their Boyfriend Will Understand How Upset They Are Society of America. I hate crying. But I do, the way I've watched friends do with a bewildered look on my face for years. I used to think they were silly. But now I know - sometimes you have to cry because he won't hear how sincerely upset you are until you whimper or sniffle back a box of tears. Luckily, my beau is empathetic to tears. He puts down his gloves for a second so we can hear me.

But he doesn't hear me. He only hears what he wants to hear - the bad things, the things I didn't mean, the things that hurt but weren't said hurtfully. He's a real man; his emotions are real, and he shows them. He admits hurt, he knows pain. He has no problem communciating what he wants, what he needs, what's bothersome, what's his greatest joy. I know how beautiful I am and am unsure another person will ever think I am as timeless as he does. I'm in love with the sleeves he so generously wears his heart on. But sometimes his heart is too available, too invested, too easily offended. When my mind calculates our problems and tries to solve them the Sara Way, his heart shrivels up. He becomes discouraged. I explain that one of us has to move but that can't happen until one of us lets this start out in a natural way. I suggest two weekends a month. I make it sound like a grand idea - simple, really.

And he hears me. And it reminds him that he's wanted this from the start; a year ago, when I was a self-absorbed college brat and he fell in love before he could stop himself. It reminds him of all the boys I let spend the night after telling him he couldn't. It reminds him to resent my ability to let him think I was moving after graduation, another of my grand ideas. It hurts him deeply to remember the day I told him I found a roommate, then the day I found a job, and then the sad news of my new apartment. All in a city still far away from him. The guy who would have given anything to have me, a self-absorbed college brat, in his world. He said he'd pay for every cent, fly any weekend I wanted, take me to Europe for a graduation present. He said a lot.

And all I heard was obligation. I felt the weight of a lengthy commitment to a man whose two-dimensional box popped onto my screen one day then changed my entire perspective on the three-dimensional world. I'd never even met him back when he'd tell me he was in love, he wanted kids, he knew something had brought him to me. Back then, he was the one with simple plans. Back when I thought things were so complicated - the near end of a college education, the pressure to find a job, to make every moment count, to be someone big. I wanted to do it all right where I could, and I told him bluntly he wasn't number one. He stuck around because I guaranteed that it was temporary, my selfish way. My tendency to over-prioritize. Every opportunity we had to make something work, something made it not work. Namely, my ability to run away from my fears. But he kept coming back, kept loving me, kept reassuring that he'd never give up. So I kept taking my time.

I took my time. And now I'm here. At the point I'm supposed to be ending my temporary delays. I'm finally ready to make something work, to commit. But I'm moving to a new city, with a new job - where he will not be. I feel ready, I feel invested, I can call him seven times a day without feeling like it's a a burden. I want it. More than ever. Now that I'm here, he's not. He feels betrayed and tired. He's been put through a lot. He's apprehsive. I told him it'd work out. But I never told him it'd work out my way. I never warned that I just wanted to wait until I felt ready to put the official stamp on this thing. He's all watered down after a long stay on the back burner. And just as I'm about to get this cooking on the front; just as I'm ready to play I Love You More, it's void.

I made him wait. I made him promise. I turned everything upside down. And then I told him I was ready on my own terms. The selfish way never ends. I still refuse to compromise things that will make us right. For example, rejecting a week-long stay with him because I want to hang out with my friends (dramatically, for the last time) before I move an hour and a half away from them. I've been a year and 800 miles away from him and rejected our free week. I did it again. I told him I'd give it all, then I gave him half. He deserves to be cold. He deserves to want a break. He deserves a thousand apologies.

And despite my empathy, I can't help but clench my jaw and feel angry. He's been so strong and in love, so voluntary and unconditional. But he hasn't been John Cusack. He's said it so many times, that he loves me. He's told me he'd fly around the world, go the hell, move to my time zone. But he hasn't jumped on the plane. He hasn't thrown a stone at my window. He hasn't written me love letters or bought me flowers. He's been idle. His zeal about my companionship doesn't go beyond his ability to explain my beauty, his depth of pain, his yearning to spend every waking hour with me. I've never given him the chance to make me believe in it, the way John Cusack does in the last 15 minutes of every movie he's appeared in. Now I am giving him the chance. And he's not at my doorstep with a boombox high over his head, the way he's told me time and time again he sees himself. This romance isn't hopeless. Now's the time to make it work, the time to be here. I'm capable of winning the "I love you more" game. I'm waiting, for the first time.

Maybe he'll show up.  ¶ 2:40 PM 0 comments

  control freak i told my doctor i was considering becoming sexually active. and that i wanted to be tested for infections and prescribed a minimal dose of estrogen to control birth. he told me a pill a day is no way to keep STIs away. i agreed to use protection on top of my monthly investment. this conversation took place right after he pulled out a combination of strange tools and tubes and right before he felt me up professionally. i wasn't nervous or scared. i wore my game face, brought the right questions, appreciated the fact that he warmed his hands up before he checked for lumps in my breasts. it was the most grown-up i've been about any activity in a long time, and it (strangely) felt good to be responsible. and in control. i told my doctor what i wanted, he told me what i could have. he openly asked me about oral sex. i openly told the truth. i thought it was cool, kind of. my doctor said oral sex. i wanted to giggle, but i didn't. because i had to remember that my roll was to be serious, ready for examination, adult-like about sexual activity. i respected him, this man of the house, the father of four, husband extraordinaire, asking me about my cycle. whatta guy. the kind of guy who recognizes that having a period is natural, in the objective sense most men will argue that farting in public is natural. out in public, even with the best of friends, the discussion of regular and timely bleeding is awkward. but it's not awkward at all in a 4x4 box with a man whose job is to inspect your 2,000 parts. and even though "... that is your uterus" is not really a sentence one wants to hear/feel, a girl's gotta take care of herself. i'm willing to donate my body once a year to medicinal groping. to dodge the perils of cancer and admit ignorance to save myself unsafe moments. so now, i'm checked-up, calmed down, and in control. of birth. of my sexuality. which makes me giggle. not out of childish embarassment. but rather, out of excitement and the feeling of freedom.  ¶ 8:37 PM 0 comments

  Happy Father's Day Confession Because it's always about money with Dads. And maybe there are slivers of time when it's about pride and honor. But other than that, it's money. So here it goes, verbatim, my Father's Day confession ...

[1. I owe Discover Card $2500.
2. I owe Victoria’s Secret and the Gap (combined) around $300.
3. My class I have to take to get my diploma costs $700.
4. I owe Marquette $185.
5. I owe Direct Loans over $300.
6. I have $150 to my name.
7. My cell phone bill is $60 a month.
8. I pay at least $82 a month on my Discover.
9. I am slowly redeeming myself from the hole I created with my VS and Gap Cards.
10. I want to save money.
11. I try to save money.
12. I haven’t gotten promoted yet because of setbacks at work.
13. I pay for gas and the necessary bills that come around the beginning and middle of each month.
14. Then I don’t end up saving much because I have to have some kind of a social life.
15. I haven’t bought a new article of clothing since February.
16. I am sick of asking for your help, so I want you to know that I am going to stop. Now you know where I am financially, so you understand the situation and how you can help when you are able to do so. But other than what you foresee, I will not make suggestions or requests.
17. You are not allowed to take out loans for the sake of helping me.
18. I will take out a loan for my class so long as you co-sign it. I promise to pay it off when the time comes; I don’t ever want you to have to take away from the money you rightfully earn to give to me – your 22 year old college graduate of a daughter who should be able to support herself.
19. I hate money so much that sometimes, knowing that I have to start my life as an adult poor and uncomfortable makes me want to drive my car off of the highway into a ditch. (I kind of actually mean that.)
20. I promise I’m trying. I really am. I’m still not conditioned to be successful with money. I am so afraid that I won’t be able to take care of myself. I’m sad that you have to know that I’m not afloat and that I can’t do it alone. I want you to be proud of me for being responsible and planning ahead. I cry a lot wishing I could take every meal, every piece of clothing, every impulse buy back.
21. I appreciate every single thing you do. E V E R Y. I don’t resent you for not having thousands of dollars saved for my college. I don’t resent you for taking naps and not wanting to talk to me. I don’t even resent you for not caring about what I am going through. I only appreciate how hard you work and how hard you try to be my Dad.
22. I know I’m just another thing on the list of stuff to take care of. I accept that. I deserve to be treated and known as something to be taken care of. It is a burden, it is work, it is inconvenient that I am here. I’m going to try harder every day to make my stay at home worth your money. I am going to contribute more.
23. I might be depressed. Perhaps it’s the transition of college to work life. Perhaps I just feel like a complete failure. You have to know that I did not leave college proud or happy. I could have done a lot better. I could have worked harder. I could have earned more awards and honors. I did well but I didn’t do great. And I resent myself. I have regret. I consider myself a failure, and I am very sad about how little I have to offer employers. That’s how I feel. That’s something I go through. You should know because I’ll never tell you to your face that I might not be who all of you thought I was cracked up to be. I don’t think I can do great things. I feel small and incapable of much more than windexing windows and making my bed. I hate waking up.
24. Life is really hard right now, and I am overwhelmed by everything. I can’t keep up with the mistakes of my past, I am consistently making them in the present, and I am so afraid of my future that I would give anything to avoid going there. Please take it easy on me, Dad. Please talk softer and hug me more because my insides hurt from all the punishing I do to myself as it is. I’m not okay. I’m not even close. I just really need you right now. I don’t need you to remind me that I don’t know what I’m doing or that I’m not doing anything right. I’ve told myself those things repeatedly and I hate myself. I really do. I just need to get better at this. I need to feel like you’re still there. I need some support. So love me, and be patient. I am doing my best to make you proud. And to give you peace at last.
25. I love you very much. And despite knowing that when I fail financially and otherwise that you must find a surplus in either your bank or your time to meet my need, I had to tell the truth. That's your Father's Day gift. Now I don't have a single secret. And you can tell me what to do for free, without my attitude, without my premature wisdom. Tell me what to do. And I will.]  ¶ 1:27 PM 2 comments

  My First Music Review (Kind Of) I like to take credit for innovative music. I take pride in having been a part of art before it became cool to like it on the mainstream. I am loyal to good musicians – I connect with them. There is a kind of beauty to taking a leap in front of thousands, playing your heart and singing your soul with a small-time record deal. Even the unoriginal talking heads over at MTV tip their hats to the ones that started out of a garage, who mixed their own tracks, that took an amateur approach to sharing their bigger than life musical concept. The ones that start out with an idea, a new wave of sound – they get me.

Imogen Heap got me. I am not necessarily prepared to boast about liking her before the big break (because I’m not ready to share her yet), but she’s got me. An import from the UK, Imogen Heap is a tall, dark-haired, pale-skinned flower dressed in layers of pink and teal. Her skirts flow like petals, strands of her hair fall like they’ve been moved while she drove with the windows down. She’s not together in the Hollywood sense, but she’s glamorous and delicious in her own sense. Her former life as a member of the outfit Frou Frou (you may recall the song “Let Go” from the Garden State soundtrack) has brought her enough musical freedom to design her own musical template. Which she has done quite articulately. Her voice is dark and robust, full of sultry lows and painful highs. Each hum, scream, murmur, lyric – is a display of her genuine vocal talent. Her melodies and instrumental foundations fuse electronica with piano, guitar, and even the simple percussion of a clap.

PBecca introduced me to Imogen back in September, over a cup of coffee. She handed me an ear bud from her Creative music machine and scrolled to a song called “Hide and Seek.” She got the mischievous look on her face like she’d discovered a treasure that could only be given away one small coin at a time and that she’d picked me to hold on to a piece of it. Like she was entrusting me with a morsel of her greatest fortune. I listened with much care; I was in tears before the bridge. Despite the synthetics of the track, its sound, it’s lyrics, each peak and resulting low felt organic and pure. I was hooked immediately by a kind of drug, a genre laced in dreams and memories of love and heartbreak. I felt lucky to be a part of her vision. I fell deeper under her spell one song at a time, listening on repeat and walking at night alone with her as my guide.

I was on a plane in October moving in the opposite direction of some unfinished business that left me sad and lonely, and Imogen kept me company on the flight. I listened to “Hide and Seek” all the way to Milwaukee, wishing I had done something different, wishing I knew what the hell was going on, certain that another voice couldn’t validate my tears like hers. It was then that I started calling her one of my favorite artists, that I felt truly connected with her. Very few musicians have grabbed a hold of me like her. Her ability to play my heart and ease my mind has only been rivaled by Fiona Apple, who is certainly my favorite musician – my only true female love. Imogen’s dynamic style quenches me at the right times. Sometimes her voice tip-toes and whispers sadness, sometimes it wails in vengeance, in victory. I relate to her; she’s weak yet strong, she smiles in the face of her anticipated predicaments, finding humor in the irony of her life – no matter how ill her mind falls as a result. I think I’ve read her well enough to know her. This is how I mark true art. Only truth and authentic emotional display could be as transparent.

So while we sat on the cold floor of The Rave last night waiting for her to approach the stage, I felt a kind of Christmas-like excitement. Waiting for her to open up her set, I saw those in my company as disciples, fellow worshippers waiting for their dose of her prophecy. She came to the stage pirouetting, holding a large flower, looking as whispy and fairy-like as ever. The crowd, as intimate and small as it was, sat in chairs at tables and stood respectfully – gave her an arena welcome. One concert-goer screamed to her Highness “I want to make crop circles in your carpet!” and she giggled a low giggle into her microphone, smiling as if she was flattered. She stood a giant above us, barefooted and draped in light fabric. Imogen introduced us to her band – a couple keyboards, a box of strings for plucking, a computer, a voice parrot, and a mixer. She spoke softly and quickly to get the part she hated over with. She came to sing, to play her music. It was obvious in her body language that she is naturally timid, naturally a musical performer, not an orator or storyteller.

She got straight to the music, and from the second she started, I lost track of time. I knew most of the songs and fell immediately under the trance of those just introduced to me. Her pitch was dead on and she played her instruments gracefully, moving from one to the other, putting entire tracks together by herself. Even here, while she synthesized vocals and echoed piano parts, each melody was a product of her pure voice, her unmistakable knack for originality. Her highest notes were higher and her lowest notes made me hold my breath. She hit every word with force or care, enforcing more emotion than I’ve seen on a stage. Her movements were eccentric and an obvious extension of her lyrical madness. And the crowd sat silently, moving its lips to the words but murmuring the words softly, so as to sing with her but not overpower her presence. The lights flickered and jumped when she’d burst her easy stream of lyrics into a burst of rage and loud instrumental demonstration. A light above her head beamed yellow and the stage darkened as she’d decrescendo into loneliness. She was the master of her own stage and obvious producer of each ion of her performance. I could feel the fellowship of amazement throughout the room – as if she brought her sport and we were spectators viewing a feat of music. I was hypnotized, with tears dripping from my jawline onto my pant leg. Sometimes PBecca would grab my hand and rub the top of it with her thumb during our parts.

Particularly during “Hide and Seek.” Imogen’s lights went blue and cold, she left her station of instruments and carried a harnessed keyboard mid-stage, under a dim light. She called it her “last song” then giggled at the cliché of musical artists leaving the stage then returning only by the command of foot vibrations and uproar in unison. An easily tickled woman she is, almost mocking her tentative fame. She loves the stage, her fans and obviously worships her craft. But she doesn’t take herself seriously - she stands bare, almost cowering with fear from the reality of her words, her open book of memories and revealing thoughts. She’s not a star, she’s a woman with a story, and it’s an enchanting one. During “Hide and Seek,” she was remarkably on key with the acapella-esque track. She was without the barrier of her many synthesized instruments and the busy work of playing her piano. But she felt natural still – the song couldn’t have been more beautiful. Not a sound came from the crowd, not a movement was rustled. When she hit the bridge, my favorite part of the song, she handled its tempo poignantly. She even breathed between each line with a kind of precision. She nailed it, she delivered it live the way an artist should – personally. Even though she was on point, I felt her real momentary connection to the crowd, to the words emerge throughout. She recreated it for us.

In a phrase – she nailed it. I didn’t doubt that she would, I only lamented the possibility that her music could become even more a part of me once I’d felt her touch me with it in person. Her smirk was humble and her banter was common. In-between the formalities of sharing discourse with the audience, she blew me away. Each track tasted differently, sounded more vivid. It was a true experience, and I couldn’t leave her concert without a review and true promotion of the reality of an artisan of music.

Some of my favorite Imogen tracks: “Speeding Cars”, “Getting Scared”, “Hide and Seek”, “The Walk”, “Missing You”.

Check her out. If you haven’t already.  ¶ 1:02 PM 1 comments

  Four Years Later His hair feels longer than it used to be. Even when it used to be longer than it is now, it was short-lived and trendy. Now his hair falls over his eyes in a way that shows he doesn’t want to pay for a haircut, that there is less function in cutting hair that simply sits on a head. He is less vain. Even though his argyle sweater matches his brown, urban-like shoes and dark wash jeans. His hands are still boxy and his jaw still sharp. He talks about himself less in an air of confidence and more in an air of professional perspective – his art is what he does, not what he is. He considers himself a work in progress. He used to think he was atop an Earth, with the sun shining bright on his every talent. Perhaps a few good years of critique have done this to him. But he still looks the same – at me. He doesn’t even wish to critique or minimize me. He sees through me, past me. I’m barely here. Maybe this is why I never believed what he said, standing at my door at 2am. He was past his curfew and risked harsh consequence trying to talk me into some understanding about his affection for me. The affection he never verbalized. He just looked through me. Not into me. Back then he pioneered the man bag and he wore tee-shirts under zip-up sweaters with flip-flops. Mid-winter. I loved his hands then and how they looked like they were meant to cut wood and shape clay. He was an artist before he knew it, when he’d sketch Howard Roark and play with the idea of illustration. He always found the words before anyone else could – on paper he was a genius and in conversation a champion. I remember hating him sometimes; he was so completely prepared to know answers. He asked the questions that most people wish they could follow-up. My greatest fear was that he’d realize how brilliant I wasn’t. Realizing that he never thought I was brilliant to start. He just had me there to sing new songs to in his little car and my smiling face to anticipate at the end of his clever anecdotes. I was an accessory to his self-obsession, nodding and coddling. But I never hated it the way his closest did. I never wished he’d stop talking about himself, about the sun inside of him, about his point of view. It all fascinated me, the way it still does. His best friend once asked if I ever just wanted to tell him to shut up. I told her no. It surprised her, astonished me. Maybe I was too easy for him to admire and compliment. I was won and sold. I then knew my luck in having his attention was miles short of my hope to win his affection. He begged at my doorstep. For me to see, to understand, to believe. In affection. It was simply his addiction to my complimentary nature. My humble hands resting in my lap sitting in the passenger seat while he banged the percussion and watched me watching him. He still sees me seeing him. He weighs less than he should and plays with his hair instrumentally. I can’t stop looking at him being this him. The one I know but don’t know at all. Because I never knew him – the dancing, the singing, the group fun. He was never a single soul. Yet here he sits, driven by his craft, practically suffocating himself to get it right. He used to be lazy. Maybe he still is, but his nature doesn’t allow me to see. Because he cares more about his work and less about his image. And all I can see is what he’s doing. The way I never used to see. All I heard were the words and all I got was the act. But now he’s creating something he cares about and while he knows I’m watching, wondering; he doesn’t care. He doesn’t mean to impress. He means to be. Something more than what he woke up this morning as. And I can’t stop wishing he was this when I was 17. When he was 18. I remember how he danced, like a background Jet in West Side Story, waving his hands cheerfully and kicking his feet in a defiant way. He never seemed to feel pressure, he seemed so free. The way he does now, but back then he had parents to report to. A curfew. Several obligations as a son and Christian. Now he’s his own Christian with his own ventures. He’s accomplished and employed. He’s pursuing something he loves – he buys used children’s books. He’s fermented in all these ways I imagined he would. I’m wishing I hadn’t allowed this mug of coffee and cup of tea. Because I know he’s never looked back or analyzed why I closed the door and let him become someone to see every six months. He’s never told people stories about me, about what I meant. I meant more than he told. He told too late. I’d already given up and couldn’t carry his baggage at the time. The baggage of being quiet and unintroduced by his side. I wanted to be important. I wanted to be right for him, the him that he proclaimed to be: on top of the world, untouched by tragedy. But I wasn’t anything of the sort. I admitted my size, my insignificance, my painful upbringing. I would watch him lay with his black cat and know that inside there was a loving, affectionate creature. Someone deeper. He pet the feline with a kind of reciprocation; he loved having it there to keep him warm. Baggy purred. Maybe when he was a kid, his cat companion would run away or meow in contest. It’d give him the signs that he was going about it the wrong way, that he needed to approach their encounters differently. Eventually, he became skilled in the art of handling his dingy old cat. He learned. I should have given him another chance. To learn how to handle me. To learn to know how not to tell me nothing bad had ever happened to him. Eventually, he would have gone about me the right way. But that’s not a useful thought, sitting here across from him four years later.  ¶ 2:16 PM 3 comments

  Fall 2006: Chicago with Caitlin We agree about everything. We’re complimentary, even in our most contrasted moments. We’re going to be roommates in Chicago this September.

