Eating dirt
is not so bad
if you close your eyes and
pinch your nose
curl your toes
let your ego go
blow it away
but not the candle
keep that lit
for when the power goes out
the room won’t be dark
buttery blossomed flowers
who line the room
will be shown clearly
by the glowing candlestick
you watch as you sit back
feet in the air
head in the ground
shoelace untied
you taste the dirt
but just a little

​As the little boy next to me fed the ducks stale bread, I dreamt of what it would be like to break his
nose. I would use a fist, just like my father had taught me, and I’d bend my elbow before forcing my
palm up and into his nose. Blood would be everywhere, and I’d say, “Bread kills, little boy. Bread kills the ducks.” He’d be crying so hard he wouldn’t be able to hear me so I’d grab him by my collar – why was he wearing a collar on a dreadful summer day anyway – and I’d bring his ears right up to my lips. “Bread. kills,” I would say, but this time he would hear it, and this time he would stop crying. “Do you
understand?” I’d ask, but I would already know how well he understood me. I’d set him down and nod so that he could run back to his mother and maybe cry some more. She would be scared of me and of what I had done, and she would rush away with her child. But the boy would explain. The boy would warn her to never give him bread ever again to take to the pond. Because if people shouldn’t eat stale bread, then neither should the ducks.

My daydream came to an abrupt end as the little boy walked over to me with a genuine smile on his
face. Was he about to break my nose? Did he think I was in the wrong?

“Here.”

I took the bread. I stood with the little boy and we threw pieces of stale bread at the ducks. Eventually, I put my hair up in a bun and walked away.

Who is the person you want to be?
the shiny one the fat one
singing in the night flying through the forest
the sun dried toes with the apricot tongue
mildew nose with a 3-year-old son
pretty plump pink & purple
lime juice blood with a smile that swirls
down the drain around the corner
through the wall and off the ledge
free falling daintily while taking up space
weirdly quick but at an appropriate pace
Who do you want to be?
Who do you want to be?
Who do you want to be?
it’s under your arm i think

​

​The story was supposed to be clever because the raccoon was somehow a symbol for a trans woman, but it didn’t make sense to me. If they wanted to write about a trans woman, why did she have to be a raccoon. A raccoon doesn’t seem like a trans woman at all. For starters, they’re nocturnal. 

I hate when grandma reads anything to me. I know I’m supposed to respect my elders, but how can you respect someone when you can’t find anything to respect. Respect her for telling me “I love” then not being able to finish the sentence? I can’t respect that. Fine if she doesn’t love me, you can’t force that, but why attempt to say a false sentence when you know it’s not true. My brother says it’s better than lying, but it’s not. That’s such a brother thing to say. Brothers always defend their grandma but don’t give a damn about their sister. Or that turtle. He killed Loretta when we were 13 because he “thought the shell was indestructible.”

“I love….”


She could have at least finished the sentence. “I love…fish & chips.” Then I could have responded. I could have said “wow, good for you granny.” And we could have moved on from there and talked about the humidity, and how I was drenched sitting on that splintery chair on her Arizona porch.  But instead, I had to sit there for half an hour wondering if she was having a stroke. I had to tell my mom “Either granny is having a stroke, or she doesn’t love me.” A terrible thing to tell your mother. Because she assumes the worst - stroke, and once that is quickly eliminated, then she feels bad for me. But she loves me. It’s granny who should feel bad.


She never finishes the raccoon story. She gets to the part where the raccoon enters a beauty pageant and then tells us it’s time for bed. I’m 29, but in granny’s house I’m eternally 7.


She never finishes anything. She came out as a lesbian in 1980 then 2 weeks later said “just kidding” and tried to get back with my grandpa. 2 weeks, 2 families ruined. The woman she was sleeping with was named Bíle and moved to Chile because she ‘felt a connection to the warm climate over there.’ I highly doubt that was true, but I had no way to prove her wrong. I nearly dropped out of college trying to. 10 years after that, she shot my grandpa because she said he forced her to stay together. She shot him in the head, and he survived, now living in a hospital unable to speak. She can’t finish anything.


My friend Laurie laughed when I first told her I hate my grandma. “Nobody hates grandmas.” When I heard those words I nearly fainted. I faint when I get angry, which my mom says is because I'm emotionally intelligent, but my doctor says I should get an MRI of my brain. My mom’s a doctor so it cancels out, and I just try to exercise a few times a week.

“Do you want to get Salami or not.”


My brother was glaring at me from the hallway. He has the worst posture I’ve ever seen. When people meet him for the first time, they think it’s a joke. But then they feel bad because they realize he must have a serious medical condition, but the reality is he just slouches way way too much. He’s also the only blond-haired person in our entire family, and by far the ugliest.


“I’d rather drown.”


I don’t know if I really would, but I said it anyway. It shut him up. The fact that the most popular restaurant in our town is called “Salami” makes me feel like the world has given up. 

“Your grandma wants to talk to you.”

My mom was calling out from who knows where. I had talked to granny on my own damn phone earlier today, but apparently she doesn’t remember. She doesn’t even have dimentia, she’s just fucking forgetful.


“I’m on the other line” I screamed back. I couldn’t bear to talk to granny again. I couldn’t bear talking to anyone. It’s exhausting speaking to people who don’t really know you.

I have these urges to kill when I get angry, which not enough people relate to. I’ve stopped bringing it up. 

I will never understand how my mom forgave her mom. She’s technically both a murderer and a bad lesbian. I don’t know which is worse.


“We’re not going to Salami.”  My brother was back in my room.
“Salmon on rye?”
“Can you get the garlic?” He called me by my old name and slammed the door.

I walk outside to head to the grocery store, and I throw the first rock I find at someone's front door. Someone inside screams. 

People say anger is just a shield for sadness.  I suppose I'm sad. I'm sad that the only person who loves me is broken and repressed. And I'm worried that I will be the same. I don’t think my mom was always repressed. She seemed to have a good life before me. I worry that my existence is tied too much together with my dad leaving us. I’m worried that’s a single memory, and that’s the memory she clings onto above anything else. Even when I wear lipstick and beautiful 14 karat-gold earrings I think she still looks at me and sees Dad.


But I don’t think that’s why I throw rocks at people's windows. That feels personal.
Maybe it’s because I'm part of a family in the first place - and I want out. I feel trapped when I’m around them because I try to connect and show up as myself, but it never lasts. I say my mom loves me because she tells me that, but she’s not being honest. She says she enjoys being around me, but I’ve never seen her smile. I can’t connect with people who have perfect teeth, yet still find a way to lie through the gums.

My friends’ friend is an orphan and always tells me I’m so lucky to have a mom and should never forget that. I stopped seeing her because I don’t talk to people who repeat themselves. If I die today, hopefully someone remembers that about me. 
26. Dead. Didn’t put up with repetition.
I always think of my obituary as a headline. It’s more honest than a paragraph. A paragraph creates a story, a fairy tale, so people think they knew the dead person or relatives can think they remember them. But a headline is a statement, of what actually was. 
35. Dead. Couldn’t jump far enough. 


“Excuse me, I can’t reach the jelly.”
Before I could gag at the word jelly, the man sneezed on my arm. I was only six inches taller, but reached for the jelly and went to hand it to him. 
He didn’t say thank you, not that I care. I actually did care because I did want to stop saying thank you and it felt like he beat me to it. I thank everything that happens in the day. I thank people for opening doors for me, I thank friends for calling me. I thank strangers for giving me wrong directions. But I’m hardly thankful for anything. 
A few years ago, I told my mom something that I didn’t expect I would ever share with anyone. She listened. She really listened. That was the only time I was thankful.




Everything at the grocery store catches my eye. 
The brightness of the yellow bananas, the stemlike aura around the fresh vegetables, the hard, ugly light that hits the 20 different cheeses, the clunky texture of the large loaves of bread, the lies on the cracker boxes, the liars who read them. 
I grabbed a box of crackers that said “best crackers in Kentucky.” I couldn’t even picture Kentucky on a map. Maybe I’m dumber than I think.


