I think I’ve (ironically) ended the year on a bang. I’ve been on my own personal crusade today. I’ve been ruthless at cutting out people and telling people what’s on my mind when they’re clearly taking advantage of others.

Must be the Moon.

Cheers to the New Year. 



*because that Arcade Song always comes on during the Spotify commercials*

Anyways, I’m totally seeing myself becoming more ruthless next year. But cutesy.

Why? There’s some chick who used to be my BFF and now she’s not. I tried reaching out to her the other week on Facebook, then I checked her on there (interestingly enough, to uncheck my add friend status), only to find that she had rejected it.

I don’t know why,  but I don’t care. Things had been going downhill ever since I’d told her that one of our friends had assaulted me. I actually didn’t want to tell her because I was afraid that it would create a wedge in our friendship. And lo and behold,  it probably did. This was in the beginning of 2011, and I have only seen her once since then. Texted maybe once. I saw her at her job and we had planned on going to the Chocolate Room. We had a lot of catching up to do. Her grandmother had kicked her out because she’s old and cynical.  I was madly in love with some dude I couldn’t have and madly in like with another. Never happened.

We shared tons of traumatic experiences together. It was a great bonding experience. But some of her friends sucked. One of them said he’d wished I’d been murdered. Another sabotaged my attempts at a relationship. And yeah,  that other guy. And you know,  your friends are a reflection of yourself. Just a cesspool of shit I don’t need right now. Why stick with people like those. Oh right, because that’s what you are.

So why do people I try avoiding always end up popping up when I don’t need them to? God,  just stop it. I know I’ll run into her again. I’ll keep it civil. Civility is what adults do, right? Screw civility.

It’s hard enough trying to find female friends. Especially in NYC. Especially ones who aren’t superficial and just overly emotional and shallow. But that doesn’t mean holding on to dead weight.

It bothers me that I have a dearth of female friends. Most of them are out of state,  so that foils plans of having girls night out.  I think too much like a guy. It makes me feel cold, mechanical. Sometimes I need those soft, nurturing aspects. I can connect with people on an intellectual level – that’s where I thrive. But everyone is too busy and I’m such a hermit. And many women here are painfully stupid.

But screw it. My male friends are awesome. They hold me accountable and kick my ass whenever I feel mopey and emotional. They’re like, “You can’t stay in the house all day! Let’s go get a beer and make fun of hipsters!” And who would pass on cheap (or free,  if I look really distraught) beer and making fun of the people who are sorta kinda taking over this city? Or people who pretend to like Kerouac?

So the moral of the story is quality over quantity.  Now,  time to listen to some random song that just came on my playlist.

I’m not perfect…

I was told weeks ago that too many people were spending their lives trying to be perfect. While I spend my time trying to show the world how I am. Everything isn’t roses and saccharine. Sometimes…it really sucks.

In a moment of weakness, I tried getting into contact with someone I have no business getting in contact with. It goes against my notion of not remaining friends with an ex (and I guess I should say that I don’t consider my high school boyfriends exes, mainly because the relationships lasted so short). It’s just a rule I have.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the contact was brief, and I ended it again. I randomly said “Crazy eights.” He said “Ok.” I asked what he was doing. He said still teaching but was taking the day off because he had to renew his visa.

It was just like old times. As if we were old friends catching up. And I couldn’t stand it. What are you thinking? was all I could think about. It was the cycle, reset. Do something bad, get heart broken, make amends.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. Good bye.” And once again, he was blocked.

Moment of weakness came again, and I consulted a friend about it. I was accused of doing the same thing as a friend was doing – being placed in the friend zone and waiting to be taken out. Obviously, the situations are different – I’m with someone, for instance. Still, I took the advice. Still blocked.

I often questioned my motives for wanting to talk, for wanting to be friends again. I already have plenty of male friends. In fact, most of my friends are guys. I don’t need anymore, especially none that have hurt my feelings. But I don’t feel hurt anymore. But it wouldn’t be right to open up myself to that situation again. I had already been through that before, being friends, having a relationship, ending it, being friends but with strings attached (no, not those strings), and then ending it. Plus, I don’t need that “I’ve known you longer” lorded over my head, even though I feel it wouldn’t happen.

*sighs* The decisions we make as adults. In the end, it boiled down to my inability to let go. It was a weird, Stockholm Syndrome type ordeal (not quite. There have been worse). Crazy/interesting how we’ll try to justify the badness by pointing out all the “good” someone has done. It really doesn’t matter. You can’t get mad at a snake for doing what it does – biting people.

