“Should we wrap it up?”



“No… **** them.”



And so she held it open and I shoved the contents in, a navy blue national geographic mug with a gold globe and majestic lettering, suggesting prestige and class, and a worn paper copy of ‘Ender’s Game’. My stomach churned for a moment as I feared that I perhaps forgot to remove the bookmark, but the pages held nothing but themselves, and the words of Orson Scott Card, not me.
“You’re not going to write him anything, are you?”



Why did she ask that? She had a right, but didn’t she trust me? I did write him something. I used the bookmark, in reality a half-piece of paper folded twice, and wrote



“Thank you for letting me

read this

it took a while to

get back to you but

I see why you like it.”



I suspected he wasn’t as dense as his misogyny and drug use suggested, and in my form he could find an alternative meaning, the kind I provided him with, the kind when he said he wondered what I meant sometimes.



I reread my penciled note, my last farewell, and considered writing “good luck with everything”. What would he think if he read it, if they read it? They already laughed so it’d be nothing new. I decided against it. It would be a response to his arrogant, empty text, where he triumphantly, probably drunk, sent a blank text. Did you have to tell me you had nothing tell me? She was furious. I never did respond, and handwriting was too personal.



“I have nothing to say to him. I just want to give their **** back and get it out of my life.”



I didn’t check the price of the over-sized, padded envelope I was about to purchase, but I appreciated the convenience of the post office for making my task an easy one. There was something freeing about being passive and sending mail, rather than making the three hour drive for no reason other than to experience another awkward situation, and perhaps worse, another yelling altercation.



I was worried the glass would break in transit, for the fear they would open the package and see it as deliberate, and I imagined their conversation: mocking our relationship, calling us *******, suggested we did it on purpose, saying anything malicious to assert their manliness and inflate their egos.



“Should we send them separately?”

“Don’t waste your money on those ******.”



So I sealed it. The small, bulky package contained things to return seemed heavier than needed. I imagined their faces when they saw who sent it, their outward responses to one another, and their immediate reactions once opening it.



“This will shut him the **** up. I can’t believe he thought I stole it.. I thought it was yours when I packed it.”



“You don’t need to say anything,” she demanded. “He’ll get it back, you don’t need to explain.”



She was obviously more annoyed at the two than I, although I was immensely annoyed. He thought I stole his mug. Well, I am so kindly sending it back. Perhaps this would be enough to get a response regarding subleasing.



“I really don’t want to pay $300 a month for a place I’m not living,” I pleaded.



“If they don’t respond then we’ll put locks on our doors. I don’t want them using our rooms and letting their friends sleep there.. they’d probably let people live there and pocket the money for themselves.”



The line in front of us gave us enough time to contemplate the situation, the whole situation, and it reminded me to check if he said anything. Message read, Tuesday 10:10 p.m. No response. I didn’t dare write the other. Neither would she.



“Six-thousand one, Autumn Avenue,” I said out loud as I wrote the address. A strangeness filled me, as I looked at the names I’d just written and the address of my former college residence. We don’t live here anymore. I was glad of it. I was glad to be standing there with her, running a necessary errand of alleviating ourselves of the burden of owing them anything. No longer would we need to endure video games, constant presence of the boy who slept on the couch every single night, despite his room, rewatching Gordon Ramsey’s ‘Kitchen Nightmares’ over and over until he memorized them, nor did we need to deal with hearing the door slam at 3:00 a.m. and an alarming “I’m home, *******!” from a drunkard. No more cleaning up beer bottles and bowls with cigarette ashes, no more listening to hockey or male-dominated conversations lacking substance. No longer would I feel trapped, as if Giovanni’s room, in the upstairs loft, tension rising up the stairs and filling up the whole house, the way burnt Ramen would smell when he forget to monitor it. The “he”’s would be out of our lives, as soon as they signed the lease. We stood there at the table before the checkout, patiently, thinking of the same thing probably, except I imagined her wondering if I liked when he ****** me.



She took the pen from me and hovered it over the package, pretending to inscribe “Love, the girls” with a heart next to it. She laughed, and I did too. I could imagine them opening the package, the one retrieving his mug, undoubtedly making a snarky comment, and the other ******* about the bottom left corner of the cover of his book being bent. I wondered if he’d wonder whether I read the whole thing through.



