tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75744573065406296042024-03-14T07:23:37.562-04:00Steph Beea loquacious girl who thinks too much.STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-51994874568810077172013-10-08T22:06:00.000-04:002013-10-08T22:06:40.973-04:00I've Never Done This Before (and feel like an asshole)<span style="color: #4c1130;">Hey Simon, can you email me? I think another girl is listening to you breathing heavily (by accident!).</span>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-27512607576238910622013-03-12T15:33:00.000-04:002013-03-16T13:01:30.734-04:00Here's to Sandy<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Drudging through the boat graveyard, my rain speckled glasses are smeared
with dirt -- but necessary, for I am covering up my unwashed face, hoping to
devoid notices of my unkempt hair knotted atop my head and the over-sized
sweater I am wearing, belonging to my boyfriend's laundry basket -- watching my
green eyes stamper through the sludge, carrying my bag and his bags of safety
items -- what we threw together during the low tide -- I am eyeing the Russian
Standard I know he is concealing, imagining the cool rim of the bottle as it
reaches my lips, with just enough liquid left to burn my aching throat. I also
know there is a new, full bottle of Absolut, just waiting for someone to crack
the seal, so my excuses build to finish the other as merely a means of consolidation purposes.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My green eyes is yards ahead, bypassing the families who want to impress
their Facebook friends with photos of sailboats and motorboats washed upon
land. Some are wedged into the tall grass, the bow immersed in earth while the
other half remains vulnerable on the road, naked for pictures. Others have
collided, stopping the neighboring boat from wiping down the street. A
particularly nice sailboat has leaned itself against a metal rod, stuck in the
center of the road. It looks like it had a nice time cruising with the
hurricane winds until it discovered the ocean was taken from under her. Her--
boats are women you know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">With his safety around him, my green eyes confidently stomps ahead,
worrying his home, his lifeline, is damaged. Meanwhile, I have no clue how my
home is. If everything I own is okay. If my blanket and laptop, previously
bruised by my roommate, is in fact still in my room and in my condition. Home
has different meanings for everyone but when it is tossed in your face so many
times, it's a burden.<i> </i></span><i>Why aren't I in Brooklyn?</i> If that is indeed my home. If we broke up right
now, he would have a home albeit the weather or leaks or power; I would be lost.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My lifeline is here, is him. I have known this boy for one month and there
was no question in my mind I would stay with him during the hurricane. If he
could not leave his boat than neither could I. If he switched to the cheap
hotel with complimentary pastries, bought booze and frozen meals, then I am
there with him, too. My questions weren't limitless, rather, limiting. <i>My love,
I go where you go. I am where you are</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But cooped up together for four days has created a tension I was unaware
of, brought out an insecurity I hid. The two of us, sick with a cold and
deep-chested cough. My eyes water, and throat closes up, whenever he smokes his Newports. The liquor fogs my fevered head and with each temperature
rising, my body is cranky from the lack of nutrients I am feeding it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">It is true, the ninja adventures in my mind, the romantic
holding-each-other-through-the-storm did not occur. My notions of sailing
together, of saving each other, were more from a movie than from reality. His
love for a fellow sailor is, maybe, more real than his love for any girl. And my
love for him is an admiration the silly girl has the older, much cooler boy. </span>I feel like the gum stuck to his flip flop as he tries to make it home. I am
only with him 'cause he is stuck with me. Home is all that matters.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I feel like an idiot. The one home I have I
abandoned so it wouldn't be fair to call it such. Vodka is a home of types.
It's my reliable, standby no matter what the weather or who I am with -- so
call me a poet, a drunk, an emotional being -- why is that worse than a
logical neurotic? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And here I sit, adorned in my boyfriend's dirty t-shirt and sweater, clean
boxers and socks, eating a thawed out Broccoli and Cheese Hot Pocket, taking
comfort in the tiny but real cubes of cheddar cheese embedded in the mushy
crust. Eating one cold yet pliable, makes it apparent these frozen
munchies are not as processed as originally believed. Or perhaps, dwelling in a
sailboat in the boat grave yard, sloppy and sick, makes eating a thawed out Hot
Pocket not so extreme and there is no comfort after all.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-91871771239230880882012-09-02T14:56:00.001-04:002012-09-04T16:14:30.289-04:00Meeting the Poet<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">On a crisp night in February I left my Hoboken bubble to visit it's unpopular sister, Jersey City, for a housewarming party thrown by a friend of mine</span></span>.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This friend is 50-year-old writer who actually has a tangible, published book available (seems unheard of nowadays) and took a liking to me while I was serving him at a restaurant almost four years ago.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Greeting the party in my gray and orange striped cardigan, gripping my Smirnoff handle I bought on sale for twenty bucks, it was clear I was at the wrong event. Jazz was softly streaming and the lights were dim enough to feel like I was entering a<span style="font-size: small;"> poetry club rather than a one-bedroom apartment in a Jersey ghetto<span style="font-size: small;">. </span>I pretended to look at the books lining the walls, but that was an act, since I already spent nights examining his bookshelves.</span></span></span>
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My friend tried playing good host by taking the large handle from my small hands and introducing me to some people, sitting in a circle, <b>"This is Stephanie, she's a poet."</b></span></span></span>
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My face reddened and I stuttered something about not writing much poetry anymore, more along the lines of short stories.</span> Everyone shook my hand and said their names but I did not process a<span style="font-size: small;">nything as I was too busy trying to fit in.</span></span></span>
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A surly man, who my friend introduced as "also a poet," starting questioning me on what I write or how I write or something and really, to stop the questions I just handed him my card. I am quite proud of my business cards, adorned with a black and white picture of an alter-ego of sorts with long, wavy black hair and a star tattoo on her neck.</span></span></span>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am pretty sure the next question was if I was having sex with the 50-year-old. I politely guffawed and dismissed that notion.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Later the glum poet pulled up my blog and Twitter via his smartphone and started quoting me -- to me! -- as I tried desperately to avoid eye contact and walk away. It's one thing to comfortably pseudo-promote yourself but another to hear your words read aloud, by a stranger, who you can't tell if he's drunk, condescending, hitting on you, or genuinely enjoying your stories.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The next day I had a friend request and new follower on Twitter. Turns out, this poet was just as nervous as I was and also felt out of place. We're friends now. He encourages me to write, builds my ego. Maybe, in a strange way he's become my mentor, or at least, showed me what I'd be like if I was a 40-year-old, professor-poet.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>So that's how meeting the poet led to "<a href="http://charlesbivona.com/unemployed-sex-guest-writer-njpoet/">Unemployed Sex</a>" -- my new weekly column on njpoet.com.</b></span></span></span>
STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-60976416687516750722012-08-27T18:15:00.004-04:002012-08-30T16:17:26.709-04:00I Should've Gotten a Magician<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">As the dutiful Maid of Honor for my sister's upcoming wedding, I was in charge of organizing her bachelorette party. I previously only attended one -- for my now sister-in-law -- but after getting kicked out of a bar and throwing up on my mother, my memory clearly could not guide me on what a bachelorette party is actually supposed to be like.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My bright idea was to find a stripper magician. I was intrigued by the ridiculous possibility of a man, only wearing a bow tie, pulling dildos out of top hats and using my sister as his glamorous assistant. Alas, Google brought me to more midget strippers than I ever knew existed and my goal was never achieved.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Someone suggested Hunk-o-Mania at Club Elegance in Midtown. The gloriously cheesy name and ironic location convinced me it might be fun. Having never seen any sort of stripper event before, I tried to let go of my hesitant judgements as I read the web site's promise of many chiseled Hulk-like naked men dancing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Nine VIP tickets later -- including a "hot seat" for my sister -- the bachelorette party was set (as far as expected, raunchy single girl antics go).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">One step into the club, my party was greeted with penis memorabilia: penis wands, penis pens, penis balloons, headbands with bobble penis horns, veils adorned with tiny, plastic pink penises... until the day bachelors go out with vagina hats, I will never wear or make someone where anything with a penis on their head.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">As we settled into our seats, I was overwhelmed by how many bulky men were patrolling the room with the sole purpose to make girls feel special and receive tips. Our waiter greeted us with direct eye contact, leaned in close, and subtly stroked my leg and arms. <i>Was wearing a skirt a mistake?</i></span><span style="font-size: small;"> I ordered a vodka on the rocks</span><span style="font-size: small;"> with a lemon, realizing I was way too sober for whatever is about to happen.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He tells me when he returns I will touch his abs and if I like it, give him a dollar. <i>Excuse me?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My mouth readily accepted the iced house vodka in a small plastic cup, while the waiter asked me where I was from. "Jersey but I just moved to Brooklyn" -- I needed to establish how hip I was, that I was not like the dressed up, excitable girls that generally enter this institution.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Oh really? My father's from Brooklyn..." he tells me, with his crotch an inch from my face. <i>Score, my idea worked, he thinks I am cool and we are discussing something productive.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Now it's time to touch my abs," he says -- <i>Fail.</i> -- "That's okay, I'm good." I respond, quickly pressing my lips on the straw, sucking up the liquor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"But everyone has to," he smiles, probably thinking I am just being coy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"No, really. I am good." <i>Can we just talk about your father again?</i> He walks away and did not address me the rest of the night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Majority of the club workers were "exotic" but naturally, my eyes migrated toward a tall, toned blonde boy standing along the wall. He looked miserable, like he did not want to work there, like he was strictly there for money but knew deep down he was an incredible musician or writer or something much more interesting and fulfilling than a stripper. Of course, I was projecting my own insecurities and aspirations onto him, but he was so sweet looking I had to believe he wanted more for himself than this life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I pointed him out to my sister who laughed at how typical my choice was. "You always go for the whitest of whites Stephanie." <i>I knew that was true, I guess I have a type.</i> "He also looks like he's twelve." That was also typical of me, to go for the baby face. In fact, my friends already pinned me into becoming a cougar once I pass my twenties.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">My cousin nicknamed him "Kansas" as he looked like an innocent, country boy while my sister-in-law said he reminded her of <a href="http://iambee-steph.blogspot.com/2012/07/repeat-rewind-delete.html">The Tool</a> as in "Sure, he has a nice body but he has that cute, pre-pubescent boyish charm."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">He must've noticed our eyes and whispers and took advantage of this by sauntering over and asking if we wanted a private dance, but he said this with such a thick Russian accent, I was taken even more aback and stuttered a high-pitched, "Oh.. what? Hi.. um, no, uh... thanks.. No, that's okay.. Thanks." Then, sheepishly smiled. <i>Why am I so socially awkward?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">He left us while an MC ran onto the stage, "How are all you beautiful women doing tonight!?" the guy yelled into a mic. <i>It did not take much to rev up this crowd. </i>"I have a huge boner right now! I have such a big boner it would knock you back and put your boyfriend or fiance or husband to shame!" The women screamed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I immediately went to the bar for another drink. Clearly, my waiter was not coming back and how anyone could shout about having a boner into a microphone and not laugh is beyond me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The lights lowered and "Proud to be an American" played over the speakers as men strut on stage in all sorts of uniforms: a marine, a policeman, a fire fighter, and then my blonde Russian, as a naval officer. The men performed a strange patriotic tribute, lip synching the song and doing choreographed, synchronized salutes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">More naked men later, I began to think something was wrong with me. How could all these women publicly fawn over such contrived behavior? Also, how come it was so easy for them to rub their hands all over the dancers' sweaty bodies while I could hardly make eye contact? Personal space did not exist here. <i>Neither did anyone who thought as much as I did, apparently.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br />While contemplating why I was perceived as the weird one there, my mind drifted to The Tool and how much I missed his sex. I also began to imagine him as one of these waiters, noting how perfect his abs and broad shoulders would look in the wifebeater uniforms and how his sneaky smile would cause some girls to melt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My longing was interrupted by the topless, blonde Russian who walked right up to me again but this time with a smirk, like he knew some secret I did not. "I like your hair," he states.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My face reddened and I mumbled, "Thanks," while fireworks went off in my brain. <i>He likes my hair. And he's so fucking cute.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Any solace derived from that comment faded when I noticed my sister and her friends giggling, pulling out their cameras. Instead of taking my hand and leading me to a private room, the Russian placed his hands on my knees and spreads my legs. He preceded to rub his butt into my lap and flex his abs. I closed my eyes tight, not knowing what else to do. <i>So this is a lap dance.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I felt his breath and body heat all over me, while my body was a tense bundle of nerves. My hands were clenched into a tight fist, my shoulders stiff. I kept trying to close my legs but he just kept opening them, insisting on dry humping me as my sister's friends continually grabbed my arm to put my hands on his body. Each time my fingers went anywhere near him, I reacted in such a way you'd think he burned me. <i>I wanted to touch him.</i> <i>I could not touch him.</i> At one point, my reaction was so fast the tip of my finger tugged at his belt loop and I felt the need to utter, "Sorry."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The horrific dance lasted no more than five minutes. He just stopped and walked away. I felt dirty and used. Everyone else got a private room, they got twenty minutes. I got five minutes of humiliation and teasing. If we went into another room maybe I could have convinced him to talk to me, he could've confided in me what brought him to America and why he was stuck stripping. Maybe I could have saved him. Or maybe, I would have just gazed into his blue eyes and he could have saved me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #20124d;">Flashing lights and house music brought me back to reality. I condemned myself for just thinking of a scenario so fantastical, bought another vodka, and toasted with no one.</span></span></div>
STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-22201582577708960812012-08-14T18:41:00.000-04:002012-08-14T18:42:16.355-04:00Ditched.<div style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">A lump is growing in my throat as my mouth dries up, m</span>y palms feel clammy and my heart might beat out of my chest. <i>With each breathe, the crack in my heart that was sloppily stitched starts to rip at the seams</i>... it hurts. It nags. It weighs on my lungs.<br />
<br />
The rock in my stomach hardens when a little voice in my head whispers, "You knew this would happen" and while my eyes are dry, I am crying inside. Violently shaking. (The only time I can physically cry is when alcohol is involved).<br />
<br />
Make it all go away. His eyes. His smile. His false promises. (I am begging to no one).<br />
<br />
While you may act like "the wind," I remain--<br />
<br />
a fish gutted on the sidewalk.</div>
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STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-47768383714725332392012-08-07T15:09:00.001-04:002012-09-04T16:16:04.809-04:00Writing about Writer's Block<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Writer's get a reputation for being hermits -- which we sort of are -- or at least I sort of am.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">If I am not hiding indoors like a vampire, I am dwelling in my head with my nose in a book. Or I am sitting at a bar, preoccupied with my martini and writing on a notepad (or bar napkin).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When I am ready to open up I spend hours staring at a blank computer screen. My fingers gracefully run over the keyboard but fail to formulate any sentences.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Now unemployed, in a new city, my friends and funds are lacking. During my long days and nights I want to write but all I think about is having a pity party. All that I write is crap.</span></div>
STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-86369316814845256272012-08-03T19:48:00.002-04:002012-08-13T16:55:05.607-04:00Burned<div style="color: #20124d;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">That awkward first kiss haunts me at each lips first touch, <i>while my virginity is taken over and over and those blood stained shorts lie in the bottom drawer</i>. My first love, my first physical intimacy, neither left closure and my mouth is constantly searching for you both... with each full moon and sandy beach my body howls at the lost night.</span></div>
<div style="color: #20124d;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #20124d;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Those boys from high school who only held my hand in secret -- who <i>I let</i> hide me -- I learned the power of my mouth, my stare, my hands. I can twirl boys on my finger now just like I let you twirl me and with each secret, my body goes through the motions of a robot: "<i>It's just a physical thing</i>," my conscious whispers. </span></div>
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #20124d;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">That friend who kissed me on the couch, and spent a whole summer kissing me, with each hesitant first kiss I hope it will be yours. <i>I search for those butterflies my body trapped then lost when you let me go</i>.</span></div>
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #20124d;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And the boy with the soft blue eyes, who let me throw a yogurt against the wall and cleaned up my mess. I can never look into another's eyes without wishing they were yours, watching me, telling me, "Everything [I] do is beautiful." I can never cry without feeling like something is missing -- your arms around my shoulders -- your eyes pleading with me.</span></div>
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My rebound anarchist, who was the best sex I ever had,</span><span style="font-size: small;"> each first meeting I want to be ours, with an instant connection where you know something amazing is going to happen.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> My hips crave your hands when they'd rub down my side and send chills through my spine. <i>I still bite, expecting you to bite back</i>, or at least invoke a spank, but new lovers never respond. </span></div>
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</div>
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
There's a guy who won't let me go. I've never hated and wanted anyone more, and each drunken night, I want him in my bed. <i>Every dirty word I say is taken from our conversations</i>. It's a trap of sex and emotion and with every new relationship, my trust reminds me you broke it.</div>
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #20124d;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Each lover left a scar, my skin is almost covered. <b>If there is someone I am supposed to end up with, where will he fit? </b></span></i></div>
STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-76689023289188874412012-08-02T02:35:00.000-04:002012-09-02T13:50:40.282-04:00He Told Me to Write Fiction.<b><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Why wait for those movie-like moments? Why not create one?</span><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"</span></span></b><br />
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He asks me while we lay on my roof, <i>side-by-side staring at the sky, mistaking stars for satellites</i>. We were convinced the blinking lights high above were moving -- not us -- not until we outstretched our hands into a diamond in front of our faces and realized we were not the center of the universe. <i style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But it felt like we were</i><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">.</span></span><br />
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<b>"I can't get out of my own head."</b></div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"...So you're depressed?"</div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"Yeah... How about you?"</div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"Yeah."</div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">While an actor, his front falls for me. Despite our opposing images, there is a quiet understanding. A rare friendship that breeds and begs me to...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It would've been nice to hold his hand then. Maybe, make out. Feel the graveness of his desire flood through me. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But we're just friends. There was comfort just to lay, without expectations. </span><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i>To have someone to be lonely with</i>.</span>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-52719749046070591412012-07-09T22:34:00.001-04:002012-08-02T21:23:02.696-04:00Repeat, Rewind, Delete.<div style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">His hair is just the way I like it: missing the gel locking each curl in place. The messiness masks his squinty, brown eyes, and fares well with his smooth torso and toned arms. He looks wild and rough as he pins me to the bed, pushing my hands over my head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Our eyes lock, while he enters from above -- <i>“Y</i><i>ou’re beautiful” </i>-- <i>he says (like it was normal)</i>, while thrusting his cock deeper inside me. Fuck.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I bite down on my tongue then screech -- “I hate you” -- as my hands unlock, calmly grabbing his shoulders, pulling his sweaty body to
mine. Hips aligned, the harder he pushes the more tears brim in the corner
of my eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">-- “Faster”-- the more he works, the closer we'll be. He won’t see the emotion on my face. The fear and tears that
involuntarily spawned from his words.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I'm moaning loud now, telling him to continue, saying just what he wants to hear, but really, trying
to cover his whispers in my ear, <i>“I've missed you.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>You always say you miss me when I am right here.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">“You’re beautiful”--
repeating that look, that phrase in my head. Only now, she is the recipient and you actually mean it. Is that why she stays?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">In her naivety she
doesn’t know where your dick has been. And in my knowing weakness, I still take
you back. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
cannot trust you like she can. I am not blissful in ignorance. I am always
second choice. ...But you won't let me go and the sex is too good (just don't tell me I'm beautiful again).</span></div>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-28700824763957102252012-06-20T00:41:00.001-04:002012-09-04T16:16:44.884-04:00Making My Move<div style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">May Day hit me with a bang: snuggling into my sheets while snoozing I checked my email on my smartphone, thinking perhaps it was from the boss. It was from my landlord notifying me I had 30 days, more or less, to leave my apartment.</span></div>
<div style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">31 days later I am packing up the last three years of my life. I originally moved in with my brother and a gay Indian. I was scared, confused, not sure what my plan was as I was still adjusting to a life not in school and stuck in the tough economy.</span></div>
<div style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Later, my roommates changed but I stayed. Some furniture differed but my small room was always growing with pictures and words sprawled on my walls. The growing art became my sanctuary, my comfort.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Even my apartment acquired a nickname, monikered the "party house." Despite my plethora of friends from the <a href="http://iambee-steph.blogspot.com/2011/05/potatoes-true-story.html">steakhouse</a> I was always lonely. Felt different. Apart from the typical Hoboken breed.</span></div>
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<div style="color: #073763;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #073763;">
<span style="font-size: small;">As I leave Hoboken and head to Brooklyn I worry. <i>Did I accomplish what I wanted? Did I make my mark?</i></span></div>
<div style="color: #073763;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #073763;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Now, in Brooklyn, my mind questions why I left all my friends behind. And the bubble of 'boken where I knew the best places to eat, the cheap bars... <i>Am I too Jersey for Brooklyn? Not bohemian enough to dub myself a writer, an artist?</i></span></div>
<div style="color: #073763;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #073763;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Added to my worries, I have left the magazine I have written for the last ten months<i>.</i> Not knowing where my next paycheck will come from I did something I have not turned to in four years. I wrote a poem.</span></div>
<div style="color: #0b5394;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #674ea7;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #674ea7;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span></div>