I put 3 cartons of eggs in my basket - 2 for my family, 1 for me to throw at someone. I got bell peppers so I could eat them, tomatoes so I could step on them, and carrots so I could play with them.
Beep…beep…beep…
The grocery scanner sounded like a dying robot who just won’t die. I placed every item on the treadmill and felt a shock in my chest as I put down a jar of jelly. Maybe that’s why he didn’t say thank you. 
Right as the cashier was about to tell me the amount of money I didn't have, I yelled
“Garlic!”
I always remember what I need when it counts. I ran back to the aisle by the peppers and grabbed some garlic. 

That’s when I found the letter. 

It was a small envelope and extremely damaged - probably due to a fire because it smelled burnt. Stunned, my heart skipped a beat in the literal sense. There were 5 stamps on the envelope, and through the burns I could make out that it was addressed to me. 
Goulda Sheraton
33 Pen Lane
I looked to the left, which made me wonder if I was actually supposed to be left handed. People were walking up and down the aisles, but I felt alone.


I touched the letter and felt another shock in my heart. Was I being electrocuted? Or was it heartburn? Or a collapsed lung? That must be more painful than this. When I picked up the letter, I saw 2 neon-red eyes looking at me. I jumped back and hit my head on a head of lettuce. The red eyes were gone. I knew I was seeing things, but we’re always seeing things. Who’s to say what’s really there.


I walked out the grocery store clutching the letter in one hand, the garlic in the other. 

I could feel my whole body trembling as I walked, vibrating like a bumble bee. I thought the world might take me to the clouds and I’d float away. What was up there above the clouds? Squinting really hard, I could smell space despite never getting anywhere close to leaving the atmosphere. I could smell the stars and smell the planets, and it smelled refreshing yet claustrophobic. Promising, yet daunting. I took the fast way home, which I never do.


“You get the garlic? My girlfriend’s coming over in a minute.”


I chucked him the garlic and went straight to my room. I put the letter under my pillow and lie down on the floor. The hardwood floor cooled my burning body. The fire that burned the letter was now burning me. I imagined my room flooding, the bed rising to the ceiling, now a bunk bed. My heart was beating like a cartoon. 
I kept seeing those scarlet, red eyes. Did I really see them? They were a mix between shiny marbles and Rudolph’s glowing nose, and yet they felt familiar, the way you can look at a cat or a dog and it can remind you of a friend. They were wise, kind eyes. Not intimidating, but eyes that wanted to speak to me before it was too late.


My mom came in to tell me something but I couldn’t hear her. She then yelled to my brother about getting the mail. She walked out, annoyed with my unresponsiveness and 30 seconds later my brother threw a National Geographic magazine on my flat chest. 
“What the HELL”
“I bet you get turned on by animals.”
What a mature thing to say. I recall I had ordered this magazine as a gift for someone, but I couldn’t remember who.


I never told my mom or brother that I was transitioning. Every time I tell myself  “now is the time,” the next thing I know it’s the 4th of July, and the fireworks are so loud everyone forgets about gay people. And they act like trans people never existed. Not that they care in June but at least it's a discussion.
“Lotta gay people at dinner tonight.”  That’s always nice.
I’ve been taking estrogen for two months and can already see my skin getting thinner. I’ve always acted and dressed feminine, but I feel like they would notice a bigger change by now. But nobody in my town notices anything. The second they meet you, they’ve cataloged their assumptions for life. Nobody I meet really wants to get to know me either because they’re scared that the assumptions will break apart. And no one, not even my mom, can bare being wrong.


It’s like my grandma’s story. The raccoon isn’t a symbol for trans people. It’s a symbol for this town. In the story, the raccoon enters the beauty pageant because the raccoons’ friends (which are all chickens btw) tell the raccoon the only way for it to be happy is to win the beauty pageant. The raccoon wins the beauty pageant and has a surge of confidence, then starts judging all the chickens because they’ve never won a beauty contest.


My town is the raccoon. Everyone loves awards and LinkedIn profiles. That’s all anyone sees. That is all they can fathom. People still talk about Dr. Jose Cuervo and what an incredible man he was - He was not a doctor, nor a person, but a fake LinkedIn profile I made when I was 12 to prove a point to myself. A decade later I told everyone that it was me and I had the login to prove it, but nobody believed me. They won’t get to know their own friends, but they’ll boast about the raccoon who won a pageant.

--


The burn marks on the letter were so fresh I was afraid my pillow might light on fire. I wanted to keep lying on the floor but there’s no water in my room, so it felt risky. I make a mental note to keep water in my room at all times. The handwriting on the letter looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place it. It reminded me of my own. I carefully opened the envelope and found a business card inside. It was white and glossy and in black font said check the mail, gouda. I hate when people call me a cheese. 
I flipped through the National Geographic and another business card dropped out. I wondered why a woman with a paint brush was on the cover. It was supposed to be about nature. 

The new business card just said story time.

Shaking again, I grabbed both my legs to calm them down. I looked to my left again, and no one was there. A squirrel was there, but animals don’t count. It wasn’t in my room I mean, it was beyond my window in the yard. It started walking towards me and then its dark eyes turned bright red, then before I knew it, it shot up into the sky. 
I lunged towards the patch of grass where the squirrel stood just moments before, forgetting that I had to pass through a panel of glass.


“My girlfriend’s here!”


Writhing in pain, I watched the blond 18-year-old stare down at me, while he called my mom to take me to the hospital.
The hospital is always a blur. People who say they can describe a hospital are mentally ill or currently still in a hospital. Or both. 
The second you leave a hospital, parts of your memory fail. It’s like the hospital doesn’t want you to tell your story. Everything about these places urge you not to remember.  When I got my tonsils taken out when I was 7, all I remember is them putting a mask on my face to breathe in something that would make me forget everything. I remember breathing into that mask then feeling my brain power off. 
The next time I went to the hospital was two years later when my uncle died. I loved my uncle, and I loved his hospital room, but I can’t picture it at all. There was a painting on the wall that my mom says I was obsessed with, but I can’t even recall what color paints were used. It might've been a bright green horse or maybe it was a sunset. I really don’t know.   When I was 15, I broke both of my legs after I told Jeremy Honkwin that if he pushed me down the stairs he wouldn’t get in trouble. It took me 6 weeks before I could walk again. Jeremy got expelled. I don’t even remember what hospital that was. 
This time, I really tried to soak everything in so that I could remember. And by trying to remember the current moment, I remembered other things. I remembered that I stole a scratch off ticket when I was little and still have that in my bedroom, unscratched. I remembered that every time I was in a hospital I thought it would be my last.


Shards of glass were in every part of my body. On my hands, I couldn’t tell what my fingernails were and what was glass. Little clear scraps invaded my entire body. I was bleeding everywhere and I could feel the squirrel with the red eyes watching me. In my head I kept hearing the squirrel say “I told you so, I told you so.”
The squirrel sounded like my dad, but I didn’t know what my dad sounded like. But it definitely was. 
The nurse looked me in the eyes and told me that I would be okay.
Whispering filled the room with stories of me trying to end my life, and I knew I would never bother explaining the truth of what I saw and the urge that led me to it.


Someone put a mask around my head, and I tried to fight it mentally, but not physically. Before anything else happened I requested the nurse give me the pills from my pocket, and she helped me swallow despite not asking any questions. I wasn’t fishing for a question, but my whole body was changing and no one was asking me anything.

I looked at the tv in the corner of the room and saw a headline read “idiot 20-something, still living with parents, crashes out of window in search of me.”  It felt like my obituary but it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t the truth. And just as I was about to die, they showed the replay of me jumping through the window, and the red-eyed squirrel flying through the sky. 



