Seul Dans la Nature

Subconscious word choice ruining my intended speech, I've been bucking up, ignoring feelings. I can't say how I feel anymore without implications, the insinuations unplanned, not meant, that could leave me utterly singular on this planet. The older I get, the more being alone leaves me feeling like a loser. But then, a thought: we're all just turning down the covers in our lives, ready to hop into bed, most of us hoping someone will share the sheets. Even if they hog the comforter, isn't it reassuring to know we've got someone who's comfortable next to us?

I'm by myself at this spot at the park where the creek, (as I pronounce "crick,") leaves some rocks dry stretching out off the bed, even when the water level's high. I come here to dip my feet in, to think and be as alone as I can be in the populated suburbs, while a family paddles by in a worn silver canoe, "Hotel California" pleasingly drifting out of some device on their boat. I catch sight of a yellow monarch as the music fades, and the family chatters down the waterway back toward the boathouse. Some animal I can't quite identify croaks as I ponder and the song changes and I catch sight of a black butterfly joining the yellow... Fluttering around the rocks, I see the mates hover low and inconsistent, settling here and then there, unsure of an ultimate move or placement. So I spark my cigarette, and lightly inhale the smoke, whilst on the path behind me a group of four or five boys walk along, discussing the general behaviors of "Villa girls," the students at an all-girl Catholic school where my youngest brother used to perform his hip-hop dance recitals years ago. They're apparently as uniform as the outfits they wear. 

"Villa girls always... Yeah, all the Villa girls," I hear, when I see a second yellow butterfly, joining the first, and the black one. I don't for one second think my eyes have fooled me, but I do think the chances of this occurrence are rare, and I long for just one of the winged things to approach me, land delicately at my elbow, just to be able to see its lovely insect features in detail.

Later, maybe not even the same day, sometime out with friends somewhere, a bar or their home or something, where I’m drunk and feel alone in a crowd, I think, "I just want to leave, because it's nothing." I actually write it down. Feeling sick like teeth, tongue touching teeth, soaked in acid, absorbed, corroded, out of place; I'm void of life. But I stay, because it's my obligation, and since I want nothing of the empty bed in my bedroom in my father's cul-de-sac home on Sunset Ave. So I stick around, waiting for...? The sickening stupor to evade me, though I'm already consumed by it, I conclude. It’s not the company; they’re amazing, kind people. I've been trying to escape this all like the flick of a switch, reminding myself of mind-over-matter; reminding myself that no one will be able to stand my presence if I appear so blatantly miserable. 

So I've stopped showing my feelings, pretending the ones I have don't really exist. Because if I don't believe it, it can't be real, right? I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life, so I simply must forge my way through pretending. And when I appear to be solid enough, maybe someone will flutter along the creek bed to the rocks I occupy by my lonesome and I won't feel so isolated in the crowd. But maybe not. Probably not. Optimism has never been my strong suit, but I can lie just as long as I have thoroughly convinced myself.
Mostly, (I believe to fix this,) I guess I just wish to feel surprise as it comes from someone else, like when you kiss a person who's so truly beautiful and hasn't the slightest inclination. The person who reveals their unworthiness to you and expects nothing from you but rejection. The way that in one moment they believe they're solely capable of disappointment, yet in the next, your lips meet, and all the hope that lies in the world coats them in a honey warmth, a sticky ooze overcoming skin with the idea that perchance, they might be something. They might be important. I want to bring that to someone, to feel their surprise at my kiss, so that I can share my surprise, my surprise that they didn't think they were worthy of me. I want to make them flutter, and I want to make them feel, and I want them to tell me every detail about every experience, worry, dream, idea, so I can fix in them the wound so intensely ingrained in me. 

But don't for one second think my eyes have fooled me; because if I don't believe it, it can't be real. So tonight I fall into my bed alone, pull the covers around my neck and simper, because though optimism's never really been my strong suit, I think the only one that could ever surprise me--the only one whose wounds I could heal to let them feel again--is the girl laying here smirking maddeningly.

Whatever you say I am

May 12, 2015

9:15 a.m.

"I can only think in Twitter-speak. I’m drunk, and I want to talk to you. I need to talk. But when it’s time, when you ask me “about what?” I’ll pretend I didn’t have anything to say, because I’m terrified. I’ve never been so confused before, but then again, I’m drunk.

