Here's to Sandy

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.

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.

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. Why aren't I in Brooklyn? 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.

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. My love, I go where you go. I am where you are.

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.

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. 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.

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?

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.

Meeting the Poet

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.

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.

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 poetry club rather than a one-bedroom apartment in a Jersey ghetto. I pretended to look at the books lining the walls, but that was an act, since I already spent nights examining his bookshelves.

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, "This is Stephanie, she's a poet."

My face reddened and I stuttered something about not writing much poetry anymore, more along the lines of short stories. Everyone shook my hand and said their names but I did not process anything as I was too busy trying to fit in.

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.

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.

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.

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.

So that's how meeting the poet led to "Unemployed Sex" -- my new weekly column on njpoet.com.

I Should've Gotten a Magician

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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. Was wearing a skirt a mistake? I ordered a vodka on the rocks with a lemon, realizing I was way too sober for whatever is about to happen. He tells me when he returns I will touch his abs and if I like it, give him a dollar. Excuse me?

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.

"Oh really? My father's from Brooklyn..." he tells me, with his crotch an inch from my face. Score, my idea worked, he thinks I am cool and we are discussing something productive.

"Now it's time to touch my abs," he says -- Fail. -- "That's okay, I'm good." I respond, quickly pressing my lips on the straw, sucking up the liquor.

"But everyone has to," he smiles, probably thinking I am just being coy.

"No, really. I am good." Can we just talk about your father again? He walks away and did not address me the rest of the night.

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.

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 knew that was true, I guess I have a type. "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.

My cousin nicknamed him "Kansas" as he looked like an innocent, country boy while my sister-in-law said he reminded her of The Tool as in "Sure, he has a nice body but he has that cute, pre-pubescent boyish charm."

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. Why am I so socially awkward?

He left us while an MC ran onto the stage, "How are all you beautiful women doing tonight!?" the guy yelled into a mic. It did not take much to rev up this crowd. "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.

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.

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.

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. Neither did anyone who thought as much as I did, apparently.

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.

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.

My face reddened and I mumbled, "Thanks," while fireworks went off in my brain. He likes my hair. And he's so fucking cute.

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. So this is a lap dance.

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 wanted to touch him. I could not touch him. 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."

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.

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.

Writing about Writer's Block

Writer's get a reputation for being hermits -- which we sort of are -- or at least I sort of am.

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).

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.

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.

Burned

That awkward first kiss haunts me at each lips first touch, while my virginity is taken over and over and those blood stained shorts lie in the bottom drawer. 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.

Those boys from high school who only held my hand in secret -- who I let 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: "It's just a physical thing," my conscious whispers.

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 search for those butterflies my body trapped then lost when you let me go.

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.

My rebound anarchist, who was the best sex I ever had, each first meeting I want to be ours, with an instant connection where you know something amazing is going to happen. My hips crave your hands when they'd rub down my side and send chills through my spine. I still bite, expecting you to bite back, or at least invoke a spank, but new lovers never respond.

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. Every dirty word I say is taken from our conversations. It's a trap of sex and emotion and with every new relationship, my trust reminds me you broke it.

Each lover left a scar, my skin is almost covered. If there is someone I am supposed to end up with, where will he fit?

The Failed Threesome

A couple years ago a quiet girl I waitressed with 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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

Happy Easter Birthday (again).

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.)

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...

Since my birthday fell on Easter Sunday, it was decided I would celebrate the days before.

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.

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.

Seems like I have everything figured out just fine.

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?

So that was my second Easter birthday. Taking a different form, read about the first one in a poem written during another life.

 

Happy Easter Birthday

Underneath my down comforter I hear

my brother’s voice bellow,

“Drink this. I made it for you.”

My head peeks out, confronted

with a champagne glass,

“Happy 21 Year Old!” in rainbow paint.

“Take this. It has nutrients.”

Then, a low grumble

“You act like you’re 80.”

I grab it. Chug it.

Stare at the mirror: numb.

My curls sit atop my head

like erratic broccoli sprouts.

My eyes: red, baggy, dark-circled

and puffy. Holding the glass,

I read the words backwards,

wonder why I am not a happy 21-year-old

and what room has a mirror facing their bed.

This is not feng-shui.

(April 2007)

Burning Down the House

Beep! Beeep! BEEEP! BEEEEP!

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.

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. 

Beeeeeep!

"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.

"Something's burning! Wake up! Don't you hear the fire alarms?" The beeps are so loud, my thoughts are having trouble connecting. "Heather!"

Frustrated by her behavior, I run into Keith's room. How am I the only one to hear the noise? "Keith, I need help! Something's burning! Heather won't wake up!" 

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. Why won't Heather wake up?

Keith prances passed me, straight for the kitchen. Then I see it-- why didn't I think of this before? -- the oven is registered at 425 degrees. She left the fucking oven on.

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 that was in the oven at least two hours too long and attempts to run water over it.

It's 6:15 a.m. in the morning. The beeping won't stop. The girls upstairs hate us.

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.

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.

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.

She staggers back to the couch, back into a fetal position. Why didn't she just go to her bed?

