If only I did standup. 

Sometimes I wish I was a standup comedian so that I could go on stage and say things like “Sometimes I cry in elevators” and it wouldn’t sound so pathetic. I would deliver it in such a way that the audience would laugh and shift in their seats to accommodate their active abdominal muscles.

Maybe I would tell them how when I met him he was light and carefree and by that I mean he was drunkenly singing karaoke and doing a dance that involved excessive amounts of pelvic thrusting. I knew I had to have him.

I could tell them how when we started there were more libations which made for an evening long soirée during which we talked among ourselves and multiple strangers and even narrowly avoided an orgy invitation.

I’m still trying to write up the bit where, without comment, he decides it’s all too much for him and walks away. I can’t quite pick out what would make that one funny. Although; that is where the part about crying in elevators was born, so it can’t be all that bad.

Condensed and Injected

The last time I saw him he would look at me like he was trying to peel the layers of facade away from who I truly was. It had been a handful of years since then. Granted, things had changed; including my inclination to be swept up by unremarkable lovers; but he wasn’t even looking at me. I had been in the practice of peeling away my own unnecessary reservations, but I wasn’t totally void of a guard that needed to be coaxed into taking a step back and I was disappointed in his lack of effort.

“Come here, you,” he whispered emptily as he pulled me closer and kissed my neck. This was all wrong. We were supposed to be facing the other way in a warm room draped in California summer and stuffed with meaning. 

I began I mourn the evolution of my mentality, because maybe it was just me. Being lost and open to letting someone catch my falling spirit had allowed me to get swept up in all that was him. I had felt like we were some sort of androgynous soul.

I tried to get back some of who I was in that California summer. Perhaps being slightly delusional would help me appreciate this unexpected second chance.

But when I locked eyes with him, I felt nothing. I was no longer pulled into what had once been the spirit of the world. 

Untitled; 198 words 

The train stalls just as I see he’s holding some other girl’s hand. I look up and out the window. I’m doing my quietest panic, seeing as I’d rather not give my fellow passengers a more memorable commute.
In the empty courtyard below there’s a figure dancing, headphone cord swaying. I title the display “rhythmic jumping.” My hand is burning. I look back at her hand in his. The burning spreads to my face. She has nice nails; way nicer than mine.
There was that one time we walked down that icy road holding hands for support and joking that we’d let the other fall. We had made some sort of bet back at the bar that we’d decided had ended in a draw. The stakes involved a number of kisses; which we now each had to deliver on. I used his hand’s support to catapult myself toward his lips.
The train slowly begins to roll again. I look up and catch the eyes of a fellow passenger. I then, almost too quickly, look back at my phone. As my stop approaches, I exit his Facebook page and note that stalking is not for the faint of heart.

Nail files. 

The nails are always the first to go. They peel and fall away until you decide to eventually cut them off and start from scratch.
And then you watch them grow. Eventually you think, these are definitely longer than when we said goodbye. You take care of them. They grow strong.

Someone comments on them. You then stare at them all day, admiring your work and their strength. They’re perfectly even. All the same length. 
Then one breaks. You decide not to freak out. You file it back to a nice shape and notice how much shorter it looks than the others. But it’s fine; you know it’ll grow.  

Social Experiment: how to get blocked by one person on every social media site

  1. trick a poor soul into giving you his number
  2. have some nice banter with him but don’t come off as too interested
  3. make plans with him
  4. suddenly switch to crazy bitch mode
  5. get your phone number blocked
  6. use his number to research him on the Google and find him on Facebook and then on all other social media websites you both use
  7. send him polite but condescending messages on each of his social media platforms. things like “good job”, “nice”, “classy”, and “asshole”.
  8. ok, maybe that last one is lacking the polite factor
  9. the message on Facebook should scare him the most, seeing as he’s now aware that you know his full name, date of birth, place of work, and what he did on june 5, 2011
  10. allow him to do damage control via Facebook messenger and try not to get too offended by his fear that he now has a real live crazy stalker person on his hands. your gig is just that believable
  11. play innocent
  12. confuse him
  13. watch as each and every one of his social media profiles seemingly disappears off the face of the earth

 

and there you have it. we’ve done the research for you so that you don’t have to but feel free to try your own methods. this is science after all.

goodbye.

 

 

It’s a Dead Beetle

The dead beetle’s shell had broken and expanded like wings. Maybe it was kind of beautiful. I doubted anyone else passing by the stairwell would think so. I watched as with each passing day it spread its wings further and further. It reminded me of the cheerio by the elevator that I had been nodding to every morning for months. I wondered how long it would be until the beetle spread it’s shell-wings and flew away. That day would somehow feel momentous. I would probably pause for a moment, think of how I should react, and them move on down the stairs without a conclusion. I never really know how to react when small momentous occasions I build up for no apparent reason actually come around.

I said farewell to the beetle and exited the building, greeted by the cold I didn’t really feel. All I felt was the breeze in my crotch area that reminded me that I wasn’t wearing any underwear. I was suddenly self conscious about what my butt looked like in my leggings without underwear on. It was a good thing I was only going next door, where my butt would be concealed by the couch I would be sitting on in the coffee shop. I was a bit ashamed that I was joining the culture of young adults sitting at coffee shops with their laptops open. I looked at the older man across the room who had nothing but his coffee cup on the table in front of him. He was observing us. We locked eyes in a way that was more dramatic in my head than it actually was in real life and then were cut off by some type-A college student who spoke in a billion octaves too high for an actual human who was asking him for the extra chair at his table. The study group was apparently thriving.

A girl sat down near me on the couch and opened her laptop. Her computer background said “fly” in big fancy letters across the screen. I thought that was dumb and cliche and looked down on her for being so generic. Then I kind of felt like crying because I was the numb kind of exhausted where you don’t really know who you are and if you ever really knew who you were or ever really existed in a sense that wasn’t so boringly generic. My iced coffee was sweating. It tasted like bourbon.