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Good Morning.

“How are you today?”

“I think if I drink another coffee I can emit a pulse which annihilates every straight cis man in Vienna.”

“That good, huh?”

“But you were nice to me yesterday, so this is your warning that the Reckoning is coming some time this afternoon, after I meet this deadline. I suggest you move beyond the city limits, swiftly.”

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Things I Will Yell At Our Child If This Little Condom Mishap Bears Fruit

“Don’t ever drink coffee after 9p.m., that’s how you were made. ”

“Always wear delicate red lipstick on a date. Otherwise, you’re always kissable, too kissable. The lipstick is war paint. I let myself be kissable, that’s how I had you.”

“Don’t read books, next thing you’ll start talking about books with other people. You know what that gets you? Pregnant is what it gets you. And library fees!”

“Be quiet. You know who was a great conversationalist? Your father. You know what that got him? That’s right: you, it got him you.”

“Only date someone your own height. That way, you always know you’re at kissing height and your defenses will be up. The tall ones are surprisingly sneaky and charming. One second I was looking up, the next I was pregnant.”

“You should have seen my hips before I had you. I went on two dates with a giant, and this is what I get. Jaqueline and the goddamn beanstalk.” 

“You know what?! DON”T clean your room! In fact, never clean your apartment, you’ll just invite someone back to it, and next thing you know, you’ll have someone like you, and be screaming at them to CLEAN THEIR ROOM!”

For those wondering, I am now a card-carrying member of the gold IUD club. They literally gave me a gold card with the serial number of my IUD on it. I had to have it put in as emergency contraception, because hormonal birth control was no longer an option for me after hormonal BC caused me to grow a small benign liver tumor. I had to have it put in on a rush on a Friday afternoon right as the doctor’s office was closing, without dilation or numbing, and I SCREAMED at the pain and almost passed out. To quote my doctor “Are you still alive?” I am. At least I (probably) won’t be screaming at a real child, for a while. But maybe someday, when I am ready, and I promise to never treat a real child like the imaginary one in this little post.

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The Rumors Of My Small Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated.


It’s a strange thing, to invite you in,
To ask you to stay.
To let you hear me snore-
To let my breath escape.

You know you yell in your sleep? A sort of half-scream. It’s scary.

I keep telling you to relax.
I’m a hypocrite on multiple counts,
A mugshot of smeared lipstick and a half-finished glass.
I’m not trying to get you drunk, I’m just trying to get to know you.

I think you’re cute, but I’m not trying to get you pregnant yet.

You’re not particularly nice to me. Evidently that’s my thing.
Men who are scruffy and vaguely mean.
Maybe it’s my kink?

Nah, my kink is people that hold me.
My kink is men who make me feel safe.

I don’t want to fall asleep yet, but we should cool down.

I am apprehensive, and hungry.
I am many things.
I am weird, you keep reminding me.

You did all the right things, but
Succumbing to coming is particularly intimate,
It’s a rare feat, for me, on the first time.
The rumors of my small death have been greatly exaggerated.

But the pleasure was real.
The lie was ethical-
A half-truth, I was overcome with bliss but not quite reaching a precipice.
There was behavior worth reinforcing.
In particular, that thing you do with your tongue-

Do exactly that, but just-
Do it when I trust you.

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Eurydice, a further update.

Part One

Part Two

Eurydice and I have learned to understand each other. I appreciate the ability an orchid has to communicate: its roots bare to the world. Heart on her sleeve, it seems.

She takes after me.

Spoiled as ever. Her blooms continue to dry out, but her stem is green. She gets a steam bath in front of the humidifier whenever she loses her perk, and she responds quickly.

After too much googling, I learned less about orchids and far more about orchid people. Orchid gardeners are second only to mommy-bloggers when it comes to anxiety and judging. They are one step above vinyl record collectors when it comes to snobbery. But, after some waffling back and forth on the best watering methods, I have indeed fallen for the ice trick, and Eurydice seems to love it. It’s counterintuitive, but it seems to be working. It’s a technique which requires restraint, and patience. Eurydice and I are both learning patience.

I had to attend to a funeral this week, a former coworker’s suicide. In lieu of flowers donations were made to the local animal shelter. The only flowers were rose petals, we each tossed a handful of them into her open grave, over her urn, white and glittering. They buried her ashes by a young tree, which will be there for at least 400 years. Tree number 9. The deceased was 31. I am 32. Sometimes, when you cannot stop crying, it helps to focus on something else: numbers, letters, the names on the gravestones. A phalaenopsis orchid has a blooming cycle 2-3 months long, and many people throw them away after that. But they can live 10-15 years with proper care. Some have lived to be over 100 years old..

I watered Eurydice when I got home, with ice. I reminded her that she needs to live.

So do you, she said.

