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.

Missing Friendship

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.

(I never told anyone this before).

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.

(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).

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...

You shouted, "Shut the fuck up!"

(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). 

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."

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."

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.

After we wiped each other's tears, we scooped bowls of ice cream and watched an episode of Six Feet Under (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.

So we had somewhat of an anniversary tonight.

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.

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 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."

BUT YOU WERE MY FUCKING BEST FRIEND.

 .

I cried alone tonight.

#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.

Happily Ever After or Bust

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.

Seeing previews for the show "Once Upon a Time," well that just looked silly and lovey-dovey.

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.

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. 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 think I might be a misplaced fairytale character from "Once Upon a Time."

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?

But who would I be? Perhaps, Belle. She's a bookworm.

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). Maybe, every girl cannot help but want her Prince Charming.

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.

I also remember thinking, I would never marry. It was just one of those things I could not foresee in my future. It's something I still think. 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.

Not sure if the show and marriage-talk correlate... but they've both circled my mind.

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.

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.

Like a body pillow.

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 --

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.

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.