I need to tell you what’s on my mind, but I can’t. It’d ruin you. And I need to write a paper, but I can’t, I’m drunk. Do you love me?" 

A month or so later, and Dear God, am I enlightened. A Tumblr queen. The voice of a generation. Someone get me a fucking whisky on the rocks and talk to me about education reform or the problems in mainstream journalistic media. I'm not confused, I'm confident, and I love your romper, where'd you get it?  

"When I go to California..." I'm so young, I can do whatever I want. No real consequences, I pretend to believe. I'm applying to grad school but they haven't opened the application yet. Yeah, I do go tanning, and I know how horrible it is for me but I hope the cigarettes kill me first; skin cancer is visible, and only blackened lungs would mean a prettier presentation in the casket. Bury me in that sunflower dress, I hope it still fits when I'm dead.

Woe is me, pity parties and exaggerations and read receipts and upside-down cross tattoos. Sickening stupor, mind-blowing disbelief, I'm so young; I do whatever I want. I can only think in Twitter-speak. I'm the voice of a generation, if only you want me to be.  

Huh

I'm doing a bit more here, around the office. I feel useful, so, here's a start. I'm drinking more water, eating less. Enjoying the warmth of the sun. Trying not to be so one-track-minded. Thinking about different things. Concentrating on the immediate future. I think about the pool, lying next to it, swimming in it. So here’s a start.

~

Margo tells me not to smoke. I just love that name. "Smoking is bad," the 12-year-old sing-songs. I tell her that when she's older and I catch her smoking, I'm gonna smack that shit right out of her mouth. "You won't," she means catch her, not smack her.  That's what I like to hear, I say. "I took D.A.R.E.," she says. So did I, I say after a light chuckle, so did I. I think shouldn't have said shit.

~

I'm more useful at the office. I can answer questions. I know without having to search for answers. 'Cause this is how I see it: growing up means finding something to cope. Food, sex, alcohol, drugs, religion, exercise, career, anything... Loosing your innocence means losing the wild blind hope in a future you couldn't quite comprehend in youth. But the world was yours. Now you realize, no, I can't do whatever I want. I can't play in the WNBA, no amount of hard work could get me there (though that metaphor in no way reflects the author's personal opinion.) Damn, wasn't it so much easier when my family came to student of the month ceremony and I wasn't “allowed" to have a “boyfriend” or wear make-up and I rode my scooter up the street to my friends' homes and I came home when the streetlights came on? But damn. 

~

Last night in my sleep I was raped in my dream. Which is terrifying, because I concocted that image, the feelings, and I couldn’t escape them because they were in my mind. I’m stuck in my head all day at work, and I’m stuck in my head all night asleep, and I can’t run away from the creep with glasses because the creep in the glasses, my rapist, is me, isn’t he? For fuck’s sake, I’m my own offender. Damn. But I’m more useful at the office, and I know the answers to most questions.

~ 

This is what I do: I write, I eat, I don't cry, I sleep. I watch Netflix and waste gas and time 'til someone distracts me. So here's a start. I work inside my head all day, I post on social media because I'm exploding, but can’t read anyone else's posts, can't scroll for more than 5.6 seconds before data overload sends me further back into my scull, this buzzing shell of pointlessness. I talk and talk and I shouldn’t have said shit. How does it end? Lying next to it? Swimming in it? Leaving it? Damn. 

It's Always Prose and Cons

Long dark mane dances into knots,

the window down, sun sparkling bliss

yet Underneath her crown all reason quavers.

The static loop that used to play

when cable clicked over to VCR

her Contemplations, always anesthetized.

She aches to fight unvarying, shake dolor,

to no avail, piles dirt over guilt  

for loving some too much and some too little.

Her Cadence ruptures casually 

reveling in chaos, changes the channel

and the show on which she settles, Nothing. 

Nothing considerable as matter of usual practice,

wonders, “what is Truth?” and how

one can be certain truth can be trusted.

And Underneath long dark shadows

dance into Nots and she slips backward 

focus into cable swapped for VCR.

But Someone forgot to be kind, Rewind,

Outside a young boy's voice exclaims,

"I'm going where the wind takes me, mom!"

Then nothing is the same.

Detachment

It's been sunny for a while, and finally the shadow looms back over, but unlike Peter Pan, I'd never try to sew it on; I'm looking for a seam tearer through wetted eyes, choked up cries. Stoic. I've got to shake it without crying.