<div style="color: #674ea7;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Plagiarize This</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">A blankness was</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">felt when a man accused</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">me of faking it--</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">my writing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">A numbing anger</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">washed over me,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">hearing, I’m a Sham. A Fake.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Call me a slut. A bitch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Anything else.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My greatest fear called out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">A lucid hurt</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">enveloped my heart,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">labeled a Phony. A Copier.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">But what’s to come of pages</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">sprawled with my guts--</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">a Trademark?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">(June 2012)</span></div>
</div>
<br />STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-11609597411039834082012-05-31T23:51:00.000-04:002012-08-28T21:53:07.534-04:00That Gave Me Pause.<span style="color: #660000; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Google searching "Skinny Ties" takes one to mostly rockabilly, vintage websites selling various sizes, colors, designs... it can get overwhelming when you're looking for a specific person.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I searched and searched, not sure exactly what for, until I found it. A one-of-a-kind navy, textured skinny tie with a small, silver shooting star.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I remember you wore it beaming with pride, every time, that I bought it for you-- that not only did the color compliment your soft blue eyes, but the star symbolized me with you. (You were one who actually understood my love of stars). Plus, you looked hip wearing it. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We were so cool.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I'd like to think my presents to you haven't gone in vain. But I wouldn't know. I haven't seen you in over two years... but one of the last times I did was a couple months after I moved to Hoboken. We went to see Mission of Burma as part of Williamsburg's free Waterfront concerts, ate some vegan Asian food, you came visit me and my new apartment but slept on the couch, of course.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In the midst of packing the last three years of my life, gearing up to move to Brooklyn, I found that perfect skinny tie hanging on a side hook in my closet.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What was it doing here? Why did I have it? Did you leave it here by mistake? Did you realize it wasn't with you anymore? Would you still wear it?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I held that skinny tie in my hands and outlined the star with my finger. Despite being worlds away, I am not sure if I'll ever get used to this. Us not being us. <a href="http://iambee-steph.blogspot.com/2012/03/missing-friendship.html">Us not being friends</a>. Not having someone understand why I really love stars.</span></span>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-1525004182069049342012-05-06T12:18:00.000-04:002012-08-02T02:04:26.025-04:00Discovering Awkward.<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">First impressions are crucial. In fact, if you think just how crucial it can make one a little nutty, no? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Like
all my life experiences, intelligence, and personality will boil down
to the first ten minutes. Try as I might, any impression I made at you will always
come back to those tedious minutes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I
don't remember when, I don't remember why, but within the last couple
years a good friend of mine said I was "awkward." It wasn't meant as a
mean statement, but simply, just that-- a statement. At first, I was
taken back, could I really be socially inept? I always referred to
myself as friendly -- and sure, insecure -- but never awkward.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Other people were awkward, I could point them out in a crowd. <i>Did I have some weird tendencies or say strange things that made people uncomfortable?</i>
I guess sometimes I do share unnecessary or boring information. Maybe
people think I say too much and it's difficult for me to distinguish a
professional versus private self.</span><br />
<div style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Factor
in a pimple, weight gain, bad hair day... my high-pitched voice,
horrible slouch... an endless list of nerves and doubts building
until I convinced myself, I am awkward. I am a nerd, a bookworm, a
drunk, a lame girl who lost her apartment, makes little to no money, and
is stuck in an overgrown adolescent</span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">, awkward phrase.</span></span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I feel like a festering sore people just stare at, wondering how it got so bad.</span></span></b><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Insecurities eat me from the inside, my anxiety boils over, and I need to
tell them I am awkward to perhaps, give relief (to me?) from the
expectations and first impressions.</span></span><br />
<div style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">Now, I don't know if I actually was "awkward" when my friend told me years ago. But I sure as hell am now.</span></span>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-10671072941763747342012-04-26T16:23:00.000-04:002012-08-02T21:17:58.178-04:00The Failed Threesome<div style="color: #274e13;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">A couple years ago a quiet girl I waitressed with </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">asked me out for dinner and drinks. Since I did not know her very well, I took it as her way of saying she wanted to be friends-- and who am I to deny an extended hand?</span></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">She wanted to go to a new restaurant her ex-boyfriend worked at because on Tuesday night they had cheap specials. Sounded good to me.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Once there, we each ordered a martini, followed by another martini we received courtesy of the manager, then another courtesy of her ex. By the time the place closed, we were more than buzzing so it was easy for her ex to convince us to go to another bar down the street.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There, the ex fed us numerous vodka shots. -- I should probably mention her ex did not speak any English. -- While he was taking care of my bill, I did not speak an actual word to him. My coworker sat in between us relaying English to Spanish and vice versa and through the drinks, we managed to have a good time.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">By the time it was 3 a.m., we attempted to stumble back to our homes. Being the lush that I am, I invited the two back to my apartment. The least I could offer was more vodka shots from my Smirnoff handle I always have waiting in the freezer since I hardly paid for anything during the night.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">After the first apartment shot, things started to get strange. The three of us were hanging out in my room as the quiet girl told me how cute I was. Thanks? Then the boy started rubbing my shoulders and whispered Spanish nothings into my ear. Seriously, Spanish nothings, since I did not understand what he was saying. Simultaneously, the two pressed their hands against my body and guided it to my bed where each tried to unbutton the long flannel I had over my leggings. My fingers quickly buttoned my shirt back up, as they each began to kiss my neck. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My confused, drunk mind stuttered "I need more vodka" as I struggled to rise. I poured myself another vodka as I glanced at the guy who was sweaty and smelled like tequila. He looked incredibly excited, like a kid in a candy store, not knowing what to grab first.</span></div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As I took my shot, each lunged at my shirt buttons again. I laughed nervously then swiftly button them up like I was playing an instrument. Another shove, I was back on the bed... the charade again continued in trying to match my lips with theirs as they pushed down my hands so they could caress my squirming body. Wow, this was some kind of dual molestation.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Somehow, my body lurched upright and I drunkenly shouted "Stop!" The girl then snapped out of it, grabbing her ex's hand and saying, "We're going to go now." No complaints from me.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The next morning she sent me a text saying she blacked out at the bar and didn't remember the rest of the night. We never talked about the incident. </span></span></div>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-34196504303683481762012-04-11T18:05:00.006-04:002012-08-02T21:19:11.861-04:00Happy Easter Birthday (again).<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Many self-pitying people say how much they hate their birthday, how something bad always happens on their special day. I don't exactly hate my birthday, it just never goes quite as planned. (My hatred for Christmas is much stronger.)</div>
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</div>
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<br />