So instead of cultivating a friendship through the rubble, I cut the ties. Once and for all. There is no “closure.” The media tells us that all endings must go out with a bang, that they must be spectacular. Which can be good. But failing that, the quiet way can be just as effective, if not more. Making a dramatic exit only proves how much hold and sway the other person has. In my foolishness, I left that message, simply by saying hello.
There doesn’t need to be a big sign saying “You hurt me! How could you?!” More than likely, they don’t really care. The mere fact that you’ve said you can’t do this anymore and that you’ll never talk again should be enough. And even if they try clawing their way back in, you say no.

In other news, I’ve revived the novella that I’ve been putting off. Interestingly enough I have more material for it.

Purple Haze

Coughing. Too much smoke invaded my lungs. My eyes dripped tears as I struggled to breathe. They all laughed at my being a rookie.
I giggled. Everyone turned a slight shade of purple. That kind of purple you get from too much TV saturation. The black girl kept looking at me and talking about me. She clung on to her man. I kept looking at her and talking about her. I clung onto him. We were both paranoid.
The Middle Eastern kid looked suspicious, like he was up to no good. Like he had a diabolical plot brewing in his brain, but his sneaky grin indicated friendliness, he had nothing to hide.
Explaining the mechanics of how our body feels pain – something about nerve signals and the brain – proved more difficult than usual. I stopped repeatedly to gather my thoughts. I looked over at him, wondering why he looked so cool and why my spaziness was amplified.
I went to the bathroom to check my appearance. It was a struggle. My eyes were bloodshot, pupils dilated. I patted myself on the back.
Apparently I wanted to smack the black girl. 
He checked my watch – 1:40 in the am. He said it was time to go. I waved farewell to everyone. 
I have no idea how I made it to my apartment in Harlem. I was floating. And falling at the same time. Maybe he carried me. I was trying so hard to look like I wasn’t on Planet Neptune. Paranoia erupted.
A cat fight was starting in front of my building. He turned me away, asked me if there was another way to get in. I said no. Paranoia exacerbated. 
I wanted to whisper, “I’m scared,” but my sense of volume was off. What could have been a whisper might have been an invitation for a beatdown. 
I clung onto him, as a frightened child does to its mother in the wake of danger. Steve Harvey came to mind – men’s role as protector. I made a mental note to tell him this later.
The elevators weren’t piss-drenched as they normally were. Three hefty men get in, following two older ladies. I notice blood on the guys’ shirts  – I thought it was from the girl fight (I later found out it was from a street fight).
I clung onto him tighter, waiting to get off the 14th floor, hoping my cover wouldn’t be blown.
Wondering why my room looks like a seedy motel and why Wyatt Cenac is on my bed… 

Meet new guy.
Start weaving the fantasy.
Live the delusion.
Guy turns out to be a dick.
The bubble bursts.
The cycle repeats.
Running out of room to bury old flames.  

Subway Musings

Mind is splitting. Is this what insanity feels like? My sense of biography can only be told by the synchronous beats blaring through the buds in my ears. “Insanity is an accurate mind overtaxed,” they say. Well, what does that really mean?

Ooh…there’s Beatniks sitting across from me on the L train. Whoops, one of them got off on Bedford (typical). But that’s ok, because I like the other one better anyway: gelled hair, sky blue eyes, skinny twill pants, a grey blazer, a chain bracelet. I wonder if he knows I’m writing about him.

I remember there was a point in my life when I tried to get “hip” to the Beats, a little out of self-validation, but mainly to impress a certain guy. That slight nod you get from the literati when they see you reading And the Hippos were Boiled in Their Tanks or On the Road? Fucking A! But somewhere between reading OTR and Naked Lunch (which, I swear to God, has convinced me NEVER to do drugs), I realized I don’t really like Kerouac. I tried. I really did. But I just don’t get it. All I really got was Dean Moriarty’s insanity – I totally dug it. But why? Maybe it’s because I’ve always been attracted to offbeat types – and the less available they are – both physically and emotionally – the more I’m running towards them.

*laughs* Silly girl. Remember all those guys you used to pine for in school, writing in your notebook about how tragic unrequited love (or obsession or infatuation) was, or how you’d just dramatically sigh as you stare at the back of their head or across the room, hoping they’d turn around and give you that look like, “Hey, I get you,” but you really don’t want that to happen, because you’d look away. BUT…what happened the moment some of these guys expressed in interest in you? No more tragic pining or lust. So you go find the next emotionally available jerk to fall for…

Except one.