I imagine really crying to my best friend, how she'd react: "Don't cry," she'd waveringly offer in a high-pitched tone, most sympathetically, though, as if my wails might set off her own water-works. And I'd try to explain that I always feel like I'm crying when I talk to her about what she already knows, that shadow that's glued to her heels, too.

So I wonder if when I'm upset and express that without crying, if people understand the gravity of the situation. Because its over 6-foot depth is filled with clay-laced dirt, suffocating, weighing in at around triple my own fluctuating mass. So when I talk about the source, or rather, "triggers" of my shadow's presence, it's taken god-awfully lightly. I'm expressing my emotion, but not crying. Which is why it pisses me off when people call me "emotional," or "soft." I'm allowed to feel, and I'm trying to explain that, without crying, so how am I soft? 

I'm not returning phone calls, playing it safe, so no one hears the shake in my voice. I'm writing through it, because if not, I'll crack. Nothing a phone call couldn't fix, yet I can't let people know. They think I'll take a razor to my wrist, so best not to induce worry. I just want to take a razor to the seam at my heels, just to shake the darkness that follows, but it's no use. Nothing can stop it, and it's stopping me from crowing.  

A Theory and a Criticism of a Generation of Non-Conformists

This may seem a little redundant, but at the present time, I feel it necessary to address what may be to some, a culture that lacks refinement, yet propagates the past in an attempt to mimic or yield former art or style as sophistication. Did that thesis statement-esque lead not entice you? Read some fucking scholarly articles. 

...Because we all love Bowie and listen to vinyl records. I know, we're not addicted to anything, but yeah, we've tried a few things... except pot. We smoke a lot of pot, and maybe cigarettes, but maybe not, or maybe too much. And we all play guitar covers of our favorite bands from middle school, or at least know someone who does. And we read Salinger and James, but Henry, not E. L. 

We walk in the park and go to preservations, yet binge-watch television series on Netflix because there's nothing on regular cable t.v. We post photos of our puppies and kitties and American flags and sushi. We want to be real American guys and gals, so we pound $2, 16-ounce cans of PBR, and we don't love IPAs, but if you're cute and 25 and wearing black-rimmed glasses, sure, we'll take one. We’ll just have to add a couple of extra reps at the gym tomorrow—for gains.

We idolize Lana Del Rey, dreadlocks and not identifying with a political party. Gen-X thinks we’re lazy and non-committal; passive; uneducated; unaware. Blasé blah, Gen-X. We learned from them that when the going gets tough, give up. The whole lot of them? Divorced.

We’re active online about issues like Ferguson, but if a meme of a dress pops-up on Twitter, it's all we'll talk about for the weekend. Then it’s, "that Michael Brown case is still a thing?” 

"Oh, there's a picture of Chris Pratt. I love him, he seems so down to earth. Didn't his show just end?”

“Emma Watson can’t act like she knows anything about inner beauty, she’s fucking gorgeous on the outside! What a crock of shit."

It’s an endless ADD feed that we've conceived. It’s all our own creation, but it controls us. 

And bouncing from one timely topic to the next, we still find ourselves hung up on that thing we said when we were drunk, or the look that girl just gave us, or our empty bank accounts, or the things we cannot change. We’re awake all night, whether it be dwelling or drinking, and asleep until 2, and we wanna drink again tonight but we're broke, but we'll see you at the bar anyway, after Taco Bell and a nap.

This is our lifestyle. We’re not original, but we believe ourselves to be. We romanticize the idiosyncratic, that at one time people found shocking, or taboo. We reinvent things that shouldn’t be imitated; they were better left untouched. We venerate the different, the eldritch, in the name of aestheticism. And I cannot ascertain if this is good or not.

Have we twisted history’s Greats to fit our own societal mores' desires, or can we simply not come up with anything unique on our own, because we’re too distracted consuming all of this media, all of the time? To know where you’re going, you have to know where you’ve been, they say… But if we’re redoing what’s already been done, we can’t go anywhere.

We’re all trying to figure out who we are and what we want. And I know who I am. I am a refinement snob. I am better than the pop culture standard set by Justin Bieber and "Twilight." I listen to real artists, like Sinatra and Led Zeppelin. I love the "Three Stooges" and the original "Twilight Zone." But I am not too good for HBO or Lady Gaga. See the contradiction I deny? Enough Taylor Swift, I want more Lorde! These examples have less to do with taste, and more to do with criterion I’ve established.