*
*
*


When I awoke, I was not dead. It took about 90 seconds to confirm.  I always need 5 seconds after waking up to confirm I’m alive. But this one required more evidence. It was dead silent and the room was empty when I woke, so I thought maybe I'm alive, but there’s zombies now. Then 30 seconds later I heard a doctor’s voice, which I thought could be an angel. Then I saw my ugly brother walk in and knew the universe wouldn’t torture me with him if I had gone. 
“Looking good,” he said. 
“Have you ever seen a squirrel jump up to the sky?”
“Um, no. But I have heard a boy jump through glass.”
I closed my eyes hoping maybe I could die in that moment and transport elsewhere. Ideally where there’s unicorns or even just corn on the cob. 
I heard my grandma laughing at me, and I kept seeing giant stop signs when I closed my eyes. Hundreds of stop signs planted on the streets and lawns and everywhere in between. 
Laughing and stop signs. 
It felt like the whole world wanted me to stop transitioning. Even though I knew it was just three people, those people feel like the world when they’re all you have.


The nurse came back to my room to tell me she had good news. I prayed she wouldn’t say something stupid like “if your nose was 3 inches bigger you would’ve died. Thank god you don’t have a big nose,”  and then took my temperature. 
She didn’t.
“Both your arms are fractured, and you have a mild concussion, but other than that you’re going to be just fine.”
I wondered if that’s how she spoke to all her patients. 
“You’re paralyzed from the waist down, but other than that you’re going to be just fine.”
I held out my hand and she shook it, and I started sweating thinking I just sold away my family in a shady business deal.


Three weeks later I stood in the backyard trying to throw a baseball at my brother while he picked out the weeds in our yard.


He said something about how if I keep this up, I’ll spend my life alternating between hospitals and jails. Sounds like an adventure to me. As he bent over pulling as hard as he could on a leafy green, I wondered if I could tell him who I really was. If I could share who I am and what I think and what I dream, and If I could really explain what I saw at the grocery store and have him listen to me like mom did that one time. I wondered if there was anyone in the world who knew how to listen with both ears or if people only have it in them to listen once in a lifetime. I wondered if I had already used my one listen, or if it was still to come. Who would I listen to? Would it be my mom because she listened to me? Would I be like her and betray the person I listen to by blabbing about what I heard with everyone I know? Would I meet someone who loves me and I try hard to understand them? Would it be wasted on my ugly brother?


My brother always had ear infections which maybe affected his listening. Maybe not, but it couldn’t have helped. He's been with this girlfriend for 3 years now and I don’t know her name. It’s like Shiela or Mary Anne or something but I really don’t know. She comes over for dinner once a week and I don’t think I’ve heard a word she’s said. She’s like a doll in my mind. Anyone outside of my family looks like a doll. They don’t feel real. I know I can be selfish, but I don’t want to think that the world revolves around my family. I started volunteering at a soup kitchen in college, but that made me feel like an even worse person. Because part of my intent was to help people, but not only for the sake of helping them, but also because it was good. Not that I know what ‘good’ means, and that’s part of the problem. Because I let someone else define good for me, and I let the world define soup kitchens, and I didn’t listen to anyone who’s actually coming for the soup. I've never stood in line for soup. Everyone hates butternut squash, but that’s the one soup I'd stand in line for. I’d wait a good 3 hours in the summer sun to get that soup. Only if it was good, and guaranteed good. Ice cream is guaranteed good. I've never had a bad ice cream. I suppose there’s no such thing as a guarantee, only a lucky pattern, so far. There’s a lot of lucky patterns. Like how there’s always 7 days in a week. So far. Money is used to buy things. So far. I always wake up in the morning. So far.


But there’s no guarantees about my family. How family equals good. Which maybe is why I want to get away. Someone promised me that family was a guarantee. A guarantee positive. Maybe it was the universe, or a doctor, or a god, or those glowing red eyes. Someone told me, and they glued it inside the back of my brain so I can never let it go. But I live with my family, and there’s never a guarantee. I don’t feel loved half the time. I don’t feel anything most the time. I don’t know who these people even are sometimes. I start to judge them - my mom and my brother, but then I try to remember if I’m angry, I'm probably just sad. It’s probably just my own personal problem. I want love on specific terms, and those terms aren’t being met. But why does my life always have to be a contract. Why should anyone love on terms? Because we all love differently blah blah bla. But I was promised that love is the same. That’s what family is right? The same kind of love? Family is a group of 2 or more people who share the same love? That’s what family is right?



Right as my brother yanked out the weed, I heard my mother drop the phone and scream.




***




At the funeral, a 7-year-old boy gave a sort of mini- eulogy. Nobody questioned it, and I was part of nobody. We all listened intently. Those of us who hadn’t before.


“I called her granny. Because she was a granny. I don’t know her real name, that’s just what she told me to call her. My mom told me it’s because she’s wise. I would go over to um see her. Every Friday. Er. Thursday - after school. She would read to me. But not really. She did. But it was stories that um…she made. She wrote. Um she called it story time. There was no book, she just told me the story. She talked about how she didn’t really like stories about animals because she preferred people. I thought that was nice even though I love Sonya…my cat….but it made me think I think. Er….I like the way she told stories about people. But on the day that she…died, um….She. She told me a story about an animal. An how it had big red eyes that glowed, and that were kind of unsettling. And I didn’t like this story and I asked her to stop, but she said it had a good ending. And the ending was that the animal with the red eyes um flew up into the sky and was never seen again. But it still lived somewhere. Just not somewhere people could find….a few minutes later I thought she was asleep. But she wasn’t snoring like usual. So I called my mom. And when my mom came to see us, she cried. I cried too and um I don’t or I didn’t know why. But I think she wanted to go to the sky.... But she didn’t fly. 

The boy looked like he had more to say, and he opened his mouth to say more, but got distracted by something in the distance. He walked away and stood by his mom who hugged him so tightly I started to cry.

No one was sure what the next step was so for a few moments, we all faced granny and no one said a word. A bird made a noise in the distance and a skittish raccoon trotted across my grandmother's grave. It had a sash around its back. 

I couldn’t see its eyes, but I saw it smile.





​
---------------------------------------
​This story was originally published in WATER THE SUN

The morning air
I nearly forgot
I did
Busy with lights and sound
Carried away from the water
The breeze lured me back

Hello hello. I am letting you know that I will probably not be publishing new short stories here for the next several months because I will be more focused on some longer projects including:

--Feature Film Mechanical Bulls--i co-wrote it last year, directed it this summer, and now am currently editing it, will submit to festivals and host screenings in NYC TBA 2023 hopefully

--Live Shows--I am working on a new hour-long stand up show--see where I'll be performing next HERE. You can also follow me on Instagram where I'll post short clips from live sets and last minute show updates...and 2023 dates for my other shows will be announced soon on ig and mailing list

2025 EDIT: Watch Mechanical Bulls HERE and watch my standup special HERE
thank you!!!

Knowing myself, I will end up not following this and will continue to write new stories and poems here. But in the meantime, subscribe to my email bomb for more immediate updates if you'd like. I'm working on some other scripts and longer-term projects and such, but you probably don't care about that. Well who knows, idk who you are. And thanks so much for reading and watching my stuff.

If you'd like to buy a painting or framed drawing, send me an email.

​
​Peace.

“But what if the earth is flat.” 
​
​I had never heard this much emotion in her voice our entire relationship.

“It’s not flat, that’s been proven,” I said as if I were adding to the conversation.

“But have you yourself proven it?” she asked. “Anybody can prove anything, but how can you truly know anything for yourself unless you go out and experience it yourself.”

“I mean… there’s birds and stuff.”

The conversation lasted surprisingly long staying on the same subject, which I didn’t think either one of us was all that interested in. We always did this. Argue about things that were already solved. I watched her stare at her plate. She threw two meatballs into her mouth before telling me what she thought about the way I coughed.

"It’s too loud," she said. “Way too loud. And it’s scratchy. When I picture your throat, I picture there being a bunch of bug bites on it.”

“You don’t have to picture my throat if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to, but boy do I.”

Whenever she said boy do I,  I felt like I was in the 1920's. I think I would have done well back then. Maybe back then I would have had a job and some friends.

“Do you ever think how easily one of us could ruin things,” she said.

“I think I’ll ask for more lemonade.”  Her eye contact was so intense I should have brought an extra shirt.

“I’m serious. It would be so easy for me to just dump your lemonade on you, spit on you, and start screaming, "He raped me, he raped me!" It would cause something so different in our relationship. There’s no way we would stay together after that."