Look, it’s your stop.


It was years ago, at the start of March. It was cold, and my phone was about to die. Leaving my late geology class, waiting for the damn G train, then the mind-numbing walk to the bar. The whole time, my fingers are becoming numb from constantly calling the friend on how to get to the bar.

But I didn’t care.

Love feels like speed. And a gentle floating feeling. It was a weird feeling being played out on two different levels. Externally, I was cold and miserable and cursing why I’d ever moved to new York in the first place. Internally, I was on cloud ten, because nine was already taken.

Anyways, the bar was two-storied. Looked around on the first floor. Didn’t see him. Walking up to the second floor made my legs practically melt. Looking around on the second floor. He was all the way in the back of the bar, with his back facing me.

And I think, that magical moment that I’ve always imagined like, it hit me. Like, if this were love at first sight, this is what it was. It was almost like the first time I had met him, and I just knew I had to have him. My mind had exploded, and then became frazzled.

And we talked and talked. We had a lot of physical catching up to do. The distance had put a strain on us. I had spent years wondering if I had just stayed, and spent an equal amount of time wondering if he felt the same.

But I dampened my excitement. I didn’t want him to know what was brimming underneath the surface. He knew, but he had. No. Idea.

And then, we went to a party in Greenpoint. I think it was a loft. There were painted shirts on the floor and weird art hung on the wall. A mixture of rap and 80s music played on a loop.
He hugged me again. We danced a little. He was hopping around like a mad man, and I was the wallflower. I felt frozen.

There was a pile of wooden planks by the wall. He cornered me there. Leaned over me, with his head and hair pressed against mine. Was he going to kiss me? I wondered. Over and over again. I could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath.

The memories. He was the reason why I loved (and hated) smokers. And why I love strawberries and wine. So many things I loved were because of him.

But all of that was background noise. It felt so good to be in that moment. That present moment. 

He didn’t kiss me but went down the block to smoke a cigarette. I was disappointed. Went outside and someone offered me a buzz from their bong. I happily obliged, but didn’t feel anything (little did I know I was doing it wrong. For years). The buzz I felt was coming from my heart. I felt drunk with love.

And then he and I and his friend and his friend’s friend all crammed up into his car. We were going back to my place, just me and him. I was excited. He had no idea what he was doing to me when he called me by my nickname.

No idea.

It was such an intimate name, that. So intimate that I winced whenever anyone else said it.

I held his hand on our way up the dark staircase, just as he had held mine as went to his bedroom, years ago. I lit a few candles on the top of my bookshelf. I told him I liked the light, and that I wasn’t doing this because it was “romantic.”

He smiled. He was calling me out on my bullshit.

I asked him if it was ok if I could take off my clothes, slide next to him wearing only my underwear. I noticed he was wearing boxers. He used to not believe in underwear. I pointed this out to him. I got on top of him. The air mattress sighed underneath me. He told me I was very eager. He thought we should wait, let the tension build.

I kissed him. Told him no. I’d waited years. There was already tension. I didn’t know if I’d see him again, if ever.

He sighed. Asked if I had a rubber. It didn’t last long. Said it didn’t feel right and he wanted to wait a little longer. Changed his mind minutes later and slid it in me. Gave a few thrusts before giving up. I don’t know if it were from old age or he resented my not wanting to wait.

I thought about getting pregnant. Flying off to the other side of the earth to tell him the news. Giving college the finger and teaching our child how to live off the land. Having a nanny watch the baby as we walked around on beaches, me in an orange sundress, he in man clothes.

I watched him sleep. Played with his hair. Smelled the faint cigarette smoke all over his body. Earlier i’d told him that I had missed him. But I meant I loved him.

Damn words were stuck in my throat.

Next day, he met me in Bushwick, by the train station. He said Bushwick sucked. I bristled. It was cold. We walked to a bar but it was full. Went to the bar next door. He ordered vodka and lime. I ordered vodka and grapefruit juice. I kept drinking his drinks. He said he wasn’t going to babysit me. I kept fiddling with my shirt and my bra was to tight. I wanted him to take it off right then. He ordered a sandwich from outside and commented on my shirt.

As we were walking home, he hurt my feelings. Apologized. Said he didn’t want me to get hurt. We tried again. Lasted a few minutes. He held me as we fell asleep.

Before we woke up, I put his used condom in a bag and put it in my treasure box, along with my parchment paper and ink.

And then he left. And I never saw him again. We were supposed to meet before he left but we never did.