Five years ago, my twenty-first birthday fell on Easter. To put it bluntly, it sucked. Sure, I was already drinking nine years before that, but everyone deserves to go to a bar on their twenty-first and have strangers congratulate you and buy you shots... to spend it at home with your family -- especially my family -- it was simply uneventful. But this isn't about my twenty-first birthday, this is about my twenty-sixth...</div>
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<br /></div>
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Since my birthday fell on Easter Sunday, it was decided I would celebrate the days before. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The Russian Vodka Room is a low-key Midtown piano bar with an array of high-quality, house-infused vodkas, making it a perfect choice for my Friday intimate gathering. After a couple hours, my empty stomach that consumed itself with straight vodka decided it did not want anymore. My brain shut off and I threw up. I don't remember the throwing up ordeal of course, I remember laughing with friends then waking up in my bed.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Saturday, in addition to the large yellowish bruises covering my body, my limbs ached, as my head spun in a vat of vodka. Around 10 p.m. my last bout of throw up emerged, red from the Gatorade I was drinking. The bridge on my nose developed a bruise, after smacking my face into the toilet from a quick run and slip to the bathroom. And after canceling my big dive bar smash where I invited every acquaintance I knew, I celebrated midnight by curling into a ball on the bathroom floor, reliving my early college days while simultaneously growing into my late-twenties.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Seems like I have everything figured out just fine.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The next day was spent at my mother's house with some family members and Italian food. Everything was okay until my 4'11" mother walked down the stairs dressed as the Easter Bunny. Seriously-- she sported carrot slippers, a full bunny suit, and a massive bunny head. As if this wasn't enough, she squeaked, "Happy Birthday Stephanie!" then nuzzled the bunny head into my face like I was actually going to pose for a picture. It was one of the most frightening moments in my life and I questioned whether or not I was still drunk from two nights before or maybe I was really turning six, not twenty-six. What about shrooms taken eight years ago? Could they induce a hallucinatory trip almost a decade later?</div>
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<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br />
So that was my second Easter birthday. Taking a different form, read about the first one in a poem written during another life.</div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Happy Easter Birthday</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Underneath my down comforter I hear</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">my brother’s voice bellow,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">“Drink this. I made it for you.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">My head peeks out, confronted</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">with a champagne glass,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">“Happy 21 Year Old!” in rainbow paint.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">“Take this. It has nutrients.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Then, a low grumble</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">“You act like you’re 80.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">I grab it. Chug it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Stare at the mirror: numb.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">My curls sit atop my head</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">like erratic broccoli sprouts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">My eyes: red, baggy, dark-circled</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">and puffy. Holding the glass,</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">I read the words backwards, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">wonder why I am not a happy 21-year-old</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #073763; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">and what room has a mirror facing their bed.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">This is not feng-shui. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">(April 2007)</span></div>
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</div>
</div>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-21021664540668329592012-03-31T22:22:00.002-04:002012-08-02T02:12:27.621-04:00Burning Down the House<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<div style="color: #660000;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Beep! Beeep! BEEEP! BEEEEP! </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">The high-pitched noise is drilling into my dreams -- wait, I'm not dreaming -- disoriented, my legs stumble out of bed, practically tripping my body onto the doorknob. When I open it and peak my head into the hallway, my mind begins to put things together-- it's the fire alarm.</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">But not just for my apartment, the downstairs alert system is going off as well. And I smell something burning. Not caring where it was coming from, my squinty eyes focus on my roommate, curled onto our couch. She's slept there three nights in a row already and it looks like tonight wasn't ending much different. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Beeeeeep! </span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Heather!" She is still in her bartending attire, she must've gotten drinks after work. "Heather!" Leaning over her, my small hands shake her shoulder, she slightly opens her eyes -- glasses still on -- grunting something incoherent then turning away from me.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #660000;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Something's burning! Wake up! Don't you hear the fire alarms?" The beeps are so loud, my thoughts are having trouble connecting. "Heather!"</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #660000;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Frustrated by her behavior, I run into Keith's room. <i>How am I the only one to hear the noise?</i> "Keith, I need help! Something's burning! Heather won't wake up!" </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #660000;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Like a cartoon, Keith springs out of bed, still in his white boxer-briefs. I hurry into the hallway which is now filled with smoke. It wasn't like that before. "Smoke! Shit! I don't know where it's coming from!" I start to panic. <i>Why won't Heather wake up? </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Keith prances passed me, straight for the kitchen. Then I see it-- <i>why didn't I think of this before?</i> -- the oven is registered at 425 degrees. She left the fucking oven on.</span></div>
<div style="color: #660000;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #660000;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">As I push every button to turn it off, Keith reveals the culprit. A frozen Amy's Pizza that has turned into charcoal. Heather wakes up now, she grabs the smoking, hard disk</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"> that was in the oven at least two hours too long and attempts to run water over it.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #660000;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">It's 6:15 a.m. in the morning. The beeping won't stop. The girls upstairs hate us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="color: #660000;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">I snatch the pizza box to use as a fan. Finding the blinking red lights, I wave the box wildly over my head, hoping the wind will turn off the noise. My large t-shirt I wear to bed, rising above my bum, I continue to scream at the ceiling.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #660000;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Keith is laughing, already reiterating the story while Heather is mumbling apologies. After my frantic hopping from alarm to alarm, the noise subsides and things (more like, I) seem to have calmed down.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #660000;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Keith goes back to bed snickering, Heather tells me she didn't do it on purpose, she fell asleep. Of course, she didn't do it on purpose, but she acted like a fucking drunk-- which is what I wanted to tell her but I didn't 'cause the shame in me knows I am a drunk, too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">She staggers back to the couch, back into a fetal position. <i>Why didn't she just go to her bed?</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #660000;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">I go back to my room with my heart still pounding. I had to work at the office in less than three hours.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #660000;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">It happens.<i> </i></span></div>