“That’s probably true, yeah.”

“And same goes for you. You could push me over right now - right as I’m talking - you could yank my shirt off and grope me here in front of everyone, or punch me, and it wouldn’t even have to be bad intention you could just do it to see what would happen. And then we’d never talk again. Something like that would be irrevocable no matter the intention.”

“Sounds like bad intention to me.”

My lemonade came, which was the highlight of the evening.

“I hate gift cards, she said.”

“Tell me more.”

“People always act like it’s not real money. Like Fran took me out to dinner one night, and I was like - this is so expensive - and she was like it’s fine I have a gift card. It’s like, you can just say you’re rich, that’s okay.” 

“How’s Fran ?” I asked.

“I hate how people talk about money. But don’t get me started on mental health.”

The lemonade was sweeter than I remembered. I expect consistency from outdoor cafes, but you don’t get that here.
Sometimes the tables are clean, and sometimes you rest your elbows on the table, and you’ve got sticky elbows the rest of the day.

Joan hadn’t slept much the past week, which made her a little more talkative than normal. I always enjoy being with her, but sometimes I’m not sure how she wants me to respond. And sometimes I wonder if everything she says is serious or if nothing is. Both of those scenarios frighten me. She hates so many things. She hates how people talk about sleep. When I ask her, "how did you sleep" she always says something like, "I slayed a dragon and drowned 3 times so you tell me.”


 
Once I decided to take my mind off the overly sweet lemonade, I tossed my face back into conversation. Sometimes I felt like a bungling clown talking to her.

“I think it’s great more people talk about mental health.”

“Quality over quantity,” she said. “Everyone says they’re depressed. Having a bad week is not depression. If you can get out of bed, you’re fine.”

“I don’t know if that’s fair,” I said with a sneeze.

“Well I do,” she said, mashing another meatball in her mouth.

“These meatballs remind me of Carlos.”

“Who’s that ?”

“He was a guy in magic school bus I think.”

“Did he like meatballs?”

“I don’t know.”

We sat in that silence for a while with nothing much to ponder.

 

"Do you think 3 is a magic number" she asked me.

“I don’t believe in magic.”

“Well, I do, so help me out.”

“To another 3 years of magic,” I said while raising my sweet lemonade.

“I don’t particularly like when you’re sarcastic you know. It’s not an affable look for you. I genuinely believe in magic. And I genuinely am excited for the next 3 years. Not just of our relationship but of everything. And you know how I hate the word genuine, so you can be sure I’m really being genuine.”

“I am too.”


 
 
“Before this restaurant closes let’s do something insane.” She stared at me hard.

“I am not going to punch you.”

“No not like that. Let’s challenge our relationship.”

“That sounds nice and all, but I think instead of challenge, we should enjoy it.”

“Let’s break up.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said, but she was looking at my large nose.

“This would be the most challenging thing. If our relationship can survive a breakup, it can survive anything.”
I drank more lemonade even though it was getting worse by the sip. 

“How would we break up as a test?”

“We don’t speak or see each other for exactly one year.”

“That’s 52 weeks.”

“So?”

“That’s a lot of weeks.”

“Exactly. If we love each other that much our love will be that much stronger.”
​
I put my lemonade on the table…. Well, she would tell me it’s not my lemonade, it’s just a lemonade. If I keep talking like that, soon I’ll start calling her my woman when she’s just a person.

“Do you want to break up?” I asked.  “Genuinely?”

“Yes.”

“But like for real.”

“It’s the only way.”

“Only way for what?”

“For true love.”

She pointed to me and mouthed, "he raped me," as a joke I guess and then left the café.

I wasn’t really sure what to think. I started wondering about what would happen if she had groped me just now. Would I push her away and never see her again? Would I pretend nothing happened? Would I laugh? Would I cry? Would a demonic part of me rise up and weirdly would I enjoy it? I don’t know.

I felt less despondent, more tired. I loved Joan a lot, a whole lot, but sometimes our conversations felt like when you walk outside then go back inside then walk outside again, and you’re like wait what am I doing.

I lay back in my chair for the first time.

​“Another lemonade please”

I cried on the plane

A couple people looked

No one shared a pretzel

When I hear people refer to someone as a "quiet person" I usually want to knock them unconscious. Because after they say that, it's seldom anything positive they have to add. I often hear people complain about people not opening up, or not responding to them in a conventional way, and it feels strange that people have such rigid expectations for these kinds of things. Surprisingly, people still do not understand that every person is different. 


It's similar to when people expect a "thank you." If you're expecting a thank you, maybe you don't deserve it. 


I was with someone who asked me what I thought about Halloween, and I said, "I don't know." 

They were livid. 

How could you not have an extreme opinion about Halloween," they may or may not have said. And it became a whole thing about how annoying it is that I don't have opinions on everything. But hey, maybe I don't need an opinion on everything. Maybe nobody does.


I had a relative get pissed off when they did not receive a thank you note for a gift the gave someone. Yes, I'm back to the thank you thing. This is a tangential miniessay. Let's break down this expectation. You give someone a gift because you want this person to have this specific thing. Great. So you give them the gift. And the interaction ends there. But then you create a second interaction by placing dumb expectations. If the receiver of the gift wanted to create a second interaction by saying, "hey thanks for this gift," then fine, great. But if you are going to get angry because a result didn't happen that you wanted, then well maybe you are still five years old. 


So this quiet person thing. I see it all the time with several friends. People close to me who are quiet get ridiculed for not weighing in on things, or not opening themselves up in certain situations. Maybe instead of lashing out, people could learn to listen since everyone "opens up" in their own way. 

Some people tell me I am a quiet person. Great. But one time I was in a relationship where the person told me that she hated quiet people. So I suppose I'm not always a quiet person. Wow, maybe people can be multiple things.


I cannot fathom how people put these kinds of pressure on people. Yes, this miniessay is just me not understanding things. Here's a tip: if you know somebody who has a really good story to tell, and you're at dinner or some sort of gathering, don't tell them to tell their story. By the time you say that, it's already ruined. 

Don't force people to do things. Yes, now this miniessay is an order. People often think they are supportive or fun when they try to make you  sing in front of their friends or tell that funny story or whatever it may be. It's not supportive. It's not fun. You're just annoying.

​But hey don't listen to me. I'm just a quiet person.

-You're not my best friend, that would be Andrew

-I gave you cat food all of 2009

-You smell better than me, and I am jealous of that

-Our mailman is my uncle, and he's chill

-When I throw the ball, sometimes I wish I was the one fetching

-The reason I adopted you was because you have soft ears

-I have an Instagram for you that I control, and I make you sound like you have a 1st grade education

-You live in a cage

-I saw you eat that sawdust

-I know your licks aren't kisses

-Did you see me do that thing 2 weeks ago or were you asleep?

-I do not have enough money to take care of you

-There's a 50/50 chance I get a new dog when you die

-I laughed at Old Yeller - I don't know why

-I don't love my sister

-I say I rescued you, but I really stole you from outside a KMart

​life is hard.


how getting out of bed is harder than you think
The first thing most people do when they wake up is get out of bed. Everybody seems to assume this one is easy, but I’m not sure why anyone would make such a bold assumption. When you wake up you may have thoughts such as “why am I still alive?” or “maybe I was not meant to be alive” or “I’m not even sure I am alive.” After contemplating these thoughts, you may stare at the ceiling for a while. Other thoughts may arise relating to your curiosities, your lovers, your work, your friends, your family, or you may have no thoughts at all. You may become a completely thoughtless blob whose eyes glaze listlessly at the ceiling.