So many things make us work. Hardwood floors. Walking distances. A craving for the reggae night scene. She wants an acoustic guitar for graduation, and I was thinking of requesting a set of bongos. You know, to bang on once in a while. For the days when I’d typically consider banging on a stranger’s head. We can wail on our instruments after rough days at work. We both wear skirts the way most people wear boxers. We like incense and prefer open windows to air conditioning. We don’t care about dishwashers or cable TV. Heating in the winter, as I found out, is something we both consider repairable through blankets, not high energy bills. We believe in simple living and don’t like tacky art work. She wants to cook in and avoid eating out. I am setting a new life budget which drastically cuts out my fine dining. I’m loud and aggressive. She’s meek and accommodating. We’re both feminists. We’re both observers. We share belief systems. We are devout readers. We’ll have yellow lighting and soft pillows. Our dish towels will be old; decorated with brown and orange flowers of the 1973 variation. We will have mismatched plates and afford ourselves the luxury of fresh flowers on the kitchen table now and again. I’ll learn how to eat like a vegetarian; she’ll get the secrets to the Pellicori sauces and raviolis. She runs therapeutically. I do dance workouts. We want to exchange outlets. We want to take art classes at a community center. We’re not worried about furniture. We relish the thought of queen sized beds. We have the same taste in people.

I knew it’d come down to this. I loved Caitlin upon first meeting her. She smiles for all of humanity and yearns to accomplish enough to remedy all the hurt she sees. Her ability to be cooperative and directive simultaneously give any scene a sense of harmony. She’s a natural guide. When we were resident assistants together, we’d sneak away from the hustle and have coffee. I always talk more; she prefers to listen. One of the few left. When she has a point, it’s clear – it’s what she feels. Caitlin doesn’t calculate answers. She knows what she thinks. When she’s unsure, she humbly admits her ignorance and accepts perspectives. Her idea of makeup is mascara and lip gloss. And without any kind of mask or low-cut top, she is easily the prettiest girl in most rooms. Her frame is small; she wears it under fleece and comfortably worn denim. Most of her earrings are earthy and dangle. She wears practical shoes. She carries the weight of old relationships because her compassion worries about the people she once loved – still loves. Unlike the many in my path of admiration, I don’t loathe anything about her. I don’t pine after ways to be her. Because she’s so pure of imitation herself that it’d be impossible to try. I’m not jealous. I’m only grateful. And now she’s going to be my roommate.

I can look down the road to September, and I see a two bedroom apartment only a few blocks from an L stop. Maybe in Wicker Park. I hear garbage trucks picking up our garbage as we drink our fair trade coffee in dingy old mugs and get ready for work. I smell basils and pesto. I dream of the possibility of an arm chair and hanging plants to keep things green during the winter freeze. I imagine guests wearing glasses and toting messenger bags. It all fits.

My notion of the future has been transformed drastically in the past few days. Before Caitlin and I confirmed that we’d be living together, I was afraid. Scared shitless. I was easily brought to tears by discussions of jobs, new friendships, having to pay for a gym membership. I couldn’t see past June 1st. I couldn’t make decisions. I was finally adjusting to the idea of trying Washington D.C. again. I was starting to consider moving in with him. It was becoming easier to replace my ambitions of a selfish future with my raw emotion to be with someone I love. I thought that opening up to being in love in Washington D.C. with him was a better way to prioritize. That hey, if other things like a job and a place to live aren't working out, why not? I told myself it was better for me – to get the love thing down first. I almost made some big decisions. In his direction. Not in my own. Which is the only direction I’ve ever gone. I suppose it’s a part of being goal oriented. A dreamer. I’ve always believed in what Ayn Rand said about love – it’s necessary to find a me before a we. And I'm just on the brink of getting something going on this me thing.

Which is why it’s a wonder that just as plan E was about to unfold, plan A called me up looking to fill a roommate position. It’s odd to admit that I would have avoided Chicago without a roommate, but I lack financial stability and the patience to adapt to strangers in my living space. I think I’d get a padlock for my bedroom door if forced to utilize a roommate service. Who wants to live like that? Besides, I may be independent, but I hate being alone. More than I hate being wrong. I can’t be wrong if I do what’s in my heart… and I know what’s in my heart. It’s Chicago – in a two bedroom apartment with an easygoing, independent, non-committed roommate. With Caitlin. So we can do whatever we want together, but also separate enough to re-meet ourselves in a new city. To grow up. Officially. At our own paces, not at the hands of our boyfriends. Not on someone else’s terms. We’ll be free. We’ll be selfish in a way we aren't allowed to be now.

The last time I knew where I was going to end up was in the spring of 2002. I chose Marquette and felt peace. I know where I am going again. Which makes being here in Milwaukee, with the ones I love the most, invaluable. Now my greatest concern is how I’ll spend my summer. How much fun I'll have. I’m going to Chicago in September, and I have a summer to plan. That’s all I need to know or decide at this point. And occasionally, Caitlin and I will make other decisions, such as what kinds of window coverings to decorate with. And we’ll agree.

Such a novel concept, really.  ¶ 11:21 PM 0 comments

  God's House I miss God.
Not god, but God.
Is it possible to yearn for an emotion?
Reverence, for example.
Men in white dress.
Candles lit in their hands.
Singing softly, majestic hymns.
Traveling across a park to me.
Perhaps I cried for a man's death.
My agnostic ways allow this.
Crying for him, maybe even Him.
Because I can't say he is unreal.
But I can't stand there with them.
Reading their paper stories.
Maybe I cried in fear.
That I stand across the street from Heaven.
And it will patiently wait for me.
Show its processions of signs and songs.
Give me my temporary faith.
So I can have my little fight with God.
I battle for independence of intellect.
He waves his beautiful offering
Whenever I stand alone, without defense.
Tonight, it was a bus stop and sore feet.
My heart felt small and thoughts permeated.
I didn't ask for any flashing evidence
Or stare into the sky wondering about it all.
The world felt normal, the night typical.
And in a second's time, my eyes soaked.
The score of believers behind men in gowns.
Warm on a cold windy night among the holy.
He offered it to me, too.
From afar, he reached into my indifference
And he tore it out by a small miracle.
That a doubter should believe in moments
And survive without Him, without his light.
Then stand alone and revel in faith.
A faith so real, so alive, that doubt never existed.
And even if it should again
It would be doubt in the flesh and pen.
Not in the house He built and gave emotion to.
The house I live in even when I look away
And call myself a non-believer of spiritual sorts.
He's there too.
Perhaps I am not so alone,
Not so malfaithed.
Are we all in disbelief, thriving on tearful moments?
Moments holding us together like glue
And calling that glue our faith, our salvation.
I am a believer.
But I have no faith.
Because He doesn't live in his house.
He only visits ocassionally.
I'll wait until he comes again.  ¶ 10:06 PM 1 comments

  Jealous Types Anonymous Hi. My name is Sara, and I am the jealous type. It took years of awkward anger, temporary recluse, and over exaggerated encouragement to finally get me to this point. But I’m here. And now I know. I am jealous, and I have a problem.

Phew. Feels good to finally get that out. I’ve been battling with this disease for years. Alone. In my bed while everyone is out. On a barstool drinking a beer I hate but know will earn more points than her Amaretto Sour. Sitting at the bottom of the tub letting the water pummel the back of my head while I cry.

I’m a wreck when I don’t get what I want. I’m confused, scarred, and self-destructive. I stare in mirrors coaching myself through life – smiling big to contemplate the role my teeth play in whatever fate should come to me. I look deep into my sad, brown eyes to see if something will happen. If my anger and frustration will come out of my soul and stare back at me with the answers to my failures. It’s scary standing there. Mere inches from yourself – in bright light, with dark circles under your eyes, with a strange kind of infinity haunting you. Every time I do it I go until I’m holding in welled up tears and have fully exposed how I really feel to myself. Then I slither back towards my cave and write something clever about how beautiful she is. Whoever she is this week. But this is not reality. It’s just another personality entertaining the idea of admiration and respect rather than self-deprecation.

I loathe that which walks taller, bares thinner and sleeps better. I give up when I realize I’ve been replaced. I put my camisoles back on their hangers and reach for a sweater. I punish myself for not being enough. I put jealousy in the drawer and find an excuse – like a nap. Or a headache. Sometimes I even report hours of homework and accomplish something in the process of unveiling my jealousy over tea and a paper that’s due months ahead. I stare at my desktop for hours until my posture is hunched and my eyes beg me to close them. Then I am truly exhausted. And I dream about nothing. I’ve learned to prefer this. Dreams are too real, and reality is too much work. I’d much rather float on a cloud and drink teal and carnation pink margaritas than chase people around hoping they’ll see me. Help me. Love me. Give me back what’s mine.

I hide it well. My jealousy. I hide it the way an anorexic hides inside an old sweatshirt and learns to pull long sleeves over her gaping wrist bones. I am so good at lying about how I feel. It’s a craft. The second I think I might be discovered, I swallow it and pull a classic excuse, emotion, rationale out of the archives. But I’ve run out of excuses and reasons. I’m resorting to old tactics that worked back in high school. Unconvincing tactics that resound the hundredth “No thanks, I’m just not hungry.” My reserves are empty. I might have to come clean. I’d rather turn myself in and get a lesser sentence.

Even though being jealous publicly feels twice as bad as it does in private. Public jealousy is dramatic, overbearing, and irrational. It causes irresolvable conflict. I’d stomp home far too often in post-defeat. I’d much rather come home early because of a headache. Then they’d think I didn’t feel well and console me the next morning rather than whisper about my problem. Because people can’t relate to jealousy, even though they all feel it. People refuse to understand that another is not objectively happy for their success and achievement. It’s not that I’m so unhappy for another. I’m just unhappy that it is not me. I suppose it would be fair to say that I don’t loathe the receiver of good things. I despise my lack of right place right time-ness. I hate to work for it.

Those who fall under my envious scope are always the closest to me. They obtain what I will never have and show me what it means to be the kind of person I will never be. They work harder, do laundry more often, and have parents celebrating silver anniversaries. They are trained in dance, enjoy running for hours and draw straighter lines. They impress me in their ease of being themselves. The way I am sure people appreciate how I do so well being me. It’s great to be surrounded by whole persons. People with talents, skills, and convictions about the world. People who are better looking and better tempered. People that walk with me and compliment my me-ness as I clench my jaw envying their them-ness. I am the ultimate in wanting what cannot be had. Jealousy is a coping strategy for wanting the most unhavable item out there: another’s identity. Hence, I’m a good expert at it. So expert in fact, that no one would even notice I’m experiencing it.

Until now. I’m slowly learning to be jealous freely. To seethe without the door shut so others can see that they affect me. Perhaps all this jealousy is a product of realizing that I am not the moon, sun, stars and universe. A surplus of air was blown up my ass as a kid – a Mommy whose heart wrapped itself around my every fear and insecurity, teachers with too few students to commend, easily entertained twentysomethings laughing in unison while I pretended to be a grown-up at the table. I learned early to talk the talk. Eventually, I started running into people who walked the walk I was talking so eloquently. Other kids started to raise their hands more, get compliments for their manners more and win awards more. By high school, I wasn’t number one anymore.

And that was the beginning. I started harboring abusive friendships that forced me to see what I wasn’t. Girls with gleaming white teeth, perfectly aligned. Mathmeticians. State qualifying artists. Grand pianists. Uber-Christians. I was best friends with the presidents of clubs and the captains of teams. I watched them date the boys I wanted to date and drive the cars I wanted to drive. I kept pulling the band-aid up more slowly so I could feel the pain of being myself. I let it consume me. I’d cry after dances and parties, wishing I was someone else. I’d stay home from school to avoid seeing them. I was overzealous in my friendships to avoid being caught stirring up my little stew of envy.

With time, I settled into myself with chagrin. Of course I never told them how vexed I was by their dainty little noses and volleyball player thighs. Rather, I grew to be a complimentary addition to any scene. I learned to be honest about beauty in public. I learned that being her would never happen, so I might as well let everyone else, including her, know how great she is. Because I see how normal it is to size up. I don’t want other people to feel the way I feel, so I want them to know how beautiful, tall, talented, athletic, brave, intelligent, fashionable they are. Especially if they’re recognizable traits are those I seek to collect. Especially because it feels good to do a little bit of penance. To pay for the jaw-clenching, tooth-grinding frustration I endure.

And now, here I am. Fresh out of compliments. Clean out of excuses. Fed up with myself. I want to look every person in the face and tell them that even though I love the way they are, I really wish I could push them down whenever they make me look mediocre in comparison. I want that freedom, and I hate the way I’m imprisoned by this desperate need. This need to be someone else, to be more. Is it possible that all this jealousy, all this intentional exposure to the elite of every realm I’ve entered, is because I refuse to settle for anything less? Is it possible that all this sense of failure and underdevelopment is a payment of homage to those who I dedicate hours of admiration to?

I want to figure this out. Desperately. So I can pull the sweatshirt up off my wrists and be me. Because there's so much more here that isn't within someone else. I want to find the thing that's my blue ribbon, my high honor, my SI swimsuit edition cover. And I guess that's what's got me here. Confessing a problem that tricks me into thinking it's a solution. While keeping me from the papers that must be written so I can be the best student, from the treadmill that will make me more fit and from the friends who can hug me when I'm down.

I'm going to start a Jealous Types Anonymous. So we can all get it out and eventually get to ourselves. So I can start to just be myself. The self that I've never been. Because I've been too consumed in being someone else. I am excited about this little club. And I already have a prayer to get things rolling...

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference."  ¶ 11:21 PM 7 comments

  making cuts it's a matter of principle, really. friends are the kind of people you choose. you decide who advances to higher rank, who makes you happy, whose benefits outweigh their costs. in which case, why settle for less or waste time on people who aren't of the highest compatibility?especially for the best friends - the lifelong ones. for a single gal like myself, friends really count. they're the foundation, they're the fortress, they're the commitment. so i often wonder: how is it that i've let a surplus take up my time when all i've needed all along... was a select few?

and tonight i saw it. i was freuding my thoughts as i lounged back on a couch in a small, marker-scented room with jess. as i started to surface my emotional climate, she mentioned something about this unbearable summer class that's been the sore in the back of my mouth for a few months now. i rolled off some grumbles about the past i cannot change and the burden it's having on the summer of 2006. she started clicking away at the computer, which at first frustrated me - was she even listening? i mean, i know i can ramble endlessly, but did she care? then i looked over, and inbetween clicks of the mouse, i could see that she was writing the names of colleges i can take a summer class at this summer.

and that's when i knew. friends are more than just the people who make us smile. i know it means more because there is more to being present. there is more than a head nod and a shoulder. anybody could generically tell me it'll be okay and not to worry. anybody could laugh at me for the 200th time witnessing my plan b executions. but it's friends who enable me. friends disregard the ability to relate or undertand. friends are problem solvers and thinkers. they look to your need and find a way to meet it - because if for no other reason than to stop hearing the whining stories of failed classes and summer-long engagements with psyc stats - they know you.

looking over at jess tonight reminded me that i've wasted so much time surrounding myself with more people than i need because all this time i've been disillusioned. i've scrolled through my 200 person cell phone contact list and smiled. i've walked into a room and known more than three quarters of the faces. i've called the many whose names i know and mindless details i keep rolodexed friends. because i thought to myself wow, all these people like me. all these people make me happy. when in reality, it's not simply happiness that defines a true friendship - a lifelong relationship. happiness is not all of life. happiness happens. and having things in common, laughing together, sharing personal stories - those can make us happy. but all of that is just talk. just time spent.

true friendship, the kind i am now certain of, exceeds happiness. it makes us better. true friendship happens when a person's principles of life are met through a compatible, although not always similar person. my true friends can see who i really am, and despite the ramblings and jokes, they let me go on talking while they start picking places for me to go to summer school. they know where i want to go and why i want to be there. so they save the generic conversations and push while i pull myself down into the little ruts that make me me. god it's a genuine effort to be important to me. i recognize this now, and i wish i had realized it long ago - before i halfway admitted these unimportant people into my commitment scope. i've been chasing people whose personalities fulfill the novelties i seek in friendships like mysteriousness and cutting witt for the past three years when i could have been sitting on couches solving my own mysteries and establishing completely undecipherable inside jokes. with people who matter.

it may seem selfish to determine my true friends through their ability to help me grow rather than simply their ability to be there. utility fascinates me. because so many people can be here for me. so many would come over for me in an instant if i really needed someone to listen. my lifelongs show up with a solution so i can get on with my life and do more than just engage in a conversation about it. i get so sick of just talking all the time and my lifelongs do, too. they want to just hop in the car and listen to music for a couple of hours. they call me to be sure i'm going to class. they are servants of friendship because their principles are like my own: without me, without those like me, they have no rock or fortress.

soon i will be moving to chicago. when i get there, i'll be a professionally trained someone of sorts and look back on the bumpy little road that got me on the metro, ipod blasting as i speed off to work. and i'll think to myself: if jess hadn't looked up that online class, i'd still be living at home, feeding the cats and sleeping in a bunkbed. my friends, those closest to the neuroses that keep my motor running and farthest from the superficial niceties and banter, have gotten me here. there. wherever i go. so few people have really ever known me or been with me to see how deep my little rabbit hole goes. far fewer than those who think they've seen it. with chicago on deck and nearly a month and a half's time to capitalize on the nearness of my loves, it's time to make some real cuts. tonight prepared me. i'm ready to move on with only the thoughts of those who count.

for some time now, i've talked about writing a list of people who are worth staying in touch with after i leave this yeast bubble of a city. and before i go to bed, i will have it completed. which won't be hard to do. because it will be short.  ¶ 12:19 AM 7 comments

  S&M and Sock Drawers I’m not sure I can watch Secretary with other people in the room. I remember feeling this way about movie scenes as a child. My Mom and I watched Dirty Dancing, and I pretended to be thirsty during Solomon Burke’s “Cry to Me.” Some things are just too personal for watching together. Even as a kid I wished I could be the smart, awkward girl in the bad boy’s cabin after hours. When Baby asks Patrick Swayze to dance within inches of his bed, I personalize it. I think I would do that. Fall in love with the unsuitable dance instructor then demand that he let me stay the night despite appearances.

But watching Secretary is on a completely different level. It’s not that I don’t want anyone to be in the room when sex scenes are on because of the general discomfort of viewing then looking at each other like “Haha. You’re thinking about sex right now.” It goes deeper. I know that other people would watch Maggie Gyllenhaal and James Spader experience arousal through harsh commands and red Sharpies and laugh. They’d say “God, how weird.” I’d blush and think “God, how romantic.”

People think S&M is kinky. I think it’s nature. Friends have said things like “You would be into that, Pellicori.” And I just smile, demure, unenthused by the jokes. I mean it; it’s not that off the wall. The pure politics of being possessed physically or possessing another physically entertain more romance and true love than is ever noted. S&M turns the lights on and speaks and demands and receives the way most people hate. Most people want the lights off, the intimacy to be unspoken and the moment to be separate from the world. Sex is supposed to be in a vacuum. It’s supposed to be this little thing couples do with the door shut and the blinds drawn.

