I will write anything but my history paper.

I was searching for an old notes page when I found some of the letters I wrote her. I met her 5 days before my mother died, she was working behind the counter at my favorite stationary store. She was beautiful.  We began what I only realize now was something that shouldn’t have been. I haven’t spoken to her in a long time. I found the letters I wrote her, one ends “I miss you, I miss you.”

I found old things I wrote that at the time were unsafe to publish here, but time heals all and my best writing is the kind that gets me into trouble. So read on if you will be able not to be angry at the fact that years ago I may have written something that is no longer relevant. Here are some pieces I found.

I miss falling in love, I’m being trapped by the more functional elements of my life. I feel a need to create some chaos. Easier said than done, life has a way of working itself out when you least expect it. A crazy delivery guy at the bakery caught me up in his stoner-babble today, and he told me he thought I was a fairy. It was a great compliment, if you ignore the fact that he was clearly insane.

I have not wished for anything since you died.

I told you I needed to write, to go sit in the kitchen. It was not what I meant, though I’m unsure of my own feelings, they read(rather, they scan frantically, they pace the room, they shout at the walls) something like this: 

I will go until I can no longer feel your passive aggression seeping under the cracks of doorways, I will go until I have read enough T.S. Elliot to feel like a complete failure,

I will go until I have washed your endless dishes

The ones you will leave to grow green in the sink as your skin forms a shell of jade in your bedroom.

On your horrendous spring mattress that bites at my sides, that taunts me when I wake at 2 a.m.

When you grunt and pull the covers off my feet to leave me shivering


I feel heavy with water, with wine, with the sound of your voice being cut off as I hung up the phone. When I’m not fixating on you I’m convincing myself I hate you, and doing a damn good job of it. I resent you for being able to get away with so much. I resent your inability to be happy for an entire day. I hate your violent outburst anytime you forget something. I hate your inability to forget the past. I hate you for not being smart enough to lie to me when I asked if you were interested in her.  I hate that you smoke pot and that you depend on it. I hate that I’ve developed a pill habit and a purging habit after I met you. You are driving me to insanity with every second you are not here, but when you call me I will forget this all.
5. (After my car accident)
I couldn’t move most of my body without shaking out a series of tears. I sat on the floor of the tub while he tried to bathe me. The boy wasn’t born with the inherent caring skills so many women have. He was holding the shower head low, washing soap into my eyes. The tub slowly filled with gray water. Even with the stinging and the pain of any sudden movement, the water on my back felt wonderful. I was swollen, scabby, more naked than I had ever been. There was no thought of casually leaning back so my stomach would lay flat, my thighs pushed together and my legs crossed to shrink my silhouette. There was none of that, just pain. 
 I was curled into a ball with my stomach flapping over itself, my entire body swelling with fluid. The seat belt left a strip of bruising on my chest, and my knees were steadily turning shades of purple and phlegm green. But the water on my back felt wonderful.

I was breathing through my nose, when he moved the shower hose and knocked a bottle of shampoo off the shelf. It flew past my face and smacked the few inches of water. I was watching the car come at me, I was withdrawing my body from the impact, I was feeling every muscle in my body scream as I moved away. Then I was back in the white of the tub, shaking and sobbing, and he was soaking his clothes to hold me.


As a pastry-chef in training and a love-hating cynic addicted to irony, Paris was the perfect destination. When I bought the ticket I was pretending to casually fuck an art student while secretly obsessing over him. The whole love issue crept up on me in the first weeks of summer, after eating Thai food.

When Nicole knocked on his dorm room door at 1 in the afternoon and I answered with my hair channeling the bride of Frankenstein, she was decidedly smug in her matchmaking success. We snuck of to the end of the hall to mime a silent conversation about the details while he stood on the other side of the door. Nicole pointed her thumb up, then turned it down, her eyebrows raised in question. I pointed my thumb up.

“I knew it!” she mouthed with a victorious shake of her fist.
She flattened her hands and moved the palms together as if in prayer, then outward. I mimicked the motion, leaving a distance between my palms that provoked a series of approving nods. When he entered the room we dropped our hands and went into a decidedly unsubtle fit of coughing, painfully trying to hold back our smiles.

