He Told Me to Write Fiction.

"Why wait for those movie-like moments? Why not create one?"

He asks me while we lay on my roof, side-by-side staring at the sky, mistaking stars for satellites. 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. But it felt like we were.

"I can't get out of my own head."

"...So you're depressed?"

"Yeah... How about you?"

"Yeah."

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...

It would've been nice to hold his hand then. Maybe, make out. Feel the graveness of his desire flood through me.

But we're just friends. There was comfort just to lay, without expectations. To have someone to be lonely with.

Repeat, Rewind, Delete.

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.

Our eyes lock, while he enters from above -- “You’re beautiful” -- he says (like it was normal), while thrusting his cock deeper inside me. Fuck.

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.

-- “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.

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've missed you.”

You always say you miss me when I am right here.

“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?

In her naivety she doesn’t know where your dick has been. And in my knowing weakness, I still take you back.

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).

Making My Move

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.

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.

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.

Even my apartment acquired a nickname, monikered the "party house." Despite my plethora of friends from the steakhouse I was always lonely. Felt different. Apart from the typical Hoboken breed.

As I leave Hoboken and head to Brooklyn I worry. Did I accomplish what I wanted? Did I make my mark?

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... Am I too Jersey for Brooklyn? Not bohemian enough to dub myself a writer, an artist?

Added to my worries, I have left the magazine I have written for the last ten months. Not knowing where my next paycheck will come from I did something I have not turned to in four years. I wrote a poem.

Plagiarize This

A blankness was

felt when a man accused

me of faking it--

my writing.

A numbing anger

washed over me,

hearing, I’m a Sham. A Fake.

Call me a slut. A bitch.

Anything else.

My greatest fear called out.

A lucid hurt

enveloped my heart,

labeled a Phony. A Copier.

But what’s to come of pages

sprawled with my guts--

a Trademark?

(June 2012)

That Gave Me Pause.

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.

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.

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.

We were so cool.

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.

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.

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?

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. Us not being friends. Not having someone understand why I really love stars.

Discovering Awkward.

First impressions are crucial. In fact, if you think just how crucial it can make one a little nutty, no? 

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.

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.

Other people were awkward, I could point them out in a crowd. Did I have some weird tendencies or say strange things that made people uncomfortable? 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.

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, awkward phrase.

I feel like a festering sore people just stare at, wondering how it got so bad. 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.

Now, I don't know if I actually was "awkward" when my friend told me years ago. But I sure as hell am now.

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)