Well maybe sex is everything and everywhere. I’ve often wondered how it is that more people aren’t turned on by the world. By being alive. I see that in the movie Secretary. I imagine that the ideal sex life doesn’t revolve around a woman wearing something lacey for her husband to get him into bed. I imagine that it revolves around the most human aspects of our lives – our behavior. I often am caught up in the little things, like the way a man holds a bottle of beer or jingles the change in his pocket. That turns me on. I need someone who’ll watch me do the dishes and want to scoop me up because he can’t resist his attraction to my routines. We are more real, more alive when we see the way others are truly illuminated.

Many cultures argue that one cannot live until he dies. That we aren’t attached to the reality of our lives until we experience and accept that we are not here for long, that we are not always going to be grounded in the reality of planet Earth. I feel the same way about pleasure. It may seem odd to incorporate strange pain and into the intimate, loving, close activity of sex; I argue that we cannot be truly pleased until we are submitted to absolute trust. The beauty of S&M is the undeniable trust and lack of shame that support it. Two people (or more than two, depending on your particular taste) can enjoy each other without the limitations of insecurity or secret fantasies hidden under pillows. Two people can admit their desire to be controlled, to control. Two people can experience kinds of pain. Pain that reminds them of their life, their attachment to the physical world. Pain is important to embrace and fuel. Pain makes pleasure the sweetest kind of dessert.

I’m most influenced by the idea of being possessed. Being a control freak, I suppose I admire the idea of a man telling me what to do. Because typically, I’d feed anyone trying to dish out commands a knuckle sandwich. I guess I want to love someone enough to want them to know I’m his. All the way, no questions asked. In Secretary, James Spader (aka Mr. Grey) takes a dominant role in Maggie’s life and at one point, she calls him to ask what she can eat for dinner. She gives him the menu, and then he tells her she can have a half spoonful of potatoes, four peas, and pauses. She has an anxious and livened look on her face. Then he says a line that really puts the icing on the cake: “… and eat as much ice cream as you want.” I like to think that real love is like this. Even though he has all the power in the world, he takes it to a point of his own personal satisfaction then wants to make sure she still has hers. When Maggie’s character, Lee, eats her dinner, she appears completely affected by her senses, by the simplicity of being possessed.

I guess I want that. And when I watch Secretary, I pine. I’m sure I even glow. Because I know what it’s like to be turned on by the world and to want someone to be turned on by it with me. I’m not sure I’m advanced enough to admit that the limitless S&M toys and chains and leathers toot my horn. Even in the organic, fleshy sense – two people (or more, as previously mentioned), knowing that there is a place to be fully affected and alive with another person at the helm is completely ideal. I don’t want sex to be the thing I do before bed every night, I want it to be the way I fold his clothes and apply mascara in the morning. I want it to exist, and I want to share it.

But I don’t want to share it with another person sitting one couch cushion away. I don’t want them to be in my vision or my scope as I grin and bear it. I can imagine this is why men stash their porn under mattresses and behind socks. Their wives and girl friends wouldn’t understand their desire to experience different angles in different locations with different kinds of people. It’s a matter of being accepted. I don’t fear my fantasy; I just don’t want to invite anyone into it that doesn’t belong there. If someone sat next to me throughout the Secretary experience, I’d have to excuse myself for a glass of water every five minutes. Either that or I’d have to cover my face to hide the excitement. Where’s the fun in that?

Someday, when I get into the right kind of relationship with promising momentum, I’ll sit him down in front of the TV, tell him to watch my movie, then leave him to think about what he’s getting himself into. And if he doesn’t like it, I guess I’ll have to be turned on by the world with somebody else. Because fantasy is reality, and I refuse to hide it in the back of a sock drawer.  ¶ 1:59 PM 2 comments

  Why do I blog? 1. I'm no photographer.
2. People like to sleep.
3. Egomania.
4. I have journal attention defecit disorder.
5. Practice makes perfect.
6. Passive aggression.
7. TV isn't my bag.
8. I see a lot of cool people on the bus.
9. Boys, men, mutants.
10. Mom doesn't answer her phone.
11. Running doesn't clear my mind.
12. A need for closure.
13. Words make me happy.
14. Summer nights, cold winter afternoons.
15. Good lighting.
16. Cowardice.
17. My Inspiron600m travels.
18. Processes of elimination.
19. The power of "<-- Backspace".
20. www.stephanieklein.blogs.com
21. The beauty of non-fiction.
22. Left-brainedness.
23. I think I can solve my own problems.
24. People quote me.
25. People are so damn quotable.
26. Glamorous self-perception.
27. Bouts of insomnia.
28. I relate to movie scripts.
29. Bold, underline, and italics.
30. I don't want to do the dishes.
31. The laundry's piling up.
32. Two tests and a paper are due.
33. I come home to myself.
34. An expressive upbringing.
35. I (don't) need therapy.
36. June 2006.
37. April 2005.
38. October 21, 2005.
39. February 15, 2006.
40. I remember everything.
41. Matt thinks I'm good at it.
42. Growin' up ain't easy.
43. Erin can sleep to the sound of typing.
44. Life is beautiful.
45. People die.
46. "Dear Diary," stopped working years ago.
47. Introversion happens to me sometimes.
48. Acoustic guitar lessons never work out.
49. Fiona Apple.
50. Readership.  ¶ 2:20 PM 1 comments

  A Public Service Announcement

Never smile at a crocodile
No you can't get friendly with a crocodile
Don't be taken in by his welcome grin
He's imagining how well you'd fit within his skin

It's the ones that smile first. Touch first. Laugh first. Open you up. Ask you to be yourself. They reach into your bread box, butter your toast then leave you with a load of crumbs to clean up after you've eaten up their charm. They write verses to ode your beauty, dance circles around your heart and offer the world. These scaly crocs seem docile. Easy. Uninterested in the bite. But once you're in their reach; they are predator, you are prey. You've been measured up and down and reduced to a mere lunch.

Never smile at a crocodile
Never tip your hat and stop to talk a while
Never run, walk away
Say good night, not good day

Even if you're a cynical, hard, unyielding relationship phobe, even if you don a hook and are prepared with ammo, you're no match for him. Don't trust your guard. Avoid relying on your supposed self-control. Your weapons are obsolete. It's code red once he holds you in his grip. You've lost the battle and surrender the war. He comes fully equipped with technique. Strategy. Aged logic. He's plotted your coordinates and senses your fear. His reinforcements come parading on white horses - princes with swords and words to back you into a stalemate. At every angle, each attempt out, your mate's been checked.

Clear the aisle
And never smile
At mister crocodile

Take heed. Step away from the smile. You'll know him when you see him. That wrench will turn when he stands there oh-so-cavalier. His shirt pressed, his pants creased, his arms open for the chomp. Don't give in, don't give a second glance. Be brave in your walk and confident in your rejection. You needn't show your fear. See him disappear in your peripheral as you march to safety.

You may very well be well bred
Lots of etiquette in your head
But there's always some special case
Time and place
To forget etiquette

He'll stammer his words into a persuasion of sorts as you bypass his trap. He'll offend your reasoning and call you a chicken. Remember, as you boast rudely and walk assured, you are a chicken. You are afraid. You are doing what's best for you. After all, a chicken doesn't stand a chance against a crocodile. He'll be hurt and blurt accusations of your pride. Your ego. Your inability to look him in the eye and take a risk. Manage yourself and let him disappear into your past, let him fade into the distance. Because you can walk away. You don't have to run. Crocs don't chase. They arouse your curiosity and fuse your fear into an obsessive dance with death. But you're only a speck on the map of chickens before you. That turned around and looked once more. That walked to his grin. That thought they could run away. That waved the white flag into a jaw-clenched affair.

So be sure. Be ready. Take the high road and save your self. Forget the formality of saying "no, thanks" and invest in the market of getting the hell out of there. Because you're weaker than you thought. And he's stronger than his grin will ever show. Stronger, more proud, a chief sadist. Stay away from the aforementioned species, and you will be fine. You'll be better. You'll survive.

I promise.

  ¶ 11:53 AM 0 comments

  epidosic lil sib reported that she'll be in d.c.
this summer.
at george wash u.
and that she wants me to visit .
often.
so i can look at apartments.
places to start fresh.
jobs to jump start my career.
and all i could think of was him.
and what d.c. would be like.
with him.
but i guess maybe not.
more like absolutely not.
never is a scary promise.
and i made it recently.
but i have to cope and mend.
forget about hands in public.
breaking in new matresses.
learning to cook his way.
i forgot about this d.c.
the one that is lonely.
the one that won't love back.
maybe i don't want to go.
maybe i'm having an episode.  ¶ 1:00 AM 1 comments

  the placebo effect typically when i get invitations to parties requiring set attire, i decline and claim to have something better to do. i hate being told what to wear. more than i hate being told that i have to pay $5 at the door for old milwaukee tapped from a keg. when the st. lunatics (sloth, satan, spacey) sent out the evite for their black and white birthday bash, i actually checked my calendar to see if i could make it. unlike the lameness of pimps and hoes parties, this theme piqued my interest. black or white in any other-color exclusivity look phenomenal on me. with the exception of black and white with red shoes. that's a killer. i recently bought a pair of hot white pants that need to strut around more often. i rsvp'd. then found out that pbecca (not to be mistaken with ptolemy) would be going and knew it'd be an extravaganza. pbecca loves to wear ties and i relish a good pair of crisp editor pants draped over some pointy and dangerous jet black stilettos. sexy partying is the only kind i do.

my pre-planned outfit was the only thing keeping me sane while i stood at work waiting to open the door for incoming dinners for two. the phrase "your server this evening will be anthony, and he'll be right with you. enjoy your dinner" feels official maybe the first five or six times you say it. after that, it feels autobot and untalented. in fact, i'd rather be a mediocre server using phrases like "y'all" and "you guys" than a smiling, lipstick-wearing, shmoozy door-opener with wicked talent for menu-placing and coat-hanging. being good at something that sucks means that i suck. i don't suck. needless to say, i'm looking for another job. one that will give me the opportunity to be much cooler and much more talented, like filing alphabetically or typing memos.

glee is the only expression that comes to mind when i recount the moment my boss came up to me and told me to go home. three hours early. i shook his hand, bid him farewell and danced my way to the exit, with fortune cookie in one hand and bus pass in the other. on the ride home, i called pbecca to let her know that drinking would begin promptly. she was on her way back from a hookah bar and insisted that i help her pick which outfit to wear to the party. at that point, i was certain it would be a great night - dress up and fashion shows are my fave. especially when girls who like jeans and sneaks with a nice cotton blend tee shirt submit to prim and gloss. i plotted eye shadows and sassy pre-party tunes all the way to my front door.

franzia and dessert commenced at eight. we sat on the kitchen floor leaning against the heat of the oven as it omitted the sweet aroma of yellow cake batter. we grinned and laughed realizing the potential of the evening. moments before snuggling with my favorite kitchen appliance, we'd put the cups for the cakes in the 12-holed pan and i predicted that there were either just enough or just over enough. there were exactly 12 little cups for the caking. i don't typically believe in fate. signs tend to make me laugh when others allude to them. but at that moment, i felt a serenity inside me because something i anticipated to turn out awkwardly made a turn for the best. and it entertained me. pbecca and i agreed that it meant our night would be victorious; not too hot not too cold. not too much, not too little. just right. it'd fit. then it made me decide to warm up next to the stove as the cupcakes baked fragrantly. we were content on the floor the way puppies are content basking in the rays of a sunny window on the floor. we were primed for a night of laughing and smiling. at anything.

then we got pretty. prettier. pbecca tightened her tie as i stood in the best full-length mirror ever testing two versus four inch heels. for a second I cut away to alicia silverstone and liv tyler in the aerosmith video for "crazy". alicia sported a tie and hat, liv wore white pants and some mid-drift scandal for an amateur striptease contest. come to think of it, pbecca and alicia are both vegetarians, and liv and i are both brunettes. incredible similarities, really. minus the part where i took off all my clothes except for the thin undergarments and spun around a pole for money. i like to think we're so cool. and as uninhibited. young is such a great thing to be when you're very good looking and free-loving. we're well on our way.

the party was in good shape when we arrived. pbecca and i were greeted by drunk hosts, oreos and flip cup. those in attendance wore black and white fashionably. all looked snazzy as we chugged from red and blue solo cups. i met new people, danced with new people, heckled new people from the edge of a beer pong table. the general vibe at the party was that of ease - beer on the carpet no longer phased the hosts and when "40 oz. to freedom" played for the second time within an hour, we sang once more. took in the lyrical stylings of brad once more. side conversations turned into conversations in circles, sharing personal stories with strangers like they were our kindred girl friends at sleepovers. white boy dancing followed the sublime chill when disc 3 turned over to disc 4, justin timberlake. some whore in big hoops and a tacky tex mex studded belt turned off jt mid-"rock your body" and the crowd erupted. confrontation was brief. the whore retreated back to her make-out niche in some corner of the kitchen and we proceeded to dance. and laugh. and pour bad beer into each other's cups at any sign of emptiness. we did jell-o shots. i recited an ode to everclear.

we gave up on sporting and drinking when the words "jimmy john's" were dropped. suddenly, the goal wasn't fixing the tapper on the keg. it was footlong sandwiches. we left the party - hosts included - to indulge. i ordered quite coherently and made sure to get a giant pickle on the side to share with pbecca. i talked to people in line behind me and made unnecessary remarks to the sandwich artists behind the counter. pbecca pointed to the kind of soda we wanted and giggled. i yelled "no ice!" at the machine and we sat at a wobbly table. a sticky, wobbly table. it'd been violated already by the drunks before us who'd overfilled their cups then set them down without forethought or finesse. we enjoyed our meals and invited people to eat with us that had beat us out of the beer pong tourney. i offered meat to a vegetarian. then i offered lettuce to a vegetarian. nothing went unenjoyed. no one went unrecognized.

we were basking in our drunken victory. we achieved the ideal drunk. we dressed as we wanted, drank as we wanted, talked to who we wanted, then ate what we wanted. and we did all of it drunk enough to giggle on command and sober enough to make it coherent. we had a great night. and i didn't stain my white pants. when we got home, we scarfed a few cupcakes with a couple of drunk dudes we lured back to my apartment, chad and a danny (even though i've been calling danny patrick for about six months now). they delighted the yellow cake snacks we gave them, and we leaned back in my love seat fully entertained by the biggest cupcake in the pan. a simultaneous giggle ensued when we unwrapped it.

it had two wrappers. there were indeed 13 wrappers in that pan, not 12. not perfect. not fit. not fate. but 13.

that thirteenth wrapper went unnoticed earlier in the night and we were none the wiser about the true potential for it to effect us. had we found it before the baking ceremony, we would have seen a different night before us. we would have wondered if it was a sign that it was going to be that kind of night - the kind that's off a little. the kind of night that happens because two people share the pessimism needed to pre-determine mediocrity and inevitable boredom. we didn't anticipate those things. we didn't expect loss or stains or mention the possibility of drunken chaos. we took the alleged 12 and felt optimistic instead. even though 13 were there. we were fed the 12 mentality. we turned a deaf ear to bad attitudes, tasted corona instead of old milwaukee and went home with a good buzz because of it. so, when we discovered the thirteenth wrapper, we looked at each other fearfully. i told her to crumple it up like she'd never seen it before and forget it existed. so she did. and we moved on to the passing out round of the evening with images of little cupcakes dancing in our heads.

i have always believed in the placebo effect. the power of the mind and self-healing attitudes. and last night further affirms my belief. i am so glad i could enjoy last night the way i did - looking back now, it wasn't a star-studded and monumental ocassion. 13 wrappers could have made it an intolerable and dead end night. 12 made it just right. and we were just right because of it. and fate's got nothing to do with it. fate is nothing.

and apparently, attitude is everything.   ¶ 12:05 PM 1 comments

  cold turkey i quit kent tonight.
those of you who know me will know what that means.
to those i've promised.
assured.
then reassured once more.
that i'd be me.
that we wouldn't talk about him.
that he wouldn't change everything.
again.
i'm shaking.
i'm unnerved.
i am scared to be me without him.
my heroine.
my addiction.
i will need support.
love.
affirmation in the late hours.
so i don't fall off the horse.
i need something new.
be here for me.
cut me a few slices of that turkey.
and make it cold.  ¶ 12:48 AM 1 comments

  A Farewell to Arms? He puts his arm around me like I’m his.

It doesn’t feel good being wrapped up. It feels like half the air and twice the work. Entertaining this strange ritual. Big arm, little woman. I’m not good at being inside another’s constructed comfort. Why do I hate this so much? I didn’t have to beg or fight to feel wanted and possessed. I’m the Queen of What Every Girl Wants and want the crown on another head. How can he be here already? Caressing my head when he notices that I’m feeling drowsy. Patting my thigh to emphasize jokes or me-directed points. Poignant nudges and that damn arm. The arm that holds and reassures. The arm that says “cool, let’s do this.” Around the girl that says nothing. And looks out the window counting the seconds until she can get up without seeming like she’s making a run for it. Yet I sit and oblige. Entertain and allow.

Maybe the fear of being heartless does this. The fear that it isn’t just this arm. But any arm. Any man. Any sign of unconditional affection. So I nestle in closer and signal affirmatively. Is it a lie? Or do we all warm up like this? I don’t understand non-verbal communication. I can’t say what I want. I just want to talk it through.

“Listen. This arm thing is kind of throwing me for a loop. Do you actually want to hold me close or are you transitioning to something more believable, like a spunky petting session?”

I’m cynical and painful in the moments when a man wants to calm things down to a soft roar. “No, seriously,” he’ll assert and frown at my macho reaction to sincerity. He’s the one that shows up when I pull a typical chick move and yearn for an unreceptive guitar player or cool guy impossibility. He doesn’t realize that the arm, the smile, the nudge of approval equate my version of two steps back. His guard is down too soon. He’s too compliant, too excited to let this work. He’s ready. Which means I have to decide if I am ready. I have to do something. I have to react. Affirm or deny. I’m making things complicated. Because I’m me.

The girl who wants everything at the price of nothing.

Arms included. But arms don’t offer themselves for nothing. Casual sex, kisses, symbolic dancing under neon lights – those do. But this isn’t casual. This is a heavy price and a long arm that wants to be there tomorrow, too. I want it to go away. I don’t want to be “Ok, I’ll see you tomorrow” Girl. I want to be Sara. Not Sara plus man with generous arm. Sara plus one could turn into Sara plus one karat. That’s a life of arm. A life of giving in to public rituals and compromise.

“Relationships are built on compromise, you know.”

He insisted that I let him pay for the wine he didn’t drink, and I refused. I didn’t budge. I might never. But then I’ll have to weigh the possibility of being alone. Alone in the pathetic, publicly rubbing away welled-up tears sense. Alone and sitting in coffee shops pining over new couples sharing a fruit cup with a curly-haired Emma baby. Alone and bitterly flaunting my anti-love movement of the week. Alone in the most preventable manner imaginable. The woman who chooses to be alone. It’s an unnecessary practice. I can’t be her. The bitter single twenty (or thirty) something that pokes fun at public displays of affection and digresses into a compliment-fielding drunk at weddings.

I talked to my Mom today and asked her what prevented her from arranging a marriage for me at birth – considering my inability to pull this dating thing together. She laughed and told me I’d fight tooth and nail to emancipate myself from the concept of having the right I do not practice taken from me. That’s why. Naturally I knew that’d be my way. Give me choices; I use them to an advantage so extreme that my only concern is maximizing me. Give me no choices; I stomp and scream without rest until you wish there was no you and demands are met. I’m impossible. Even the woman who should be advocating for my life of love and relationships has a grim outlook on things.

“I think I ruined you relationship-wise. I’m not sure. Maybe marriage just isn’t for you.”

I date back to childhood discussions and teenage sleepovers and realize that I’ve avoided saying “... when I get married” and have always preferred “…if I get married.” As a result, I fear all things that entertain whens. The when becomes so much more eminent with the initiation of new relationships. Because eventually, if things go well, emotions run wild and me-motivation becomes we-motivation. Each new man is a new chance to engage in the process of stepping one foot closer to being committed to someone. Forever. All I have to do is say yes once to a date, an extended hand, a curiosity that is half-terrifying, and it could happen to me. Things could go well. Things could be great.