I hoped the cup wasn’t broken. There was a crack on the bottom of the handle, and I imagined him sitting on the sofa drinking coffee and having it snap and spill all over his lap.



“Next,” the woman called us and we stepped to send it off. “Would you be interested in the priority tracking shipping? It’ll cost— ”



“No thanks, we’re not in a real rush to get it there.”



“It’ll be the same price as without it, $5.79.”



“Then sure.”



I paid in quarters, retrieved my change and we left.



“Hopefully now that he has his ******* cup back he’ll sign the lease.” We were both worried.



“Do you want to get some wine?” And so we drove. Up the street, left turn, on the main road, right turn through the drive through.



“Hello,” I said to the man in the turban. She gave me her license and her card. “Could we have a double-bottle of Yellow Tail’s Cabernet Sauvignon?”



“Big bottle?”



“Yes sir.”



“I wonder how much those Backwoods cigars are.. sir, could you tell me how much for the 5-pack?” He reached for the pack on the left. “$7.49.”



“Oh no. Do you have Black and Mild’s?



“Apple, wood-tip, wine—”



“Could we have a wood-tipped wine one?”



“It’s better than cigarettes.”



“I haven’t smoked tobacco since Christmas Eve so I’m okay with it. I need it after today.”



He handed me the goods, I gave him her card, we waited, I smiled at her and she smiled back, her pale face and sweet, soft features, like a little pet, and he reached down to give me the clipboard to sign her name.



“Thanks, have a good night.” And I drove off.

My mind is buzzing from the over-sleeping, cups of coffee brewed too strong, and thoughts about the future, stuck in the present. To be stuck in the present however, is to be stuck in the past. Every moment that passes becomes the past, and the present is an unattainable concept, forever lapsing. Like water pouring from a kitchen sink, the present falls, is no longer new, and is never again. So here I sit, in the past, at 2:08 p.m. on a Wednesday, stuck with my tangled thoughts.

I really need a job. I have a job, as a server, and I’m ashamed. I work at a food-chain sports bar, where I’m encouraged to heavily line my eyes and have my mascara looking perfect, have straightened hair pulled back in a pony-tail and sass that leaves an impression. It’s not the worst job, at times I’ll admit it can be fun, in a superficial, extrovert type of way, but it leaves me depressed. Two months after having received my Bachelor’s in Psychology, and I am a part-time waitress.

I wait for the phone to ring. I want them to call me, as I consider myself a fit candidate, but I wonder if they will. “We’ll start calling people on Monday to schedule interviews.” Well, it’s Wednesday. So I called around noon, shortly after I woke up this morning. There was no real rush to wake up this morning, as there is no real rush to remind myself that I am once again trapped in my forsaken parents’ house, the one I swore I would never return to. A man answered, and I gave him my name and asked about interviews, saying I hadn’t yet received a call. “Her assistant will be calling people for interviews this week.” Pause. “Do you know when?” I asked. “No, sometime this week.” “Okay thanks.” And that was all.

All of this is in the past. Having occurred only moments ago, when I chugged my last cup of coffee; hours ago, when I woke up and called the place I wish to work; months ago, when I felt so proud for graduating college and holding promise the world (and employers) would view me as accomplished. It’s all the same, cemented in the past, the same past that decides my future. I wait for it.

Waiting for it is hard. It leaves me bitter and impatient. I feel weak. I want to spend my time asleep, but sleeping is a placeholder for facing reality once again. The future beckons, and mocks me. I inch closer to it every minute, trapped between it and the past in this abyss considered the present. I am stagnant. I am the collected drops falling from the faucet of the sink, running water spinning down the drain. I never fall to the pipes, but I am constantly lingering at the metal bottom, waiting to fall but never doing so.