I know who I am, because I hate that person, and I wish for the life of me I wasn’t that person. She is the least original who claims to be a non-conformist. I am the pauper pretending to be a prince. I too wish for the life of me I had an effective conclusion to my thesis. Yet, in the interest of representing my generations’ value of the avant-garde, I choose to quote the infamous Cary Grant; “Ah, beware of snobbery; it is the unwelcome recognition of one’s own past failings.”

For you, Little Girl

Dearest Child,

You are 7 right now, and this is mostly when your memories will begin. You have a long way to go, my dear, and adulthood isn’t all that you think it’s going to be. Don’t rush it. There will come a time when all you’ll want is to return to mischief in the woods, building forts behind the shed, (you haven’t done that yet, but you will soon.) You’ll miss the plastic jungle gym that you’ll soon grow much taller than, even when it’s replaced by the pool. And enjoy that pool, you’ll move a few years after it’s built to a brand new house with no fence, no pool. Don’t worry, though, you’re not moving too far from your friends, but eventually you’ll understand that the true friends are the ones that stick by you no matter how far away you are.

You and your closest brother will grow apart soon since the baby’s here, and you’ll come together again in a while, but those in-between years are going to be tough. Just remember not to get upset when he kicks your ass, and that’ll end anyway when you get to high school. Forget about the terrible mistakes he’s going to make, because you know they’re not intentional. When you reattach, he’ll ask for advice, and when you realize you don’t know anything, he’ll drop almost anything to help you, often. The doofus that’ll soon strike you with a Wiffle ball bat as you climb down from the tree in the front yard, (yeah! you’ll get to climb that!) will turn back into the kid who ran down the sidewalk to greet you as you hop off the bus, home from your first day of kindergarten. I bet you don’t remember that. (I don’t either.) Except in the future, he’ll be racing up route 81 at 4 in the morning to pick your ass up from jail. 

Those Christmas presents from Santa are really from some non-profit who got in touch with mom, and that’s okay—she’s doing her best. You know, she had to file bankruptcy when she lost your sister, (that’s why dad buys those angels for her every year,) and her hospital stay without insurance drained mom and dad’s accounts. I know you kind-of know all this from the whisper-conversations at the kitchen table, but I want to make it clear that you shouldn’t be embarrassed. Your parents are poor now, but that is going to change in a few years, and when it does, you’ll miss this old lifestyle more than you could imagine. You’ll realize that “poor” has less to do with money and more to do with relationships and possessions and worth. Everything has worth, dear girl. And how you value it establishes its worth. And if you value everything as gold, you’ll be far richer than Oprah, (she’s a billionaire, you’ll learn.)  

Someday, you’ll resent your mom for trying to control your life. Be patient. Then, you’ll be best friends. Appreciate it, because when she breaks your trust and ruins your hope in love, you’ll miss her. She won’t really leave you, but it won’t ever be the same. Tell her you love her, even when you’re mad at each other. Things will be complicated, but you never know what could happen.

Then, dad, you’ll come to butt heads with, and you’ll realize that nothing you do is good enough for him. But that isn’t true. When he asserts after your duet in the 6th grade chorus concert, “you did good, but you could have been louder," know that he only sees your potential. He only wants the best for you. That’s why he works so long and often, and when he unwinds with too much bourbon at the end of the day, understand that his frustration is not with you. You’re too much alike, you and him, and you’ll see one day that what you think is your own inadequacy disappointing him is really his own dissatisfaction with himself.

When cousin Brian tells you that Santa isn’t real, and you still believe for two more years, don’t be ashamed. It’s not the figure so much that’s important, it’s the ability to hope that you’re carrying out. It’s spirit. I’m proud of that. And when he tells you that your parents smoke pot, relax. You’ll end up doing the same, and no matter what you present in your 5th grade D.A.R.E. speech, don’t ever believe that weed is a drug. Alcohol, however is a different story. Be careful. You’ll see. And don’t be so hard on mom for smoking cigarettes, because you don’t know how you’ll cope when you’re her age and have her experiences.

Those girls at the bus stop will continue to torture you; forget what they said about your bandana and your haircut. Let no one tell you your style is anything but exceptional; it’ll save you from vying with timely trends in the future. And in any manner, those bully bitches will develop into your longest best friends. Don’t try so hard to fit-in, you’ll only lose yourself. And when you find her again in, oh, maybe 11 years, you’ll question all the fads that you mimicked along with the crowd.

