Turn.

This is a short I wrote for a class about two hours before it was due.  



“Fuck”, Jane thinks.  “What am I doing?”  

Exhale; eyes cracked open Jane rolls to her left, cautiously gazing at the lump next to her. Her mind is a thunderstorm; cloudy with exhaustion from a poor night’s sleep and pounding with a headache from too much wine.  She drags her aching eyes to the clock that reads 6:00am.  She knows she has stayed too long  already.  Her ailing conscience, not yet dead but weak from years of abuse, attempts to push the consequences of last nights actions to the forefront of her mind.  Instinctively she shuts it down with the more pressing problem of locating her belongings.  She absentmindedly runs her fingers through her tousled hair.  As she does so, the mass of flesh next to her moves slightly and she flinches, beginning to scan the room more fervently.  Her annoyed gaze finally lands on her pants and purse.  Jane slowly, expertly, removes herself from the bed without waking it’s contents.  She quickly dresses herself, having mastered ‘the day after’ look years ago.  Turning to the full length mirror by the door, she wipes her smudged eyeliner back into place.  Once she is satisfied with the state of her face, she picks up her purse and looks at the rumpled duvet with the body heaped beneath it.  The whole night was a familiar haze. Another bed, another hangover.  


As she continues looking at the bed, her conscience, in one last dying spurt of adrenaline, throws a face across her minds eye.  John.  The guilt floods her so unexpectedly, its sudden presence rather than its catalyst, cause her to panic for a moment. 


“What am I doing?” she repeats to herself.  


Before remorse and horror set in, Jane quickly regains composure over her inner self.


“I am only doing what comes naturally.” she thinks.  “I have to right to live a free life, besides, this time I swear is the last time.”   


She knows she is outright lying to herself, but the lies feel so soothing she lets them in, and like an opiate they flood her with a false sense of calm.  She turns to the door thinking about her day ahead.  A quick stop home to shower and coffee is a must.  


“You used again last night, well the key here is to not let it happen again.” Jane sits on the overstuffed couch of the therapist’s office.  She feels swallowed up by the engorged piece of furniture, bloated by the absorption of inappropriate feelings and tears let loose in its room. Her therapist was treating her promiscuity as a drug addiction, a new age approach as it were.  Each of her sexual encounters was equated to shooting up dope by her therapist.  Jane thought this an incredibly chaste way to look at her problem and found it hard to see a parallel, but she allowed the good doctor to lecture on.  “So how are you and Jack doing?” The therapist asks.  


Jane feels this is a trick question, and she hesitates to answer it.  She picks at her normally well kept manicure and after tossing around cause and effect she answers, “Fine, all things considered.”   


Her answer is completely false.  Her relationship was in shambles.  Neither she, nor Jack, wanted to face the world alone so they clung to the corpse of romance inflating its dead lungs with therapy appointments and scheduled sex.  She understood that her problems with fidelity caused most of the pain, she wanted freedom but not the solitude that often comes with it.  Jack just wanted her.  It was his ‘ultimatum’  to visit with the doctor once a week or he would leave.  He gave her a way out and she instead withstood, the weekly, ignorant judgments of her therapist on things that a doctorate could not even begin to explain.  

She sincerely loved Jack.  This is fact, when Jane saw Jack her heart still fluttered and she could picture their life together.  She imagined their perfect children and how they would spend their golden years together and each vision gave her a sense of right.  It was this heart felt love that confused her because she had an insatiable appetite for men.  Whenever she saw a man on the street all she wanted to do was know him.  She wanted to understand the world at its most savage and vulnerable, and for the modern man, that state was only reached in bed.  Once she had conquered and understood another being, her thirst was quenched but only  momentarily and she was on to learn more.  These actions sat in direct conflict of what love was supposed to be.  How could she love a man and want to fuck another?  These were the burning questions she wanted to ask her therapist but didn’t for fear of not getting an answer.  The sessions were useless in her eyes.  She lied about half the time and the rest of the time she skillfully evaded giving a full or even relevant answers.  She was convinced that the way she lived was just before its time.  


After her therapist was finished haranguing her about the power of mind over body, Jane got into her car and started to drive home.  She pondered the closing argument of her therapist, the idea that her mind was stronger than her body.  This notion frightened her.  Jane knew that it was her mind that drove her to act the way she did.  The physicality was just a medium for the tactile information absorbed by her mind.  Her body was all that kept her sane.  Often times while driving Jane would get these sudden impulses to violently jerk the wheel of her car and send it purposely flying off the road.  She wanted to understand the rush of making rash decision, the exhilaration before impact, it was all very romantic and sensual to her.  It was her body’s registration of pain that stopped her each time from turning the wheel.  If what her therapist said was true, her mind would overpower her body, it was a matter of time.  Jane looked at the road in front of her, her eyes coming back into focus from her musings.  She suddenly realized with a shock she was lost.  Instead of reaching for a map, or a phone she drove on, faster and faster.  As the road opened up before her she understood that she had long let her mind decide what she did, not her body, it was her body that was holding her back.  She held the wheel steady, her speed increasing, and then suddenly without a decipherable reason she turned the wheel.  