In order to make this easier on yourself, some people recommend dedicating your life to consistent daily meditations. Others say consistent therapy sessions each week. Some say journaling. Some say exercising. Some say improved foods and hydrating. Some say having fun. Some say spending more time alone looking inwards. Some say staying in touch with friends and relatives. Most say all of these and more. This may seem like a lot to do just for making the process of getting out of bed easier, so you decide to do none of them and keep lying down, face in the pillow.


how brushing your teeth is harder than you think
Contrary to the belief some people still hold, brushing your teeth is an activity that must happen every day, ideally twice a day. In order to make this happen, you must buy a toothbrush and replace it every couple of months. These months go by quicker than you would think, and it can be difficult to remember every single time to replace your brush. It can also be difficult to remember to buy more toothpaste. That would require you writing down a reminder, and then acting upon the reminder by taking your body to a physical store and looking and possibly even asking someone, “hey do you know where the toothpastes are here?” Or you order toothpaste online, but that’s a hassle because you realize how many different kinds of toothpastes there are. You can’t make a choice like that because you didn’t go to toothpaste school. You also become extremely fatigued from looking at a screen. You question why you are using your miracle of a device to do nothing more than scroll through pictures of toothpastes, and you decide to throw your phone out the window, instantly realizing you just cost yourself a lot of money.

In order to make this easier on yourself, some people suggest buying a lifetime supply of toothpaste and toothbrushes, but this requires an amount of storage space that most people do not have.


how shaving is harder than you think
After weeks and weeks of people you love and strangers you don’t know telling you, “you need to shave,” you decide to take off your whiskers. You notice your shaving cream can is rusty and disgusting, so you make a mental note to buy a new one, which you will definitely forget. You are about to put shaving cream on your face when you see your neck has cuts all over it from the last time you attempted this event. You pour Hydrogen Peroxide on your wounds, but they have been there a while, so you don’t feel the burn. You notice that you have some nose hairs poking out but before you try to pluck them you remember your fifth-grade teacher Martin Jenkins said that if you pull a nose hair, it could tug on your brain and cause a serious problem. You know that can’t be true, but you still wonder, “is it?”


In order to make this easier on yourself, some people suggest using an electric razor but those have their own drawbacks.


how having a conversation is harder than you think
Somebody just asked you a question, and now you have to answer as if you had an answer. As if anyone had an answer to such a ridiculous question. But you have to say something and you have to say it now or else they will hate you forever and you will have no friends and you will live in an eternal loneliness abyss.
Are they still there? You haven’t said anything? You haven’t said anything. If you speak now, you will look like you have a serious disorder and should be put behind bars. Not only will you be lonely, but you will also be served a piece of bread twice a day, which means you will die either of starvation or of your deadly gluten allergy. It’s up to you.
“I’m doing alright,” you finally say. It’s not even the truth. You panicked just so you could spit out a lie. Now they look at you as if you must ask them something. You don’t have any questions. Say something instead. Say a demand – no, say something nice. Give them a compliment. You don’t want to tell them you like their hat because you think people care too much about fashion and if you tell them you like their hat, then they may start to feel insecure when they don’t wear their hat, and you just want everybody to be happy.

“I’m going to the restroom,” you say, but you quickly realize it was odd to use that terminology when you’re in your own apartment.


In order to make this easier on yourself, some people suggest not speaking at all, but that tends to anger some people, which gets in the way of your desire of wanting everyone happy.


how putting on shoes is harder than you think
This one may seem easy, but like everything, it’s not. Where the hell are they? You thought you took them off last night right by the door as usual, but they are not there. That is the only place they belong. They’re not there. They must have been stolen. You call your boss and tell them you are running late, and then you also ask if she has seen any shoes that look like yours. When she is confused why you are asking, you tell her you will see her soon, and then you hang up and stare at the front door again. You find yourself spitting on the ground out of anger? Sadness? Remorse? Just for the thrill? Before you can decide, you find it disgusting and appalling that saliva is on your floor, so you rush to the kitchen to grab some paper towels to clean up your mess. There are no paper towels so you look in the cabinet where the extra paper towels are always stored, and there are no paper towels there either. You wonder why God hates you and why God hates paper towels existing in your kitchen. You think about prayer for the first time in years, and you gently bring your hands together and try different prayer positions. None of them feel right. You get on your hands and knees and bow down, with your forehead touching the cold tile. After a few moments, your forehead hurts, so you sit up remembering you don’t believe in God.
 
In order to make this easier on yourself, try not wearing shoes for a while. You live in a city, so this will be painful.


how getting anything done at all is hard
Everyday you may wake up and even get out of bed thinking that you will have several hours to do exactly what you want. Maybe you’ll have time to paint that painting you always wanted to do or go for a nice picnic at your favorite park. But then you realize you have to go to the bathroom, and your stomach has been acting up lately so that takes much more time than you had planned. Then you have to wash your hands, but you forgot to replace the hand towel so your hands are sopping wet and your dry them off on the shirt you are wearing, reminding you that you have zero clean clothes and need to go put your clothes and hand towel in the wash. You don’t have a washing machine so you go to the laundromat which is always two miles farther than you remember so the walk feels extra-long. By the time you get there, there are no available machines, so you have to stand and wait. You put your laundry bag down to take out your phone in hopes you can refresh your email for half an hour until a machine opens, but you realize you left your phone at home. You open up your backpack to read that book you’ve been wanting to read, but then you remember you don’t own any books. You stand there and wait.

You think you can be productive before the wash is done, but when you get back home you realize it’s already time to go back and put your clothes in the dryer. This time you made sure to bring your phone, but you do not pay attention to the fact that it has one percent battery. As you wait for your clothes to dry, you refresh your email ten times before your phone dies.

Once you are back home again, you decide to listen to some relaxing music as you put your clothes away, but the instant you put on your soothing classical playlist, your boss from work calls. You ignore it because it is Saturday and this is your day. When you receive a text message saying URGENT you decide to call back. This conversation lasts two hours and was definitely not urgent.

You hang up the phone. You’re exhausted. It’s 4pm. You don’t know how it’s 4pm, but you tell yourself that time isn’t real. You remember you haven’t eaten or drunken anything all day, so you make some oatmeal and pour yourself a glass of water because you are trying to be healthy. When you realize you are out of blueberries, honey, and oats, you settle for a waffle that has been in your freezer for months. You forget about the water.

You think about taking a shower to reenergize yourself, and then you remember you have to mail a check to your insurance company because they don’t use email anymore. The post office you normally go to is closed, and this infuriates you because all you need is a single stamp. You go to the second closest post office, and there is a long line. An hour into waiting, you give up and walk out the door, instantly remembering that you have to do this today, so you go back and stand in the back of the line. Someone shoves you, which you think nothing of, but when they shove you again you say, “Excuse me,” thinking you are very polite and well put together. They tell you the great story how you cut them and because you are unable to speak anymore out of exhaustion, you stand behind them. Of course when this person gets to the front, they take half an hour explaining what they want mailed. They’re trying to mail a giraffe or something like that, you can’t wuite make it out, but you know that this is going to take a while. It’s finally your turn, and they’re out of stamps.
You go to your favorite park where there’s tall trees all around, so you can scream. But this time when you scream, there were two children playing tag that you didn’t notice because you were too busy sulking inside yourself. They cry and tell their parents who end up giving you a detailed lecture on why you should not scream in a park.

 You finally arrive at home, ready to pass out for the evening. You pat yourself on the back because despite the arduous adventures, at least you completed your laundry. You shoot up and rush out the door realizing that you never took your clothes out of the dryer. By the time you arrive at the laundromat, there are several signs letting you it has closed. Too many signs you think, but you get the message. You sit down in the middle of the street, and you can’t even cry. “I can’t do anything,” you say aloud. You look down at the ground and see an ant carrying a crumb. You wonder if you were an ant, would you be as useless as you are now or would you be a part of the working community like every other ant?


​
In order to make this easier on yourself, we suggest giving us a call. Our services include: shooting people up into space without equipment, strapping people into a rollercoaster that never ends, and listening to you rant about your day. We hope you reach out. We need the money.

“You could gain some weight,” my neighbor told me. “A lot of weight.”

“How are you?” I offered.

“You must not be drinking nearly enough beer. That’s your problem.”

It looked like we were going to continue talking about my weight.

“I don’t know if that’s my biggest problem right now.” Instead of making eye contact, I watched a drop of water slowly muster up the courage to leave a leaf and explode onto the ground. I imagined my brain was the water droplet.