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Short Stories & Essays

I am the 2 Tram, and I am here to ruin your evening.

I am the 2 tram. Excuse me, Bim zwei, but I prefer you call me the 2 tram. I know what you’re thinking, you’d be surprised to know, English is actually my native language! No German (or Austrian) efficiency here!

My mother was American, an oil painter, she loved watching paint dry. My father was an Italian post office worker. Union man, spent his weeks behind the counter, lording quietly over absolute chaos. In his spare time he tended to his lawn. He liked to watch the grass grow. It’s actually how they met! One summer in the 60’s she painted a picture of it, his lawn, growing in real time: a canvas slowly overcome by green. They spent their first date watching a pot of water boil. Long story short, now you have me. Come aboard, girl.

I am the 2 tram, and I’m always a bit discombobulated. I don’t get the rush all the other trams are in. I prefer to take my time, really consider my options. Especially when I am one stop away from your destination. That’s the best time to take a good long rest, and ponder, where am I really going?
Where are you really going, girl?

If the guy you are off to see is so mediocre in bed, is it worth the tooth-grinding crawl of a trip with me? I see you, texting your friends about him, yawning. Do you really want to see him again? Has he ever made you come? Just saying, you can get off here, or not get off at his place. Either way, you’re going to end the evening frustrated. 

I am the 2 tram and I know you still miss him. Not the mediocre guy you’re off to see, the one before. I see you staring at his picture. Girl, I know you. I know you hate subway poems, but you still love train metaphors. Actually, you love subway poems, even though they’re so tired. You’re so tired, girl. Stay a while. It will be a while. 

But as for trains, and subways,  and metaphors, I am somewhere in between. I am lacking in both romance and speed. I am a literal slow train to nowhere. I am a metaphor for settling.  I am preposterously packed with baby carriages and…Tibetan monks? There’s a lot happening here girl, and you’re missing all of it!

There, you did it again, you dazed off, looked out the window, and started thinking about him again. The guy in the picture, who lives off the U-Bahn, a cozy 15 minutes from your door to his. I can’t offer you that, but I can offer you a stunning view of all the cars speeding by, and a permeating sense of existential dread. 

Hey, girl, pay attention to me, or I will stop suddenly and slide you off your seat! You know what, I am going to do it anyway. 

I am the 2 tram and I am taking you home. It’s almost midnight. I’m empty, save for a smattering of ombré blondes. I am a staccato song. My mind wanders. Oh right- I was supposed to stop there. Oops.

I am the 2 tram and I want you more than any man ever will. Stay with me, girl. Let’s linger here a while. Let me hold you. When was the last time you were held? When was the last time you slowed down?

I am the 2 tram and I am arriving in 47 seconds, and then not again for 15 years. 

Girl, You better run.

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Greetings From Vienna’s Resident Horny-Chaos-Demon: Yours Truly.

I’m unfed, but I’m caffeinated.
Plied with rice milk and coffee.
You’re anxious, over-educated,
And unbearably pretty.

Scenes from a sunlit bachelor pad:
A corner bed-frame, comic books
Dry soap, a broken shower head,
Scraggy towels, a single hook.

You’re as broken as the rest,
But you get away with it.
I’ll leave in a minute, gorgeous,
Let me look at you for a bit.

Regale me with tales of your crises,
Lay all your despair on me.
Just, sit here a while. Let’s see
If you convince me to stay.

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I don’t need you to hold me, but you have to keep me warm.

“It is a nice jacket, very cool, Sandra Dee.”

“Yeah, I’ve got chills, they’re multiplying. I kept it on while I was waiting for you, just to show it off. It has so many pockets, I don’t even need a purse! It makes me feel mad with power- not to be weighed down by a bag. I realized on Saturday: this is why society won’t give women pockets- it makes it harder for us to run.”

“Yeah, I’m cold, wouldn’t it be nice if only I had my blue Cardigan…but someone stole it.”

“I’m not giving it back. It’s mine now. Well, it’s still yours, but I’m keeping it, permanently. I told you, I get it in the divorce.”

“Fine. Well, where did we get it? I will have to buy another one.”

“I think C&A? Not sure. I am sort of accumulating a collection of men’s sweaters at this point.”

“Oh…?”

“Well, not quite, it’s just two at the moment, but it was three for while. I mean, I was good, I gave one of them back. The other guy hasn’t realized I still have his cashmere sweater. I forgot a belt at the nice one’s place, not sure what that means.”

“So, it’s, like, your thing.”

“Yeah, it’s like a tax, or whatever. The VAT. Not that anyone is paying for the arrangement, but, like, I guess that’s the catch…you come into my apartment, you must sacrifice an article of cashmere to me.”

“Seems fair.”

“Yeah it’s a trade off- you don’t have to hold me, but you need to keep me warm.”

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