Appreciate the people that call you Cassandra. You don’t like it now, but when you grow up you’ll long for the respect of someone calling you by your beautiful, serious, full-name.

You’re smart, Cassandra. Oh sorry, Cassie. You’ll go on for several years thinking you’re the smartest 7, 11, 14-year-old you know. Hell, you might be, kid. Then at point, you’ll be one of the smartest people you know. But wayyy later, you’ll figure out that you’re no different from everyone else, and that you’re good at some things, but not excellent at anything. You’re not special, like they told you all throughout school. And that trait, humility, understanding, will save you years of worry or regret or disappointment. Just remember, you’re going to make a lot of promises that you think you’ll keep forever, but you’re going to go back on your word from time to time, and that’s good, because that means you’re gaining perspective. Never stop looking at things from someone else’s point of view. 

You’re going to lose a lot. You’re going to be disappointed and hurt, and scared, and very lonely. It’s not going to be easy for you. You’re going to lose a lot of friends, and that’s okay. Treasure them while you have them; they’ll each teach you so much more about yourself than you could learn on your own. Forgive them when they leave on their own accord. Forgive yourself when you leave them behind. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you don’t make cheerleading in 6th grade; when the kids you thought were friends call you a "whale;" when you get your first “C” in algebra; when your best friend completely ignores you out of the blue with no explanation; when you quit soccer for the musical, and mom says she misses watching you play; when you can’t go away to your first-choice university because dad makes "too much money;" you are innovative. You can cope. You are strong. You are enough for you, and me too.

And you’re going to make a fuck-ton of mistakes, (sorry, that’s not appropriate for a 7-year-old, is it? A lot will change in 16 years, hon,) but you’re not going to regret a single one. Because if you did, you wouldn’t grow up to be me, and even though we’re not the smartest, or the best at anything, or special, we are worth something. I’m not sure what we’re meant for, or who we should be, but you and me, kid? We’re gonna be valuable. Maybe I’ll tell us in another letter when we’re 35 and God only knows what’ll be happening. But I’ll tell ya what, I’ll never forget you. Because you made me, you’re why I’m me, and we’re not special or important or wise or smart, but we are all that we’ve got, and we’re gonna create substance of consequence, relevance, effect. We’re gonna be important and good and all that we can, and if anyone expects anything more or less, then we don’t need ‘em. We’ve got each other. 

Love,

You, in 16 years

Ripping off the Bandaid

I chatted with my neighbor, John, from my stoop as he scraped ice off of the apron of his driveway. He told me to be careful, drive safe, something I've recently picked up saying to friends myself, as that's what I think adults do; at least pretend to care about an acquaintance’s well-being. Something like awareness of others. I sat down on the metal strip in front of my door, the only haven for my ass free of snow, and directed my attention toward my iPhone.

"What's up, Jack?” I looked up to notice Steve, our little, loud fugazi neighbor across the street, greeting John from the end of his driveway. I guess he didn't see me sitting behind my bushes. I'd never known John to go by Jack.

After the usual formalities, ("how are ya?" yadda, yadda,) Steve delivered the foremost phrase I’ve ever heard him utter: "What's the use of bitchin', right?"

I’m pretty sure John/Jack and Steve don’t get along. 

I was finishing up my last stoge before I showered, but realized when my dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, that he wasn’t home after all, and I went back to my room to finish smoking my bowl in bed without replacing the blanket under the door crack that allowed the odor to dissipate into the hallway.

This was my escape on a Sunday afternoon, before going to a family dinner, where I had to man-up. Put your makeup on, smile, fake it. Pretend you want to be there. Pretend you love your family. Which you do, you truly do, just not very much at the moment. I tell myself this in the second person, listing my commands to buck-up and get over myself. 

How do I escape? I can’t this time, but there are ways that are lovely, and there are ways that are dark, almost "dirty” ways, and I don’t think I need to explain either to you, sir. Thank you, good day now.

See, when I feel good it's like a song that I never want to end, and it's chilling, because I start to be sad half-way through, because I know it's only going to end, and I'm sad when it's over, only deepening my task of getting out of the conduit, whose current drags me farther from my goals. This is my dark period, but I need these days, so that every new lovely thing that comes along will seem so much brighter. 

