Saturday, February 28, 2015

Cracked Rearview

The night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting. That's pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts. It never helps. You fight through that shit. 'Cause a year from now, when you're kicking it in the Caribbean, you gonna say to yourself, 'Marsellus Wallace was right.'
                                                                             --Pulp Fiction

What do you do?

Do you act like Butch, reckless and crazy? Fuck common sense and anything close?

Do you ignore the sting?

Because you know you're gonna feel the sting.

Butch heeded the sting, and we all know what happened to him.

Do you end up in a basement with your hands tied together, rubber ball in your mouth, awaiting your turn to be fucked in the ass while the gimp watches, all because you didn't ignore the sting?

You know you're no Butch; you know you might not make it out alive.

Or do you listen to Marsellus and fuck it? Fight through it so a year from now you could kick it in the Caribbean?

Because even though you hate the sun, the thought of a Caribbean in the future is kind of nice.

Do you ignore
the identical blank and the blank who won't blank and the blank he took away and the blank who doesn't know or doesn't care?

Or do you write about them here?

What do you
What do you
What do I

Monday, February 23, 2015

Glimmer Like Bolan in the Morning Sun

Because it was so cold on Thursday night, I had to run at the gym instead of outside. I started out by running what was, by my counting of laps, a mile on the inside track, but by my Nike +'s calculations, .8 miles. I know I know how to count, and I know 16 laps around the track is just short of a mile, so I was fairly certain about my distance, but just to be sure, I decided to run on a treadmill instead. 



I HATE the treadmill.

I used to run on one all the time. For years after I started running, it was my go to--probably because Glenn hates running outside and it's his go to--and I had no problem with it at all. Every once in a while I'd run outside, like if the weather was particularly nice or I was on vacation somewhere, but for most of my running life, if you were to find me running, you'd find me on a treadmill, listening to music while alternating between watching myself in the mirror, the silent TVs on the wall above my head, and other gym people walking in and out of the room.

I don't know exactly how I transitioned to running outside, but I guess it must have something to do with not being with Glenn anymore since now, looking back, I'm realizing that anytime the two of us are off, I do most of my running outside, and then once we get back on, I resume my running on that insipid machine.

This time, though, the relationship isn't resuming and the treadmill isn't, either.

The crappy thing about the treadmill isn't that it's so boring, even though it is, or the notion that if you're on it, you're running and running but not getting anywhere, like people used to say to me, although that's true, too. The thing about the treadmill is that it's so damn uninspired; so repetitive; so mechanical; so predictable. When I used to run on it, I'd get in my car, drive to the gym, walk to the cardio room, put in my ear buds, set the treadmill to the speed I was running that day, set the timer to the amount of time I planned to run, start the treadmill, and run. Hisshisshiss. Boom. Hisshisshiss. Boom. Hisshisshiss. Boom. If my music wasn't loud enough, I'd hear the whir of the machine as the belt continuously looped and the sound of my foot strike every however many seconds or so. The speed never really changed unless I had an interval day scheduled, the conditions in the room never really changed unless a particularly smelly or loud person was in the vicinity, and I never really changed, in mind, in body, or in soul. The treadmill was, and I'm sure still is, a harbinger of sameness.

Running outside, though--that's something else completely. Running outside is running free. It's energy. It's hope. It's bounding down the street with a spring in my shoes, the endless sidewalk in front of me, and the world all around. It's Tom and Mark and Gerard and Vic and Patrick and Nate sing screaming in my ears, urging me on. The speed and intensity, so unlike when on the treadmill, follows my body's natural rhythms: if I feel like I need to run fast, I run fast; if I feel like I need to run slow, I run slow; if I feel bouncy or like taking big strides, I bounce or widen my strides; if I feel like I need to go easy and shorten my strides, I do that, too.

Outside, as opposed to on the treadmill, I don't need to do what the machine tells me.

I don't need to strike, strike, strike, repeat.

Outside, I can bounce, glide, shuffle, and soar.

The treadmill is okay for some people--I guess--but it's not


for me.  

Saturday, January 31, 2015

She Said It Stopped Being Fun, I Just Bring Her Down

Where am I?

The Pit of Despair. Don't even think about trying to escape.
                                                                                 --The Princess Bride

When I was sixteen and had been dating Louie for about a year, his parents put him in some residential mental facility called The Retreat for about a month and then when he got out, withdrew him from the school where we went together and put him in a new one, away from me. This was, appropriately enough, around March, the beginning of spring.

I remember not long after Louie went in, my friend Stork--our friend, actually, Louie's and mine, although I don't know how good a friend he was to Louie since we started having sex not long after Louie's and my final breakup--telling me that I was so much better without Louie. He said when I was with him, I was fat and dreary, and when I was without him, I was cute and happy. It's true that I lost a little bit of weight, about ten pounds (without even trying! An amazing side effect of breakups throughout my life), and cut my hair, both of which likely contributed to the cuteness, but I think the main thing contributing to the positive change in me was the loss of Louie.