TheEnd.

Sister Sister

I’ve posted this story a million times, but it really defines my childhood with my sister, so here it is again. Enjoy.


They say that there exist only two things in life that are certain: death, and taxes.  Death may be unavoidable, but if taxes were inevitable than we would have no need for IRS audits.  I believe that in life the two unwavering facts are as thus: no one outdoes death, and that if you have a sibling you will fight with it at least once before dying.  I have met families that brag about how great their children get along or how their two boys are the best of friends and all I can think to myself is “yes, for now they’re best playground buddies, but introduce hormones, boobs and booze, then tell me they’re not at each other’s throats like rabid dogs.”  My younger sister and I had a relationship that was defined only by our fighting.  
People always said we would grow out of it.  “Oh give it a few years and you guys will be the best of friends!” Her and I would both scoff, look away and five minutes later be beating each other senseless.  I had two other younger siblings to fight with but my younger sister, Nina, and I had a special bond that could never be civil.  We barely seamed related.  When we were old enough to understand infidelity to a point, I would refer to her as “the milkman baby”, in an effort to convince her we were not related by full blood.  She was a tall, wiry, blonde with a big dopey grin and bright eyes to match, that made her irresistible to child loving adults.  She was energetic and loud in everything she did, spastic as I would say.  I was a short, brunette who was afraid of her own shadow.  I was quiet, painfully shy and my defensive, rude nature did not help my big ears and constantly miserable expression.  
Nina and I had some pretty epic fights over the course of our childhood. I broke her arm by telling her if she tied pillows to her appendages and jumped off the bed she could fly.  I gave her two staples in her skull when I informed her of “the pushing game”, where we stood on the bed, jumping up and down, until I shoved her.  If she didn’t fall off the bed, she won. I taught her to play tag by ‘tagging’ her with the metal ladder of our bunk bed.  My torture was not entirely brutish; as shown by my milkman comments, I was well versed in psychological warfare.  
At one time I insisted that the birthmarks on her body were because my parents spilt coffee on her as a child and did not love her enough to clean it.  This caused her only momentary distress, by this point in our lives neither of us trusted a single word the other said.  I knew to get at her I would have to revamp my game.  One day I walked into our shared bedroom, a common battleground, to find her sticking a temporary Barbie tattoo to her stomach.  I immediately gasped and said “Nina! you better get those off your body now before they become permanent!” At first, she was wary but I could sense the growing worry in her eyes so I kept pushing.  I told her our parents would be unimaginably angry at her if she had tattoos. After a good three minutes of my needling her, she cracked and panicked.  She started viciously and relentlessly scratching it tattoo off her body like a sick animal.  I was in my glory!  This was way better than the classic “stop hitting yourself”; I didn’t even have to touch her!  When she started to bleed a decent amount she ran screaming and apologizing to our mother.  To this day she has the scar on her stomach. 

Mood Music: Break Ups

The irony that my last post was about sex music is not lost on me.
Although, given that it is me writing this blog, it is not really all that ironic.
Breakin’ Up by Rilo Kiley
This song puts a realist, and somewhat optimistic, spin on the feeling of heartbreak.

I Know It’s Over by The Smiths
Read the title. No explanation needed.
Slow Dancing in a Burning Room by John Mayer
I am not a huge John Mayer fan, but this song will break your soul even if you’re happily coupled. 
Katy Song by Red House Painters
“Glass on the pavement under my shoe, without you, is all my life amounts to.” 
Possibility by Lykke Li
This song is featured in New Moon (DON’T YOU FUCKING JUDGE ME) when Edward Breaks up with Bella.
Side Note: New Moon is the best break up movie ever.  
Crown of Love by Arcade Fire
This is a good song if you’re the reason things went to hell. Story of my life  
I Signed the Line by A Camp
This song is appropriate if you were the one who broke it off.

Mood Music: sex

Four Days Straight by Scattered Trees

This song kills me a little inside; so sad.
My best friend says it is the sexiest song around so I am putting it on the list.