I could fall in love.

I could fall.

Or I could count the seconds until being held is over. And let go before he does. So that way he can go home and I can imagine how long he would have held on if I hadn’t gotten up. Rather than waiting to be let go of. To be left. To be without a choice because one was already made. Even if that choice was simply about the removal of an arm around me. I pick when the letting go happens. Just like I pick when holding on happens. Why should I let arms come and go? I come and go. Arms are just there. Men are just there. Relationships are what I say they are, and so far as reality is concerned, my vision is far-fetched. I’m a love-patrolling lunatic.

Yet, I let the guard down and pick less these days. I’ve been letting things slide, like winks and looking chummy in public. To test. To learn. To allow some affection outside of fantasy land. Things are good there. Men aren’t defined by their looks or their personalities there. They’re defined by what I want. When I want it. They’re around if I like it then gone when I don’t. They’re not arms and questions and compromise. They’re disposable. But we all know that people aren’t disposable. And that fantasy is a strange place we go because we feel shame in wanting such a taboo reality.

So I’m trying to be realistic here. I take deep breaths to preserve oxygen until I can come back up for some relief. And I might let him stick around. I might let him hold me longer next time. I might let there be a next time. I make choices realizing that they lead to the same fork in the road that I’ve only imagined walking down. On one side, I make choices that lead to an ultimately successful relationship, resulting in marriage, kids, happiness, whatnots. On the other, I make choices that lead to being alone. Being surrounded by couples with smug looks on their faces while they flip through wallet photos of toothless children and runt puppies. Being independent and free to do whatever whenever with whomever I please. Neither appeals. Neither feels optional. Both feel inevitable. Both force loss. Both require compromise.

I’m working on it. I’m working on it one arm at a time. One reciprocation at a time. Letting feeling like being his mean nothing more than momentary comfort. Not letting myself pair feeling his with the fear that enjoying that emotion means vulnerability of needing that emotion and being lost without it. I’m trying to find a win-win rather than waiting for my win-lose. There doesn’t have to be a loss. I don’t want to be unmeant for marriage. I don’t want to be a relationship leper. I don’t want to be a quitter. Quitters never win. And I can’t lose.

I’m adopting a new if…then philosophy rather than separating relationships into if or when statements. There are no guarantees. There is no merit in hiding behind possibilities, either. Men and women put their necks on the line every day – why can’t I? Maybe I’m not hopeless. Maybe I just need to grow up and accept whatever comes because so far I’ve got nothing to lose. Well, there are a few things to lose - some of which I've been dying to get rid of. I guess I'm already seeing the upside of things.

I guess I'm more of a girl about relationships than I thought.

Who let's an arm wrapped around them invite the possibility of marriage, anyways?  ¶ 1:47 AM 0 comments

  I hate you, Harry. When Harry Met Sally is one of my favorite movies. It doesn't quite fit with Kill Bill Vol. 2 and The Usual Suspects, but it fits me. It’s a great addition to my ultra masculine, uber violent collection. But it makes sense. Because I am Sally. In more ways than I'd like to admit in a crowd of man folk.

My girl friends know. That my ETA is at least 20 minutes after I confirm. I don't feel bad about being late. I have hair. Lots of it. Men don't notice that, though. They don't see that I try on 12 outfits before I leave the house or that I exfoliate my skin at least three times a week. They've never seen the routine way I put lotion on after showers and the meticulous way I paint my toe nails under a shadeless lamp that I've tailored for the best lighting. Nope. They don't even know that exists.

But there are select times when I am weak, vulnerable and susceptible to exposing my green, slimy scales – for example, when ordering a sandwich.

I ask for no tomato, light mayo, and yellow mustard. On wheat. Oh, and pepper jack cheese. But if there isn't any, provolone is just fine. If I get the provo rejection, I smile, fold up my menu, hand it to the server, and reassure them that cheddar will do. I choose fried potatoes above fruit or slaw sides. Well, depending on the slaw. If it's Asian slaw, count me in. Otherwise, I'm geared for fries. I get an enchanted look on my face if they're the crunchy, hearty steak variety. In which case, I ask for ranch dressing on the side. Sometimes I remember to ask if they have rye rather than wheat. I like the look on servers' faces upon this dangling last request. They turn around and nod then give me a stern "Can I walk away now?" expression. At which point I decide to let him or her make an extra trip when they return because they forgot to refill my water glass.

What can I say? I don't settle for anything but the best.

Some would call this practice high maintenance. I imagine myself ordering a sandwich and get a good, clean visual of Sally ordering her pie in the diner as Harry watches her bewildered. He watches her with disgusted intrigue - the way a kid looks at his parents kissing in public. "Is that what that's supposed to be like? Gross." Yet, kids and Harrys the world over keep looking and wondering because some feats are too miraculous to turn away from.

Anyone who sees me order a sandwich sees me at my finest. My richest. My truest. I want every sandwich I buy to taste the way it was intended to: my way. I don’t necessarily endorse Burger King (since the demise of their formerly gargantuan Whopper sandwich), but I believe in their philosophy. It's an empowering motto. I root for any corporation that gives me free reign to have it my way. Being that they leave the Whopper at its proper size and price. I take BK with me everywhere I go. I have it my way because I can. Because I am paying for that sandwich. And most certainly because you're a server, so what's it matter to you if I hate Dijon mustard? If I know that there are the resources to build the sandwich of my lunch dreams, why would I pass up the offering?

Some people settle for the first opportunity presented to them. Some people consider themselves low maintenance because they're more than happy to eat a sandwich with American on it even though there's Cheddar out back. Well I'm not some people. And I'm not high maintenance, either. I'm high quality. High prioritizing. High on the perfect sandwich. Because it's out there. I wonder why people are so surprised by my ordering ritual. I don't have the key to hidden treasure. I have what anyone can have, and while it seems complicated, it isn't. It only looks complicated because servers don't listen the first time around and need to be reminded of things.

"Don't forget that I want the lettuce on the side, thanks."

The huffing and puffing of those who sit near in embarrassment doesn't lessen my drive to enjoy all that I give myself. I guess my motto is that it's never safe to assume that another person in the world will know how I want things. Other people don't know what makes me tick. Subsequently, I list it out for them and make them repeat it back. It's no mystery that if a woman wants something, if a man wants something, or if anyone wants something... that they can only rely on their own determination to get it.

My determination is both my strength and my flaw. While I tend to be the person at the lunch table without a complaint in the world once dining commences, I cannot boast in all aspects of my determined self-serving life. I expect that all things will come my way and that the world is my resource to continually tap into. That sandwiches need tweaking. And well... that people do, too. And by people, I mean men.

Men cannot be ordered like sandwiches. There is no perfect arrangement. I repeat: There is no perfect arrangement. I can't order one without neediness with a side of humorous jealousy. I can't objectify men I don't know with labels like American cheese guy or Pepper Jack cheese guy. I can't ask the waiter to give me an extra spread of intellectual snobbery and also ask him to hold the poor sense of personal style. Sometimes the lettuce comes soggier than you'd like. Sometimes you have to make due and throw that lettuce between the slices with gratitude - at least you got rye this time.

It's always a toss up. In Burger King, in restaurants, in retail stores, at the library, in the hair salon, in the presence of my amiably submissive friends... I can have it my way. I've grown accustomed to this lifestyle. I'm spoiled emotionally and wrecked mentally. I look at men puzzled. Dissatisfied. Uninterested. I didn't order a turkey on white. I never will. So why do I have to constantly put myself through the hassle of asking the server to bring out what I want? What I ordered. What I've properly arranged in my head as the ideal sandwich. I mean, man.

In the restaurant of life, I can't have the man I want because he doesn't exist. The world does not cater men by the platter for me. Which is okay, I suppose. There'd be no stake in love or relationships if we were simply given everything we wanted on the first try. If we were to pick the eye color of our prince charming then slap something on him like a cuddling fetish. That'd be boring. I guess the whole "happiness is a journey not a destination" bullshit applies. I hate to be such a motivational poster about things, but I need a little cheese now and again. The white kind. With peppers and jacks and spicy goodness.

I wish I wasn't like Sally. I wish I could make the most out of any sandwich and call it a lunch. I wish I could meet a man and look at his big picture, order him plain, and not beg for side additives, like more personality and less fidgeting. Gestalt's principles have never been a favorite of mine. I don't consider a man whole unless he has all of the parts I want. It's difficult to understand that women allow men with only half the parts to be their whole world. Maybe I'm too happy to give up on the hope of cutting him out like a cookie then eating him up. All in one sitting.

I can't submit to any man who isn't all of a man. I don't speak a language of chances and tries. My comprehension level of fixer-uppers and maybe next times is too low to even engage with a half-man. I send sandwiches back if the mayo isn't light. You better believe I'll send a man back if he isn't what I ordered. I'm not asking for a free lunch, I'm asking for a happy life. I'm determined to be happy, and since the only person who knows what I want is me, I better pick and choose according to what does and does not rock my strange little boat.

I'm not high maintenance. Really, I'm not. I let other people pick movies and at the same time can make decisions for groups when being democratic fails. I don't mind getting my hands dirty. I'll put on a sweatshirt before asking someone to turn up the heat. I'm a good girl with good intentions. Sally wanted her pie warmed up. I want my sandwich on rye.

Then again I think of Sally's end result. A strange, short, eccentric, unattractive man named Harry. She got her pie and ate it too. But she didn't order a Harry. I haven’t either. Whoever he is, f he can make me forget that I actually ordered something else like a Jim or a Tom, he'll be something new. He'll be a miracle. I'm praying someone like him exists - this him that is fragmented yet whole in his own way. This him that will stand before me and demand to spend the rest of his life with me even though he knows I ordered a different sandwich. Maybe this is the perfect sandwich man. The one that isn't everything I set out for but knows he's the right sandwich for me. The one that will make me fold up the menu and say "Screw Pepper Jack. American ain't so bad."

The one that will tell me he loves me. For the rest of his life. Because I’m his ideal sandwich. So I can have everything I want, look him in the eyes, submit to love, and tearfully say "I hate you, Harry."  ¶ 12:39 AM 3 comments

  Who Lives Forever, Anyways? in my death and dying class, we talk about things like coping, anxiety, grief, putting up a good fight.

cancer cases sometimes miraculously become channel 4 news because a forty year old woman decided she wasn't about to give up. we go through five stages (apparently). we envision those we love going before us. we place ourselves on timelines and mark them with a big, fat x. if we're lucky, that x isn't too far to the right (right, as my professor says bluntly, is "kaputz").

i'm not sure that i believe in life after death. or even half-life as a reincarnated animal. i sure as hell run from the topic of forever after death. what a bunch of bologna. me? lasting forever? how odd. better yet, how horrifying. in the later years of his life, freddie mercury wrote the song "who wants to live forever?". that's a great question because seriously - who does? not me. or at least, i don't think so. forever is so the opposite of eighty years or so.

all of my grandparents died at the age of seventy-seven. hopefully my parents last longer than that. i won't be having kids for a while, so it seems fitting that they live longer in order to participate longer. i believe in grandparents. they change everything in their ancient generational ways. it's like magic, really. with grandparents, everything is better - more meaningful. for example, butter on toast. i used to watch my grandma jolly butter toast and tears almost came to my eyes knowing that another pair of hands could never make a knife bring butter to bread in that spready, crisp, full-coverage, all-loving way.

grandparents are moments. they are memories like lotion or perfume. or dingy old hats. they have saggy wrinkly elbows or hair in their ears. but even those things feel necessary. those things mark the seventy-something years of use a body must undergo. i might relish those things, even though i fear being elderly more than i fear death. death happens and then it's over. being old waits for you then as you get closer haunts you. it buys you black baloons when you turn forty, convinces you that your uterus is throwing in the towel at fifty, and at sixty, it might even stowe your libido away in some box in the basement.

i don't want to be old. i want to be young and unaware of how much i have lived and how much i have missed. i want to be reborn as a twenty-one year old every day with fresh, new skin and a warm mommy to hold me when the goin gets rough. i want to know that my outlook will be as unfearing as that of those who have reached the finish line before me. i don't remember my grandparents being afraid of death. i don't remember them whining about what they did and didn't do. i only saw the product of their workings - children, homes full of knick knacks, photo albums of reunions and road trips to the world's biggest ball of string back in 1968.

tonight, i went out with friends and did the usual. i drank pabst blue ribbon by the pitcher, raised my mug to the mighty tune of a righteous cover band, and most importantly, i hugged and danced with those around me like my little feet were going to turn into pumpkins at midnight and it'd be all over. because someday, it will be all over. i'll be kaputz. my friends may or may not be. they may not even know who i am. or that i ever was.

but tomorrow morning, when we wake up with our feet in a bind and our ashtray hair tangled and dirty, we'll know we do things right. we aren't climbing mountains or running marathons, as those who look back at life wish they had. we're not birthing beautiful babies or even letting men marry us. we're so alive right now. we can't even help it. we can't even feel it. because nothing is to be said about death on nights like tonight. we don't need death to know that we're making it count. because death doesn't make life worth living. rather, life makes death worth forgetting. it's coming no matter what we do. why not just kick ass at being alive while it counts? why wait for a doctor to count your months to reflect and repair?

i don't need to be a forty year old woman banning cancer from her body through good vibes to know that i can conquer mortality. because every day i wake up and see a world worth experiencing down to the very last drop. i cry when snow touches the street lamp outside my window just right. i scream to win fights that cannot be won. i write for hours then crumple up the paper to ovecome myself. i count down the hours until nap time. i take detours on the way to class so i can walk by my favorite tree. i feel good about the way life goes. yesterday was longer than today and tomorrow will be faster than i can handle. i know that what's behind me fits into a small second of memory and that when i get to tomorrow, we'll all be older, closer, and begging for another hour. but that's okay. i'm in no rush.

what's the point in writing a list of things to do before death? death could be tomorrow. life happens, and even if i don't seek particular brands of adventure and accomplishment, whatever falls into my lap will be worth it. because the more you look to that list and think of all the things you need to cross off it, the more you adhere to the power of death. your destruction awaits. i don't want to live for death. i find that i am mostly running from it in the direction of small things that don't change the world, myself, or those around me. i want to participate in breath-like moments that mean so much but come naturally enough to keep me feeling at ease about things. i can't let the big things take over. it's my way of avoiding death. i avoid being ready. i guess that's what i saw in my grandparents. whole human beings with kids, houses, and careers past. people who'd been through the motions of what it means to accomplish a life's worth of deeds.

i am not ready for a life's worth. i'm ready for today's worth. i don't want to live forever, but i don't want to admit that the world will be removed from my body. somewhere in this limbo, i manage to drink myself into a strange tunnel of reflection after a night gone by like minutes. and my fears of death feel ridiculous for once because as i look down the uncertain lane, i see nothing. i don't see marriage. i don't see kids. i don't even see senior citizenship. i used to have aspirations, but each day i feel more bound to the inevitability of happiness. i'm happy right now. and as long as i let myself be filled with each moment's pleasure, i will have all that the world can give and meet death one day without fear.

i don't want to stop and recognize that i am old or that i can never take back the seventy-five years behind me. i don't wont to wait to be taken from this world. i dont want to anticipate forever or the entire universe. because i am the world. my body is all that i really have and my world is all that i've ever known. so i am not giving it away or letting it collect dust on some shelf in the basement. i'm just going to be glad i have it. in general. or specifically, in the moments when i notice those small grains of everything in the people that make me forget that i might never exist.

as freddie said, forever is our today. and even though i can't take it back to relive it, it lives inside of me and i can sleep feeling full from a delicious day with a side of beautiful people.

in fact, i don't even remember why tonight made me think of death. or its various preparatory stages and coping strategies. all i know now is that i feel so good about life. and that i can live it. no matter when it ends.  ¶ 3:00 AM 0 comments

  clouds whores and mango-scented pillows the temperature is mild and the sky is at rest. no storms. no wind chills. mediocre rainfall. i'm as uninterested in participating as the climate is. when i rolled over this morning, i looked outside, saw the clouds, then rolled back over for three more hours of sun-bathing in corsica. i've been hiding during the day. avoiding clocks and leaving the previous night's makeup on. i like the crusty mascara look. it works well with my cobain playlist. the one that's been rotating with pearl jam, radiohead, and my new fave, david gray. no sun, no happy tunes. maybe i'm going through a non-intraveinous courtney love phase. undead by day, hysterically alive at night. bonus points for smeared makeup and lost days of productivity.

the second the sky turns black, i make myself dinner (buttered noodles). i shower (for an hour). i remove the mascara to reapply something darker and thicker for another night of whatever is to come. i'm alone in my apartment, i walk around in polka-dotted boy shorts, and i avoid taking the towel off of my head until there's some kind of plan set in stone. no girl wants to dry her hair and burn it under a hot iron unless she absolutely has to. well, not this girl at least. one of the only things keeping me sane in this strangling weather and suffocatingly lonely apartment is the smell of my wet, tangerine mango hair. so a night in means a night in sniffing my fresh, caribbean mop. a night out means splashing perfume on and wearing standing room only jeans. naturally, i go. bodies are warmer than hard apartment furniture.

it's no wonder i want to stay in. my hair turns me on too much to waste it on drinks and routine conversation. the smoke eats my perfume and the nudie matching game captivates eyes too much to notice my denim. when boys talk, i don't care. i don't care about college basketball. fantasy football. vomiting from high places. batting averages. tits. on second thought - i care about tits. at least that's a conversation i can contribute to. and have a firm opinion on. an opinion, albeit quasi-bisexual, that matters. i am an authority. and the weather is too dull and predictable for politics, economics, obscure film releases. we're all bored. lazy. our minds wander. and we're in need of spicy dialogue.

the boob banter turns up the heat and i'm still cold. it's a strange coincidence that as laundry day approaches, the only shirts left in my closet reveal more than arm's length and subtle collarbone. of course. at the bottom of the laundry basket are the shirts i want to wear. the ones that help me breathe. speak eloquently. feel equal. so in the midst of a murky month of bad weather and conversation, it is quite fitting that the only thing to wear says "take me home tonight," and the only conversations keeping us at the bar are about my most prominent assets. at this rate, i should start ordering blow job shots and offer a good tug to any old sailor that walks my way drunkenly.

so i'm at the bar, wishing for coffee shop chatter, talking about tits, and wearing a "she must be compensating for something" outfit. brains out the door - flirty, jack-drinking, skin-bearing whores welcome. i'm all that i hate in this january mess. i apply my lip balm too often, touch forearms with purpose, and things start to feel fuzzy because i've put a few pints of hard liquor on top of my sea of insecurities. it's easy to get lost in this crowd of pectorals and firm grips. i want to fit in. go head-to-head. put the straw down and get lipstick on the glass. i'm restless in the latest hours, and my apartment is still empty. i become assertive. confident. strategic. i keep my cool. i chew ice.

the bar closes, and i don't sleep alone. i say dirty little words. my hair is shades darker, and the gloss wears away. i'm myself. the one that doesn't wear a lacey cami. the one whose earrings don't dangle. the one that wanted to be naked and in bed all along. the one with tangerine mango-scented pillows because she slept wet-haired the night before. the one that was left alone on a cloudy, dull day and needed some company. someone to be close to. to touch. to talk to after a long-term commitment to bedroom hermitry. i haven't set an alarm in weeks. i haven't seen a.m. in a month. then, as the strength of a new arm holds my loneliness, i start ticking. my eyes open, and it's eight a.m. i want to get up. go outside - for a run, even. i look outside, and the parasites are still eating the sun. there's no way i'm going out like this.

so we retreat to my hard apartment furniture without apology. me and my polkda-dotted boy shorts wrapped in a chenille throw, that is. i want to shower. but i decide to pass out legitimately. wait for the proper outro to permit reinstated privacy. so i can lock the door again and commit to disinterest and curse activity. once i get the cheek kiss and good-bye, i return to the bed that's mine. and mine alone. i close the blinds that were left open on account of intoxication, pull the drapes, and climb into my down-feathered sanctuary. my company is gone, and i can resume what i've grown accustomed to. i can close my eyes until the clouds are gone. when night brings dinners, showers, a social life.