I think. I think about all the courses I’ve studied, A’s and B’s I’ve earned in classes, C’s I’ve gotten on tests, D’s I’ve gotten on certain papers. Even then my mind was buzzing. I don’t even smoke *** anymore, but it seems I was better off then. I had a purpose. My schedule was to work, study, and complete assignments. I could socialize as I felt able and appropriate, and the past made my present validated. My presence in the present is absent. I yearn for those days, and consider going to school again. I stall in my thoughts and remind myself that I don’t have the money to go, nor the desire to take out more loans. I would need to study for the entrance exam. My mind, while buzzing, is mush. Even my vocabulary is lacking. I’ve lost the ability to think critically, and I waste my days in routine, bored and struggling to look forward. The days blend together. I don’t work until Saturday. The time is 2:25 now

I think this was the first (and only) nervous breakdown I’ve ever had. I was nineteen.



The noises from the plane were terrifying enough to wake me up. My relaxed heart started racing, and I thought of a late-night bomb attack, via some middle-eastern country, which would bring war. I clutched the blankets to my chest, and expected the dooming flash of light which would instantly take my life through vaporization. After several minutes of laying tense yet catatonic in my bed, my late-night delirium began to slowly fade. Whether it was one plane or several, I know not. I just remember hearing the horrible ripping noise echo through the sky by my window and I instantly awoke. Were the planes this loud every night? Why did I never notice? Perhaps I restarted my sleep cycle and being back in level one, the loud noise frightened me. But did that mean that if these planes did indeed roar, every night, that I always slept through them? It seemed very unlikely. I cautiously checked my phone to inform myself of what time the war had started. Three-eleven a.m. How depressing. Why would an enemy attack in the middle of the night when everyone is asleep? What cowardice. Why would an enemy attack at all? Why would we have an enemy? As my paranoia faded and my fatigue crawled back, I went to the bathroom. I figured if I were to die, I wouldn’t want the finders of my body to think me gross for soiling myself with the tea I drank right before bedtime. As I sat on the toilet and released the pressure, the pressures of life invaded. I looked up to the sky-light in my bathroom and decided tonight would not be the night where I was killed while sleeping by a late-night plane of an enemy, but if it were to happen, I’d have no control whatsoever. Sadness struck me as I envisioned myself being robbed of motherhood, still and unaware at nineteen-years old. I thought again of the planes, and while they no longer seemed threatening, I wondered what caused them to rip across the sky in such force. It seemed destiny had spared me that night, but would it always? June was a non-war month anyways; I should relax, enjoy the summer and keep caution for autumn and winter. Those are war seasons, when wars began. The night was still once more, but I felt completely drained—the way one feels when descending from a *******-high. I straightened my blankets, rolled onto my side into a comfortable position and squeezed my eyes shut trying to hold back tears.

I saw his smile for the first time and a while and he almost looked happy to see me. I’ve still never met anyone with those eyes; I instantly forgot his old lies and how I’d always cry. His smile was happy. I remember how he’d laugh with tears after we made up after a fight. I remember looking into his eyes when they were an inch from mine; we’d be kissing and smiling and miserable in love.  The true misery came when absence cured the pain his love left. Even now, having coffee on a Tuesday night, his smile, like ice, expands to fill the crevices of my soul only to later drain away, leaving me aching and cold and wet in this bitter winter. I want to cry. I’ve done it hundreds of times. I hated him while and after we dated, and I don’t know if love was enough. Maybe I’m the crazy one. Maybe I was always crazy, and I chased him away. Maybe we were too perfect in our differences, and the universe in its cruel existence ripped us apart without explanation. Maybe he’s made a deal with the universe. Did he ever love me? Can sixteen year-olds love? What about when they’re twenty? He ruined my life. He made me who I am. 2009 was the worst year of my life. I’m glad I forgot about him, but weirdly, I’m glad he came back. I liked looking across the table from him as I sipped my coffee. It was bold and warm. He doesn’t eat meat either. Maybe we were meant to be together. Maybe I should never see him again because I keep having stupid ideas about love lost. Maybe I should cry. It’ll take months and months to forget the feeling I got from the smiles he shared in the two hours of our conversation. Do I love him? I don’t. That’s the sad part. I loved him. Why do I still feel this way though? Shouldn’t it be over? He doesn’t love me anymore. Does he? He started contact. He smiled at me. Life is long. Things change. They change, but they can change back. Maybe he does work with the universe. He could’ve made a deal and this is our parallel universe where we end up together. We could still. Life is long. His smile is something worth trying for. His smile and his eyes made me real. They trained me. They broke me. The shouted and cried and gave me mean stares and pleaded and suddenly disappeared. Could they be back?