I'm torn between the persona I've created to fight my actual self; the dark, callous, snippy, uppity bitch at war with the sad, empathetic, lonely, over-emotional soul. I want to be honest with people, I want them to know I care, but it seems the more of my true, unprotected self I bare, that I allow people to see, the less people want to see of me.

So I put down the bowl, and get in the shower. I put on my makeup, (thank god—my eyeshadow ended up a conversation piece at dinner,) and I got myself a coffee, and I made it to the table, and it wasn’t the afternoon that dreams were made of, but I didn’t want to die every second I was there. It was okay, and I’m okay, and maybe when this song ends, I’ll put on another great tune, hell, a whole playlist of them. I look forward to it. And I’ll return to hiding behind my dark hair and fierce mocking humor, because hey, Jack, what’s the use of bitchin’, right? But really, all in all, take care, please drive safe, I mean it.

Just a Tuesday

“Oh no, you didn’t get… like… raped, did you?”

I sat in the passenger seat and paused at his question; “no, no, not that… I just didn’t really want to do it, like...” and sighed, like I always did when I had to tell anyone this detail of my situation. 

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I’d only ever had sex once before that, so…”

“No way,” Mason responded typical of anyone I shared this news with, which I’d expected after what we’d done the night before, “but that’s okay,” as if I needed his validation. 

It was only about two months or so after it had happened, and I tried to keep my mind off of it—I used to credit the incident with ruining my life. Now I see, though, what it had really done; it allowed me to avoid the bullshit before it happened ever again. It began my ease in detaching sex from emotion. It allowed me to become like a boy. Mostly, though, it forced my fear of love.

I met Matt at Dana Carvey’s stand-up at my Alma Mater’s performing arts center. My boss at the school’s foundation gave me a ticket and told me she gave one to another of her 140 employees, a blonde boy named Matt, a “gerber baby” as some black girls called him, and I should meet him before the show; “here’s his number, you should have fun, he’s cuuuuuuute.”

We hit it off—he went to the same high school as my mother, so he was from the same area of Pennsylvania as I was. We even drove the same car, color and all. He was funny, and damn, my boss didn’t use the right adjective; he was hot. 

Matt was a year older, which I was into, until I realized that turning down his invitation to the bar after the show, (which I’m disappointed to report, I didn’t pay a lick of attention to nor appreciate, distracted by the hand draped over the arm rest to my right,) because I was only going on 20.

But a few days later, when he called to hang out, I jumped at it. He came by after the bar with a friend and hung out for a little. Another day, we decided to play racquet ball at the gym with his roommate, and went back to his apartment for a few beers after I was fed up embarrassing myself.

Matt’s roommate dropped me off on their way to the dining hall and I spent the rest of the evening doing a lot of nothing with my roommate, until Matt texted me. His texts I hardly recall, having tried to block his existence from my mind these past few years, but I have a feeling it went a little like this…

Matt: hey

Me: Heyyyy wassup?

Matt: u awake

Me: Obviously, what are you doing?

Matt: wunna hng out

Me: What do you wanna do?

Matt: comin over

Matt: mabe cassie

Me: Huh?

So this seems a little weird, but this was how he always talked—I never could really tell if he was serious about anything, or really, what the hell he was talking about most of the time. When he showed up, though, I was kind of surprised as he was usually flaky, and I was the reacher. He could do better than me, even then when my bod was at its best. Yet, I was thrilled, none the less, and we went upstairs, and that’s when things, you know, happened.

But my situation, you see, was kind of strange for a 19-year-old in college. I’d only had sex once, on senior week, black-out wasted. I’d probably only given about 3 hand jobs, and maybe made-out with 10 people ever. Inexperienced was a rather gracious term. Sex was very important to me, and I was actually very upset at the way I had lost my virginity, (which I feel I should mention was completely my own incitement of seduction.) At any rate, when Matt tried to infiltrate my sacred region, after not nearly enough foreplay for me to feel confident, I said, “No.”

He backed off, but we kept at our messing around, until again, his attempts at penetration were greeted with a, “seriously dude, I’m not that kind of girl, no.”

So shrinking back to the making-out and touching and taking off shirts and socks and blah blah blah, he lasted only a few more minutes before trying one last time to get it in, and my “no,” turned into a, “noooookay, fine, fine,” and we fucked. And it was amazing. And he was beautiful. And I was sure as I laid, his arm behind my head, that that was the best decision I could have ever made, and I stroked his blonde head and traced the lines in his chest, smiling, the warmest and happiest I’d ever been, ever would BE, on a Tuesday night in bed. 