</div>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-72511582472385503012012-03-01T00:26:00.012-05:002012-08-02T21:19:44.001-04:00Missing Friendship<div style="color: #274e13;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We were riding the No. 1 train headed uptown, back to school, after our "leap day date." My hand clasped with yours like it was an old glove. I can't remember if we bickered or if I didn't feel well but you kissed me on my forehead.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">(I never told anyone this before).</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Right then, my heart sank. I knew it was the last time you would kiss me (as my boyfriend, my love). I gazed into your eyes -- those soft blue eyes -- you asked me why I looked sad. I squeezed your hand -- those soft hands -- you smirked.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">(My mind recalled our first date when I nicknamed you "Smirky" 'cause you couldn't stop smiling around me, but you'd try not to, forming a goofy smirk</span></span>).</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The fight happened back at my apartment. Perhaps, I was looking for an argument, an excuse, a reason why we couldn't be together anymore...</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">You shouted, "Shut the fuck up!"</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">(I can still hear the way you said it. A slight hesitance after "shut" and a drawn out "fuck," in a louder tone than I ever heard you yell before). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"></span></div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I did shut up. Right away. And thought about how I was turning you into an awful, unhappy person. My lips pursed together, as I lowered my eyes to the floor, then whispered, "I think we should break up."</span></div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Tears followed as I heard you choke on your breath. Five seconds might've passed, maybe five minutes, but eventually, you looked at the wall and said, "I think so, too."</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We both cried and held onto each other. Reciting the last "I love you's," reassuring each other when we were older and ailing we would find the other and take care of each other again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">After we wiped each other's tears, we scooped bowls of ice cream and watched an episode of <i>Six Feet Under</i> (our favorite), cuddling under my fuzzy blue blanket. It felt like a giant weight lifted off of us. I don't think I ever felt a bigger relief than that night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So we had somewhat of an anniversary tonight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">A Postal Service song you used to sing to me played at the bar I went to for Happy Hour. Typical. I came home and flipped through our old photos.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Why do I still feel compelled to tell you about the artists I interview and an installation I saw reminding me of Marcel Duchamp last week? Why did I want to buy us tickets to see the founder of Black Flag and Circle Jerks, who I read about on Pitchfork yesterday? Why were you the one I wanted to call when both my siblings got engaged?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"I can't be your rock anymore," you told me, two years later when you got a new girlfriend. "I can't give her a reason to be jealous."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">BUT YOU WERE MY FUCKING BEST FRIEND.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> . </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I cried alone tonight.</span></div>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-51257654609945315102011-12-31T11:46:00.001-05:002012-08-02T21:20:54.558-04:00#2011highs<div style="color: #073763;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Twitter upsets me. I feel like I am trying to get into the popular clique by having to copy everyone else... hashtags, retweet, links... but I don't really know how to do it. And I try to show off my random, hilarious and poignant thoughts but always seem to fall short. My followers come and go.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">In attempts to get "more popular" I am trying to incorporate trending topics. This morning I noticed one was <b>#2011highs</b>. Well that should be easy...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><b>Writing more. Escaping steakhouse. The Cure show.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Seriously. That was all I could think of.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sure, I escaped the terrible <a href="http://www.iambee-steph.blogspot.com/2011/05/potatoes-true-story.html">steakhouse</a> I worked at for two years, now write for an online magazine and started this little blog, but I make less money and most of the time feel uselss. The Cure concert was awesome but why didn't I go to any other mind-blowing shows?<br />
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Wow. I can't say "2011 sucked" <b>but where are the highs?</b> <i>Where are those crazy experiences that make my heart feel like it's going to burst and my head go into overload?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">No spontaneous trips. More blackouts. Same <a href="http://www.iambee-steph.blogspot.com/2011/05/my-three-lovers.html">lovers</a> I should be rid of.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So 2012, I will cheers to you tonight, but please... show me something worthwhile this year... and maybe, have 100 followers find me so I can pretend to be loved.</span></div>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-65912122925014065652011-12-21T19:49:00.004-05:002012-08-02T21:20:13.480-04:00Happily Ever After or Bust<div style="color: #20124d;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">For the Fall 2011 television lineup I was looking forward to "Grimm"-- a show that features the horror and darkness in fairytales, brings out the violence of the wolf eating Little Red Riding's grandmother, and the twisted, carnivore-nature of the witch taking advantage of greedy, gluttonous children like Hansel and Gretal. Sounds perfect for my cynical, perverse mind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">S<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">eeing</span> previews for the show "Once Upon a Time," well that just looked silly and lovey-dovey.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Apparently, I am sometimes rotten at decoding shows through previews. (Yeah, I know, "Don't judge a book by its cover"...spare me). "Grimm" is boring, not very applicable to the stories, and reminds me of a "Law and Order" or "CSI" type show with nonsensical monsters as criminals. "Once Upon a Time" is kind of awesome.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">If you haven't seen the show, it delves into a world where fairytale characters are stuck in the modern era -- our reality -- but don't know it or even who their real identity is because the Evil Queen casted a spell on them. <i>They are lost souls wandering our time, all the while feeling like something is missing. Searching for something more. Disillusioned to the belief this is all there is.</i> </span></div>
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I think I might be a misplaced fairytale character from "Once Upon a Time."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Okay, not really, but wouldn't it be great if there was such an excuse to feel like that? To feel how I do 90 percent of the time?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><i>But who would I be?</i> Perhaps, Belle. She's a bookworm. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I also discovered I'm a sucker for the Snow White and Prince Charming storyline. Maybe, I am biased for my love of Ginnifer Goodwin (Snow White). <i>Maybe, every girl cannot help but want her Prince Charming. </i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When I was younger I had a far-fetched dream of becoming an actress, and I remember thinking how I never wanted to play a bride because I only wanted to wear a wedding dress once and if I acted in one, it wouldn't be as special as when I wore one for my real wedding.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I also remember thinking, I would never marry. It was just one of those things I could not foresee in my future. <i>It's something I still think</i>. Not that I am against the notion, but the idea always made me feel... empty, like I knew this was just another thing I would be left out of. A major life event I would not participate in.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Not sure if the show and marriage-talk correlate... but they've both circled my mind. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Currently, both my siblings are engaged. It's Christmas time. I guess it's inevitable to feel a little lonesome, even if I don't want to admit it. Even if I lie and smile and say I'm fine.</span></div>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-13219373840429965572011-12-02T14:12:00.008-05:002012-08-28T00:09:04.686-04:00The Saga of the Tool (continues)<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">After the incident and my twelve-hour relationship with<b> </b><a href="http://iambee-steph.blogspot.com/2011/05/my-three-lovers.html">The Tool</a>, he started texting me three months later -- "Hey" or his infamous "Heyoooo" and later "I guess you're not going to talk to me anymore." -- I refused to answer. Seriously, who combines "Hey" and "Yo" and why did I once respond to that? One night, he called me 22 times. I ignored him.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When he pleaded that I see him, nerves flooded my system. Something told me a meeting was not a good idea, but something else told me I needed some kind of closure. This was my first friend in Hoboken -- and a boy I was sleeping with for over a year -- <i>what happened?