as i settle in for the long day of eye lid investigation, i feel a small morsel of upset. i realize i've spilled beer on my favorite jeans, lost my favorite earring, and my pillow smells like bar. my perfect little world of nothing doing has been penetrated by the sudden desire to do laundry, put on sweatpants and a t-shirt, and to vow to shower before bed when smoke eats my fresh scent. it's 10 a.m. i'm a new girl who's washed the mascara off, made plans to socialize before the sun goes down, and whose bottom-hamper clothes are clean for a night of tea, talk, and sleeping with sugar mango fairies dancing in her head. nothing whorish about it. although tits might still come up. such an irresistable topic, really.  ¶ 1:54 PM 6 comments

  Words on Napkins No. 2 this love is a reaching branch
as the season shifts
and the syrup moves in
the trunk takes you away
your sweet nectar trapped
and i fall to the ground slow.

my shadeless old home
where we'd sneak hours
connected by root and sun
effortlessly changed by light
nestled against our maple grain
as you fed me your juicy life.

winter boasts the separation
now i mourn our love
grey and drained of beauty
crushed by unknowing shoe
worn by swirling white storm
i weep looking above at our summer
praying to know spring again.

i love you.  ¶ 8:27 PM 0 comments

  she: part two when the bows are untied from her hair, she's beautiful the way joey potter is beautiful.

striking because of simple glamour - a beauty unidentified with intent. a beauty of nature and ease.

reminds me of the maybelline commercial, "maybe she's born with it...".

her beauty has this fiction behind it. her obvious humility and lack of self-awreness give me the feeling that she was once an ugly duckling. maybe she still thinks she is one.

she probably wakes up in the morning and spends more time sorting for a pair of comfortable winter socks than she does putting on make-up. if she even wears make-up. part of me prays that she does. i couldn't handle the rejection of fortune knowing that all she used was oil of olay moisturizer.

she's the girl that doesn't have to buy a glittery, $400 dress for deances. she's the girl that boys feel comfortable walking up to for the good of paying a compliment. the one that girls criticize for wearing last season's floral pattern and guys wait in line to dance with.

she's approachable in every way. her external is so intimidatingly superior, but her emotion is meek and almost insecure. dawsons get to fall in love with her while jocks gawk - waiting for their chance to bank in on a best-kept secret.

she's what everyone wants because she's never been had. she's untouchable. porcelain to a tee.

and of course this makes me watch wantingly. i've never been in the habit of lusting after the attainable.

i don't look at her the way a 14 year old boy looks at nudie pictures of fully-shaven girls posing wide-legged in a magazine. i look at her the way a photographer revels a silhouette as it teases the camera on a moonlit night. i admire her longingly hoping to capture something permanently. something to frame in my mind. for the moments when things are ugly. when i'm ugly.

because i don't know her. and this makes her as perfect as i want her to be.  ¶ 6:12 PM 0 comments

  she: part one she wears a bow in her hair.

a pink, thick, on-the-top-of-her-head-holding-together-a-ponytail, bow. i haven't seen a perfectly tied bow in banana-curled hair since i was in high school and cheerleaders dressed in pleated skirts mid-winter on game days.

she has shiny brown hair with warm yellow strands that seem to illuminate her dainty head with a halo of perfection. she's got the smallest pores imaginable below an all natural bronze face. her lips always glisten some peachy hue, and her demonstrative blinking makes me certain that mascara was modeled to match her lashes. her eyes glitter green and are gigantic yet proportionate to her feminine facial structure. they brighten each expression the way an exclamation point brightens a sentence.

she could step all over our peers with the length of her long legs and wash every worry away with the simple wrinkle of her bunny-like nose. her aura is stunning in the most legitimate way. in a sweater and jeans. in a bikini and heels. no differentiation necessary. in either outfit, in any manner fathomable - there is no mistake that she's the most beautiful creature in the room.

she has the meticulous perfections that immature self-worth relies on. teeth white and aligned to hollywood standard, symmetrical eyebrows, an athletic yet soft frame holding together some more desirable feminine shapes, and her cuticles are flawless. thinking again, i wonder how something could be so perfect that i envy the simplest details - like the clean whiteness surrounding the unique color of her eyes.

she distracts me. one second, i am writing notes; and the next, my eyes are closed and locating the origin of her perfume. i am stuck in limbo somewhere between a sunbathed afternoon meadow and the cool breeze of a calm sea. it's so easy to inhale yet impossible to forget. the subtlety of her essence is so grabbing. her smallest, most effortless details rival my over-accentuated and outwardly-trying attempts to be timeless. to appear without having to make an appeareance. to have a strong command with a soft voice. to fake anonymity while being the center of attention. to walk in slow motion.

she hurts me. and this is how i know. from two rows back and to the right.

that i have a crush on her.  ¶ 11:36 PM 0 comments

  Words On Napkins No. 1 I want a pony
To ride into the sun
So we can be alone
And the cowboys will be gone
Where there is only warmth
Without any day
So we can stay

Inside is infinity
The lasting rays of now
We meet wholeness
Tides of life move our bodies
To where dreams row us
Our oars cast ashore
Nights wonder no more

This heart unharnessed
Atop a savior in saddles
My eyes burn from the scent
Each layer of freedom anew
Light reaches me deeply
Tears quench my dry skin
I am no longer within.  ¶ 12:47 AM 2 comments

  adult life I had been sitting on my ass for hours. On the computer. In the living room. Reading here and there inbetween my well-deserved long-earned slothdom. I'd eaten two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, half a bag of pretzels, stolen one of Martha's Diet Cokes (with lime, mind you), and chowed on cold noodles in the fridge.

The shower I took most more for motivation than for hygiene. I'm not that active; therefore, I am not that smelly. That's the nature of midterms and all of my lifestyle thereafter. I become a less than enthusiastic participant in physical activity out of the realm of dancing or well... dancing. Yeah, all I do is dance. When a fat mood becomes intolerable, I'll sweat an entire Janet Jackson cd of calories off doing a real workout. Otherwise, I am clean and constantly smelling of something fresh, like cherry blossom body lotion.

So sitting around is not a problem. I'm not bathing in my own sweat and bodily disgust. I'm fresh as a daisy. Half-dressed and playing Sonic the Hedgehog. The excess of group projects and homework completed up to this point have certainly given me a "Lazy for a Day" card. We all need a break sometimes, right? Adults work every day and come home, kick off their shoes, and relax -- right?

Wrong.

When Martha came home from her lengthy and emotionally draining nursing clinical, still in her scrubs and unfashionable work shoes; I wanted her to come sit with me. Be lazy, eat chocolates, maybe count some sheep.

But we didn't even get to hello before her backpack was in her room, her coat was hung neatly on the rack, and her hands were unloading the dishes from the dishwasher to go back in their designated cupboards and drawers. She didn't even take off her shoes. Or the nametag on her shirt pocket. She was moving swiftly. I watched her and was exhausted by the simple activity of putting dishes away. Why?

Because I'm not an adult.

Twenty-one is three years past my certification into adulthood by law, but that's no reality. Adult is a term we coin in legislation so old men aren't having sex with little girls and so nice little boys aren't drafted off to war to replace all of the men whose cards have expired. Adult is a word in this sense, but to really live, breathe, and earn the role of adult, one must go far beyond the extinguishing of 18 candles on some cake a loving mother baked in a nine-by-twelve.

I approached my adult roommate as she was mid-task in awe. I even told her that not in a million years would I walk in the door to my home after a long day and walk straight to the dishwasher. To empty it. To do more work. Hell no. I'd kick off my shoes and run straight to the stereo for a 16 track date with Norah Jones. I'd sit down and sigh something lovely. I'd forget that a single task existed because that's what I did all day. Tasks. Work. Make decisions.

I can't believe what is unraveling before me. She's efficiently arranging the spoons and forks in her hand to put them away, and I feel like I'm watching tigers jump through rings of fire. Big, dense Scots picking up cars while wearing kilts, triple sow cows on the ice. It's a feat that baffles me. She had work all day. She's home. Her shoes are still on. The dishes are put away in instants. Before she's off to some other task, I am sure. Then she says a phrase I've heard before... in the somewhat distant past:

  ¶ 11:40 PM 1 comments

  how to deal a good hand men don't want mystery. they want predictable uncertainty. something that's transparent enough to guarantee success but confident enough to make the end point dangle in conversation. a woman with a combination of submission to his technique yet independent enough to appear unaffected will be in the right hands every time. she'll have her pick of the litter because she knows how to show him that she's unavailable to simple tactic but sly enough to stroke his ego until he can no longer handle being discrete. they want just enough knowledge of your interest to seal pursuit. once you become reciprocal enough to hint that your hand really is on their leg longer than platonic says it should be or that you're looking at them looking at you... you're toast. you're no longer attainable. because you've already been attained.

anticipation forces a man to count his chips and check again for the signs. especially when he's gotten far enough into the round to know he has a good hand. women who see this effort while remaining unaffected can assume a role that works every time. it's like the person in a room who speaks softly. they are unheard in a large mass, but they're given more attention because what they say has to be heard first. there is no way to be generic when you have to sit closer and be attentive to actually hear what this kind of person says. a woman who is subtle enough in her way of encouragement will force him to lean in closer. if not to hear her voice, at least to push the right boundaries. maybe a hand on the leg. or a hand on the back while moving through a crowd.

to call this a game would be unfair. this isn't a game. it's a process. a necessary mean to permit a more pleasurable end. women yearn to feel desired. men thrive on achievement. when two people rely on their sensual capabilites, the words don't get in the way. when we speak, we give away too much. we verbalize what could be discovered about us by a pair of observant eyes across the room. but we need not shut off our natural instinct to react and engage in these non-verbals that speak those thousands of words we would otherwise mumble inarticulately.

we're equipped in excess as humans. our biology talks about reproduction, procreation, fight or flight, dominant, recessive. our sociology talks about the needs that we cannot control but are a part of the strands that make us as human as we can bear to handle. so in the balance between our necessary interactions to plant seeds and our lustful acquisitions of ego, we formulate the process. because we are not robots attached to organs, nerves, and hormones that tell us what to do. we are not simply fingers touching hot stoves then jumping away yelping in response. we are also the curiosity, the insatiable gambler, the excitement of knowing what will happen, and the overzealous to experimentation. we are incapable of existing without a process that entertains our surplus of sensabilities.

we bridge the gap between what we need and what we want in the most trivial of moments. but it's a battle. and it's a process. we must be acutely aware of who we are and what position we have in any given environment. men and women are typecast into this unfortunate life that can be reduced to a movie scene. that's how i visualize it. but as i am seeing it, i know that zooming the camera in to show a woman strategically laughing and a man fiddling nervously behind his debonaire facade is quite accurate. the simplicity of interacting intentionally can be reduced. not only can it be reduced, it can be fixed. this power struggle that men and women seem to have is unnecessary. because when we reduce it to power or control, we are still complicating it too much. we just need harmony. to feel that a moment is at its maximum potential. whether we are trying to achieve or trying to feel desired.

a woman can create harmony by giving him a reason to stick around without giving him a reason to think he's won the game... yet. this keeps him playing. working. attentive. it keeps him feeling a sense of harmony, too. because he's still competing. still holding a good hand. still counting his chips to be sure he can handle checking.

but the only reason he counts his chips is to keep the standard of predictable uncertainty high. he knows what's at stake and that he's in a position to stay in it. but if he shows you that he knows he's got a good hand, he'll think he's given himself away and become a coward at the table. either that or he'll just stop thinking it's fun. because now you know what pocket aces looks like on his face. he wants to know that he can make the same face, count the same chips, and show the same effort whether he's got the aces or a two and a seven.

so always go into it like you're two aces, but let him bluff shamelessly like you're a two and a seven. he'll work. you'll reel. there will be harmony.  ¶ 11:31 PM 2 comments

  a lot like love Tonight the curly red-head and I watched Kutcher's most recent romantic comedy, A Lot Like Love.

We didn't rent it because we were in particularly sappy moods. I felt solid going into it. I was prepared to take nothing from it other than two sweet hours of Ashton prancing back and forth on the screen. Being his typical self. Awkward and gorgeous.

But of course.

He was awkward, gorgeous, and the movie made me cry. Which, surprisingly, is a feat. Few films are capable of doing this, and this one gets a lot of credit because I wasn't even planning on crying. Pre-planned crying is also a requisite for a film's success in bringing me to tears.

However, I was caught off guard tonight. I wasn't ready for the chemistry and bold message of this very predictable movie. (Let's just say that in the beginning, the director/writer/whoever set up a timeline and foreshadowed phrases that gave me a good hint as to where the whole thing was going.) Looking past the otherwise transparent plot, Amanda Peet and Ashton Kutcher had great on-screen chemistry and convinced me to feel some mush on this seemingly Kleenex-free night.

In the movie, Kutcher's character Oliver has a set timeline for the things he wants to do in his life before he gets married and settles down. He doesn't compile a bundle of priorities; instead he orders his twenties in a way that puts goals first and love last. He takes his life for granted thinking that the only path is the one he chooses and that he can control when love fits in. Even though he has an amazing, almost explosive connection with Emily (Peet's character), he lets her go when he feels that he's about to get a grasp of the big career he's planned out.

How can people do this? I realized while I watched him do it in the movie that I've considered myself prone to this kind of behavior. This self-serving life first love later attitude. As if the two cannot co-exist. Like I'm waiting for the right moment, not the right person.

Where did this stupid timeline come from, and have I already let something go that can't be recovered?

I haven't an answer. Or a clue. But I feel suddenly affected by the notion of an instant. I've always subscribed to the "you had me at hello" genre of romance, but it's always been from a purely hypothetical place. Right now I am utterly convinced that from here on out, I need to pay more attention to being alive and letting life mean whatever makes me full of passion and energy for love.

It's strange how this movie has impacted my ability to go to bed empty-headed tonight as I had planned. Now I am going to think. Long and hard about the possibility of seeing someone for the first time being a lot like love. If the right emotion is there, who cares when the next meeting is? Or if I have to achieve whatever status by whatever age? Because love shouldn't be put on layaway. I've never been the type to go back and buy something anyways.

I think I might actually be ready. Why? Because I cannot fathom having even a few seconds of this amazing thing and letting it go. Who would? That's just... insane.

Or maybe I'm not ready, and really, I'm just in post-romantic comedy jello heart mode.

Maybe this is a lot like every other time I fall into a downspiral of loneliness.

I am sick of asking.

Where's the man to give the answers?  ¶ 12:28 AM 0 comments

  big balls Ten years from now, he’ll be thanking me.

He’ll be 22 then. He’ll be in his last year at a more prestigious and certainly more liberal university than my own. He’ll major in architecture and minor in something cool, like philosophy. He’ll have an amazing sense of personal style, but he won’t fit under metro sexual stereotypes; he’ll be that guy who wears beanies and fleece with a good-fitting pair of jeans. He’ll be remarkably attractive. He’ll swear by dark beers and know how to drink to a point of good, buzzed conversation in hole-in-the-wall bars. He’ll be a vicious flirt without being a filthy whore. He’ll compliment women on things he notices without hesitation – knowing how important it is to them. He’ll smile contagiously. He’ll only laugh at jokes that are genuinely funny. He’ll play videogames in bum time but prefer outdoor activities like a game of pick-up or a bit of ultimate frisbee. He’ll enjoy reading for leisure. He’ll be the center of attention when in a big crowd and he’ll be a quiet observer within more intimate group dynamics. He’ll be the voice of a good, fresh practical joke and at the same time the voice of utterly necessary reason. He’ll wink to make people feel special. He’ll show a cool confidence that people envy. He’ll vote issues – not parties. He’ll organize things alphabetically but will not have a day planner. He’ll like to cook breakfast foods.

He’ll be amazing. (Because of me.)

He’ll be a music snob and play sweet classics on guitar because once upon a time, his older sister saved him from Toby Keith and Ashlee Simpson. He’ll be cool because she gave him a three disc anthology of rock and roll music that influenced her earlier years. He’ll remember the birthday card saying “You’re Welcome” on it instead of Happy Birthday. He’ll refer to her as Doc and she’ll call him McFly to joke about her freakish plan to predict his future and plant the seed before he knew what character development was.

And he’ll be thanking me for ensuring his well-rounded development. He’ll write me a letter of gratitude for a gift I gave him on this twelfth birthday knowing that I gave him the gift in anticipation of the card. He’ll enclose a CD compilation of bands that he’s into and pick out the songs he knows I’ll like best.

I’ll tell him the story about Dad looking at me with proud disapproval because the third track of the compilation was AC/DC’s “Big Balls”. I’ll explain to him that I knew who Rob Halford was before I knew who Paula Abdul was; and subsequently, I ended up being that chick at the bar who can pick a song that doesn’t suck. I’ll gloat because my taste in music impressed Dad enough to pay for my ticket to several rock concerts. I’ll tell him the real reason I was inspired to give the gift of music.

I’ll say the following:

“See, I was studying for a psychology exam, and we needed to know the eight stages of Erikson’s stage theory. I was trying to find a mnemonic device to remember Stage 4, which is Industry versus inferiority, or more popularly phrased as ‘Am I competent or am I worthless?’, by using you as an example. A light bulb appeared in my head. I remembered a conversation we had about you thinking Toby Keith was ‘the bomb’ and me wanting to kick you out of the car. This stream of thought resulted in a fear that you’d grow to be a totally awkward dork with bad taste in music. So I went home and in a panic, set up play lists of music to transform you. To guarantee that when you got to Stage 5, you’d answer the question ‘Who am I and where am I going?’ with a resounding ‘Awesome, and I’m going to kick ass somewhere’. I picked older and newer music and stayed away from bands in the one-hit-wonder category. I made sure to give you harder and softer rock. I planted some femme rock in there to keep you on queue with your love for women. I called friends with good taste in music for back-up on some bands and told Dad. Dad wanted you to get way from that Toby Keith crap just as much as I did. So on your twelfth birthday, I guaranteed your spot in the cosmos and ensured all who have a stake in your success that you will benefit from rock and roll music instead of bad pop music without substance. I wanted you to be a man of substance. One who earned respect for being reasonable about talent and with the ability to judge quality versus quantity. I wanted to harness your appreciation for art and use it to inspire you. I knew you’d be the type to listen to your headphones and go for walks to think. And that you’d keep playing the guitar. Of course I anticipated that we’d get to share music as a part of our bond. Do you think that’s totally wacko?”

He’ll say:

“Yeah, but I still love you. Even though you knew I’d contagiously sing ‘Big Balls’ in the halls at school jokingly and get a detention for it.”

And I’ll smile. Knowing it was me.  ¶ 8:53 AM 1 comments

  extraordinary machine I woke up four hours early today.

Typically, Monday is sleep until I want then get up when I want then stay undressed for as long as I want then eat as many bowls of cereal as I want while watching as much TV as I want day.

Those who know me well enough will observe that I hate buzzing noises, strict morning schedules, clothing, quick showers, and restraints on food consumption.

So, imagine the saddness that was this morning at eight.

Me. Awake. Wearing a tee and boxers. Sitting at my desk with a "To Do Before Noon Today" list. I have an exam and a case brief due tonight.

The roommate was still asleep. I couldn't rock out to anything justifiably violent, like the Deftones' "7 Words". And I couldn't make her sit up with me and work. So I was alone and awake with the silence of our apartment and knowledge of the snoozing heads occupying it.

I considered showering between tasks but lost motivation. I'm out of hair mousse, and the frizz fro need not add to the disarray of Mondays that refuse to let me straighten and primp. Then I thought "Hey, I won't shower. I'll just wash my face and be dirty."

I hate feeling dirty. But up until a few minutes ago, I hated today equally.

As I was dutifully checking my e-mail for a "Mail Undeliverable" reply from the resume I sent to WasteCap Wisconsin (since I have a consistent fear that important e-mails I send out will get lost in cyber space), a (1) appeared next to my Inbox folder, and I clicked on it.

