Alright, Then

There was a moment when he was breaking it off with me, where I noticed his teeth looked like the cigarettes that he smoked and his frame seem bunched up and haphazard in his sweater, like he was made of a laundry pile. Even still, I couldn’t help but feel like a little girl.

“You’re too clingy.”

“You’re too high maintenance.”

“There’s just something missing.”
Half of me wanted to curl up inside his arms and the other half of me wanted to throw up.

The next morning, after a night of drinking, I did. I lurched over the toilet and let it out. I puked, and cried, and sniffled, and sweat out all the alcohol. I purged until my heart was content, and then a little more for good measure. Afterward, I focused on my job. I let myself get warm with the hugs from my coworkers. I stepped outside a few times to drop a few tears on the sidewalk. When I got home I forced myself to socialize with the neighbors downstairs.

I let myself feel better. I let myself feel everything, I let go.

I came to the conclusion that the hurt is better than wishing someone into feeling something for you that they don’t. It’s better than to feel anxious over someone that doesn’t want you.  In fact, being without him is much better than what it meant to be with him.

My primary feeling is that I will ride off into my own sunset, and I hope the future is kind enough to me so that you can stay where I left you.


Cunts Like Us: A Tribute to Joan Rivers

You were toxic in the darling way that wine is. You were as bold as neon pink during Pride Week. The first time I heard your loud screech of a voice, I was watching reruns of your talk show with my mom. My mother loved you because you represented the crass part of herself that she adored. I loved you because I inherited the same gene. 

But it wasn’t your bluntness that made you an icon. Anyone can be blunt. Anyone can be the girl in the room that says things everyone is thinking but is too scared to. What made you so important was that it wasn’t all just for attention- you were unapologetically yourself. In a world where being unique was waiting safely outside society’s mold, you not only destroyed it, but you made the maker of it your bitch. 

You did whatever you wanted and you weren’t afraid to.

When people called you out on whatever the hell they had a problem with, you reveled in it, and because of that, no one could touch you. While it must of hurt at some point, you brushed it off. I didn’t learn how to own my insecurities from friends or family, I learned it from you making fun of your own surgically altered face. Through you, I learned that making a choice simply for the benefit of a man, isn’t a choice worth making-no matter how great the sex is. You taught me that I was better than that. My own parents didn’t teach me I was better than that, for the record. 

I sincerely believe that you were the first woman to be honest with the fact that womanhood sometimes is not a beautiful thing. Femininity can really gross and awkward. Sex isn’t always sexy. Being docile is boring, and it’s okay to take the low road and want to cut a bitch. Ultimately though, that’s part of the experience, and while it’s great to think it’s okay, fuck it if it’s not! In fact, fuck it anyway because why not?

So here’s to you, you crazy bitch. Here’s to your sharp wit and impenetrable charm. Here’s to your rough edges and honest heart. Here’s to the one that taught us all, that it is better to ride and die, than to sit still and live. You will be missed. Cheers.

Modern God and the Great Wall of Me

Mike lives with two other guys downstairs from my new place, but he’s been friends with my roommate for quite a while. When he comes upstairs to hang out for a bit I ask him, ” Do you want to see my wall? I just started it.”

Settled in the newly painted shade of sea foam green, it sits- my wall, The Great Wall of Me. It’s a small collage of pictures and mementos, from a map of my home state to a picture of my mom holding me as a newborn. It contains notes from friends and anecdotes of origins I can’t remember. Right now, it expands the width of my desk but I know it’s growing slowly. Mike looks at each part one by one and smiles. 

“I have a wall just like it.” He says. 

Within the hour he’s showing me. His expands the entire wall-each photograph and poster separated by a half inch margin on all sides. He talks about a class project where his friends dressed up in drag because they ran out of female friends to help. He showed me a signed Reliant K CD cover.

“I liked them before I knew they were Christian. Then, I liked them more.”

We are stark in contrast and upbringing. He was raised in small town country Ohio, with traditions tied heavily to the bible. He is clean cut with blue eyes. “All American.” Plays the guitar. I grew up in a static household, raised loosely on the traditions of tarot and astrology. I’m more tattooed than most, and a little crustier than someone of my education and stature. I’m foul in the way only New Englanders know how to be, but I feel like it’s all poetry.

When I talk, he looks at me like I’m science but hears me in such a way that the flavors in his head will still be there long after they leave his palate. We are each other’s curiosity, but in a sincere non biased way. As I look at his wall, and we’re talking about god, I realize that we figuratively speak different languages but are saying the same words. We are identical in spirit but packaged way differently.

When I walk back upstairs to my place, I look out over the horizon and see the Sears Tower off about 3 miles in the distance. The light up top flickers faintly over the edge of the trees in my back alley. I reference back to a thought my best friend Abby had a while back, that a place can change you if let it. In promising to love myself better, it’s already started to change me better. My inner newness is much less terrifying knowing I can indulge and be at peace, being myself in the presence of a surface opposite.