Dear Wednesday morning floor waxer,

We really need to stop meeting like this. Me, bursting out of my dorm room at 10:26 for my 10:30 class across campus. You, intently waxing the floor in front of the elevator. I always rush past you, spitting out a labored “Sorry, excuse me!” as I slam into the door to the stairs and hit the same place on my hip that’s been bruised since the beginning of the semester. I rush off to class and forget about you until I head back to my dorm at 11:20, where I see you waxing the exact same spot on the floor that I left you with. No longer in a rush, I have time to smile as I walk past and politely excuse myself. You never so much as speak a word, often not even raising your head to acknowledge my existence. I sheepishly return to my room, tail between my legs, to wonder for a few minutes about why you refuse to speak to me before signing on to Facebook and forgetting all about it until the following Wednesday. Why do you ignore me, Wednesday morning floor waxer? I am certain that we could be great friends if only you would give me a chance! I fear that I might frighten you, with my disarrayed appearance and chaotic demeanor as I run to class. I certainly don’t jibe with the relaxed, stress-free air you clearly strive to maintain. Your zen rivals that of Miyagi himself. I COULD BE YOUR DANIEL-SAN. TEACH ME YOUR WAYS.

Sincerely,

That crazy girl in room 422.

Oh, sweet, sweet respite!

To hear silence, after the violent, endless cacophony that is the security alarm from the liquor store down the street sounded ceaselessly over the course of four whole cigarettes. Living in the Bronx, I am perfectly well-acquainted with the din of city life. I find comfort in the familiar sounds of sirens and shouts at all hours of the night. When this wretched alarm first went off, I embraced it for what it was and continued about my business (i.e. getting blazed as ****). After a few minutes, however, I began to realize the demon’s true intentions. This was no innocent Noise of the Night— it drilled its piercing, high-pitched shriek rhythmically into my head over and over and over again, each note chipping away another chunk of my brain with its rusted ice pick. I could feel myself becoming less and less as this terrible magic consumed me. Cecilia and Mary were silent, not even flinching as they slept through my torment. I felt my brain pulsating violently inside my skull, perfectly in sync with the devilish racket. And just when I was convinced that the torture would never end— silence. That’s all. It’s over.

I am selfish.
I am stubborn.
I am rude
I am lazy.

I am obsessed with instant gratification at any cost.
I am interested solely in serving my own needs.

I am manipulative.
I am *****.
I am broken.
I am used and discarded.
I use and discard.

I pretend to care about people when it is convenient for me.
I am garbage.
I am a home to all things bad.
I am nervous
         anxious
         shaking all the timeIamsoangry.
I am destroying my brain, my body.
My soul has long been dead.
I am blackness given form.
I walk the earth to cause destruction.
I am nothing good.