“You need a good daily dose of Coors or Corona.” I don’t know why he was speaking like a doctor because it was clear he hadn’t seen one in years. “Maybe mix in some Bud Light, too.”

I wished he’d stop naming beers. I have no interest in beer, and for some reason people have been trying to change that since I was nine years old. “If you wanna be a man, have yourself a beer!” said my friend’s dad to 9-year-old me. I’ll never understand why people worship beer so much. When I was 12, I saw my priest chug a Coors after a midnight mass.

“Just look at you. You’re thin as a rail.” I’d heard this phrase before, and I didn’t like it the first time.

Some people worship my weight almost as much as they worship beer. If people started caring about other things, maybe the world could be a better place.

“yeah, yeah,” I eventually responded, not knowing what I meant. I probably meant to say “I wish you were dead,” or “You should’ve joined that rain drop.”

What really bothered me was that he was not the first person to comment on my weight this week. Three days prior, my grandfather told me I looked fatter than usual. The day before that my friend punched me in the stomach and said, “Nice six pack, faggot.” I don’t talk to them anymore.

“I can get you some beers if you want.”

I was appalled we were still talking about this. This man is of the age where people wouldn’t flinch if he died, so I would think he had other things to talk about aside from beers. Maybe he loved three people in his 30’s but they all left him due to his alcoholism. Maybe in his 40’s, he built an entire house by himself. Maybe he fought in the civil war.

But all he wanted to talk about was beer and my weight.

“Come on in, and I’ll bulk you up.”

Now, what the hell does that mean? I was not interested in finding out, especially in today’s circumstances, so I told him I was late for school even though it was New Years Day.

“That’s no excuse. Come inside.”

The format of this story is becoming almost more irritating than the conversation with my old neighbor.

I’m not ageist, it’s just relevant.

“Yeah, I gotta get going,” I said as I wondered where I should go.

I was starting to question why I was here in the first place, and I remembered I was supposed to give him a gift. I was not giving this old man a gift. No chance. Not anymore. I’ve never been into gifts, but this was a situation I knew how to navigate.

The gift in my hands was a bunch of homemade chocolates that apparently taste fantastic.

“I have a gift,” I said, holding the chocolate in front of his nose as if he were a baby.

“You know I like chocolate,” he said.

I sure do.

“Spot!” I called out while rolling my eyes that people still name their dogs that.

The old man’s dog came running up to me and I fed Spot all the chocolate I had.

“He loves it,” I said with a smile.

The old man neighbor was frozen. If he hadn’t had so many beers in his lifetime maybe he would be able to squat down and help his dog.

“He’s going to die,” the old man finally mumbled.

​“I’m just helping him out,” I said. “He’s thin as a rail.”

Waiter steps out and puts his tray down.

Thank you for stepping into our restaurant. Before we serve you, we have a few requests:

Please let us know if you have any peanut allergies, any seafood allergies, or any plant allergies. Let us know if you are allergic to iceberg lettuce, romaine lettuce, arugula lettuce, or any other kind of lettuce. Also let us know if you are allergic to any medicines.

Let us know if you will be dining indoors or outdoors. If you plan to smoke, we have one table where you can smoke outdoors, but I will have to check and see if it is available because some people reserve that table ahead of time. Oh, and if you smoke cigars,  Chef Yousef will give you one of his Cubans, and he will smoke with you.

If you and your party need a high chair for a toddler… please find a different restaurant. We do not have toddler food, and our music is not appropriate for toddlers. We will not compromise or adjust to toddler needs.

If you plan to ask your waiter about our specials, know that we do not have specials. We do not have a secret menu. This is not a magical fantasy land with underground rules and riddles. This is a 5-star restaurant. Read the menu and order food.

Do not ask the waiters what they would recommend. They are not allowed to eat the food here, so your question will likely lead them to uncomfortably tell you a lie about how the dumplings are “out of this world.” If you want the dumplings, order them and find out for yourself.

Look, the dumplings are good. You know they are. That is why you came here in the first place. We have been the number one dumpling restaurant in the world for years, and you wanted dumplings so you came here. Do not ask for recommendations. Get the dumplings.

Please, please, please, do not urinate on the floors of our washrooms. As I said before, this is a 5-star restaurant. No toddlers are allowed. So there are no excuses for pee going anywhere else besides the toilets. We recently changed the signs from “restroom” to washroom” as a reminder of the formality of our establishment.

Do not make a joke with your friends about the bill when it comes. We can hear you. And we’re sick of it.

One mint is the maximum. When you discreetly steal, yes steal, an entire handful of mints from the front desk, it is entirely noticeable. There has never been a reason to take more than one.

Get the dumplings.

Do not bring in a laptop to do your “work.” This is not a whorehouse. Nor is it a café. This is a place to eat and enjoy the company of others and/or yourself.
​
Don’t wear shorts.
 
Do not raise your hand. This is not high school. Nobody wants to call on you here. We give you food, and you give us money. That is the deal. If you realize mid-meal that you want a side of salsa, it is too late. Remember that for next time. And please do come back again. We appreciate your coming here.

I do what you can't see
I say what you can't hear
I love what you despise
And I know what you do not
Creating Colorful Cartoons
Looks like boredom, feels like joy
You see brown hair, brown eyes
You miss the sand, the waves, and the Chips Ahoy
like toys, there's play, there's action, and fun
Don't Laugh at your inner Child and see it undone
You already won if you embrace it all
Open your eyes, Shoulders back, Stand Tall
We run together we run alone
together or not we're all just bones
care about the skin tone care about the phone
care about the idea that you think you have grown
But Darkness has Shone
You pull it over your head
Dig deeper, hide more, as you go and get wed
and you toss and you turn in your king size bed
and you wonder - what's it for ?
Your Life - a boring chore
i live for Me, not for a store
call me an experience whore but i open Doors
opportunist galore
don't push us down
don't you fall down
don't get back up
feel free;


fall down


but be quick, get up
This isn't Charlie Brown
you can't always be down
And expect the people around to get you off the ground and lift you up to spit out a message you already know
didn't take it to heart because you said "So?" so, so - So What?
i got friends that pretend i got a whole world too so i'll admire You
help you help You

​we're alone in this world hey don't get blue you got nothing to lose just remember you won't ever fix a hole when you only got glue



​for video poem click here

I stood up from the couch and walked out the door. There were teardrops falling from my forearm onto the ground. Cries blended in with the city sirens and car horns. I couldn't believe I had just stolen a baby. 

The best hugs I ever got

were after I almost killed myself

​What do I do now?

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, but she had lousy posture so her back was in immense pain. ​Exasperated with the world, she sat alone and was pretty sure there was a splinter in her thigh. This wall isn’t even made of wood, she thought to herself. She hopped off the aluminum wall and went over to watch the other kids play in the sandbox.

Humpty’s parents – Cameron and Nicole – were not happy people. They thought it would be quite entertaining to name their daughter Humpty despite their last name being Dumpty. “It would be hilarious,” Nicole Dumpty said while giving birth. Cameron Dumpty was holding her hand while using his free hand to gather skittles for his mouth. The doctor was trying hard to concentrate and insisted Nicole should stop talking and focus on her breathing. “But just imagine,” said Nicole with a big grin. She had the pain tolerance of a brick wall.

Humpty did not inherit those pain tolerance genes. She received genes that made her irritable to any noise, made her back hunch over, and made her left leg three whole inches longer than her right.

Humpty Dumpty had a horrible childhood, and it wasn’t even over. She was a nine-year-old girl filled with rage.

“Why the hell did you name me Humpty,” she asked one time.

“Don’t say hell in this household,” replied Nicole.

“I need a five-letter word that rhymes with Triscuit,” said Cameron.

Humpty would often take long walks just to get out of the house. Admiring the falling leaves of the swaying oak trees, this was her chance to blow off some steam. Her friend Amber said this was abnormal behavior for a nine-year-old. Humpty told her to “screw off” and hasn’t heard from her since.
 

Humpty watched the boys build sandcastles at recess. If I kick them over, they’re gonna cry, she thought.
              
