I am having a drink.
My usual drink of choice is shots of tequila but I couldn't feel the square shape of Jose Cuervo amongst the bottles in the darkness of my coat closet. For now I'm taking swigs of whatever is in my flask. Ciroc? I dunno.
One of my closest friends is the farthest away from me. By thousands of miles (Literally. The military takes you way too far from home to do a lot of nothing). In the distance, there is seemingly a lot to be said and once one topic is exhausted another is started.
Today's topic: The C-word.
Children.
Apparently, my dream of a brood of 4-6 is slowly fading as my age progresses. I'm 26. 37 year-olds who are trying to get drunk enough to get the courage to pop holes in a condom and trap their blind date hate me. My age doesn't make it any less easy to deal with.
But, yeah. With the C-word comes the accompanying L-word. (This we shall not name.)
Ahhhh, the ever-elusive L-word. It surrounds you in the form of annoying friends professing their undying devotion to some partner they just met on twitter but it never quite smacks you in the face like you want it to.
My experience with the L-word consists of stalkers, 'situations' and strings attaching me to people who don't understand that the definitions of 'effort' and 'ignore' are not inverted.
My L-word life in a nutshell. Nice, right?
Thanks to my buddy, currently (appx.) 6,500 miles too far for me to kick in the shin, I am emotionally down and swigging vodka like it's Gatorade.
These are the nights I understand how women can eat themselves into an ice cream coma.
I'm going to refrain from typing past this line as my vision is starting to blur.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Saturday Night Special
So...I live in Flatbush. Caribbean capital of Brooklyn.
I love Brooklyn. I really do. So much so that I forget... I let every year pass by until late spring when, just at the moment when I'm nestling into my covers after getting home from an 8 hour shift at work and a 1.5 hour commute home on a Saturday night, that I remember.
It begins with the undercurrent of bass that you can feel through the floorboards.
Then, the random, nonsensical mutterings of a sweaty deejay with his mouth pressed into a microphone.
This is followed by the shouts of drunken, surely scantily clad hoodrats stumbling in the stilettos they purchased at Rainbow during their last expedition to Fulton mall.
It never fails.
I will not get a wink of sleep any weekend until after Labor Day.
Man, I hate Flatbush in the summer.
I love Brooklyn. I really do. So much so that I forget... I let every year pass by until late spring when, just at the moment when I'm nestling into my covers after getting home from an 8 hour shift at work and a 1.5 hour commute home on a Saturday night, that I remember.
It begins with the undercurrent of bass that you can feel through the floorboards.
Then, the random, nonsensical mutterings of a sweaty deejay with his mouth pressed into a microphone.
This is followed by the shouts of drunken, surely scantily clad hoodrats stumbling in the stilettos they purchased at Rainbow during their last expedition to Fulton mall.
It never fails.
I will not get a wink of sleep any weekend until after Labor Day.
Man, I hate Flatbush in the summer.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Bus-tled
In New York, the good majority of the working class take public transportation to and from work and/or recreational activities. Because of the extreme variety of types of persons, you will never be able to gauge who, at any given moment, will sit next to you on the train or bus.
Have you ever been on the bus, sitting in one of those double seats in the back, and then, all of a sudden...the entire bus shifts forward. You hear metal creaking, the people standing in the aisle ahead of you lean in towards the windows...
And then you see it out of the corner of your eye: The Big Girl.
This isn't a normal big girl. Big girls can be tastefully dressed in appropriately fitted clothing. They can walk around in shoes that don't cause the back of their heels to touch the bare ground. There don't need to be greasy potato chip crumbs on their tank top or the tattooed, bulging flesh teeming out of the top of said tank top.
But no.
This big girl, coral acrylic nails and all, had to be THAT big girl.
And, yes. She was eyeballing the empty seat directly next to mine.
It was like a bad western film. I glanced at her, she glanced at me, we both glanced at the empty seat beside me. We paused. All surveyors held their breath.
She took one creaky, unsure step forward and I recoiled as far as possible into the back corner of my seat. She rotated, grabbed the pole for balance and positioned her...uhm...'full' back side in line with the frame of the seat and hovered for a moment as the world waited. And then.....
The release of pressure for her as she sat down must have been the sweetest joy next to an orgasm but what she gained was taken directly from my own comfort. I cringed as my hip bone hit the hard, plastic side of the seat as her thigh rippled against me. But alas, I was not so bothered by the pain in my side as I was completely grossed out by the fact that her arm was touching mine.
If there is anything I CANNOT stand, it is hot, sweaty skin to skin contact.
The bad kind.
It is summer. In New York. You are a stranger with potato chip crumbs on your boob. I do not know where your arm has been.
Needless to say, I scrubbed my flesh as soon as I got into my house.
Have you ever been on the bus, sitting in one of those double seats in the back, and then, all of a sudden...the entire bus shifts forward. You hear metal creaking, the people standing in the aisle ahead of you lean in towards the windows...
And then you see it out of the corner of your eye: The Big Girl.
This isn't a normal big girl. Big girls can be tastefully dressed in appropriately fitted clothing. They can walk around in shoes that don't cause the back of their heels to touch the bare ground. There don't need to be greasy potato chip crumbs on their tank top or the tattooed, bulging flesh teeming out of the top of said tank top.
But no.
This big girl, coral acrylic nails and all, had to be THAT big girl.
And, yes. She was eyeballing the empty seat directly next to mine.
It was like a bad western film. I glanced at her, she glanced at me, we both glanced at the empty seat beside me. We paused. All surveyors held their breath.
She took one creaky, unsure step forward and I recoiled as far as possible into the back corner of my seat. She rotated, grabbed the pole for balance and positioned her...uhm...'full' back side in line with the frame of the seat and hovered for a moment as the world waited. And then.....