I'm not going to pretend I didn't love him because oh my God, did I love him, and I won't act like I'm glad he was gone because I seriously felt like I was a character in a tragedy after his parents shipped him away, but somehow, despite the sadness and despair I felt, I found a way to be happy--happier, certainly, than when I was with him and found out every other week he'd cheated on me or heard his parents or sister had said something awful about me or learned that he'd done some drug I didn't want him to do; happier than when we'd fight for hours about something absolutely insignificant and then make up for just as long; happier than when I was stressed twenty-four hours of every day of my entire life.

(Go figure, right?)

Anyway, the point is, when Louie disappeared, albeit temporarily (because any parents who think they can keep teenagers apart who don't want to be that way are stupid with a capital S), I felt like I'd never feel good again, but without even trying and without even realizing I was getting happier, I did until one day I was just a happy person. Being forced to step away from my crazy situation enabled me to find happiness I didn't even know I didn't have.

And the best part? Or at least the most significant?

It wasn't even because of some other boy or any external force that I found the happy that I did.

It was entirely me.

Sometimes, I just love how life works.

Saturday, January 17, 2015

It's My Party


It's my birthday today.


Kind of a big one.

Can we look at 39 for a minute, please?

(The birthday, I mean, not the entire year.That's a fiasco I'm in no mood for.)

Depressed for weeks leading up to it.

Depressed at work.

Depressed when Glenn gave me the headphones he bought me for my birthday.

Depressed when I lay in my bedroom with the lights out and sobbed for about an hour or so.

Depressed when trying to figure out what to do.

Depressed when finally deciding on pizza and beer.

Depressed when reflecting on how alone and unloved I felt, especially on my birthday, but pretty much all the time.

Now can we look at 40?

Happy when I got a text at twelve o'clock on the dot last night from my very own Jordan Catalano (information forthcoming. Maybe) because he wanted to be the very first person to wish me a happy birthday.

Ecstatic when I achieved a running goal I've had for the past at least five years (and surprisingly nonplussed when being handed my second place award by the mayor who it was handed to by C's mom).

Happy when--okay, wait.


This isn't working.

I can't make a list for this one. For this one, there's no really breaking down the parts, there's only the omnipresent feeling of happiness. Of excitement. Of positivity.

Of a new journey.

Of love--both loving and being loved.

The difference in my life from last year at this time to now is unreal.

All right, before I jinx myself--


I have a vegan dinner to get to (no wondering what to do with myself this year!); can I just say I love everyone and call it a day?

Or how about this?

A few days ago, I said that if I ran my 5k in under 30 minutes, I'd be so happy, I'd have sex with everyone on the field, and while I didn't end up spending countless hours on my back, the sentiment is still there.

I know I have my own weird logic and way of looking at things, and that statement probably doesn't make the slightest bit of sense to you, but that's how happy I'm finally starting to feel.  

Tuesday, December 23, 2014


When I was eighteen, I once took someone to Opa-locka to buy heroin in the middle of the night. Well, maybe it wasn't quite the middle of the night, but it was midnightish, which was defintely late enough for it to be a pretty scary experience. It was just the two of us, a guy I barely knew and me, in the car, and when I say barely knew him, I mean it was the second or third time I'd laid eyes on him in a five-year period. All I really knew about him was that he was the ex-boyfriend of the sister of a friend of mine, that he liked the song Bitchin' Camaro, and that he was a heroin addict. And, of course, that he was cute.

Which is actually extremely relevant to this post.

I hadn't really thought about that night in a while, but a couple days ago, when one of Griffin's friends was telling me about his car having broken down (with Griffin in it) between two bad neighborhoods and them hearing a gunshot, it came to mind, and because it was relevant, I told Griffin and his friend the story.

I told them about how when I had my apartment with my sister, I drove someone to get heroin in Opa-locka in the middle of the night, and it was one of the scariest experiences of my life. I told them about how we drove up and down some side streets until we found one where a bunch of men were milling about, some on foot, some on bikes, and how the person I was with had me pull up next to a specific guy, only to roll down his window, take a look at the guy and scream, Go, go, go! in such a loud and urgent manner that I was sure I was about to get shot and killed right then and there and that he did that to me not once, not twice, but three different times, which means that three times in a span of about five minutes, I was sure I was going to die.

Griffin's friend then asked me why I would do something as stupid as drive someone to Opa-locka to buy heroin in the middle of the night, and before I could answer him, Griffin did by asking me a question. He looked at me and, never having heard the story before, not knowing anything more than what I've told you just now, said, It was a cute boy, wasn't it?

And I'm pretty sure that tells you absolutely everything you need to know.

The part about my watching him shoot up in my bathroom, vomit in my toilet, and what ensued on my bathroom floor immediately after pretty much only reiterates what you've already been told.