</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I conceded to meeting at a bar. I was already half a martini in when he arrived. Looking at him was so familiar yet foreign. He cut off his Jonas Brothers' curls and looked so much older, as if more than six months had passed between us. He hardly looked me in the eyes and kept shifting uncomfortably, tearing up bar napkins. He said he was selfish. I said he was immature. He agreed. He said he never thought I'd like him seriously and when he found this other girl he just secured a relationship so he wouldn't be alone, but in truth, he liked me and didn't want to lose me. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i>Why do I feel so rejected?<b> </b><b>Why didn't he fight for me? </b></i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I asked if he was happy. He said "no."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Something changed in me then. It was like I forgave him or forgot how much he hurt me. <i>As long as he didn't like her better than me, as long as she didn't make him happy</i>, I secretly thought.<b> Or maybe, part of me wanted to save him. Because I desperately needed some saving.</b> Somehow, admitting he was unhappy seemed so far from the him I remembered, his vulnerable honesty was more attractive.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i>I wanted to kiss him</i>. I stared at his lips, while biting my own, knowing he was no good for me but feeling the chemistry between us. Even if he was never a serious boyfriend, there is such a comfort and sexual energy between us. <b>My loneliness crept up and took my rationale</b> (or maybe it was the third martini).</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We ended up back at my place. There was drunken chatter-- when he paused, looked at me softly, then kissed me...<i>but I was so far gone at this point I don't remember what it felt like</i>. The next thing that came out of my mouth was, <span style="color: #0b5394;">"Do you want to be inside me?"</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I wish I could recall his expression or what he said, but all I know is his clothes started flying off while I calmly removed my skirt, hopped on my bed, and said, <span style="color: #0b5394;">"Your penis is not going near me, but you are going to get me off."</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My memory then acts like photograph flashes: I hear myself moaning and my screams that I shouldn't be doing this, that I hate him. And I hear him whispering he never stopped thinking about me, about wanting me and I see his face looking at me, on top of me ...And then I blacked out.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When I woke up he was gone. I felt a little dirty. A little upset with myself and how easily I slid back into a drunken-induced habit. Are we friends again? Lovers? <i>What do I want from him? (Something he could never give me</i>). But it's like that wall I built blocking people out has gotten so thick, and since he began to chisel at it so long ago, anything he says or touches makes me crumble. <b>I want someone to know me and look at me like he does</b>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We're back to the dance of him calling and texting, sort of making plans, then canceling without reasons. <i>I now lost my closure and am back to where I started</i>. I am not cut out for games.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>The sad thing is, I still want that kiss</b>.</span></span>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-55213504282897245902011-11-14T22:55:00.001-05:002012-08-02T21:21:30.732-04:00Like a body pillow.<div style="color: #20124d;">
Have you ever grabbed somebody so tight -- held them so close, grasped their back so hard -- wrapping your arms all the way around them and pushing your face into their shoulder screaming -- "hold me" -- "I love you" -- and all the while tightening your grip, feeling your knuckles turn white as if you were trying to fuse your bodies into one as you feel their love, you physically feel their heart filling, and you know they're smiling because they believe you love them and want them a part of you because you are soul-mates but really, your arms are extended around them like they are a stuffed animal -- an object -- and you are simply pressing into them so you can feel, smell, listen to the breath of a real, life human being next to you -- more than next to you -- so perhaps you feel the love they are feeling --</div>
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But really, you feel nothing -- your heart is empty -- it sits in your stomach because this person you are hugging so tight cannot lift it, because as much as you fill their heart, they cannot fill yours -- nothing fills yours -- you are numb. and you are alone. more than ever before. as you lay, two bodies intertwined as one, one heart beating and one heart dying. </div>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-78314612392128525252011-10-14T08:20:00.002-04:002012-08-02T02:07:35.323-04:00Three Years Later.<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There is particular bar in Manhattan that has a "Name Night" -- each day they choose a name and if it happens to be yours, you drink for free -- awesome. On this particular Friday it happened to be my name so I was super excited. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As the Friday dragged on, it became apparent no one was going to actually go with me. I was cranky but in the area and couldn't pass up free drinks so I went by my lonesome<span style="color: #4c1130;">.</span> <b>I kept staring at my phone for that damn green light to blink informing me I had a text</b>. It never lit up. No one was on their way.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The bartender told me, despite my name, I could not get free drinks 'cause part of their gimmick wa<span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;">s </span></span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">you needed to bring friends. Did she think I wanted it this way? She was pretty bitchy, too. I didn't argue, but because I felt like it, I lowered her tip. I took out Dorothy Parker's <i>Complete Book of Poems</i> and read and sipped my vodka as the night filled with more people and I heard twenty girls with <i>my</i> name squeal because they were receiving free drinks.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i style="color: #741b47;">Hello, I've waited here for you</i><span style="color: #741b47;">...</span> "Everlong" came on the jukebox. <span style="color: #741b47;">...</span><i style="color: #741b47;">Come down and waste away with me</i><span style="color: #741b47;">...</span> ..good song.. <span style="color: #741b47;">..</span><i style="color: #741b47;">Slow how you wanted it to be. I'm over my head. Out of her head, she sang</i><span style="color: #741b47;">... </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I am laying in my freshman dorm room staring at my ceiling, where I pressed bottle caps into the shape of a star. It's 2 a.m. and all my roommates were at a Yonkers bar. There is a boy on the twin bed with me. A blonde, blue-eyed boy. We've been dating for a month but I am not sure if I really like him 'like that' because he is kind of a punk, kind of a nerd and does not drink or party with the same crowd as me. I am bored with the star so turning slightly, I rest my head on the boy's shoulder and my arm flops across his chest; it raises with his breathing which is uneven -- like he's nervous -- and then I heard something beautiful. <span style="color: #741b47;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;">...</span><i style="color: #741b47;">And I wonder, when I sing along with you</i><span style="color: #741b47;">...</span><span style="color: #741b47;"> </span>he began singing, softly but on key. It was not showy, more like a whisper. It was beautiful and honest. It was a boy singing to a girl he knew could not sleep. <i style="color: #741b47;">...<b>If anything could ever feel this real forever. If anything could ever be this good again</b></i><span style="color: #741b47;">...</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Holy shit, I am crying-- at the bar! How long has this been going on for? Did anybody see me? I grab the ledge and clumsily push my chair out. I grab a napkin, cover my drink, and place my book on the seat. <i>There are more people in the bar than before.</i> I stumble to the hallway and realize I don't know where the bathroom is. I end up in another room, frantic someone will see the tears on my face despite how dark it is.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I run into a stall, slam the door and start sobbing. <i style="color: #741b47;">...Breathe out so I can breath you in, Hold you in</i><span style="color: #741b47;">...</span></span></span></span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;"> </span><b>Will anyone love me like he did?</b></span><b style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </b><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At that moment, in my freshman dorm, I knew this boy would be a major part of my life.</span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It was before the sex, before things got complicated. </span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i>We were only eighteen then</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We dated for three years before I broke up with him. I know I hurt him. It makes sense that <i>my punishment is always wondering if anyone will love me like he did</i>. If anyone will sing, "Everlong," after knowing me for a month and mean it.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I leave the stall with a blotchy face and Rudolph-looking nose. The bar was so dark and busy no one noticed.</span>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-88838227659271157352011-08-12T13:45:00.004-04:002012-08-02T21:15:21.361-04:00Bittersweet, Indeed.<div style="color: #274e13;">