"Why are you smiling at us,” asked one of the boys. He was oblivious to the gum someone put in his hair.
 
"I have more power than you know,” said Humpty.

The boy didn’t reply to that. He had an unbelievable amount of sand in his butt.
 

Humpty went back to the aluminum wall to eat a snack she had stolen from a nearby deli. It was a bunch of salami in a plastic container, but she thought it was pepperoni.

Humpty enjoyed sitting on the wall during recess because she had a view of every stupid event taking place. Two girls on the seesaw calling each other fat. The swing set boys seeing how far they could spit. Ronald Jernigan dry humping the slide because he hit puberty in preschool. Nobody knew what to do with that kid.
 
Humpty sat up in her room one night when the Deli manager called her mother. Nicole threw open Humpty’s door despite the sign that said, “I’m writing a suicide note, don’t come in.”

Nicole stomped her foot, which was a peculiar habit she developed over the years. She used to be a dancer.

“You’re always stomping,” said Humpty without looking up from her pocket dictionary.

“The Deli man called.”

“Who’s the Deli man?”

“YOU KNOW WHO THE DELI MAN IS.” The last time Nicole yelled like that was when nobody showed up at her wedding.

Humpty got up and started making her bed. She always made her bed when she needed to think. But Nicole was persistent. She wasn’t going to leave the room solely because she was proud of her daughter for making her bed. Nicole was still angry. That rage gene had to come from somewhere.

“I didn’t raise you to steal salamis.”

“It was pepperoni.”

“Deli Man said salami.”

 
They argued about that detail for seven minutes. By minute six, Cameron zoomed into the room.

“We’re out of salami,” he said casually.

“Well, that’s because a salami thief is living under our roof.”

When she heard this, Humpty looked up to see that the ceiling was leaking. Some sort of liquid was dousing her lonesome pillow. Humpty had a satin pillowcase so that sleeping wouldn’t mess up her hair, but she didn’t own a hairbrush, so her hair was always tangled anyway.

“I’m banishing you,” said Nicole.

“I’m going to buy salami,” said Cameron.

Cameron stumbled out of the room. Nicole explained that Humpty would be banished from her bedroom and would move to the living room because “that’s what it’s for.”

After moving her bed into the living room, Humpty lay down. Her bed was 1 foot by 1 foot, so it was not an arduous move. Both legs hung off her bed every night, especially the one that is three inches longer. Humpty didn’t mind her legs hanging off her bed. She was too focused on minding everything else.

Amber knocked on the door. It startled Humpty so much that she had a great fall.

Humpty threw herself back onto her feet and stared into the peephole, hoping she would watch Amber have a heart attack right then and there. She loved watching things through that tiny window. One night, she set up a projector outside and watched the movie Pollyanna through the peephole.

Nicole had fallen asleep out of pure exhaustion, and she lay on the floor in Humpty’s room. She couldn’t hear Amber’s knocking. She couldn’t hear much at all, really. She was a deep sleeper and deaf in her left ear.

Getting impatient, Amber attempted to open the door in case it was unlocked. Amber and Humpty were both surprised to see the door open. Neither one knew what to do in a situation like this.

Amber asked if Humpty wanted to come over to her house and make whipped cream on the rocks. This was a tempting offer for Humpty, but a girl filled with rage doesn’t give in to temptation easily.

“I don’t want your rocks,” said Humpty. “You haven’t talked to me in 2 weeks.”

“You told me to screw off,” said Amber. “So I did and now I’m back.”


Cameron drove up to the driveway and walked to the door with eight grocery bags filled with salami. He also got a pack of trail mix. He was thinking about going on a hike.
 

“Hey you cool kids,” he said with confidence.

They stared at him. There was a rumble in Humpty’s stomach that sounded like a blender trying to mash peanut butter and honey. She should have stolen more salami.

“Welp. It’s nap time.” Cameron was nervous around his daughter sometimes. He felt uncomfortable around all women including his wife. He tried to say vagina one time and fainted.

“I am grieving, and I want a friend to cry on,” said Amber.

“A friend’s shoulder,” said Humpty.

“What?”

“You want a friend’s shoulder to cry on.”

“I don’t need more shoulders. I have two.”

“Okay.” But Humpty wasn’t okay. She was never okay.

It took great restraint to stop herself from slugging Amber in the jaw. She was so not okay.

She started talking quickly in Spanish to distract her from the fact that she was not okay. It reminded her of the time when she was just eight years old and failed a Spanish test.

“You will never be Hispanic,” said Señor Joe.

“Maybe because I’m not Hispanic,” replied Humpty.
​

​“I want to stay friends because your parents are rich, so I think one day you might take me on a vacation.” Amber’s mouth remained open after she said this, and she started to drool a little.

“My parents aren’t rich. We can barely afford salami.” Amber could feel the truth of this statement and realized the Dumptys were not rich at all. Who knows where she heard that rumor.

Amber lingered a moment because the sun was in the position to make exciting shadow puppets on the concrete driveway. She had a faint memory of Humpty and her making shadow puppets with eggs they had stolen from the deli. Amber had a smile that turned into a frown when she remembered how Humpty would crack the eggs on her head and then complain about being hungry. Amber no longer wanted Humpty as a friend. She decided she was putting too much effort into this friendship and wished she spent more time kayaking or learning to knit.

Amber walked away.

Humpty let out a sigh of relief. She had bronchitis, so the sigh sounded more like a vacuum cleaner sucking up popcorn.

“I wish I could be more honest,” said Humpty to a mosquito on her arm. “I wish I could say: Amber, I don’t like you. I don’t like anyone. Everyone is annoying, and I want to be alone. I don’t want to catch up and talk about how 1st-grade summer camp was. I know how it was. It was the best summer of your life. You were in love with Jude, but he didn’t want to kiss you because he said you smelled like stale cashews, and that made you cry. No one cares. Don’t talk to me. Don’t anyone talk to me.”

 
The mosquito flew away.

Humpty Dumpty walked back to her wall and threw an egg at it. The yolk splattered and drooled down slowly.
 

“I wish I could say that.”



​

"Say this three times fast: Sheila’s a whore, Sheila’s a whore, Sheila’s a whore."

That’s what I said.

I said it three times.

I said it fast.

Sheila didn’t deserve those crude remarks. In fact, she was the most loyal companion I ever had. She knows I’m just jealous of her career writing tongue twisters. She sells seashells by the seashore was her first big break. I never liked that one personally, but that’s the one most people still talk about. There are not enough homophones in that one. And the premise is dry. I’ve never been even slightly interested in beach life. I’ve gone a few times, and I always get sunburnt. And I definitely don’t collect seashells. I thought they were called sand shells anyways.

So we were fighting, and I said my tongue twister three times fast, and she got quiet all of a sudden. She looked me dead in the eyes, but that look was like a living dragon breathing fire down my neck. When she stares at me in silence with that look of a warrior, I know I’ve done something wrong. When I do something right, she high-fives me and buys me candy.

We were arguing about the jingle her dishwasher makes. I said it sounds like a Christmas song; Sheila said it sounds like the ice cream truck. Whenever we get into arguments of these sorts, we remain calm. This afternoon was different. I probably lost my temper because it was an abnormally humid day, and the humidity effortlessly moved inside the apartment. More likely it was due to my extreme jealousy.

She ended her silence by telling me she was ashamed, not that I called her a whore, but that I used a short tongue twister that must be said three times fast. She always hated those: Which witch is which, six sticky skeletons, fresh fried fish.

“You’re a hack,” she told me. She thought the three times fast tongue twisters were cheap and easy to come up with. Her colleague became famous before Sheila because of those, so I think she might be jealous, too. She secretly tried to publish a three times fast tongue twister under a pseudonym, but she had no success. Her tongue twister was “squiggly squiggles” and her editor told her there were “too many squiggles, not enough umpf.”

After the fight, Sheila left me. I’m not sure why. The jealousy had something to do with it perhaps. She mentioned one time how she would rather be with anybody else, but I’m pretty sure she was sleep talking.