Wednesday, May 29, 2014

Subject: You know how I am about letters



Do people notice when it starts to happen? Maybe not the first time—it can be hard to tell—but do they recognize a pattern? Are they able to appropriately react? Is it easy to detect such feeling, a reoccurring newness? When it happens, it swells and expands: building within and pushing out, resonating a specific sound, paralleling the pang of olfaction from the heavy stench of pheromones. It stimulates the senses and sends the hypothalamus into hyperactivity, the mind clouded with confusion.



I’m glad it happened. I’m glad we got to be friends, the way we were, the way we could still be. It’s easy to be around you, and I appreciate the feeling you instilled in me. Four miles and six beers later, I found myself with you, in your house, talking to your parents, experiencing a part of you I’ve never known. Shortly after, there we were, on your couch, and you were against me and I held your core, warmed by the heat of your skin radiating from beneath your thermal. It was nice, but it was the type of nice which is prone to burn. I didn’t expect to be there.



I could’ve anticipated that drinking so much would release my inhibitions, and given our mutual attraction and history I would have succumbed to you. Obviously, I did. Nothing more than a kiss, but I’m glad I did, even though to actively be swept away in the moment is dangerous. I’m notoriously attracted to it, and sure enough as I write this, I feel a mix of nausea and a dull inner ache. I want it to go away, yet I endure it, understanding it’s a consequence of recklessness. I wouldn’t doubt it’s karma. I don’t think you are, but I notice myself around you and can decide that I am often being reckless with my frivolity. It feels good at first, but like coming down from rolling, there is a lingering feeling of synthetically-induced haze.



I honestly didn’t plan on kissing you, but the night took us there. I did plan on giving you that poem, however. I’m sure you have interpreted it correctly, as I’d assume you’re capable of distinguishing metaphors (you do have a college degree), and now hopefully understand my perspective of our situation.



I wanted to run with you, I wanted to get a beer (also I had a rough day/week so I was kind of down to drink—coping of course) and I wanted to let you read that poem. Those are things I wanted to do, and while I wanted to kiss you, I didn’t. I’m glad I did and it wasn’t a mistake, but I think doing that too many times would be more detrimental than productive. I’m sure you got that theme from what I wrote you was influenced by the weekend I came to Salisbury; maybe you can see certain themes of that weekend in it.



I don’t know. I was just thinking about you and I wanted to express what was going on in my head. I wanted you to know. I was somewhat sad when I left Salisbury, wondering why you gave my no affection when saying goodbye, but I was relieved and grateful you didn’t. But now… I think about us meeting at my house in Fruitland and the four of us drunkenly deciding to live together. It just so happened that Rachel and I were discussing the possibility of her moving to Salisbury and she mentioned Scott finding a house, with my landlord, for $300 a month. Talk about timing. I don’t know what to make of it.



It’s unfortunate that timing doesn’t always accommodate feeling; ironically, more often than not, timing sabotages it. Personally, I have always romanticized things that were doomed to end. The reason I love Shakespeare so much (besides intellect like no other) is because he conveys tragedy in such a beautiful way. Consider it like thanatos vs. eros—there is greater appreciation for something that cannot last forever, because there is only a limited time to enjoy it. It’s sad to think, too often, we’re unable to enjoy things to their fullest because of this notion. Like life and death—if we could live forever would we value our time as much? Hell no, we would take everything for granted (humans already do, as we are prone to do so) and never give a **** about anything. What makes anything matter is being able to appreciate it, despite of how long it lasts?



In that regard, after coming to Salisbury again, I thought about you coming home and what would happen. I assumed you’d be moving to Massachusetts sooner rather than later and wondered if we would even talk. I still wanted to hang out and go running, but I realized it might not happen and I recognized that could happen.