My face was flushed. He asked me what I was thinking about. <i>Isn't that the question people always say not to ask?</i> I couldn't tell him (I could not make eye contact either). He remained seated as I paced. "C'mon, you can tell me anything." I could tell his eyes were searching me for answers. "Can I? Can I, really?" I knew I could.</div>
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"You're face is turning red." He was smiling. He was getting off on me struggling. "It's just sometimes... I think things... you know? ...I am not getting all 'Fatal Attraction' on you... it's just sometimes..." My voice was squeaking; each stutter came out higher than the one before. <i>That smile was so damn cute.</i> "What would it be like if your whole <a href="http://iambee-steph.blogspot.com/2011/05/my-three-lovers.html">marriage</a> thing wasn't in the way? I know this could never happen. <i>But what if, you know?</i> What if there were absolutely no inhibitions between us? What if we went out on a 'real' date doing stuff we always talk about doing but know we never could? ...What would people think of us, as a couple? What would we think of us?" My hands were shaking now, and I was short of breath from talking so fast. "I just wonder... what it would be like if our timing was different."</div>
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His expression was curiously gleeful, "You think that?" I sighed. I do. "I know that could never happen." Still smiling, he agreed. We couldn't. <b>But my thoughts were out there. They were so bold and stagnate I felt like I could read them off the air.</b> I held my breath.</div>
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"I'm hard." He gave me the other smile. The smile that meant we were alone and could mess around. I retorted, "WHAT!? Really!? Now!?" That was not what I was expecting. Casually, he answers, "Yeah, you're turning me on." Half of me wanted to keep screaming and wondered if he listened to what I stammered yet my other half felt special which -- considering the scenario -- was ridiculous. I gave a sly smirk. "I am?" Okay, so I was fishing for compliments but then, I cut him off. "I can't do this. I have to go."</div>
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I grabbed the doorknob to leave -- <b>"Steph, I think of that, too, sometimes."</b> -- Five seconds went by. My eyes were locked with his, but I did not move my hand from the doorknob. <i>The desire made me ache.</i> I could kiss him or simply wrap my arms around him and savor these moments between us. But I turned the knob, instead.</div>
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I walked out and leaned my back against the shut door. I drew a long breath, closed my eyes and bowed my head in shame, knowing something I did not say out loud. <i>I could have fallen in love with you.</i></div>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-22166217253276079502011-08-09T13:04:00.005-04:002012-08-02T02:08:02.940-04:00"I've always wanted to be a waitress."<div style="color: #0b5394;">
One of the intern mutes said this to me a couple days ago. We were talking over a Hoegaarden at a going away one-beer-each lunch celebration for a guy we never met. She confided in me she felt guilty for accepting a beer 'cause she wasn't twenty-one yet. <b>Oh. My. God. I felt old.</b> The sad thing is I am probably older than most of the editors, too. <i>But since when is twenty-five old? And how did they all get jobs before me? </i><b>It is appearing that only restaurant managers like me.</b></div>
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When the intern exclaimed, "I've always wanted to be a waitress." My initial reaction was, "Really? But you can't be a mute and be a waitress!" (Okay, she is obviously a nice girl and now I know she and some others can talk but it is still fun to refer to them as "the mutes"). Then, I remembered!<i> I always wanted to be a waitress, too!</i> In college, I applied countless time to my favorite restaurants and desperately wanted to work there. I never did. But what if --<i> if I did, would I have gotten out of it sooner?</i></div>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-78817467180380602012011-07-29T14:10:00.003-04:002012-08-02T02:08:15.939-04:00Tonsil Time.<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; font-family: inherit; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Dressed in a fabulous paper gown, I layed in a hospital bed looking at clouds. It was just a small, rectangle patch of designed glass that covered the flattering fluorescent lights, but I stared at it anyway. <i>Was it suppose to comfort or distract me from the surgery I am about to undergo?</i> My mom entered the room and commented on how pretty the cloud patch was. She teaches ten year olds so sometimes she thinks like one. But then, I get it. Tonsils are usually taken out when you are young, NOT when you are twenty-five. While I bleakly looked at the clouds wondering what the hell they were doing there, ten year olds look and <i>are</i> strangely comforted and distracted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The nurses gave me a calming iv drip and then I do not remember much. I have a vague remembrance of them turning me over to put a shot -- the anesthesia -- in my behind. So I passed out before the anesthesia even came? Go me. I awoke to two nurses fighting over who got to put the oxygen mask on me. I took the nurse’s on my right’s side then closed my eyes. I awoke again to the left nurse telling the other I am twenty-five. I mumbled I was going to write an article about being twenty-five and getting my tonsils out once I recover. They looked confuse but nodded, like when a child is describing their imaginary friend and adults pretend to believe them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">For the following nine days I ate pastina, applesauce, and organic baby food (I cannot describe how disgusted I currently am by any pureed food, but if anyone has an urge, go for Mango Pear). Each day a new part of my throat/head hurt: first and foremost my esophagus, followed by my molars, then my ears rang and my tongue swelled. The roof of my mouth also enlarged and when I swallowed the fruit mush my nose squeaked. <b>I felt like a blow fish with sliced insides.</b> On day eight I threw up continuously and it is deciphered I overdid it on the prescribed Tylenol Codeine. Typical.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">After two weeks of my mother’s care and bad television, I was cleared to go back to my apartment, job, and everyday life -- although, still wary of hacking up scabs and bleeding -- lovely. It is odd to look at the back of my mouth and see two black holes where my tonsils once were. And it is more bizarre to think for two weeks I regressed to being a child again because of a surgery typically done to children. Let’s just hope I don’t get strep for the fifth time this year.</span></div>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574457306540629604.post-36608951182597563962011-07-09T17:57:00.005-04:002012-08-02T21:16:12.729-04:00I have a friend crush!<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">But I do not think he wants to be my friend. This makes me sad.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I am an intern now. An eager, overzealous editorial intern for an online magazine. I sit in the corner table with three other interns while the superior, editorial staff are aligned in front of us. They play a lot of 90s pop music and ignore us interns until we need to update spreadsheets or transcribe an interview. That appears as fine to the other interns (whom I call "the mutes") but me being a miserable, bored waitress, 'causes me to chime into the staff's conversations with silly anecdotes or questions. I do not think they appreciate these contributions. They are not used to those-not-being-paid to talking.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My friend crush sits completely across the room, opposite me. After labeling everyone in the office on my first day -- it's called boredom, not judgmental -- I decided he will be my friend. He makes me laugh, in that stupid, outburst guffaw kind of way with his intelligent witticisms and interesting comments. He also drew me in with his shaggy hair and plaid shirts. Since the editors never saw interns reacting to their antics, I am sure everyone believes I am laughing and socializing with myself. Which, in a way, I am.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We had our first intern meeting yesterday. It was there I repeatedly expressed my desire to write articles for the site and volunteered to become the resident sex editor if they need ideas on how they can hire me permanently. If not, I could write about punk rock since their music editor mainly writes about hip hop. Apparently, I have become an expert on that, too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I cannot help being vocal. I want to stop telling people about home fries and smelling like a steak every time I go out! I want to stop watching others celebrate their life! <b>I will blame my behavior on having a strange reaction to sitting in an office for eight hours.</b> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I know if I was already an editor and some intern was acting like me now -- like the girl who always raises her hand and recites every answer -- I'd be annoyed (by me). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>But I put my life on pause for three years.</b> Waitressing has broken me and left me craving more. I wish these editors could understand how desperate I was before I entered their building, how being hired was like winning <i>American Idol</i>. <b>It is my chance to show the world (and myself) what I can do.</b></span></div>STEPHANIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776492281330816382noreply@blogger.com0