With the internet going on the fritz there is not much left for me to do but write. Or whatever the fuck it is I do these days.

I’ve always had a strange belief that friends are the people you can talk with endlessly and lovers are the people you don’t mind kissing when the conversation fall into awkward silence. I guess it’s true love when you can just shut the fuck up. Which reminds me, there is no hope left for this.

The “I love you” standstill has now become mutual, so I guess it’s my job to break it. Or to just let this die. Who knows.

I am starving for you, trying to remember the last time I ate a full meal. I went to bed 104lbs., I woke up at 102. I’m not hungry yet, I feel great. I keep visualizing the scale hitting 100, then the number 97 keeps popping up. I pray it’s a sign. I imagine how much life will improve once I’ve just lost the weight. I imagine myself as one of those uber-skinny punky pixie dykes.

I guess I’ve decided I do like alliteration with the letter “p”. I guess I’ve decided I just want to stay in my room all day. I may go out for a walk. I used to hate walking, I still would rather drive. But I’ve realized that for the first half-mile nothing hurts, then for the next half mile or mile everything kills. But after that, the pain stops, and by the time I hit my destination I want to keep going. I’m riding the adrenaline, picturing myself getting smaller and smaller. Seeing myself as a rock star, a dancer, as yours.

We were sitting together in an oversized chair last night, avoiding calories together. When offered pizza, or food, or any non zero-calorie drink, the answer was,


In unison from us both, follow by the faded,


From his polite little mouth.

I wondered if Nicole was noticing, watching us disappear. I wondered if I would actually make it past 101 this time, the way I haven’t in years. I remember the time I thought 104 was too high, and to think I reached 124 and am viewing a morning weight of 102 as good is ridiculous.

Most people I know who were hit head on in a car crash don’t remember the accident, or they aren’t here. I remember every detail, but the scene played out like a nightmare. Blurry, choppy. I was driving home at 11:30, convincing myself I was mad at him so it wouldn’t hurt me not to sleep next to him for a single night. I saw the car coming towards me swerve across the median line into my lane, then straighten out, completely unaware I was driving at him. I hit the brakes and watched the car come barreling straight at me, and I cut to the left at the last second. I heard the sound of the impact, and felt the sting as the airbag punched my face. I could smell smoke, and see it, and flashing orange lights. Somehow I got my seatbelt off, managed to wedge my purse out from between the accordion passenger seat, and I ran to the side walk. I watched the other driver stumble out of his car, and I was screaming(or trying to) “YOURE DRUNK! WHY DID YOU DO THAT!”

I couldn’t feel my face at first, or my hands. Then all I could feel was my face. I was touching it, and staring at my hands covered in blood. I was trying to feel if anything was left of my teeth or jaw. All I could think of was Invisible Monsters.

I stood on the sidewalk screaming for help, watching car after car drive by for what seemed like eternity.

It’s 6:44 and with every minute the fear grows that I will have to call you and be that girlfriend. You know, the nagging, whining, evil, needy, jealous, and slightly psychotic girlfriend that most girls secretly are. I also wonder if I should just warn you I’m severely on the verge of a manic episode, but I don’t know how to say it. Maybe “RUN FOR IT!” is a bit dramatic but maybe it would work, maybe it would just get you away before you have to see me typing feverishly, thinking unstoppably about everything, wanting to do everything at once and ending up doing absolutely nothing, tortured, as an anxious vibration fills me.

I pick up calls for you about apartments and I do my best to act normal, but I end up laughing nervously at things that are clearly not funny. Then I make you out to be far more responsible than you are: like any good girl friend/real estate agent would do. Smile and nod. I smile over the phone because that’s what the Cosmo I found on the flight told me to do, because it makes your happy bullshit sound genuine. It also gave me a list of ways to manipulate men into getting what I want. I feel like I’m crazy because I’m one of the few women I know who doesn’t want to manipulate the men around and then I watch myself do it subconsciously from a third person perspective, the invisible camera in the corner of the ceiling. My security system. We are smarter than you, and we know it.

I should get dressed.

I should learn to be a functioning human.

I should warn you.