I go back to my room with my heart still pounding. I had to work at the office in less than three hours.

It happens.

#2011highs

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.

In attempts to get "more popular" I am trying to incorporate trending topics. This morning I noticed one was #2011highs. Well that should be easy...

Writing more. Escaping steakhouse. The Cure show.

Seriously. That was all I could think of.

Sure, I escaped the terrible steakhouse 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?

Wow. I can't say "2011 sucked" but where are the highs? Where are those crazy experiences that make my heart feel like it's going to burst and my head go into overload?

No spontaneous trips. More blackouts. Same lovers I should be rid of.

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.

The Saga of the Tool (continues)

After the incident and my twelve-hour relationship with The Tool, 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.

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 -- what happened?

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. 

Why do I feel so rejected? Why didn't he fight for me? 

I asked if he was happy. He said "no."

Something changed in me then. It was like I forgave him or forgot how much he hurt me. As long as he didn't like her better than me, as long as she didn't make him happy, I secretly thought. Or maybe, part of me wanted to save him. Because I desperately needed some saving. Somehow, admitting he was unhappy seemed so far from the him I remembered, his vulnerable honesty was more attractive.

I wanted to kiss him. 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. My loneliness crept up and took my rationale (or maybe it was the third martini).

We ended up back at my place. There was drunken chatter-- when he paused, looked at me softly, then kissed me...but I was so far gone at this point I don't remember what it felt like. The next thing that came out of my mouth was, "Do you want to be inside me?"

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, "Your penis is not going near me, but you are going to get me off."

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.

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? What do I want from him? (Something he could never give me). 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. I want someone to know me and look at me like he does.

We're back to the dance of him calling and texting, sort of making plans, then canceling without reasons. I now lost my closure and am back to where I started. I am not cut out for games.

The sad thing is, I still want that kiss.

Three Years Later.

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.

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. I kept staring at my phone for that damn green light to blink informing me I had a text. It never lit up. No one was on their way.

The bartender told me, despite my name, I could not get free drinks 'cause part of their gimmick was 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 Complete Book of Poems and read and sipped my vodka as the night filled with more people and I heard twenty girls with my name squeal because they were receiving free drinks.

Hello, I've waited here for you... "Everlong" came on the jukebox. ...Come down and waste away with me... ..good song.. ..Slow how you wanted it to be. I'm over my head. Out of her head, she sang... 

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.  

...And I wonder, when I sing along with you... 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. ...If anything could ever feel this real forever. If anything could ever be this good again...


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. There are more people in the bar than before. 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.

I run into a stall, slam the door and start sobbing. ...Breathe out so I can breath you in, Hold you in... Will anyone love me like he did? At that moment, in my freshman dorm, I knew this boy would be a major part of my life. It was before the sex, before things got complicated. We were only eighteen then.

We dated for three years before I broke up with him. I know I hurt him. It makes sense that my punishment is always wondering if anyone will love me like he did. If anyone will sing, "Everlong," after knowing me for a month and mean it.

I leave the stall with a blotchy face and Rudolph-looking nose. The bar was so dark and busy no one noticed.

"I've always wanted to be a waitress."

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. Oh. My. God. I felt old. The sad thing is I am probably older than most of the editors, too. But since when is twenty-five old? And how did they all get jobs before me? It is appearing that only restaurant managers like me.

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 always wanted to be a waitress, too! In college, I applied countless time to my favorite restaurants and desperately wanted to work there. I never did. But what if -- if I did, would I have gotten out of it sooner?

Are tulle shoulder pads and face paint necessary?

Monday night I was talked into attending a live show hosted by a radio station. The guy who convinced me said the artist "radiated positive energy" and there was no way I could leave the venue "without being inspired." Inspired to do what exactly? Not sure. But the show was nearby, sounded promising, and I had nothing better planned.

I was in a fine mood earlier: I left my apartment at noon and went to the village to bar hop and drink vodka. It was now 8 p.m., and I found myself at this show, grumpy, drinking cheap white wine (it was all they offered) and out twenty bucks. The performer was wearing mini rainbow-colored tutus on her shoulders and sounded like Bjork singing African tribal music. The band wore one-piece, spandex gymnastic outfits. Not my scene.

Or was it? It was definitely not a yuppie Hoboken crowd but it felt like the audience (and performers) were trying too hard to be non-commercial, acting like arty know-it-all hipsters. But shouldn't I feel better here than yuppieville? I morphed into a snob who did not believe in this performace specticle. I put on my big sunglasses, sipped wine, and scribbled notes on the show's flier, thinking: "I can be just as pretentious as you all." Instead of bobbing my head and embracing the chants, my face remained serious and I analyzed each note. It was as if I needed to take on a role -- create a character and reason why I was there -- if I did not fit in I would make it because I was someone else. I did not receive the "positive energy" and all I was inspired to do was drink and write more.

In Hoboken, I yearn for an art culture, people who like poetry and indie music but I am surrounded by the superficial youth who brag about how great they are at beruit and chugging and prefer rap or techno. Here, where I thought I'd belong, I was still on the outskirts. I was in my own bubble of observation, staring at the audience, wondering if they were authentically happy.