I started going through the things she left behind. There was a big blue binder of old writings in the attic. Scribbles on notebooks. Large cardboard cutouts that said things like I saw a kitten eating chicken in the kitchen. That one was from her diary but would have made her a great deal of cash I’m sure. The previous diary entry read I’m deeply depressed, and I’m starting to think my job is meaningless.

Sheila and I had been together two full days, so I needed some time to sulk. I’m sure she’s doing well. I’m sure I’ll be okay, too. You get a job, find someone to complain about it, then find someone else who listens better. I guess that’s life. 

My skin is starting to peel
I do not tan
I do not get sunburnt
I am a banana

I just finished reading I Am Malala and the only thing I can remember is that she likes playing Connect Four.

I am a huge fan of Connect Four. I win most the time, and I am eager to challenge Malala to a game one day. She’ll look at me with a mischievous smile and say, “check mate,” but she won’t notice that I actually have the winning move, so I’ll say, “The sun is setting,” as I connect my fourth token.

She’ll look up at me and ask why I said that, and I’ll explain that the token falling into place sort of looks like a setting sun.

She’ll tell me “that’s not funny” and I’ll say “I never said it was. Now let me enjoy my victory.”

She’s a good sport so we’ll clean up together and grab some lunch downtown.

 
As I imagined this scenario, I started to question my reading comprehension skills. I had just finished an incredible book about Malala’s journey in Swat Valley and how she overcame intense oppression and bullets from the Taliban. And all I could think about was Connect Four.

I thought really hard and tried to remember what else had happened in this amazing book. Again, I started thinking about Connect Four, but I caught myself, and patted myself on the back for being so self-aware.

I thought about Malala in the hospital and remembered how she asked for fried chicken. What kind of dipping sauce did she use I thought aloud. My roommate who heard me, said “what?” but was clearly busy with something else and didn’t want to hear my answer. I went to my room, still thinking about the sauce.

Eventually I remembered other parts of the book, but I realize that the things that tend to stay in my head the longest are often the tiny details. I wish I could remember more meaningful details, but I just keep circling back to Connect Four. Maybe that’s the lesson I thought, this time to myself. Maybe focusing on Connect Four is the key to life. Take a deep breath, zoom out, and know that we are all humans who either have or have not played Connect Four.

That’s life. 

In Fall 2019, I interned at the Vatican. I was taking classes at Middlebury College in Vermont, so going to the Vatican twice a week was not easy. All expenses were paid, but the wear and tear from the travel was unappreciated. When I met with my guidance counselor junior year, she told me it was pathetic that I had not interned anywhere yet. When asked what I wanted to do, I said, “I don’t know, but probably not a normal internship.” She had a glimmer in her eye. But it wasn’t a good glimmer. It wasn’t an excited friend glimmer, who was about to blow your surprise birthday party. No. It was the glimmer that said: I have a connection to the pope.

Being a geology major, I never met anyone really exciting at networking events. Usually it was a bunch of old, white guys talking to themselves about their rock collections. Networking events always felt gross anyways. I didn’t need a networking event to land the internship I got. Turns out, my counselor was a classmate of the pope in the sixth grade in Buenos Aires. They stayed in touch, and he had been wanting an intern ever since his papacy began. 

The first few days I worked at the Vatican, I mainly did paperwork and any sort of chore work. Organizing files, getting the pope coffee, things of that nature. On the third week, the pope finally expressed some interest in me. “What’s your name?” I remember him asking. He invited me to mass, but I told him I was Jewish and preferred to not attend. 

Week seven was probably the most stressed I ever was at the Vatican. My girlfriend had dumped me that Monday morning at our favorite diner. I had to get the pancakes to-go. Then on Tuesday, I bombed my Geology 101 midterm and did desomorphine for the first time. Wednesday I flew to the Vatican where the Pope was all in a fuss about his dishes not being cleaned, and I don’t know if it was the desomorphine still in my blood or the constant jet lag or just sheer stupidity, but I dropped and shattered five of his plates. He was fuming, but apparently had to forgive me and whatever. 

Thursday, I was back in Vermont and found out that my now ex-girlfriend had died. She apparently surprised her best friend who was going skydiving. She snuck onto the plane and managed to fall out of the plane, plummeting to the earth. I flew back to the Vatican Friday morning, and Saturday, I attended my ex’s funeral. I’ve always hated surprise parties. 

By week 12, I really thought I wasn’t going to make it. The flight to the Vatican from Vermont is about twelve hours. I was doing that four times a week. My body was breaking down. The dining hall at Middlebury was awful, but the food at the Vatican was even worse. Wednesdays and Fridays all I had was bread and wine. Fridays they had sourdough, which was nice. 

My health was deteriorating mentally, too. My school had suggested I see a therapist, but the only person they could find was in Cincinnati, so I had to fly to Ohio every Sunday for a forty-five minute session. 

Yesterday was my last day at the Vatican. I went to shake the Pope’s hand, but I reached too far and grabbed his wrist. The pope mumbled, “Yikes,” and then he rustled my hair. I left a thank you note on the ottoman, but it was not sincere. He gave me a few communion wafers to take home with me. 

​This spring semester I will not be interning. I am waiting tables at my favorite diner. We get free pancakes everyday. And I am never speaking to my guidance counselor again.

Walloping willows wistfully wail
Hot wind exhaled
My summer gaze is frozen
I need to do the dishes

Absence makes the heart grow fonder – you’re lonely

Born with a silver spoon in your mouth – seek medical treatment immediately

Off the record – when you want the reporter to know who you slept with, buy you’re not ready for the whole world to know

Here goes nuthin’ – something is most definitely about to happen, and it is not going to be good

Bring home the bacon – what you tell your mother when she asks, “What should I pick up from the grocery store?”

Beat around the bush – when your father beats you with a belt, but he does it behind a bush so the neighbors can’t see, but it’s a tiny bush and you’re in the front yard so they can for sure see

​Fluffer puffer – not a phrase, but I'd like it to be

I've always been a fan of Maya Moore. She showed she had all the makings of a star during her time at UConn and went on to realize that potential (and then some) after developing into one of the most dominant players the WNBA has ever seen. She’s won four WNBA championships with the Minnesota Lynx—including one where she earned the honor of Finals MVP, and she’s also led the United States to two gold medals at the Olympics. It’s hard to top what she’s managed to do on the court, but she’s given herself a run for her money based on what she’s recently done off of it.

Last February, Moore announced she was temporarily stepping away from the game she loved to embark on a journey of self-discovery.  It was shocking but not entirely unprecedented, as at least one other basketball league has seen its best player unexpectedly announce they’re stepping away from the game to explore another passion. In this case, however, Moore was more concerned with justice as opposed to baseball.

Since 2016, Moore has been advocating for changes in law enforcement and the legal system. Soon after the nation’s eyes turned to Ferguson, she helped lead the Minnesota Lynx in one of the first athlete-backed protests for the Black Lives Matter movement. She helped pave a path for others to follow. This path eventually led her to freeing an innocent man from prison.

22 years ago, Jonathan Irons was given a 50-year sentence stemming from a botched robbery in Missouri despite having nothing to do with the crime. His life changed forever when he was just 16-years-old, watching an all-white jury rule him responsible for the burglary despite having no hard evidence to link him to the scene. The case eventually came to Moore’s attention, and she provided him with the resources and support necessary to overturn the conviction.

It is hard to imagine one of the world’s greatest basketball players stepping away from the game at age 29, but Maya Moore is much more than just an athlete. Irons was finally released this week and Moore posted a video of her standing outside the prison to greet him as he became a free man for the first time in over two decades. She dropped to her knees like she just won another WNBA championship, but this must have meant even more.

In the video, Irons says, “I feel like I can live life now,” and you can tell on his face the relief and joy he is experiencing after suffering for so long. Moore told Good Morning America, “In that moment, I really felt like I could rest.” Despite her relief, she is still not planning on returning to basketball anytime soon and says she’s focused on taking some time just to reset a bit. Thank goodness. She deserves it.

​She may be out of the courtroom but it seems likely she’ll be back in before she steps onto a court. She’s already given up a lot by not playing but that’s nothing compared to what Irons and others like him have lost.