Low Five by Sneaker Pimps
This song is a bit sadistic sounding, but if you’re into that it’s pretty fantastic mood music.
Be Here Now by Mason Jennings
This is the most loving song.
It was mine and my exes “song.” 
Half Life by Sneaker Pimps
To be honest, this whole album (Splinter) is pretty hot.
Naked but Safe by IAMX
Read the title.

Bodies and Minds by Great Lake Swimmers
This song has a great feel to it, but the song Your Rocky Spine is another spectacular choice. 
Find it below.

Intimacy is for lovers, not people who fuck.

This morning I called one of my exes. The reason for the call is irrelevant to this post.

As we were talking, he says to me, “You have an amazing ability to shatter people. You make them feel like a million dollars and then the next day they are nothing. There is no grey area with you.”
I think deep down I have always known this to be true, but I had never had anyone articulate it out loud to me before.

The signs are pretty obvious that I suffer from an inability to locate middle ground.

I only keep two, maybe three people, who I refer to as friends and I find that I do not have time for superfluous relationships with people. If I am going to be your friend, I am going to be a close one, otherwise what is the point? I have no problem going out by myself and I see no need for “accessory” friends, who are worn around like designer neon signs that flash, “I’m not alone!”

In terms of dating I get very frustrated. If I am just looking for sex, I do not want to wine and dine you or get to know you.  I want to screw and screw.

Intimacy is for lovers, not people who fuck. 

I get very aggravated with people who create grey area by not being consistent. For me, if you show interest and we get together and the next day you do not contact me, I will delete your number out of my phone and move on to the next. 

I dislike wasting my time on the unnecessary.

This all sounds terribly pessimistic, but it is actually very liberating.
When you stop worrying about acquiring people, and being well liked, you start to only surround yourself with those who know the real you.
People you can be yourself with.

This is living a life uninhibited.

My challenge to myself and to everyone is:
Fuck like you will never see that person again, no holding back.
Only keep people around you who are worth your time.
Act like you from the start, because why invest time in someone who will later hate you?
Take yourself out to eat, ALONE.
Learn to love solitude.
Once you know that you can take care of yourself, people become pleasurable, like a vacation, rather than a necessity, like an oil change.

Let’s face it, who would prefer to sit at AutoZone for forty minutes getting their jalopy cleaned out, when they could be laying on a nude beach in France?

Heart for Heart.

Karma has finally caught up to me. 

My suspicions rose first at the beginning of June 2012 when I was unceremoniously dumped by my significant other, of almost four years, over the telephone.  
Then, when a close friend and I became closer my fears that the reaper of good luck was on my tail dissipated; that is, until things went south and he went nuts.  
He’s the second boy who has “dated” me and then gone into a mental institution.
Things were quiet for a bit and I met someone in December that I became quite fond of.
Finally though, because you cannot avoid fate, in January things went to hell. A few weeks after Boy December ruined my self esteem, two of my exes, in succession, attempted to blackmail me. Now, fast forward to present day March and I have been the victim of a one night stand. 
I kind of knew it would never progress far.
I mean, he didn’t own books; it was a lost cause as soon as I found that out, but one night was a bit sudden.
So a few days after the deed, here I am: Sitting in Starbucks, sending one last text that will go unanswered, listening to “God Only Knows” and ruminating on my past actions. 
I will say a few things. 
Yes I’ve cheated and that is not ok.
However, as I have grown up I try to operate as transparently as possibly.
If we are hooking up, I’m clear about that.
I’m clear about one night stands, about fidelity and about feelings.
I never give false impressions if I can help it and I never pretend to be better than I am.
It’s actually one of my biggest peeves, when people act better than they are or disguise a cheap action with seemingly thoughtful gestures.
If you’re going to be shitty, own up to your actions.
I always figured that Karma would come to me in the form of a violent death. It’s fitting for the amount of hearts I have broken in my past.
Unfortunately, I think that my penance is to have my insides bruised and broken in the same way I inflicted on others.
A heart for a heart.
Cue my itunes to play “Instant Karma.”

Viva Tequila

My Tuesday nights are your Friday nights.

I knew the evening was going downhill when we (my best friend and I) started it off around 4pm with a Scorpion Bowl and a pitcher of Margaritas at Shanghai, on Thayer Street.
I’m not going to give all the details, but the night progressed into sitting in an alleyway for an hour, breaking into a strip club, the releasing of bodily fluids in a parking lot, and four bottles and wine glass being violently hurled out a second story window.
There is also an amazing Gangnam Style video that was shot on a bed. 

Starting your night with tequila is not always the way to go.

HOWEVER, you know what you should start your night with? Sex.

I’m an advocate for working those nitty gritty, carnal urges out of one’s system before getting to know another person better.
Maybe I am damaged, but I find it extremely hard to concentrate on what a person is saying when I’m slowly undressing them with my mind.