But why is it so important for me to feel included in a crowd? Furthermore, why do I constantly lie on the outside looking in?

My three lovers.

I don't sleep around. Not really. I like making out with guys. But to have sex with them? Well, I am particular. So how I ended up having three lovers -- at the same time -- for fours months is beyond me and how I chose these winners from the rest of Hoboken's elite is further from that.

The Tool. Simultaneously, his Jersey Shore meets Jonas Brothers persona endeared and annoyed me. After drinks, he would create a pseudo Italian accent, calling me "baybeh" and leaving the 'R' off the end of words like car and bar. We were friends with benefits for a year before he confessed to having stronger feelings and wanted an exclusive relationship. In other words, he was "jealous of other guys fucking the shit out of [me]." One tipsy night led to us trying on the boyfriend-girlfriend label. Twelve hours later, I saw him walking down the street holding hands with an Asian chick. Dumbfounded, I managed to yell his name, to which he introduced us then hurried away. I still have the boxer briefs left in my room from when he was my boyfriend. My twelve hour boyfriend. I texted him he fucked up but we haven't seen each other nor discussed the incident since. Who broke up with who? 

The Man Whore. A Dominican, charismatic coke head. Off the top of my head I can think of seven people I know he's had sex with. We have nothing else in common. One night he pulled me into my room and gave me an over the top kiss as he tried to stick his hand down my pants. I pushed away, although, secretly liked it. Sure he was slutty, but also, hot. The cat and mouse act continued and ended with him yanking out his (ahem, huge) penis, saying, "Don't you want this?" and me screaming, "No!" and leaving him bewildered on my bed. I smirked at how coy I was, until the next time we hung out, and my hormones won. We had a few nights of rough and wild sex. His room had a long mirror aligned with the bed; the floor covered with half empty liquor bottles and the smell of stale cigarettes. I could spend three days in there without even realizing the sun came up. We did not have much to talk about: just series of basic questions, in between positions, discovering how opposite we were. My favorite question he asked was, "What's your favorite salad dressing?" It was fun for four months until his arrogance got the best of me. Now whenever I see Thousand Island (his favorite) I think of rough sex.

The Married Guy. Don't judge me. It's a cliche story and the mistress never gets the sympathy vote. I am not justifying the situation just explaining it. We talk literature and bond over other people's idiocracies. Once we had a fifteen minute conversation on why I love parenthesis and he loves semicolons. Should I mention we both have daddy issues? And we get prescribed the same panic attack medicine. So he's a wasp and older and married and I suppose that is a problem. The sex is okay but I mostly get off on the secret, taboo aspect of it all. A couple months into the affair, we had a bittersweet conversation about ending it. Two weeks later, we began again. The cycle continues.

A friend (ok, my therapist) said to me, “Various people know fragments of you, but nobody knows and has all of you.” It is true. I put up walls. The Tool built up my ego but I never trusted him. The Man Whore satisfied my animalistic desires but the Married Guy suffices my humanistic need for connection. I choose guys I know could never have all of me... Does this keep me safe or in pain?
  
I am currently in the market for a new lover.

A holiday celebrated by hypocrites.

Cinco de Mayo. Nearly every person I work with asked me what my big plans were. Without a second thought, I would say, "Working." They then would respond with, "Well, yeah but after?" or "That sucks; I requested off." About three of these people were actually Mexican.

East LA had a line out the door. People walked around with glowing Corona necklaces. My friend called me and when I answered yelled a high pitch "arriba!" then burst out laughing, saying he screamed this to every customer who walked into his bar. He is a white boy from Detroit.

I do not need an excuse to go drinking. If I want a drink, I will drink. Why is there an incessant need for an excuse to celebrate life? Furthermore, Mexico is a country often looked down upon by Americans. People debate Immigration Laws and often say we need illegal Mexicans to do the "dirty" work (ie: landscapers, dishwashers, and the cooks in a predominant amount of restaurants).

In the white suburb I grew up in there was one house where about ten Mexicans lived and my friends referred to them as "petunias" since they were "sceevy" and drove around in a van together whistling at girls. Those same friends updated there facebook status' yesterday with "drinking margaritas in lieu of the holiday."

The sad thing is, the Mexicans who have pride and a reason to commemorate the day, were the ones serving and cleaning up after Hoboken's drunken youth. And probably laughing at them.

So on each fifth of May I am reminded how stupid my peers are; however, I also remember on that date in 2005 I took my ex's virginity. I rather celebrate that.

"So your life is waiting, alcohol, and sex?"

A friend said this to me last night. At first, I was appalled. Who could say such a thing? Is that all they think of me? But after taking thirty seconds to think about it -- well, yeah -- my life is mostly waitressing, drinking, and sex.

Is this what happens when you graduate during a financial crisis? Or is this just the life of people in the serving industry? Maybe, every twenty-five year old is like me: having an early life crisis, not in the career or city they want; going from lover to lover but all the while, feeling like an overgrown adolescent.

I need to remember what matters to me. Writing, good books, punk/indie music, vegan food, dark satiric movies, NYC, vintage clothes... this is who I am. But I am stuck in Hoboken. And waitressing.