Behold. An e-mail from my Media Law professor. Then I remembered that I had sent him an e-mail last Wednesday to ask when I needed to present my privacy case since we have an exam on the day my brief was due.

The following ensued:

[Sara,

Did I answer this or lose it among all the other emails. Exam is Wednesday (November 2). Review is Monday. Any cases after Libel will be presented after the exam.

Scotton]

Let's have a jig.

Exam: moved to Wednesday so I can have more time to get an A on it.
My case: next week.

This is the best Monday news ever. I don't have to be anywhere until 1:30pm. I can get undressed again and take a nap. Then shower and dry my hair and be pretty. It's like bolting out of bed on a Saturday morning and realizing you're not late, you're a stress case whose brain refuses to let it sleep in on a weekend morning. The rolling over to resume sleep part is the best.

And just as all of this unfolds, my new favorite cd, "Extraordinary Machine" by Fiona Apple (the future mother of my children and player of the piano in my bedroom) comes on my iTunes and I can turn it up as loud as I want. Since I'm now in my apartment alone to have it all the way I want it.

This day has taken a sudden turn for the best.  ¶ 10:48 AM 3 comments

  Sexy Bumblebee Standing patiently while she blew up purple balloons to stick to my cheaply manufactured frame, I had to hold back from hysteric laughter. Looking down at Mom’s hard work, this deliciously original bundle of grapes, I could only feel gratitude.

At least I wasn’t something super lame. Like a princess.

Sure, being a bundle of grapes meant I couldn’t sit down. Or scrape against people. Or move quickly without losing a balloon. But I was an innovation. Something new, different, and homemade. My look was authentic and the effort made to send me out into the hoards of sweet-toothed children with pride deserved merit.

Dressing up for Halloween as a child was always a creative process. I despised the normal girl costumes and definitely refused to wear anything ridiculous off of a rack at the local Halloween store. The last time I sported a manufactured costume, I was a pound puppy. And I was four.

My biggest fear was that I’d be what someone else was. So when we made costumes, I always wanted to be something no one would even consider. Like Charlie Chaplin. Elementary school was an unfitting venue for my kind of Halloween garb. The kids would look confused in their Ariel and Batman costumes and laugh as they were meant to. The teachers would smile and praise. I imagine that at the age of eight I truly wanted to be a social outcast to the feeble-minded and top ranked by the gaudy vest-toting teachers of the world. It gave me a sense of genius.

Obscure costume design didn’t make me feel like a loser. It made me feel like I was one up. It made me feel sophisticated because I could fathom a character that others couldn’t. And I always ended up with more attention for it. Who cares about being a princess or a ninja? I was a conversational piece. That kid whose Mom helped her dress up as something cool. That kid who actually knows how to dress up as something and get into character.

Because that’s what getting dressed up is all about. Being something you clearly are not. And doing it well. For one night.

I always have this strange desire to dress up in male costume. Because it’s fun to explore that on a night when I’m permitted to be as unconventional as I want to be. Last year I remember thinking the best costumes I’d seen were two best girl friends dressed up as Wayne and Garth. Past man impersonations I’ve wanted to do: Angus Young, Marty McFly, Barf from Space Balls, Emperor Kuzco, and Kenny from South Park.

The few female parts that I’ve wanted to play are always too detailed to successfully find parts to without putting myself in financial trouble. For example, Carmen Sandiego toting a miniature Eiffel Tower. Or trying to convince my friends to dress up as the silent, guitar-playing women in the background of Robert Palmer’s music video “Addicted to Love”. Or to have friends dress up as the four seasons of the year with me.

Last year I was a geisha. It wasn’t the cleverest costume, but it was a big hit and required a demeanor change. Not to mention that I was painted in white, hair dyed black, and in full Japanese kimono on the 30 bus. The looks I got were worth the itchy skin. I got good comments about being a “prostitute”. And an inquiry about what was underneath. And if I was hiding anything in my hair, like condoms.

I either want to be obscure enough to require conversation or obvious enough to get an instant reaction of excitement.

This year, my roommates and I are covering ourselves in green clothing and accessories and painting our eyes black. We’re the Black Eyed Peas.

Haha. Get it? Like, green baby peas. With black eyes.

We’re each going to sing one of their Top 10 hits when people ask what we are.

Fine, it’a little cheesy. And a little bit lame.

But it’s original. And creative. And obscure. We’ll get a lot more comments and have much better conversation.

At least I’m not something super lame. Like a sexy bumblebee.  ¶ 4:42 PM 0 comments

  Build Your Own C350 Sport Sedan $38,325.

The price of my little Mercedes-Benz (of course with standard features) at the Benz online store checkout.

I never actually purchase the Benzy. I always go through the full process of selecting and de-selecting features. Then when the totals ring up and I can review my four door luxury item, I close out the page and feel better.

Because I was almost an owner of a Mercedes-Benz.

Sweet.

I frequent sites like the Benz "Build Your Own". Volvo's is fun. You can build a semi truck there. I even like Land's End, where I can build an outfit. Express for Men has a great build-your-own (for all you guys out there, seriously consider coordinating on their site).

I am fulfilled from the experience of building outfits, cameras, vehicles. Then not buying them. It's like window shopping for the future. And it works.

All of these wonderful things at my fingertips. Good thing I have self-control (well, a little at least) and a kiddie credit card whose limit could only get me the equivalent of a laptop. Which is also very dangerous. I went through a phase with laptops. I built somewhere between 10 and 20. And had all of the quotes sent to my e-mail. The Apple site is so fun. And manipulative with all the glory of its accessories. How rude.

Online shopping is a trap. It takes using a credit card to new levels of irresponsibility. I stay away from Amazon nowadays. Many a paycheck has been cut in half there. On books. DVDs. Yoga mats. Night lights. Special editions of this or that. Dance Dance Revolution. I even bought a stationary kit once. When Amazon came up with their clever "one click away," I had to leave. I refuse to let myself cut out the checkout process. The automated puchases of one single click is too impulsive for even me. I'd be dirt poor in half an hour's time.

Which is why I've taken up luxury item purchasing. Well, mock purchasing. I will never be able to afford 40K for anything, so it's still a dream, a fun little exercise in "Someday, Sara. Someday."

So many possibilities at my fingertips. If not for today, at least for a second of fantasy in my future. Might as well dream big.

Next up, Tiffany&Co.com.  ¶ 9:26 PM 1 comments

  the lion sleeps tonight Last night the White Sox closed out the World Series.

My excitement was apparent as the finale drew closer. With one more out dangling the fate of the Houston Astros, I couldn't feel an ounce of sympathy like I tend to do when watching sporting events such as this one. Games with monumental outcomes and title winnings affect me.

In the late 90s, Dad got Sugar Ray Leonard's comeback on pay-per-view, and we watched his merciless defeat unravel as quickly as we could change the channel. I cried for 20 minutes. Feeling sorry for the old man. Wishing he had someone to be a shoulder to cry on. Someone other than his manager. He needed a teammate. I felt a deep loss for Sugar Ray. It takes a lot to push yourself into the ring when you're an underdog.

As the Sox were getting ready to hold the title and send the Astros home packin', I prepared my stereo with Queen's "We Are the Champions" and cheered out the window.

For those who know me, you must be thinking, "Sara. A baseball fan? I thought she hated sports?"

Well, I still do. But let's not forget that just as the Chicago Southies, there's something in this win for me just as they regained some sense of pride after years touting around as the little guys.

Last night marked the beginning of something so beautiful I can barely describe it.

I live in an apartment. A small box confined between the noises and sounds of thinly constructed walls and subject to the lingering smells of neighbors whose bad fish needs neutralization. This apartment, smashed between all of this noise, has been victim to repeated abuse from the boys upstairs.

The boys upstairs love the White Sox.

At lunchtime. During the five o'clock news. While I am in my living room reading for class. And for the past week, predominantly during the hours that my head rests on my pillow. The pillow that is a mere three feet from the ceiling. The ceiling which I've deemed unstructurally sound because it rests below the stomping ground and party living room of the Sox fans'.

The noise has been unbearable. Smashing chairs, throwing stools, jumping on couches, pouncing and dancing. Their attempts to synchronize stomps offsets my inner ocd. The anger from their stomping goes from feeling angry about the clammer to being furious about their inability to at least keep the noise at some consistent pattern. The spastic nature of their noise erupts just as my eyes are closing and I am rolling over for the night. The songs out the window and victorious screams at two o'clock in the morning are only dim representations of the peace disturbance that these lads are capable of.

They love their team. Enough to put me out of sleep. Enough to keep me from calling public safety for noise control. Enough to give me the clear understanding through some drywall that going up and asking for some quiet would be asking for a broken window and piss on my doorstep.

I'd been so accustomed to their love and appreciation that I learned what a run sounded like. One jump and a scream. A strike was always an object thrown or a stool picked up and stabbed into their what I am sure is completely demolished carpet. And a series win sounded like I am sure it should. Men running outside to tell the world one beer at a time. Fine, two beers at a time. Silence in the apartment to go spread the joy in the streets.

At which point, I escorted my guest out, prepped myself for bed, and smiled something spectacular.

The Sox win, I get to sleep at a decent hour.  ¶ 11:13 AM 2 comments

  the window seat Before I sit down, I like to make eye contact with the person sitting in front of me. I give them a grin, a brief hello, and sit down. Hoping they'll be like me, and sit economy class the way they were meant to: uncomfortably.

Yet, time and time again, I pay for the cheap seat. I sit on the cheap fabric of some woolen texture, and just as I thought it couldn't get any less comfortable, the fat ass in front of me decides he's sitting in first class. He's the master of the plane, the owner of his seat, and the dominator of my personal space. Leg room becomes non-existent, and when I bump my head on his seat to reach the book that I've stowed away under him, he has the nerve to huff. I wonder if there's a button above my head that could eject him from the plane. There isn't one. I settle for my favorite game. I knee his seat frequently to thank him for reclining all the way back. Every five minutes during the two hour flight.

The ones that don't budge are the ones that were meant to break every rule of plane etiquette. The ones who recline all the way. And order four bloody mary's. Their cologne is strong enough to fill the 757 hours after they've left their seat. And they have smoker's cough, or something worse. Like a chronic nose-blowing problem.

I don't like the idea of germ particles circulating in a small space.

People become so much more repulsive on airplanes. Their disease seems like an imminent threat to my health, their recline a compromise of my $186, and their stench an extinguisher of the short supply of air in the cabin.

I suppose I was raised knowing proper passenger etiquette. I bring a reasonably-sized item to stuff in the overhead compartment, avoid perfume by settling for a subtle body lotion, avoid the air conditioning above me by bringing a second layer, and I even let the person with the unfortunate middle seat use both arm rests. I keep to myself unless a conversation is initiated, and I order something light like a ginger ale. I never chew my ice.

And I never. Ever. Recline my seat.  ¶ 9:34 AM 0 comments

  compassion with a little c Lyrical insertion is necessary.
Especially since I've discovered that I love Jamiroquai with a big L.

Little l

There you were freaking out
Trying to get your head around the fact that me and you and love is dead
See how I’m trippin’ out ’cos you can’t decide what you really want from me
Why does it have to be like this?
I can never tell
You make me love you, love you baby
With a little l
There you were shouting out
Cranking up your altercations, getting upset in your desperation
Screaming and hollering
How could this love become so paper thin?
You’re playing so hard to get
You’re making me sweat just to hold your attention
I can’t give you nothing more
If you ain’t givin’ nothing to me
Don’t you know that
You make me love you, love you baby
With a little l
Why does it have to be like this?
I can never tell
Seems like you’re stepping on the pieces
Of my broken shell ’cos you make me love you, love you
With a little l, you know
That’s the way you make me love you, yeah
Why does it have to be like this?
I can never tell
You make me love you, love you baby
With a little l.

a girl has to wonder... how a man could want this.  ¶ 11:20 AM 0 comments

  Cashing In He used to call me at 3:30 a.m. in some particularly ecstatic mood. Whether it be joyous in post-performance of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” at yet another hole-in-the-wall bar or completely and utterly violent due to the loss of his wallet, it was always meaningful. Despite the gallons of alcohol in his body, his mind always managed to find something to talk about. Somewhere inside he just wanted the pleasure of waking me up while he was out having fun. He’d recite his weekly belligerence in the only way he knew how: in my ear at high decibels and with sparse affection. I could have silenced my phone. But I never did. Maybe it was because I loved being the person he called and I am addicted to feeling necessary. Maybe it was because I never pass up free entertainment. Looking back now, I know it’s a bit of both. Regardless, I always enjoyed getting drunk dials from him. Especially when he’d say things like “Wake up bitch! Why aren’t you out!?”

I guess I felt special.

I’d sleep well afterwards as if our weekly routine had been consummated. There was someone to say good night to me. And make me feel like I had a purpose. Even if that purpose did not exceed re-explaining to him that money doesn’t disappear but rather, that ATMs are on every corner and in every bar. Sometimes he’d invite me to after bar parties. I’d always say no but do it with the perfect outfit in mind. Something told me it wouldn’t be right to invade. Or to be so sober in the presence of such obliteration. I knew better. So I always told Dan good night without any doubt that his drunk ass would make it back to his bed. Those stammering legs always managed to get him home. If for no other reason than to be able to wake up and do it again the next day.

I call Dan (the drunkasaurus also known as Danimal) my best friend. Publicly, I announce him as my best guy friend to avoid feeling like I’m being inaccurate by promoting him to such high status in my life. But when I think about it, he is definitely one of my best friends. There are a handful of people who know some very crucial factoids about my life, and he is in that handful. I didn’t officially decide to call him my best friend until April of 2005, though. A very important event took place that made this possible:

Dan ditched me for a new chick.

And that’s when he joined the elite group of people who’ve over the years officially penned me into second place. All of my best friends are involved and have consistently been involved in serious relationships during their tenure with me. I still tell some of my good friends that their status will never raise to best friendship unless they commit to a relationship and slap the third wheel sticker on my toosh. It just happens this way. And I’ve become good at not only working with it, but building up a strong bitterness toward it. I’ve been single since 1999. (Admitting that always has the same painful ring to it.) And being as single as they come, I have committed to appreciating my freedom. It would be a lie to say I haven’t considered my taken friends sellouts all these years. I look at them with some kind of pity. Wondering when they’re going to snap out of this phase and see the light already. And see that relationships aren’t so necessary. And that I’m what’s important. Friendship. The single life. Emotional and physical independence, even.

But I’ve always been supportive to the progress of their relationships and reactive to the demise of their broken hearts. And when they come crawling back for an intermission, we play, are free, and do what we want entirely. Until a new person comes into the picture and the cycle repeats. Thieving of heart, ditching of best friend. At which point, I only become more jaded in my ways of relationship hating.

As the seasons have passed and my best friend’s relationships have come and gone and come again for four more years, I’ve grown more apathetic toward feeling like I should be the most important person in another person’s world. I still try to tell myself that at some point they’ll come running back to me, poor abandoned little me. As if it was me they left. Or that it is me that is worth coming home to. Or that I should even be an option as a lifelong companion.

Then I realize that my bitterness is nothing but a bunch of empty calories weighing me down. There is no resolution in being so upset. There is no hope in convincing another’s heart that it should scoot everything else over and make more room for me.

When Dan ditched me and the 3:30am calls stopped, I had an epiphany.

Maybe my friends aren’t selling out.

Maybe, just maybe – they’re cashing in. Emotionally and physically. And I’m just a mental case latching on to some ideal of what life is supposed to be like pre-25. My inner Carrie Bradshaw always seems to think that single and fabulous is the only way to go, no matter how destructive and selfish it truly is. I wanted to parade around and declare that doing whatever we want whenever we want is a purely independent action that cannot be found in relationships. Until I observed a true testament to the goodness that exists in a relationship. Even for those who once seemed so comfortable in the skin that kept them unattached and unchanged.

The new girl friend was good for Dan. I saw a definite difference in his look. He was getting in better shape than ever. And he wasn’t so pissed. He drank happily and with her. She never asked him to change, but by nature of having something to be accountable for he slowly became a more decent, level human being. Bought her paint and moved furniture. Assimilated to her sorority culture and made appearances at social events hosted by the University for once. He smiled more often and was finally cashing in on a warm body to sleep next to. In the beginning he must have known how I’d react and would be unavailable because he and his “buddy” were hanging out. Eventually he unveiled that the girl he thought was a hot freshman on St. Patrick’s Day was his “buddy”, that her name was Jackie, and well yes – they’ve been hanging out quite a bit.

So I gave him a hard time. It’s called “loving abuse”. A term coined by interpersonal and cross-cultural mogul of communication Dr. Robert Shuter, it is a classical technique used by men in a close-knit group to exhibit affection without showing femininity. A good punch or insulting comment suffices in these small groups as the equivalent of “I miss you, man.” To avoid appearing girly and affected by the loss of my best friend, I maintained the status-quo of our usual sarcasm and sharp offensiveness throughout the early phases of Dan’s relationship. I’d make fun of him every opportunity I got. To top it off, I’d ask him about her. Then the punch line about him being whipped or her little sorority slave would come out. And I’d giggle on the outside. Cringe on the inside knowing I was just too afraid to tell him how I really felt.

I really miss you, man. I just wish we could hang out like we used to. I miss your calls. I don’t feel like I’m as important to you anymore. What about us?

The emotional crap never really worked with us. We talked less often and with less joy. It took a big fight to bring us back together. He couldn’t take the abuse anymore. My particular brand of bitterness combined with unsupportive banter made him snap, and we had it out. I told him that I just wanted to feel like he still gave a shit, and he told me he’d never be so mean to me if I started dating someone. I felt him wanting to tell me I was jealous and needed to get someone for myself. But he never did. He must have known how jealous I was. And how deeply hurt I would have been if he’d said it. To save him the trouble, I went on a tangent about the jealousy without hesitance. And unraveled the truth. To him, to myself.

I admitted that he wasn’t a sellout. None of them were. They had all committed to getting something they wanted. Affection. Love. Sex. Company. Fun. Companionship. Then I realized that I was filthy with envy. Not because they were the ones selling out. But because I was the one who refused to cash in. I wasn’t mad that they stopped being single. I was mad because they got everything I wanted. Then I thought about the value of having something intimate and special. There were more than a few moments spent shedding tears – reflecting about the kind of benefits in romantic relationships that can never be found in friendships. Realizing that I’m not enough. Even the best of friends need more. Slowly I turned my childish behavior into a comedy. Imagining what it would be like if I really was all that my friends needed. I’d have to buy corsages and birthday presents that I couldn’t afford. And remember milestones like four month anniversaries and apologize for saying the inappropriate thing at the inappropriate time. On top of all that cake, imagine icing it with the sexual aspects of a romantic relationship. Good thing I don’t have to be all of these things to my friends. At this point I settled for what I could be, in its minimal entirety.

To Dan, I was the girl he called. The one that answered every time so he’d have a sober voice to help him walk back to his apartment in a half daze. But I couldn’t ever give him what he really needed. He needed an unconditional shoulder to prop himself up on while stumbling down the street in song then to take him to his bed. He got that. A partner in crime. Someone to revel in his antics and play with him in the hours that his friends slept. I look back at this now and feel so silly. For throwing the fits I did and declaring him a sellout for not calling anymore. Why call someone to yell at them when they’re someone to yell with? My anger towards him disappeared within instants of embracing the new him. The one that didn’t ditch me. Because not calling at 3:30am drunkenly was by no means a loss for either of us. It was a gain. I got more sleep. And he got a girl friend to keep tabs of the wallet that loves to bungee from his pockets. I’d never do that for him.

The costs of small bits of friendship have their benefits. Like jurisdiction.

I guess it can be said that sometimes we sell parts of what we can afford to give up in order to cash in on a bigger, more meaningful profit. In the case of my friends, I’ve learned to accept that at no point does a person sell out who they are. They simply want more. And wherever they get that more from requires no judgment or persecution – and certainly none of my loving abuse. I mistakenly assumed my position as the “it” person in all of my best friend’s lives for years and refused to believe that I could be replaced - traded in and sold for something better at the pawn shop. I don’t mean enough to be traded in. I am not a girl friend or a boy friend. Simply a friend. It would be like trading gold for silver. I’m not sure which would be silver or gold, but at this point that doesn’t matter.