I never expected anything from you. I know we always had a thing and have been flirty towards each other, but to establish a foundation of sorts didn’t ever seem like an option. I liked you unattainable, impossible, a little too late, the right person at the wrong time; it seems pretty sick the way I describe it and I’m well aware, but you were the perfect protagonist of the narrative of my painful romance with Rachel, where you restored my mojo and provided me with the ability to feel and create again. You broke up the dam of my writer’s block with your flow. You were a muse of sorts. I am not idealizing you, just describing what you provided me with.



With this being said, I hope you believe that the sentiments I wrote to you were honest, as were my actions. I have nothing but positive regard for you, despite the periods where we didn’t speak and knowing you was somewhat uncomfortable. I have only known you for a year, but we’ve been through a lot and I consider you a friend. As I stated before, I didn’t mean to like you, it just kind of happened. And like you told me, that’s life. It’s curious, but I wonder if I would like you as much if we had a chance. I know it sounds cold, and I hope reading it doesn’t sting, but I am only trying to be realistic. I’m sure you too have assessed it.



The point of this cyber-letter is to just let you know that I liked you. I’m glad we got to know each other. You influenced me and you left your mark, forever contributing to the me I’m going to be. You taught me a lot about a lot of things. However, as I stated before, timing doesn’t always accommodate feeling. You are a unique “perhaps” in my life, nonetheless. I wonder what it would be like if we were ever together in another world, but I cannot quite imagine it. I dream, but I am bound to servitude by analyzing each intricate detail of the situations in front of me, despite my occasional bouts of impulse. It’s a way to survive, and there’s a pattern to it. It all unfolds so suddenly, paralleling behavioral, weather and astronomical patterns. More recently, I have experienced this. I wasn’t hoping for it or expecting it. I was surprised.



You know how they say “If you’re looking for something you won’t find it, but things are found (or given?) when you’re not looking?” So far 2014 has been a great year for many reasons. Even the  little after -graduation struggle was a transition to build into what is now and what will be.



So….you know how I snapchatted you (and most everyone on my friends list—you may notice I ask questions) asking if going to a park was a date? Well. It wasn’t the first. I wasn’t sure the first date was even a date. He made no forward advances to indicate any kind of ****** interest. I thought he just wanted to hang out, and offered to pay because he knows I don’t make as much as he does. Right? That sounds valid. But still, I wasn’t totally sure. I initially assumed my brother would come with us, because we hadn’t ever been exclusively in each other’s company. So, he said he’d pick me up at 8:00 p.m. My brother told me he was going to hang out with his friend Chelsea and hadn’t heard from him. I will admit I put effort into my aesthetics, perhaps as a slightly narcissistic compulsion to emphasize what is heterosexually considered feminine. Even if we were just hanging out, I wanted to make an impression; also, some places in the National Harbor are really nice, so I wanted to look nice too. We talked for two hours until they were closing and then he dropped me off. I was home by 11:00 p.m. That was May 4th.



I wanted to tell you yesterday, but you served an egress from thinking about work, my brother, my mom: everything. Six beers deep and I was caught up. I did miss you. It was selfish of me to indulge in it, but I wanted to savor you one last time. I don’t think that’s a crime, but I acknowledge it’s emotionally irresponsible. Despite that, when I think about it all, knowing I have to decide, I realize it’s more logical to pursue that which has less risk of becoming hazardous. Am I to deny myself that opportunity? It’s divine how patterns align: specific variables, whether assigned or accreted, determine the true outcome. The rest is what we do, how we behave, and how the mystical law of cause and effect affects the subsequent possible outcomes. Such dissident circumstances are attributed to timing.



It’s been described as a chaotic sequence of events, life. But isn’t there order in chaos? Astronomical and Neurological perspectives serve as two notable examples of materialism establishing the foundations of life, as we observe it functioning, from both holistic and reductionist views, yes. It’s not irrational to wonder if, in a complex way we have yet to fully understand, we are a miniscule, yet essential, part of a functioning unit. The struggle is especially prominent when how we live is based off how we obsess over the desire to understand why things happen. Despite the patterns, it often becomes unpredictable and gets so ******* frustrating. Still, isn’t it wonderful how we can revel in fascination?