The release of pressure for her as she sat down must have been the sweetest joy next to an orgasm but what she gained was taken directly from my own comfort. I cringed as my hip bone hit the hard, plastic side of the seat as her thigh rippled against me. But alas, I was not so bothered by the pain in my side as I was completely grossed out by the fact that her arm was touching mine.
If there is anything I CANNOT stand, it is hot, sweaty skin to skin contact.
The bad kind.
It is summer. In New York. You are a stranger with potato chip crumbs on your boob. I do not know where your arm has been.
Needless to say, I scrubbed my flesh as soon as I got into my house.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Too Deep For The Intro
A few things I didn't mention in my previous entry...
I'm 26 years old. I'm from Brooklyn. Home of Sean Carter and Christopher Wallace (Insert "Where Brooklyn At?!" chant here). That commencement ceremony? Brooklyn College. Oh, and...I suck at life. Hopefully, only up until now.
I live at home. You might say that I have failed to launch but I like to believe that I'm two steps ahead of those adult children who flew the nest and had to return on wounded wing to a bedroom that was turned into a home gym - or worse - a scrapbooking room. I have no intentions of struggling to pay my third of the rent to bunk in a studio apartment with two room mates with unsanitary habits and questionable taste in sexual partners.
I've been socially inept for the majority of my life, so it's best that I don't expose my oddities to those who haven't already accepted me as a friend. It is only they who either understand or tolerate my counter-intuitive reactions to most situations. I'm the girl who laughs during funerals (only at the absurdity of others theatrical reactions, I swear) and wells up during comedy skits. I've tried to convince myself that I don't have some sort of multiple-personality disorder but, as of late, with the help of extra humid summer days and what feels like killer cases of PMS, I cant really stand by that. My personality has always been something that one could never put there finger on. Likely because I don't allow it. I barely react to most people when they speak to me unless it's to respond with a blatantly sarcastic response. As a matter of fact, my facial expression is permanently stuck on either an unimpressed "Really?" or a mildly annoyed "Are you serious?".
In life, I've masqueraded as disinterested, been entirely disillusioned and have grown to be generally disingenuous. It's gotten me nowhere. The only thing I've been sure of lately is that I'd like to be a writer.
I think.
I'm not exactly sure what that means or how it's applied to real-life but I intend to find out. I figure putting my thoughts down on paper (or keyboard) is either the best or the worst thing I can do.
So I'll give it a shot.
I'm 26 years old. I'm from Brooklyn. Home of Sean Carter and Christopher Wallace (Insert "Where Brooklyn At?!" chant here). That commencement ceremony? Brooklyn College. Oh, and...I suck at life. Hopefully, only up until now.
I live at home. You might say that I have failed to launch but I like to believe that I'm two steps ahead of those adult children who flew the nest and had to return on wounded wing to a bedroom that was turned into a home gym - or worse - a scrapbooking room. I have no intentions of struggling to pay my third of the rent to bunk in a studio apartment with two room mates with unsanitary habits and questionable taste in sexual partners.
I've been socially inept for the majority of my life, so it's best that I don't expose my oddities to those who haven't already accepted me as a friend. It is only they who either understand or tolerate my counter-intuitive reactions to most situations. I'm the girl who laughs during funerals (only at the absurdity of others theatrical reactions, I swear) and wells up during comedy skits. I've tried to convince myself that I don't have some sort of multiple-personality disorder but, as of late, with the help of extra humid summer days and what feels like killer cases of PMS, I cant really stand by that. My personality has always been something that one could never put there finger on. Likely because I don't allow it. I barely react to most people when they speak to me unless it's to respond with a blatantly sarcastic response. As a matter of fact, my facial expression is permanently stuck on either an unimpressed "Really?" or a mildly annoyed "Are you serious?".
In life, I've masqueraded as disinterested, been entirely disillusioned and have grown to be generally disingenuous. It's gotten me nowhere. The only thing I've been sure of lately is that I'd like to be a writer.
I think.
I'm not exactly sure what that means or how it's applied to real-life but I intend to find out. I figure putting my thoughts down on paper (or keyboard) is either the best or the worst thing I can do.
So I'll give it a shot.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Commencement
Today is the first day of the rest of my life.
No, Seriously.
Today, I graduated from college. I have a Bachelor's degree. According to optimists, it is my license to rule the world...or something like that.
Truth is....
The truth is that I am not ready.
I'm not ready to not have classes to go to, exams to study for, papers to write or projects to worry about.
I'm not ready for the reality.
I'm not ready to not need to enroll in classes in the fall or to not have to double-check with advisers to make sure I'm taking the courses I need in order to earn my degree.
I don't want to fill my days with mindless social engagements, fruitless job searches and endless feelings of uselessness.
What do I do now?
I've spent much of my life avoiding the inevitable. Tight-rope walking the line between the present and the possible. Wondering if I'm ready to be on my own in that vast expanse of darkness titled: The Real World.
So...Now what?
No, Seriously.
Today, I graduated from college. I have a Bachelor's degree. According to optimists, it is my license to rule the world...or something like that.
Truth is....
The truth is that I am not ready.
I'm not ready to not have classes to go to, exams to study for, papers to write or projects to worry about.
I'm not ready for the reality.
I'm not ready to not need to enroll in classes in the fall or to not have to double-check with advisers to make sure I'm taking the courses I need in order to earn my degree.
I don't want to fill my days with mindless social engagements, fruitless job searches and endless feelings of uselessness.
What do I do now?
I've spent much of my life avoiding the inevitable. Tight-rope walking the line between the present and the possible. Wondering if I'm ready to be on my own in that vast expanse of darkness titled: The Real World.
So...Now what?
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