I should get the fuck out of here.

And I stay, I’ll always end up stuck here. I wonder if I’ll ever leave. If I’ll end up like my coworker Emily, living at 52 with her mom and her cat. For the humor of it, keep the cat even though I’m allergic. I’ll be old and sniffly, and most likely overweight. Desperately trying to find a man on the internet, making brownies for a living. Oh God.

I can’t live here for another year. I know you’ll have an apartment but let’s be realistic, are we really going to last the rest of the fucking year? I missed the feel of a woman for the first time a few weeks ago. I randomly missed the feel of my ex-boyfriend a few days later. I guess it’s normal, to be unable to fall out of love. I don’t know if I really love you but I know I’m clinically obsessed, so it counts. And somehow I just know saying, “I have an unhealthy amount of obsessive thoughts about you” just loses that romantic ring that goes with “I love you.”

Maybe I just want a good, rough, fuck. Maybe I just want to play completely submissive for a while, and not once have a moment of going “think he’ll finish soon?”

I can’t explain it, but it just isn’t good sex. But it isn’t bad. I don’t know, it’s as if we fit perfectly in every other area. Maybe I’m just so used to be hurt(physically) that I can’t contemplate sex without pain? And it just seems strange.

I had the chance to go out tonight but as usual, I am home, writing and not writing. Avoiding.

I have returned from Paris, where I spent ten days missing you, longing for you. Now I’m home, in this cell, and I just want to push you away. This sickening feeling of love was acceptable in Paris, acceptable when the irony was just too good. The only person alone in the city of light, of romance, of lovers. Sobbing over my tart tartan, growling at the thousands of couples kissing furiously, I couldn’t help but be a little happy. To smile at my own misery.

But I’m home, and we stay up late staring at each other and cooing mantras of

“I’m so glad I met you”

“I love you”

“I can’t imagine life without you.”

I came back with an increased nicotine tolerance and one good piece of writing. As it goes, it was about you. Then again, I’d gladly spend $2,000 and ten days for one piece of good writing, but this is me. One essay that will rot in a journal forever. One line that I will curl around my fingers for the next few weeks,

(And in the picture, she moans)

Their conversations were moments on the highway when it’s pouring rain and you drive under a bridge, and for a moment, all is peaceful. They spoke in bursts, ranting to each other. She noticed the freakish similarities, she had no idea what he noticed.

She would leave him with blood pulsing painfully in her hands, yelling at her to create. He invaded her writing. She began speaking in third person, pretending it was fiction. Disconnecting from this reality and back into her, what was it, her art? The first sentence had been an attempt at a story but as usual it all falls through when you’re mind is going this fast.

She knew she wouldn’t be there long, she felt she could trust him and for that reason alone she didn’t. She would ask him questions and he would answer vaguely, “um, well….” They would sleep in the small bed, rather, he would sleep. She would lie awake listening to her thoughts screaming and fighting the desire to turn on the lights and start writing at his desk, nude except for her glasses.

The chemistry the week before had been perfection, yet now he chose to say,

“You know there is nothing between us”

Before entering me briefly, not finishing. I still have no idea if he was speaking in terms of latex or emotion. I told Nicole and she laughed, which one cannot help, because who really says something like that. There was mention later (or earlier, I cannot remember which) of monogamy which ended in “well, we’ll see” a comment that also was unclear. Consider this my warning boy, I can’t handle you.

He has cracked the system. He’s fucking with it completely in fact. The rules are as such:

1. Miles is the one exception to these rules.

2. I have too much pride.

3. I cannot let myself get hurt.

4. I have some issues physically and emotionally with sex.

5. I am absolute clay if you kiss me on the neck from behind.

6. If I find myself caring about you, I will find a way to fuck it up.

7. If I am not constantly reassured in blatant, word form I will over-analyze anything until I’ve decided you(not specifically you) hate me, that I must protect myself from getting hurt, that I must disappear.

8. I have issues with my body that as much as I would love to have gone away they will not, and I can’t do this on command.