People want more. And they can get it whenever they want it. To mock their pursuits is more of a crime than ditching me at 3:30 a.m. could ever be.  ¶ 4:30 PM 5 comments

  hot shit. i'm wearing fresh outta the dryer denim.
i strut around finding something to top it off.
finding every mirror on the way there.
black polka-dot silk for my mature, dark chica look.
so i get it on.
slip into my "who's that girl?" suit.
quickly create a playlist of the right sounds.
so i can put it all together on a hot note.
stepping to some club beat in my heels.
while i run a blush brush across my face.
vodka diet half-full on the counter.
i'm optimistic about the night.
how obsessed i get pre-dance floor.
hands frantically adjusting.
hair with some urban-like edge.
shaking shows my glitter and dangle.
i turn around in the mirror times ten.
yeah, this is gonna be a good night.
i can barely fit my hands in my pockets.
candy apple red glows on my nails.
top 40 hip-hop on the speakers work.
my signatures are set for performance.
a pirouette in a cloud of ralph lauren romance.
clutch under my arm as i call a cab.
enough singles to get a lap dance in pocket.
i'm out.  ¶ 11:53 AM 0 comments

  The Empancipation of Mimi I turned on Mariah Carey and realized it was only because I wanted to feel a certain way. There's something about her voice and the romantically desperate want in her lyrics. Mariah sings about wanting a man to be her baby doll. And losing her virginity on the Fourth of July. And waiting. Until he calls. Or he says he loves her. Or my favorite - for him to come back. I've been buying her cds since her single "Someday" was on MTV. That was 1990. Even then, six years old, I must have known that music would become my way to facilitate emotion.

"I just want to listen to music for a bit, do you mind?" I'll say. And those who really know me understand. And vacate. With headphones embedded and one leg crossed over the other and propped up on my bed end, I stare at the ceiling and have a conversation with myself. I often wonder if these moments are more theraputic for me than writing. Because I like losing myself in emotion. The theatrics of my day never actually satisfy me emotionally. Dancing around. Laughing in unison. Being a bitch about Martha trying to wear black and brown together... again. While all of this would seem sufficient, it's not. None of it unravels how I'm actually feeling. Because I don't usually try to get that deep unless I know I have a weekend to rebuild what I break down.

So I listen to one of the five Mariah Carey cds that I have in my iPod Mini. Not Fiona. Not Nina. Not Ella. Heck, not even Billie. But Mariah. My love-is-cliche-like-a-butterfly companion. Sometimes I can't be deep. And think about things like the soul. I just want to be pouty. And upset. And desperate. Because I want love to be that way. I want to need it so badly that I can't control the number of pints of Ben & Jerry's I drain or how many rose-petal scented baths I can take in a week. I want to be like Mariah and put on the non-chalant face in public and go home to cry and be tortured by my secret love. I want it to be girly. And excessive.

It's about being effected. I want to feel like I want something beyond the spoken word or the convention of commitment. In the relationship and love sense, I think I want to be the needy one. The one with more stake. The one pushing for the impossible. I've been so complacent about love. All my life. I have never taken it seriously or thought it was something to strive for.

I guess the world changes. And little girls become women with love agendas. And the attached feeling starts to kick in, and just when she thinks she might go back to feeling scared and pinned down to the horrible circumstance of life that is love and affection, she turns on Mariah Carey. And hops into her bunk bed with a playlist meant to convince her to put the phone down. Instead, it tells her to wait. Because he'll call again. Someday. The songs remind her that she really does love this person. More than she ever thought 21 would let her. More than she ever knew she was beginning to. And slowly, the feeling permeates. Love matters. Enough to make a woman cry about a day's separation.

Lonelines exists at once. And she feels better knowing that it does. After an hour's time, there's no way to go back. To pretend that emotion hasn't surfaced and shown its ugly face. Mariah's right. About giving it all. Is there anything else to give if we plan to live our lives with meaning?  ¶ 3:15 PM 1 comments

  at the end of the night I used to be sure that going to bed alone was okay because in due time, I'd find someone to spend the rest of my life in bed with.

But tonight I am looking at the space that has only been occupied by body pillows and stuffed superheroes without a guarantee. A man in my bed? Forever?

I'm not sure that I can spend all of this time waiting for something so completely unlikely.

I hate to be defeated.

How could I possibly be? Am I 21 years of age and already ruling out the possibility of marriage?

People are just so damn replacable.

I cannot, not one single bit - fathom... a life with someone. The rest of my life (whenever the rest of my life begins) with another person. Who could be so tolerable?

Sometimes I am certain that my passion is too strong to ever be matched by another human being. Then I think - sure - it's possible. But it has to be a miracle. There has to be an element of uncanny attraction and I have to fall in love immediately. If someone wants to stick with me and survive through this thing called "til death do us part," I am pretty sure he'll be permanent the second I make eye contact.

If you give me a week, I'll slip away. I just need one impressive instant. Otherwise, that millisecond of hope becomes a week of conjuring up flaws and dead ends.

All these dead ends.

My poor empty bed.

Me. Whining about it. Damn well knowing that I hate feeling smothered in bed. And that I find it remarkably difficult to find a breathing rhythm with someone else's piled on top of mine. And most imporantly, staring up at my twin sized bunk bed and realizing that I don't want to share it.

I just want to share myself.  ¶ 2:38 AM 2 comments

  100 Things Mommy Taught Me 1. What a blow job is.
2. Birthday cake is a breakfast food.
3. How to fold a burrito.
4. Where the Wild Things Are.
5. Bras are only for wearing in public.
6. How to cry and look beautiful doing it.
7. The 10 Commandments.
8. How to microwave vegetables.
9. Being yourself is worth persecution.
10. People can be unnecessary.
11. How to kill slugs with salt.
12. To always look inside first.
13. Practicality.
14. The alphabet.
15. To appreciate Bryan Adams despite his laughable fame.
16. All people aren't treated equally.
17. Boys will think I'm pretty when they grow up.
18. Pride can be dangerous.
19. Sanity is highly overrated.
20. How to pick produce at the grocery store.
21. Quality always outweighs quanitity.
22. Michael Jackson used to be black. And handsome.
23. Growing up should be avoided at all costs.
24. Addiction doesn't define a person.
25. To roll up my window so the smoke only goes out the other one.
26. To write in call caps.
27. Big bills go on the inside, small on the outside.
28. The world isn't cruel. It's beautiful.
29. Giving birth won't be hard for my hips.
30. Make-up hides our beauty.
31. Hair spray can correct most any hair crisis.
32. The Ultimate Warrior was sexy.
33. Selfishness is more than okay.
34. AIDS isn't contagious.
35. Mel Gibson has a nice ass.
36. Pain is relative.
37. Screening phone calls is not shady business.
38. Goodwill isn't just for poor people.
39. Jehovah's Witnesses don't celebrate birthdays.
40. Disappointing people hurts more than angering them.
41. How to overdress for winter and waddle to class without a cold.
42. People like being around me.
43. All men snore.
44. To be a devout letter writer - even if I am not planning on sending them all.
45. That parenting is self-taught.
46. Every state capital.
47. My love for public transportation.
48. That I'm a total brat and always will be.
49. Masturbation isn't a big deal. Everyone does it.
50. Beating Ninja Gaiden is worth calling into work.
51. At least I have a Daddy.
52. If I don't want to, I don't have to.
53. Metabolism slows down eventually. And I will too.
54. How to go home.
55. Depression is over-diagnosed.
56. One spanking is all a child needs if its done right.
57. My love for red ink.
58. If you aren't corrected, you won't improve.
59. The weight of words.
60. To fight to the death.
61. Security can mean more than attraction.
62. How to throw things to prove a point.
63. What the French words in "Lady Marmalade" mean.
64. Cunt is a word you can slap someone in the face for calling you.
65. That waitresses are geniuses that had babies instead of going to college.
66. George Bush doesn't eat broccoli, so we should vote for Dukakis.
67. Never make excuses.
68. Very few people actually play fair.
69. Yes, please.
70. NO.
71. Prayer heals. If not wounds, at least the conscience.
72. Being a late bloomer has pay-offs.
73. Smile even if you're having a bad day.
74. They're all just jealous.
75. How to pine over musicians.
76. We'll drive all night if that's what it takes to make this better.
77. How to season food to taste.
78. Who cares if it's the broken piece. It tastes the same as the others.
79. Give people the benefit of the doubt.
80. Having a sense of humor simply means you laugh at other's jokes. And make them feel good.
81. That I have the most beautiful hands in the world.
82. To go tell Oprah if it's really that bad.
83. All it takes is one library card to open a mind forever.
84. Take advice. Not because you'll follow it, but because people like to give it.
85. Guys should always let girls pee first because they can hold it.
86. Everything is better with butter on it.
87. Compulsive cleaning behavior.
88. Success follows me wherever I go.
89. To sleep naked.
90. That I am her life's greatest work.
91. The courage it takes to really look someone in the eyes.
92. The appropriate way to answer a phone.
93. The importance of touch.
94. It's rude to tell people how they should feel.
95. How much creamer to add to Grandma's coffee.
96. Card tricks.
97. How to rub babies gums when they're teething.
98. That empathy is at the root of good listening.
99. It all happened for a reason.
100. Just how lucky I am.

i love my mommy. more than she knows. more than the world could ever imagine.  ¶ 10:40 AM 0 comments

  a [point] five At the end of summer every year, I hold on. I wear as many skirts as I can. Style my hair in whispy, summery ways. Make every possible attempt to sport pink and yellow hues. A few camis, even. I rub extra lotion on. Lotion with tropical scents like coconut lime verbena.

Why?

Because I always get this feeling that I am never going to be warm again.

Night falls sooner. And waking up earlier requires more effort. When the sun hasn’t been up enough hours to warm up the world, I refuse to uncover myself. From my sanctuary that keeps the cold and dark out.

As the air thins and the vibrant sky grows more anxious to go on its great vacation south, I spend hours where I can absorb the last rays. I find solace behind my dark shades as I test the sun. Will I actually go blind if I look long and hard enough?

My senses prevail. Walking slowly between classes, I look up. Around. Thought stops harassing me. And I can taste petunias and smell dew. Hear the action of days when frisbees sail in the air and pages turn under trees. See the sky. And feel overwhelmed by magnificence. Because it's everywhere. I can feel it touching me.

I am smiling at the world as it is running to class and talking on its cell phone. I am bumping into people and reminded that no one else is looking up. I wear my shades so I can see. And see that all these other pedestrians are wearing their shades so they cant be seen. So they don’t have to look around. So they can follow in single-file on the right and stare at the jansport backback bouncing and speeding off to class ahead of them. Then I come back from my senses. And know that I left fifteen minutes early to walk and they left five minutes early to run. To class. As if four city block were just pavement. Just sidewalks meant to get all of us from our beds to our classes.

Then I walk more slowly and make eye contact with people to smile at them. To them. For them. About them. And I hope that they will look back. Not at me, but at the world. Hope that they look around and feel their surroundings. Maybe I'll get lucky and catch someone else enjoying the day. Only some look up. They notice me noticing them as I walk strangely like I’ve been set loose from an institution. The ones that smile back look down again immediately to make sure I don’t see their thoughts or expect them to stop their process. From A to B.

I’m stuck. At A.5. Barefoot and undressed in the grass challenging the clothed to step out of their shoes for a second. To look up. To see. To feel warm in what seems to be the last day that the earth will touch back. When its breeze caresses us. And its flowers float out of the dirt and tickle our noses. On the calm mornings that I saunter across lawns and the afternoons that I perch on benches etching the remains of summer into my mind.

I can truly walk now. Smile now. I can keep my ears uncovered and my skin out of its parka prison. Soon I will be looking down to shield my face from the frost bite of wind chill. Hats will cover my ears from the pleasantries of laughter echoing across the academic quad. Because when the sun goes down and the sky is penetrated by grey, even I look down and commit to the silence of winter transport. I run from the cold. I look at benches on the sprinty walk like statues in parks that used to symbolize something but become rusty and unloved. I wear black, and coop up with my thoughts during the hours that I once managed to allow my senses to guide my way.

Summer tries to hold on in these last days, and I hold on too. It will be months before I feel this way again.  ¶ 1:44 AM 0 comments

  Paper or Plastic? It's like walking out of the grocery store during a downpour.
With the car keys in one hand.
A couple of plastic bags in the other.
You, running to the car.
In a rush.
Sick of getting wet.
Eager to get in the car where it is dry.
So we can go home.
You're always ready to go home.
But I'm always holding the keys.
And I'm wearing a raincoat.
I'm in no rush.
Nothing in the bags will spoil if drizzled on.
So I walk to the car.
That I made sure to park so far away.
And I watch you the whole time.
Yards, almost years ahead of me.
Gripping on the door handle.
Yelling for me to unlock the damn doors.
Because we're getting wet.
You're soaked and angry.
I'm dry and content.
The keys are in my hand.
You always let me drive.
So I walk at my own pace.
And bring my raincoat.
Because I know.
You'll run.
And I'll walk.
In the rain.  ¶ 7:18 PM 1 comments

  Life's Little Detours I am prone to life lessons. For some reason, I encounter them at random junctures. At Jimmy John's, in the bathroom, at the bar, in the checkout line at Piggly Wiggly.

In any event, life lessons just seem to pop up everywhere. And they tend to be of a less than chipper variation.

Mostly clarifying and relatively helpful, these lessons help me keep the world in focus. Because when the world changes, I know why. And when it doesn't change to my advantage, I can accept it. With meaning, I can survive any of the strange and even uneventful occurrences of the daily.

Like my addiction to men who are more attracted to a brick wall than they are to me.

I survive this repeatedly. By working out compulsively. Or turning out the lights and dancing with myself. I've even created a notebook meant to write about them. I like to write endings. And those special and unrealistic middle parts. It feels good to create something that exists without flaw. I'm not talking about creating perfection or the best case scenario. I'm talking about getting it all out. The way I want to say it. Then closing the notebook and feeling some kind of relief.

On paper, any issue can be confronted eloquently and with undramatized emotion. One word for it is an affidavit. I used to work for a family law firm, and I'd serve these affidavits to other firms. As the paralegal's assistant, I was often granted permission to take a glimpse of the legal documents I was transporting. Most of the time, the drawn out fight that a couple would have in person was reduced to numerated conditions about the seasonal usage of a boat or the holiday trade-off custody of two children.

The lesson? Emotion gets in the way. In relationships, we often confuse the problem with the person. Or even worse, we denounce our inolvement in a problem and we point fingers.

I'm sick of pointing fingers. It has grown to be such a waste of time. My incessant need to point and say "shame on you for not wanting me!" is intolerable. And when I catch myself doing it, I look in the mirror and loathe my attitude. So I am going to stop confusing the problem with the person.

The problem: me.
The person: me.
The confusion: eliminated.

I fabricate the emotion and drama that is not shared in these little relationships I endure. Not in a verbal sense, but internally. I invent signals and recite affirmations in my head on the walk home. I create what does not exist then tear down the palace once I've built up something worthy of grand disappointment.

Then I realize that I only build so I can tear something down. Because it's clear that I can only have what I want when I know what I want. Which I don't. To know what I want would be to have meaning in these endeavors. I could finally make those little changes. Or stop worrying. I could even do something productive about my emotions. Like act on them.

A walk home from the bar did this. Sometimes when I intend to hop in a LIMO and get a ride, I get a last minute feeling that I could miss out on some quality me time.

So tonight I got some. Between 11th and 16th Street.  ¶ 1:44 AM 0 comments

  Either Ors and Neither Nors In my world, there are two kinds of people worth noting:

1. The Either Ors

and

2. The Neither Nors

Much like Dr. Seuss' story The Sneetches, there seems an apparent difference between kinds of people. Some have stars upon thars and some do not have stars upon thars. There are the haves and the have nots. The right and the wrong. The black and the white. The round and the flats. Whichever way you choose to classify the kinds of people in your world, there is always some method used to determine what you like and what you do not.

Clearly, grey areas are not condoned. That'd be too easy.

So I've observed the kinds of people that associate with me on a regular basis and how I cope/deal/survive/enjoy/treasure their presence. They are as follows:

The Either Ors

Either Ors make life difficult. And easy at the same time. They are the people who want me to make decisions. Yet they are also the people who help me decide with efficiency. They tell me when to put things back on the rack. Either Ors stand for principles and give me faces when I am less than tactful or just blurt out my thoughts in general. Either Ors see the world in a way that challenges me. They do not budge or make compromise. They tell me that this g(G)od guy is pretty cool and that not joining his crusade for the promise land is a mondo mistake. Or they tell me that it is very uncool of me to sit in on a Friday night instead of drinking myself into oblivion as expected of my age bracket. Either Ors are the people who like me as I am but have not given up the possibility of changing me. They either expect too much or are impressed by too little. Either Ors are capable of getting into a fight with me then bouncing back the next day. They are my sensible people. They keep me motivated and remind me that when all else fails, set two alarms. The ones with all the logic and rationality on issues regarding my emotional and mental stability. Instability. Whatever.

The Neither Nors

Neither Nors are rare. They make life so easy it's unreal. They are my "not in a box not with a fox" friends. The ones that are unmistakably weird. The ones with undeclared genius that finds its way into private conversations. They are the people who make my clock tick. They haven't made up their minds about the world yet and don't intend to anytime soon. Their attitudes about life are positive and they believe in human potential. To be anything. They don't judge groups; they judge character. They don't live by a schedule, and sometimes, they throw mine off. Neither Nors don't want me to change or to prove anything. They want me to put down my homework and play. They don't know much about me other than my thoughts. They like topics, not issues. Their concerns are creating ideas, not promoting beliefs. They don't manage me. But they don't need to. Because my Neither Nors are the ones that aren't around much or are so completely involved in their own worlds that they only cross my path every few moons. When they do, though - I get to just feel what it's like to be around another person. Who yes, has thoughts. And of course, has opinions. But is capable of just being present. And making a moment unspoken yet unforgettable. There is an innate peace that comes with the Neither Nor person. I think I can say that I am in love with every Neither Nor in my life.

The Advantages of Polarization

One could argue that my use of two categories is rather odd considering my criticisms of the Either Or segment as I've mentioned. But I would say that I find rhyme in having two different kinds of people to engage with. I need someone to make sure I wake up in the morning sometimes. But then I also need someone to make sure I stay up as late as possible doing no more than laying on my futon having a chat. I love the structure of Either Or lifestyle and generally dislike the inconsistencies of the Neither Nors who come and go as they please. On one side, I have people who challenge me to have goals, and on the other - I have people who encourage me to follow any path that looks half fun. Some of my folks want me to follow a code of living, and some of my other folks want me to throw out the books. Those who give me a reason to believe that I need them and those who assure me that I never will. Both of these kinds of people are necessary. They kind of complete my world because when I need someone, there is always someone. Either a friend or a parent. Neither a judge nor a fraud.  ¶ 11:47 PM 0 comments

  Lowercasing My Life Just because you're omnipotent doesn't mean I have to capitalize your name or the pronouns that stabilize your ever-growing fortress.

god.

his.

the word.

the bible.

jesus.


I am done with this capitalizing bullshit. It's a sham. Microsoft Word doesn't make me. Why should religion?

Here's the trick: It took me a long time to truly move into this phase of my life. This new page. No longer green in the face. I know what I believe and I accept it. The other side is no longer what I'm looking at. The grass over here feels great. I'm standing proud and feeling the fresh blades between my toes. Here on earth. That which I am a part of and can capacitate.

There was a time when I felt like I was being watched. That uppercase made me a believer. I was fearful; I capitalized.

I have no fear. I am certain now. I shall lowercase my life.  ¶ 6:40 PM 3 comments

  Too Busy Wiggin' I am a sucker for the "social outcast girl transformed into popular pretty girl gets boy" plot.

And dammit, this one always gets me:

Fine, Rachel Leigh Cook's career ended shortly after this with Josie and the Pussycats and Freddie Prinze's accomplishments amounted to no more than silly summer baseball romantic comedies like Summer Pitch, but please, let me be clear in saying that She's All That will always have a very special place in my heart. Not only because it did not suck, but also because it etched a specific high school memory that is important to me.