The next morning, he woke up, walked 10-feet away to where his clothes landed, disoriented, got dressed and raised his hand in a weak wave, “bye, Cassie,” before he shirked off. Not even a kiss goodbye—I was about as confused as he looked, but still, I’ve mentioned this boy was a weird one, and I couldn’t read him. Especially when he didn’t text me for three days, until Friday rolled around and my best friends were having an "ugly sweater" party.

He said that we should talk, and I said, come to the party, and he showed up with his roommates until they ran out of beer, and I drove them back to Richard Street to pick it up. They piled out of the car as Matt in the front seat said, “I need to talk to you…”

“Yes?”

He looked me in the eyes, looked away, and turned back to say, “did we… did we have sex the other night?”

“Are you serious?"

He didn’t remember it happening, and I remembered it a lot less shitty then it actually was. It sucked— he couldn’t stay hard, I realized I had tasted alcohol. He was so drunk he didn’t even know it happened. We hardly talked, there was no connection. It was a waste; my first sober sex with a guy I actually liked, and I couldn’t even take anything from it. 

I told Mason all of this as my excuse to not have sex with him, because he was forceful and was known to push women into bathrooms, something I found out first-hand the next year at school.

“I WILL have sex with you,” he said, my back against the door, his hand creeping up my thigh, and when I said, “no, you won’t,” he kissed me so hard I thought my lips were bleeding. This, the same kid who asked me if I was raped. I avoided him at all costs after that, as I did Matt, and found that even though I’d detached emotion from sex, I still wanted to decide who I wanted to fuck when I wanted. I still wanted to like the person I was going to let inside me. I wanted someone to respect me as much as I respected myself.

I used to let this thing define me, and it sent me into a semester long depression that drove me to drop a class, eat back all the weight I’d lost, and scrounge together every last penny for pot just to cope. But now I know, this event, this has nothing to do with what I am; this was just an incident that let me see who I really am.

Inexorable Occasions

There are spells when I'm sitting for full hours, and time doesn't seem to move, or exist even, and I think I hear things and they're all just a dream, or I think I've dreamt things before, and really I've heard them. The scary thing is, you don't know what's real and what's delusion, consequently losing all touch with reality, and before you even know it, people seem to notice and ask, "what's on your mind?" And you can't say "oh, just busy questioning everything and nothing at the same time," so you describe an object in the room, like, "isn't that light fixture stunning?" It's all just blending together; different drunken nights spent at bars with "friends" that don't know you, going to the same eateries for lunch and ordering the same meal you ate last time...

So you close your eyes and it hurts so bad, physically you feel it, though you have no marks, no bruises. The pain is more than you can bare, but nothing comes out. You have nothing to show for it. And I laugh, and jot, "what a horrible time to be alive."

Everyone's voices float airily about you, and they're near, but they feel so distant. The bullshit and game fuckery that you see through, because your heart's beating too fast, and your eyes are watering too much, and no, you're not crying--you know the trick to this game. But they tell you you're wrong. Do you acknowledge something someone says with a comparison to your own life, or not acknowledge them at all? Time for a cigarette. 

I have surpassed the idea of black-and-white; the belief in impossible; the idea that everything can be so clear-cut, concrete. It's much more complicated than it all seems, even when I make it that way, it couldn't ever be as simple as everyone makes it out to be.

One Flew

The computer hums behind my chair on my desk in the office. In addition to the mild buzz of the fluorescent lights above me, and the steady click click click of the baseboard heat, and the radio making its way underneath the door in the shop, where no loud tools are being used, not at the moment; it's time to shut it down. I check the program one more time... No more updates to be made. Shut down. Less than an hour of work, that means. The computer hum fizzles out. 

Now the lights sound louder, the clock comes alive and I can hear it ticking, too. I tune into all of this, and tune out of my book, eyes still scanning the lines, but not reading the words.

People actually had to lick stamps, remember that? I was confused when my boss sent me to the post office earlier, where I avoided a former high school classmate, pretending I didn't notice anyone standing there, let alone recognize her. Boss said, "make sure...well, I guess they're all self-adhesive now." And now I remember, didn't I used to have to lick them? Or was that phased out, and grandmom just kept them for us with the stickers and markers in the little desk in the corner of her dining room?