Most people would equate this to a need to feel loved.
That is false.

The absolute LAST thing I need from a man is love.
I have a huge family, an amazing best friend and a slew of very cool people I surround myself with, that love me.
I do not need for a male to hold me, adore me, and tell me I am beautiful.
When I am laying naked in your bed and I have no idea what your name is, I would bet that you probably find me attractive.

What I do need from a guy is sex, good sex.

Believe it or not, females enjoy copulation and desire it just as much as men.
Unfortunately, if I girl “sluts it up” she is seen as damaged goods, where a boy who bangs anything with two legs is a god.
It’s bullshit.

This revelation is not new to me, but I started thinking about it while I was in my drunken stupor at The Foxy Lady.
The men in that establishment, I could hear them talking about the dancers; demeaning and demoralizing them.
The irony? These women were more powerful than all those suited up dicks combined.
Strippers use their usually natural assets, to con these pathetic patrons out of their hard earned money. Most of the girls do not even dance! Seriously, it is impossible to find a real pole dancer anymore. Nowadays they just rub their bums, gyrate a bit, and these morons, who slave away nine to five, fork over hundreds of dollars to a girl who is just getting some light cardio in!

It’s brilliant.

I think men demoralize women’s sexuality because they realize, one smooth talking set of tits can derail them entirely.

In conclusion, from this post you should have learned that tequila (in excess) leads to bad decisions, that lead to deep thoughts, that lead to revelations on your sexual habits.

Viva Tequila.

Who ARE you!?

As a stipulation to my internship I am required to complete certain journal entries to get school credit for my work experience. The topics are preset and are usually something related to marketing your experience to get a career.
However, this week the prompt was to answer the question, “Tell me about yourself?”

My whole journal was bullshit, and I hate writing things that makes me appear better than I am.  I am honest, or I try to be as honest as I can be, and to sell myself out on such a stupid question killed a small chunk of my soul.
When I write, I never write with the intention of being “good”. I write because I have chaos and insanity inside my brain that won’t stop until I put it down on paper.
I loath when people write something and market it as the next great American novel.
Go ahead and write; write anything, but do not be pretentious enough to explain your “art” or to make it better than it is.
Some asshole I know told me that his art has no meaning; that he just takes pictures (he’s a photographer) because he likes the way something looks.
His work is phenomenal, and I am not the biggest fan of his personal character so you can trust that my opinion is unbiased.
I find that when you create with a set goal and strictly defined boundaries, whatever you produce is not really you.
What is worse is when you pretend that what you have created is better than it is.
Own up to your work, even if it’s shit, but do not spray paint your pile of literary crap gold and expect people to rush towards it.

Digressing, the following is what I would have written in response to that question if potential employers really wanted to know who I am.

“Tell me about yourself”

Me?
Well, I am short and curvy. I wear glasses and I never wake up and “do” my hair.
If you’re looking for someone who does their hair, I’m not right for this job.
I like to eat out a lot, mostly because I cannot cook to save my life. It’s hereditary I think, because my mother cannot cook either. Therefore, it would be discriminatory for you to judge me by a genetic defect.
I love the rain. It has all the peace of snow, without the long term commitment of an altered environment. Take from that what you will.
To be honest with you, I drink a lot. I would not say I am an alcoholic, although I’m sure if I was one I would be the last to know. It has never effected my work, but if you see me out on a Friday night, try not to judge me too harshly.
I write often and that is why I want this job.
I read somewhere that there are two kinds of artists. The kind of people who make art just for the sake of it and the kind of people who have no choice but to make art. I am most certainly the latter.
Sometimes I think my head will completely blow off if I do not relieve the pressure inside of it created by billions of words floating around and bashing into the sides of my skull.

Do not get me wrong, I do not think that I am anything special, or that my writing is moving or prophetic in any way, I just know that it comes naturally.
Am I perfect for this job? Statistics say, probably not. There will always be someone smarter or better suited for anything one tries to do in life. However, statistics also say your chances of finding that person who is the best, are slim to none.

You should hire me because I’ll do my job and I will do it well. I have had so many shitty jobs where not only was I constantly pissed on day in and day out, I hated what I did and all the people I interacted with, and I still managed to do good work under those conditions.
Hire me because I want this job.
Fuck! I’ll do it for half the pay!
Consider hiring me as an act of good karma. Yes, I just bribed you with good karma.
Just please give me the opportunity to have a job that makes me happy.
In short, pun intended, I have no intention of selling you a fake version of myself. I am capable, honest, (who wouldn’t want those qualities in an employee?) and adaptable. I’m sure, if given the opportunity, I would be a good fit for the available position.