I saw it for the first time in the ninth grade with about 15 of my closest friends (since that's how social arrangements worked back then) on a Friday night. At Tinseltown, the mecca theater that had just been built in Kenosha, Wisconsin. We were all visibly excited to see it, just as most teenage girls get when they are together for this kind of movie. We said things like "I love Paul Walker" and "Did you hear that USHER is in it!?" to give the flick some kind of importance. All of us were wearing our Friday Outfits, which means boys were going to be there. Friday Outfits make Sunday's Best look like patches and sweatpants. The coolest, most flattering ordeal we could find in our closets always showed up for nights like this. Combinations like JNCO jeans and baby tees. Or the one A&F shirt we could afford with our cutest skirts. To impress as many as we could in the time we had before we got picked up by whoever's parent had volunteered their Dodge Caravan.

We sat in a row and had conversations that could only be heard to others as the s-sound and periodic bursts of laughter with a short-followed "shh". I was enchanted by the entire movie because there was a time when I felt like an ugly duck. High school was the beginnings of a blossoming and feminine person. However, I still had an attachment to the story because the girl whose passion was art could be popular and keep her passion. People still liked her personality and perspective on things even after her glasses were in the trash and she put on a pair of decent pants. Her awkward upbringing and the death of her Mother made her even more heroic - she survived trauma and managed to play normal and get her man.

So one could say I enjoyed Laney Boggs a lot. Her character did not lose sight of who she was all the while assimilating to popular culture. I decided I would jump on the bandwagon after that movie. I remember the first time I straightened my hair and woke up half an hour early to do my make-up and pick out a proper outfit. I started to let my babysitting money go into a jar for new clothes, and I put myself out on the front lines socially. While junior high had been a great experience and I established a good core of friends, it was a very awkward and uncool time. There were notebooks circulating about how "hot" girls were that could attest to this. Thirteen year old boys can be real assholes. But that's beside the point. I wanted to change so that high school could be better. And so that boys would notice me. And maybe, just maybe - even like me.

So, it turned out that I was on the right track. I let myself look like them. Sometimes, I even acted like them despite my understanding of the consequences. But they never came. I coasted through high school. My friendships and interactions were very positive and people really liked to be around me. Not because I changed my person but rather because I stayed who I was. I quickly learned that inside different social circles there are different personalities than in the public sphere. Girls that I saw snub others in school were really quite friendly out of it, and boys who were revered as too cool were actually the sons of doctors and collectors of Star Wars action figures. Then it dawned on me in true late-bloomer fashion: we were all nerds. We all had to throw in the towel at some point to be where we were. Some of us gave up more than others, but it made me feel better knowing that the coolest kids in school were also some of the highest ranked academically and most nerdishly involved. And had medals for science fairs.

I grew into popular nerd-dome. Those of us who were legitimately ourselves and still in the ranks had a great time being who we were. Wearing our Jansport backpacks and letter jackets.

If that isn't something you took from the movie She's All That, then you seriously missed the point.

  ¶ 8:15 AM 2 comments

  "Let's not and say we did." A mother's ease of rejecting a request is a kind of art.

I remember being five, standing at the door of our boxey apartment, hopping up and down to go outside to the pool. My face was shining and my flip flops were flopping as I bounced ecstatically in an attempt to truly show Vicki Lynn that going outside and swimming was not only a major priority for me, but that it would make me overwhelmingly happy if she'd take me. Towel over shoulder and goggles in hand, I was ready.

Despite the heat of the day and the annoying squeals she knew she could terminate by obliging, she did not.

"Let's not and say we did," she interjected in her calm, almost deumonic tone. Then she turned around and didn't give me a second thought.

This would always be the point when a fight would start. I never won the fight, but I always let it happen in an attempt to get the cold, heartless, witch to admit that she was trying to hold me captive in our little toaster oven so she could bake me into a dinner with whole baby potatoes as a side dish.

"You never want to do what I want! You always say that! Everyone else's Mom is outside with theeeemmm..." I'd say quickly and with the knowledge that I could get scooped up and thrown into my room at any moment. Pulling the "everyone else's Mom" card out usually meant I was in for either a swift kick or the silent treatment.

"Then go get another Mom. One that doesn't work two jobs then has to make dinner and do the laundry tonight. Since I'm so unfair to you. Okay?"

Ninety percent of the time, this would be enough to put me in tears and send me to my own room for talking back and expecting too much of my Mother on a hot, summer day. She and I both knew that someone else's Mommy would be more than glad to watch me in the pool. Besides, I could swim without assistance and was favored by all neighborhood parents. Even though we both knew this, I managed to keep pushing my own Mom to take me instead of all the other's.

As I'd sit in my room building a fort, angry in post-defeat, I'd mumble things to myself to help facilitate the remainder of the argument. She never gave me closure. When she was done talking, it was always over. And never brought up again. Not because she said it was supposed to be that way but because I knew better than to push her. At the age of five, I knew how much I could hurt her by comparing her to other parents and indirectly complaining about the life she had given me. So I proceeded with the fight in my most grown-up tone as I stared at the wall.

"Mom, I'm sorry I tried to pick a fight with you. I just wanted to go outside and play. With you there. I miss you when you're at work. I don't want to hang out with the other kids in the pool. I want to hang out with you."

Then I'd cry. Talking to myself. Wishing she would have given me the chance to say the right words. I always punished myself for acting like a kid because clearly, I was not one. She'd never treated me like one. Certainly never raised me to be, either. So when I ran at the mouth in true bratty, five-year-old fashion, I felt awful for what I'd done. As soon as I finished our conversation in my tent, I redeemed myeslf in the kitchen by doing the dishes.

She'd be asleep on the couch, still in her white waitress uniform - nylons on the floor, gigantic hairclip loosened. The small bills and coins she made while working the slow hours at Dr. Livingstson's Restaurant sat on the counter, and when I looked up again to see her crashed on the couch, wished I could do something to help.

I never asked her to take me out to the pool again.  ¶ 7:22 PM 0 comments

  Check, Please. Hugging my sister feels really good sometimes. There are many hugs that we partake in. Sideways hugs for pictures. Quick hugs, executed with the daily kinds of greetings and salutations that we've learned to generically perform. Long, obnoxious hugs with 13 year old squeals and that rapid pendulum-like sway. Most of our hugs are like this. But not tonight.

After a conversation with Kent, my recently ex-online boyfriend, my morale was low and she knew what was going on. In the most appropriate way possible, she asked me if I was okay. I said yes. She told me I was lying. Then she wrapped her arms around me and really embraced the emotion I was feeling. For a second, without words or explanations, someone understood. Not me as much as my way of feeling things. Or my way of handling a break-up. Or terminating any type of relationship, really. I am glad she gave me that. Because now I accept how I feel and who I am in these situations. As long as someone understands, I am fine.

Kent is a beautiful creature whose life handed him a bushel of Golden Delicious apples then took them away and said "Hey, you were actually supposed to get this lemon zest. We ran out of actual lemons." We met through that wretchedly addictive MySpace place. In a bet, I had to give up my former online journal and reinvented my creative space in MySpace. Where my writing and my pictures met the challenge of adding friends and responding to messages. One came from Kent, a guy whose picture was far too good looking to pass up conversation. In it, he smiled into the camera obviously mid-drunken-party-mode, Milwaukee's Best in hand - blinging a freshly yellow Livestrong bracelet. Cliche in his own gorgeous looks and party boy photo, he of course intrigued me. It's the ones you'd never expect to be everything that are.

A democrat. A party boy. An athlete. A child-lover. A romantic. A comedian. Even at times, a devilish flirt. He quickly unravelled all of these things about himself in the kinds of conversations that we all want to have with people. They moved quickly and without hesitation. We agreed at the right times and disagreed harmoniously. We're both wordsmiths. We both like to use the wink smiley face. We saw in no time that our short spans of need-to-know entertainment would turn into something different. But we saw things turning out differently.

Kent's everything does not exceed the nothingness that he is at the end of the day. I am a realistic person by nature, and even though I participated in the flirting and conceptual attraction, I was not worried. I knew that I could leave my computer and the feelings that were evoked from our conversations would remain feelings that could not be jusitified by anything other than boredom. I refused to let my mind capacitate Kent as anything more than a text box and chat friend. I never missed him after leaving the computer, but once I was back in my room alone, he became suddenly appealing. A vice. He said the right things at the right times and could back up his beautiful conversation and personality with photographs of a ridiculously good-looking 23 year old from Texas floating around in the fast-moving metro of Washington DC.

Kent was not shy about approaching our attraction directly. Especially when he'd drunkenly return to his computer and profess his love to me then blurt out profanities in somewhat drunken, dyslexic speak. "Saar I vloe ouy! @! k! ? fcu k no wati i dint ment itt.!" He'd paint pretty pictures of what we could be and learned quickly the kinds of things to say to make my heat melt and turn into mush for his hands to hold. His joking manner of directly telling me that I was amounting to something to him was cute.

Then it became nauseating when our two levels could not meet. He wanted to be my someone. I wanted him to just be there when I got home sometimes so I could feel wanted and feel important to someone of the opposite sex. Even though I knew that I could not bridge the gap between his open-hearted banter and my attention-craving teasers, I strung along our attraction and friendship because deep down - I felt something there. But society's view of people meeting on the internet combined with my own fears about the consequences of embarking on a fictional relationship stopped me from pursuing new ideas with Kent.

I gave in eventually, though. All it took was one overly imaginative conversation about our sexual attractions to each other topped off by more intimate details about our own lives, and I suddenly felt closer, more attracted, and completely infatuated with the idea of being with him. I reached a level of feeling wanted that had never seemed possible to me. When he would tell me I was gorgeous and I'd tell him he was the first, he'd say "They were all thinking it, though." When I'd ask how his day was, he'd say "It was bad. Now it's better. ;-)" I'd warn him that I consider most people replacable and that my independence matters to me more than anything. He'd get the clue then refer to some rhetorical question that could be compared to a nine year old's: "But you still want to make out with me, right?" Sometimes Kent asks these kinds of questions. I am not good at answering them. Despite the fact that they're pure rhetoric, I always feel the need to dignify the obvious with an answer that was never actually requested. In these cases, I either charmed him and continued the conversation with some witty sexual comment or crashed and burned on some serious, unimaginative tangent. About how I didn't think talking about making out was a good idea because we were apart and how text boxes don't actually fulfill me.

Then we'd fight. About some issue I was tackling with. Like distance. Or his girlfriend that popped out of nowhere. Or really fun things like his need to push me into deciding how I felt about being with him in June of 2006. In the beginning, I would always be the one rolling off claims and sub-claims about how things were not going to work, why, and how I was going to solve those things. In the end, he'd apologize and restrain from showing emotion on the issue by claiming that he'd be around and that I knew where to find him. His need for coddling and my knack for the dramatic always shone in our arguments. He always thought he was losing me. I just needed him to stop being so clingy. So interested. So unrealistic. Even moreso, I needed him to be real in general. My mind would let itself run all the way to the other side of the planet with him and dream up a wonderful future for us once we got out of this prison of text. As if we were planning our escape from something. Then I'd try to really escape and let myself enjoy our plans, and I'd see the bars. Black. Unbreakable. Apparent in every way. Then I'd tell him I was going away and needed space.

Then I'd take it and forget about him during the day. I'd work, go workout, eat dinner, drink with friends, flirt with boys. When I'd come home at night, my Tylenol PM was nowhere to be found because I took him off of my buddy list and exterminated MySpace ties as well. I thought I'd be good without him; and I was, until I spent a night alone in my parents' house and needed someone to talk to. He and I had been emailing instead of IMing or MySpacing. These conversations were less intense. We talked about our daily. Things we never cared to know about each other. Told stories to fill the page during the time we'd be occupying each other's minds and filling each other's voids. He eventually let me know he was still thinking about me. And I reciprocated. It was no surprise that once I was completely alone, I'd start up our cycle again.

Of course we were on track to destruction. But before we got there again, we progressed slowly and discussed meeting each other in October. In DC. Then we talked about kids. And houses. And in our darkest hours, sex. We were far too attached before I could even realize that I was coming home to my computer on lunch breaks. Running to it after work. Sitting at it until three in the morning. I grew to reappreciate everything about him. Even his clingy, needy behavior. I let myself accept those things because in the scheme of it all, I started to believe that I wanted to go to Washington DC for sure and that I wanted to be with him. Despite the stigma about online dating and the imminent mysteries about Kent. I knew everything, but I did not know him. His pictures, his parents' death, the first time he kissed a girl, the ex-girlfriend roster. All of it. So I just let myself go with it. I put a deadline on our meaninglessness to October 20th. He grew more persistent in his ways of telling me how I much I meant. He stopped going out and getting drunk. His direct way of confessing his attraction became repetition and almost nauseatingly unbelievable. When my mind threw up the red flags, my heart started to tell it to sit down and relax. Suddenly my reasoning about him turned into unanticipated feelings. And wanting.

Then I told him that I loved him. In the way a white flag surrenders a team, I surrendered my heart in an almost comical way. Admitting that I had been caught but that I didn't want to accept defeat. Even though I gave up on trying to escape the strong emotions I was feeling and admittted to it, his malnourished heart and unfulfilling bachelor existence claimed it as a win. As if he'd actually won the game. Not realizing that my momentary courage was a forfeit. I wanted to say it. Somewhere between 6/7 and 7/8 meant it. Regretted it soon after the celebration and hoopla. Went to sleep knowing I'd have to beg for forgiveness eventually and that I was a cruel human being for pretending to be so accessible.

Things started to go really well. I thought about him constantly and played songs that reminded me of him on repeat. Sent him tauntingly flirtatious emails for him to read at work. I was seeing the upside of my actions for once. Instead of concealing my emotions, I confronted them and let things happen. So they started to. And I was happy. Sleep-deprived from late conversations and frustrated from my secret love, but I was happy. As I tend to be. Only in a more magnified way.

Then I called myself his girlfriend. He was so excited. In disbelief. Asked me exactly what time it was. Nearly threw a party. I felt elated by letting it happen. Then again, I went to bed feeling the break-up on the tip of my tongue. Knowing that when it took place, I'd be delivering the blows. And he'd again be victim to my flighty behavior. I felt like I was his, though. When I'd put on my make-up. When I'd pick out underwear. When I'd be in a crowd of couples. During our chats, it felt so right. I planned for him to come here in September. We talked about him meeting my family at Thanksgiving and how good I'd be at doing the dishes. He really saw me. In the most beautiful way. The way I see myself in the mirror on those days when I like myself so much I blush.

That was six days ago. I broke up with him tonight because I was in the middle of my family's annual summer pig roast party and avoided several male guests in my age range because of the idea of a boyfriend. The idea of love. The idea of something that only exists when I am sitting at my computer. And because I realized that I consider people disposable, I turned off my heart for a while tonight and let myself dissect our relationship. Analyze the things that I am sure of in comparison to those I do not. Think about how easy it would be to just Give Up. Measure our successes and then weigh them against our odds.

I lit a candle in my room and drank some wine while I broke up with him. I wanted to create an atmosphere like most couples break up in. For example, at dinner. I let our conversation move along until after we reached the point of ordering and eating. A few glasses of wine, a couple of awkward silences, and the right topic will move things along smoothly. I let a lingering anxiety he had about me being mad at him guide our break-up. Where I wanted to be eloquent, I was spastic. Where I wanted to be specific, I was vague and verbose. Where I wanted it to end, I kept going. Until I had said not only what I needed to say to get us to agree on a break-up, but also what I needed to say for the past three months. About everything. I detailed things that never should have been discussed without major precaution. I was hurtful and critical. And unsymptathetic. I just wanted to be free from how I felt. I gave little room for him to talk and was not concerned with how this was going to end up for him. My selfish meter was on 10. It all amounted to him feeling like a bomb had been dropped on him. Me feeling relieved.

Because he can't give me a hug when we break up. Only my 16 year old sister and other fleshy, real people can. He's not real. I let him be real temporarily, disregarding my mind's inability to process what my heart was mustering up. Even though what I feel is real, I cannot sit here and live what is not breathing.

And just like that, our dinner was up and I said "Check please." It's so easy to get up and walk away from things. I am learning this more every day.

I wish I was more accountable for this action. I'd never walk away from him. But he's not here. So I can walk away from his words.  ¶ 11:24 PM 2 comments

  Death by Chocolate
Case-in-point.

Men are taught to apologize for their weaknesses, women for their
strengths. - Lois Wyse

My weakness makes me stronger. Try that one on.

It has become men. And I'm not about to apologize.

I face either the scrutiny of a world that says a woman should embrace her independence and grow a tree before she can have a house... or the scrutiny of an age-old tradition that says there are three major checkpoints in life: education, a career, and marriage. And that is giving society some credit.

I am not in the mood to build a tree before having my house. Treehouses are overrated anyways. They're exclusive and conditional. Why prove that I can grow a tree in order to have fun by building some house that I don't necessarily need? The civil-like engineered lifestyle of the modern 20-something woman is almost as binding as the aprons that used to keep us afloat. Besides, tree houses are incredibly dull. You climb up, crawl in, remain in a hunched over position because you can't stand due to the low ceiling, and just sit there. Drinking tea and pretending to be sophisticated and above the bottom-feeders who are grounded by their lack of an invitation. Well I say screw being too good for the ground. I'll ride my bike in circles around that damn tree and my pack of followers... they'll follow me down the road to a park where there are swings to fly off of. There is always a healthy alternative to being pushed into a tree in order to fit in. It's called fitting in to yourself.

Clinging on to your independence and running up a tree to keep it is no better than registering at Crate & Barrel and putting your college degree in a drawer. The problem is that women are placed into this vat of injustice. They're strong if they avoid marriage and build their career and their own personal identity and weak if they vow to become part of a selfless, child-bearing union.

ASSUMING that is...

... that those are the only way to define a woman. Which they are not. Women can wait to have kids until they are 37. Marry at 19. Tell their husband to stay at home. Or never get married at all. Or put their whole life into a Fortune 500 company.

We're all complex and need more than we've ever been equipped to get for ourselves without uneducated and pompous critique.

I've resolved my fear that needing a man means I'm weak by simply adjusting my mindset. I am weakened by men. Physically, mentally, emotionally. They take my fortress down and have the power to make me forget that I need to get work done and do things like clean my room. I accept this. Because they also make me so strong. They make me believe that there is such a thing as complete. And full. And that love can solve any problem. And that sometimes, even if I hate to admit it, I just cannot open a damn bottle of pickles without his grip.

I wish I could say my weakness was something easy. Like chocolate. Such an easy vice. If it starts to get you fat, you can just go workout. Men cannot be worked off. They are a variable that is constantly being considered. And I am a new slave to this concept. Wondering... what does he mean to me? Who is he to me?

He's not a fixture. At least not yet.  ¶ 1:13 AM 0 comments

  The Stimulus. Lover Man - Billie Holiday

[I don’t know why but I’m feeling so sad
I long to try something I never had
Never had no kissin’
Oh, what I’ve been missin’
Lover man, oh, where can you be?

The night is cold and I’m so alone
I’d give my soul just to call you my own
Got a moon above me
But no one to love me
Lover man, oh, where can you be?

I’ve heard it said
That the thrill of romance
Can be like a heavenly dream
I go to bed with a prayer
That you’ll make love to me
Strange as it seems

Someday we’ll meet
And you’ll dry all my tears
Then whisper sweet
Little things in my ear
Hugging and a-kissing
Oh, what I’ve been missing

Lover man, oh, where can you be?]

The Response:

Awareness of love and belief in fairy tales.
Loss of logic and revitalization of raw emotion.
Pining after the intangible.
Intolerable levels of hope.
Dependence.

Billie Holiday will mess a girl up.  ¶ 1:47 AM 1 comments

  Serious Mysteries. When candles burn, where does the once solid and fragrant wax go? Tonight as I was watching my Hawaiiian Vanilla candle flicker and burn into the air, I wondered: Is that crap evaporating and relocating in my body? Then I wondered: Has anyone else ever suddenly felt as though they just consumed a candle?

I hope so.  ¶ 11:25 PM 1 comments