On the way back from lunch run, I feel like i'm dying... I'm talking to myself and I feel like I'm dying. I actually say that out loud, and laugh at myself. I tell Taylor that I feel strangely peaceful, yet chaotic. Like maybe about to die, like this is how people feel before they kick the bucket or something. I had to text her that, that I'm in a fog. She doesn't have much response. I wouldn't either. 

Less than an hour left of work. I just want to go home and take off my bra. I'll read for the rest of my time here, if I can tune out the sound of the light and the heat and the time again. But something feels good about my heightened senses, and I sit, concentrating on the murmurs, until a coworker's cell phone's full volume ringer disrupts my reverie, and I pick up my book again.

My Soliloquy

"KEEP WRITING.  You have a gift and you need to use it.” 

She’s said it to me several times, and while it used to motivate me, now it aches. The inadequacies fuel my complacency, and I don’t wear my seatbelt anymore.

I’ll start something with you just to get out of my own head. It’s too fucking tight in there, I can’t breathe, the same damn thoughts, relentless. 

"I don't ever mean to upset you, though it seems I do when I'm trying to express these things (this is not meant to be an argument or point of contention, just an assertion of the inevitable,) but I think we're both far different than I thought. … Like I'm telling you all this now, for what? 'Cause now I don't vent to anyone else, not ever; oh loyal me, abstaining from every opportunity that will leave me feeling anything but guiltless.” 

Jesus Christ. Wrote it all down, every fucking thing, months ago. Those feelings never left.

And… we’re off! First 20 of 40 oz down, only half a bottle left to go. I already know how bad tomorrow's going to be, the tingles of tonight's intoxication wearing off, and total disregard of reality, a blur like every day for the last 3 months. Restock the printer paper, press "okay.” Take lunch orders. Delete Twitter. Re-download. 

Someone once said, "gag me with a spoon”—it’s stuck in my head every time I hear someone talk about love, or Snapchat, or what they’re doing this summer... Anything at this point. Still wanna jump off a cliff; not to hit the bottom, but to feel the sensation of falling, forever.

Random sentences bar my sentences, barred by senselessness. What? What makes sense about any of it? 

It’s Taylor Swift and Lorde, Hamlet and Yorick, but the only skull I'd like to clasp and address is my own. 

It’s Friday… If I don't go out, something's wrong, right? I'm sick, but it's all in my head.

Nostalgia for Zack

My heart aches for the mornings when I’d wake next to the window in my room with the old boarded-up fireplace, in my hundred-something year-old house, a yellowed tapestry billow-ly hung over my television, waiting in anticipation like a kid on Christmas morning for my best friend to come down stairs. We eat, I get dressed, do my make-up.

“How does this look?”

“Do these shoes match?”

We drive to campus together in the freezing cold, exhausted if we didn’t bump adderall, chain smoking if we did. We part ways, but meet up to go to the newspaper office, where I’m an assistant section editor—unimportant, yet qualified enough to sign out a key at the front desk. 

Me and the best friend talk about moving to London in the spring, and applying for jobs, and spending the summer in other countries, and applying to different schools. He’s done those things by now; I haven’t. We part for the moment, and meet at the days end, after a long shift, littered with questions:

“How do you say this name?”

“How much should I ask for? I know it says…”

“How are you doing in Public Affairs?”

“Do we get paid this week?”

I come home to my best friend studying on the couch, my brother cleaning up dinner he cooked for us, before we pack a bong, prepare for our nightly television repertoire. We won’t go to sleep when we get in bed, but we’ll tweet back and forth, he upstairs, I, down, joking about the ghost we’ve named Herb that never actually existed.

I didn't see it then, how good it was, how well we meshed, how much I actually loved my roommate, my best friend. I didn't realize he was even my best friend, though he could say exactly what I was feeling in a look, and I'd know he knew. Things are changing for the both of us now—me, a graduate without a full-time position, looking into grad school on the west coast. Him, a student at a privet university, pledging a fraternity. I was miserable then, unlike being miserable now though, because we were miserable together, and now my best friend is 300 miles away. I just want those 9-months, filled with all the purpose and hope and excitement in the world in that drafty old house back, where the person who got it most lived just up the stairs to the left.

Tempest Peace

Lipstick stained cigarette butts

Lace all of the unsolvable

Indescribable 

Endorsed checks verse hymnals

And all of the scripture written

Can not make sense of this

But fear not the suits and cameras

For in the end 

We have nothing but thoughts

Until the light dims

And they wisp like ashes