Monday, December 15, 2014

A Beautiful Lie

When I was twelve and in seventh grade, I decided, for really no reason at all, that I liked some kid who I'd kind of met once while waiting in line for lunch. I asked around, found out who he was, and then, because writing is what I do, decided to write him a note and have one of my friends give it to him in the hall. Well, I'm a lunatic with inappropriate written all over me--ask anyone--so it might not come as a huge surprise that by the end of the school day, the last note I sent to him was note number four. Yes, that's right, I said four. I pretty much randomly chose a guy I knew not one little bit and wrote him not one, not two, not three, but four notes professing what amounted to my undying affection for him. It was a crazy long time ago, so who the fuck knows what those notes said? Certainly not me, but for some reason, I feel like I remember something horrific, something mortifying (yes, even more mortifying than my giving some boy I didn't know four notes in one day--when I wasn't even cute!) something along the lines of, Writing to you is the only thing I even want to do anymore.

(My God, can I die?)

Even now, all these years later, I shudder at the memory and feel like hiding in shame. All you sane people out there who know the line between what's acceptable human behavior and what's not probably can't imagine how I feel, so allow me to demonstrate. The best representation of the whole ordeal is this:

It's so painful, I can barely stand to look. It's a good thing, I'll bet you're thinking, I lived that horror so many years in the past.


You know that tagline on my blog that says I'm an introvert in person and an extrovert in print? It's not a joke.

Give me any writing medium--a note, a text, a blog--and I have no control. Everything inside of me just comes out, appropriate or not.

I know you know what I mean.

Mark Hoppus says the past is only the future with the lights on, and I have to say he's right because don't you know I've been doing the same things repeatedly for my entire life? Sure, the medium's changed, but the action, the inappropriateness, the perceived notion of somethingness that in reality doesn't exist--those things have all remained. But now...something's happened that's made me see. Something much more enlightening than the lights on.


I can't talk about it
(I'm learning, see?).


I can tell you something.

I know it's hard to believe, but I've had an epiphany. Really.

I hate to go all cliche, but I have no choice because every time I reflect, this stupid-ass saying goes through my head: Reality has hit me like a ton of bricks.

Among my recent realizations, realizations that, unlike realizations in the past, have really affected my behavior and my understanding of myself:

1. I have attachment issues. Like, seriously.
2. I am the worst judge of character in the history of people who have judged people's character.
3. If a person only knows a part of you, that person will never, ever see you as a real person. You will forever be a whisper of who you really are.
4. I am, at times, a caricature of myself.
5. All the passion in the world, and I'm not talking sexual passion, won't sway a person who doesn't want to be swayed.
6. I not only don't know when or where to draw the line, but I sometimes go so far over the line, the idea that there's even a line would be comical if it weren't so sad. To me, the world is sometimes lineless.
7. Wanting something really, really, really badly isn't always enough.
8. I actually bring some things--okay, a lot of things--on myself.
9. I'm not as sad as I like to think.

I know I kind of vagued that whole thing up, but--
epiphany, remember?

Sunday, December 7, 2014

I'll Sing Along

I had a short stay in a private psychiatric facility when I was sixteen (I wish I could say it was my first time, but that would be a lie). I was dramatic and crazy to begin with and my life was dramatic and crazy as well, and a crazy, dramatic life and a crazy, dramatic personality equal more drama and crazy than people are meant to handle. Super long story completely skipped over, I couldn't handle the drama and crazy and needed to kind of disappear from my life for a while. So I did.

Now, I'm not saying I need to disappear from my life the way I did when I was sixteen, and I'd hate to be the kind of girl to bandy about vague, nonscientific terms that don't exactly mean anything, like nervous breakdown, but I will tell you this:

I think I may need to disappear from my life.

Not forever. Not even for a significant period of time.

Maybe just take a little break.

Maybe just for long enough for me to remember how I used to be.

I mean, I'm sure everything is fine, and

the fact that I've suddenly gone from someone who immediately emails or texts people back the second she sees their text or email to someone who's so reluctant to email or text people back that it pains her to even open up texts or emails isn't the biggest deal in the world and the fact that I've gone from someone who used to read every one of the five to ten magazines she subscribes to at any given time to someone who can't even manage to get through a single article probably isn't call for alarm and the fact that I've gone from someone who's loved food, adored food, obsessed over food her entire life to someone who now has practically no interest in putting anything in her mouth doesn't mean very much at all, just like the fact that I've gone from someone who's spent her life on the phone to someone who can't stand to talk to people for a second also likely doesn't mean anything at all.

I'm also sure the fact that I no longer can spell a word doesn't mean anything and all the things I can't remember are pretty unimportant. And does anybody really think not being able to maintain a train of thought for a minute straight means anything at all? I'm sure they don't.


the way my judgment's flown leaped hurled itself out the window? That one might actually mean something.

(You want details? Oh, I've got details. Too bad you can't have them.)

Or my being so distracted that when I walked home from my sister's house today I passed the street I've lived on for twelve years and didn't even realize it until I walked about a mile out of my way? I'm thinking that one means something, too.