I cried at work earlier this week. I’ve always been kind of a crybaby. My life is full of awkward memories because of it. As a kid, my mom yelled at me for crying over tiny things. I cried when I spilled food off my plate. I cried when I wasn’t allowed to ride in […]
This blog entry is sponsored by my period angst. Periods. When life gives you hell, cry because your emotions are on fire and your crotch is swaddled in soggy diaper blood and you can barely pull your shit together to even deal. Despite my misleading opening, this entry is not meant to be the usual […]
I told my therapist a list of things I want to do the other day. The list included writing more, trying to get published, fixing a medical issue once and for all, and organizing a Creative Writing class reunion. She said that I was repeating myself. I had told her that I wanted to do […]
Last weekend, my guy friend (let’s call him John) came over to hangout with my boyfriend and me at our apartment. We were chatting about his love life, when John turned the conversation to an old subject. He brought up a mutual girl friend of ours that he would totally “fuck” (let’s call her Jane). John asked […]
I went down to Office Services the other day to tell someone that after weeks of meticulously planning a surprise scrapbook, photography portfolio, and family album as a three-part present for my boyfriend’s birthday, I lost my phone, the wallet cover attached to it, and therefore my work ID card. Office Services is where my workplace […]
I try to tell myself that I don’t care for you anymore, but sometimes I still dream about you.
Months ago, I dreamed that I visited you in your dorm room at Binghamton. The room was revamped into Hello Kitty pink and plush. You let me sit on your bed even though I was wearing “outside” clothes and this time you didn’t scream when my jeans hit your laundry fresh blankets. Continue reading Dear Ex-Best Friend
Walking over to the McNally Jackson bookstore in Soho on a Thursday night, I was already getting nervous. I was assigned by my professor to go to this reading event, Future Sex by Emily Witt, with some of my classmates. He challenged us to try to mingle with the crowd there together, to help each other if any of us got shy. After all, as aspiring writers, it was important for our careers to start interacting with the literary sphere. But as an anxiety-prone girl who was already regretting wearing her high-heeled boots in cobblestoned Soho, who was already aware of strangers who might catch sight of her stumbles, who was already dreading the implications of the word “mingle,” I decided that this was an impossible task.