I’m sure you weren’t expecting all the prose, but I wanted to be honest and straightforward…writing is the way I know how to be. I want you to know I regard you as a cool person and I really like talking and running (and smoking?) with you. I know you’ll be around for a little bit.  I’d still like to hang out with you, but I understand if you think it’s awkward or there will be tension or something. Regardless, I like your company and our friendship, our memories, our bullshitting, etc. I’d still like to watch some FIFA games, too. Feel free to email me back or use whatever means of communication you prefer.

Why wasn’t it accepted? Is it not good? It’s as good as anyone else’s. Who determines what is accepted and what isn’t, and why are they given such a privilege of deciding? How did they earn it, assuming they did? Did they try; did they work harder than I?



When it comes to acceptance of any sort, these are the basic questions I pose. It’s impossible not to compare myself to others, as the world in which we live demands so; it seems to all be a competition, where the standards are high, varying across many different areas to be judged. Do I fall short, even surrounded by incompetence?



It all seems to be about survival. Whatever is necessary to advance needs to be done, and even if progression is unlikely, sustaining is required. There is no other alternative in life, as falling behind leads to ultimate extinction.



How do you reconcile such conflicting thoughts and emotions?



The differences are obvious while the similarities are astonishing.

The passive-aggressive note board read something different every day. Its original purpose was to write reminders—mother’s idea—and we would collectively contribute to it, whether it was a doctor’s appointment, a phone number to call back and job interview dates and times. That was the purpose, until it became otherwise.

The heavy, carefully-written, uppercase letters with sharp edges burned into my mind and I hated him even more. The authoritative tone, while dormant for a while, had returned, not in yells but in written words. It was the most passive way to demand anything, and being in the kitchen where everyone passed, it sat on the wall, a fat display of hypocrisy and power-plays.

This morning, after my steady awakening, the awakening of a person with no obligations, I saw it. My otherwise pleasant morning was interrupted by the letters. I imagined him waking up early before work and writing out the whole list of chores to do, using words like “please” to make it seem better. I imagined his short, stumpy arms reaching and writing these orders and I gritted my teeth.

It was a reminder of my resentment, especially since my mother probably put him up to it, she who was more passive and unable to control anything. He was her lapdog, yet she was the *****. What a sad life.

Today it read “Rent is due for last week. 50.00 each. No one is doing much of anything to help.” I wondered if my mother saw it and I figured she had, and my disdain for her grew even stronger at the thought. After the catastrophe of my last living situation, my mother welcomed me to return home and live in her and her husband’s house. It was reassuring to know that my siblings were there and I had allies, but I knew there would be a personal toll on accepting defeat. “Yes, I did just graduate college, no, I don’t have a job, no, I don’t know what the **** I’m doing.”

No one is doing much of anything to help. What an ironic sentence. I felt the very same way about Social Services, when I confessed to a beloved college professor that I had experienced trauma as a child, the kind that latches onto your soul and ***** it dry, taking all the sustenance, leaving identity hollow. It was the trauma created by a seemingly trusting adult, a person with the ability to intimidate and discipline children, an unexpected *******. Mother didn’t believe me. Social services didn’t care. No one is doing much of anything to help.

I stared at the board for minutes, barely blinking, letting my retina absorb the sentence and its meaning. Do they expect me to pay for this? He never did. I was eleven when it first happened, it happened consistently until I turned twelve, and once again when I was 15. He tricked me into thinking drinking was fun. Mother was never around of course, like she never is. All while looking at the board and thinking about these things, it was harder to think of who I hated worse.

They both ruined me. They both got off. Justice didn’t exist, and I refused to remain a prisoner for committing no crime. I thought about Genesis and Eve’s crimes. The crime of woman. The crime of sexuality. At the time, I didn’t realize a prepubescent girl was an object of ****** desire. When I did, it wrecked me forever. In my solitude, sitting in the kitchen of a huge house of secrets, empty except my presence, I concocted a plan. “What a wonderful plan!” I exclaimed internally, and I poured myself a bit of *****. I drank it, winced with the sharp taste of alcohol, and poured myself a bit more. No one would be home, and it’d be perfect.