9. I like to lie to myself a lot when it comes to caring for people.

The situation with you(yes specifically you) follows as such

1. You started kissing me on the neck from behind when we were cuddling.

2. You are a positive person.

3. You are extremely skinny.

4. You have severe issues with your ex.

5. You seem(according to Nicole, Kyle, and my overpowering inner voice of insecurity) to be attracted to Nicole.

6. It would only be terrible relationship karma for her to fuck you.

7. You have incredibly sexy hair.

8. You bring out the positive side in me, part of it honest, part of it as show to impress you with our intense similarities.

9. Fuck you and your sunny disposition.

10. You are an artist.

11. You have artists hands, nimble fingers with their calluses that follow the lines of my body. You have such gorgeous hands.

12. You are talented.

13. You enjoy good film but not classic Hollywood necessarily though you do know most of it.

14. You are slightly older, and will be 21 next year (both good and bad).

15. You dress well.

16. You are not too hairy.

17. You look surprisingly not too skinny naked.

18. You complement me on my figure because you are clearly blind, and I love it, and sometimes I believe it too.

19. I want you to draw me? I want to be equal on muse-level with you.

20. You are quiet.

21. You don’t always have opinions, what’s wrong with you?

22. You never ask me questions though this may be due to the fact that I tend to volunteer answers.

23. The sex was awkward. Though the first time generally is.

24. Everything else was not.

25. I faked it, but not because of your inability (boy are you able) but because I am not comfortable enough to do that yet.

26. You are extremely affectionate.

27. You cuddle.

28. You drink coffee but primarily tea.

29. You seem not to care, not to stress. I care and stress about everything.

30. You can’t tell when I’m being sarcastic.

31. You make me feel like I look desperate.

32. As much as you hate her you are so obviously still in love with her I would always be threatened, especially when you eventually dropped your grudge against her.

33. I could change your life.

34. You don’t seem to see pastry as art and I over justify it.

35. You leave your smell on me, the scent of your sweat is intoxicating.

36. You tried to steal my journal.

37. I can’t read you.

38. “You realize there is nothing between us.”

39. “Well, we’ll see.”

40. You dislike Bono.

41. I keep using the term “dating” around you.

42. You sleep around, and you’re just as affectionate.

43. You don’t make noise.

44. You make me feel strangely shy.

45. I casually identified as gay a few weeks ago..

46. You have invaded my writing.

47. You never comment on the blog thing..

48. “well give me some warning if that’s going to happen” you didn’t particularly seem to care.

49. You understand the coolness of my mother.

50. Adventure potential.

51. I will be smitten with your or bored with you in a matter of weeks, either way spells trouble.

52. I kind of like trouble. Especially the kind that that involves really good sex.

I’m in trouble with this one.

“Are you upping your cynicism level because you can’t be cynical about love anymore?”

“Love? No, I don’t believe in love. I don’t do love. There is no love in this.”

(I give it until the Eiffel tower)

Everyone keeps telling me I’m going to fall in love in Paris. They’re right but they’ve got it all wrong.

These days, life has been a string of moments between small deaths. Such is youth I guess. Writing next to you under the in and out light of streetlamps and our cigarettes as we drive away from something we once called love. We are both dangling our ghosts out the window between two fingers. You kiss me and you taste of spice but not of who I want you to be, all is trouble.

(Who knows what of this will be legible in natural lighting)

With remorse I return my head to the clouds to watch the fish swim, my eye caught by a species with a distinct movement.

I repeat myself:

I realized today that you are a lost cause, but that makes two of us. So maybe this could work.

I drove home biting my lip to stop talking to myself.

I ran a red light at a barren intersection because there just was not time. The rare set of words that would skip the step of paper to computer were forming in my mind just as rapidly as I was losing them. I kept trying to hold on to the glimpses of the night. To capture your movements and the sound of your exhale and translate it, expand it. This is what I have left:

We stood in the wake of a black and white movie, our figures shocked by the fluorescent yellow crawling through the glass of the ATM entrance where we took refuge. He began with his hands raised to his head, combing his fingers through his hair in an overlapping pattern. He lowered his arms, leaving his hands open in front of him,

“I feel like we’re flipping through the same book.”

He said, his right index finger peeling the corner of an invisible book, turning three pages.

His choice of words was impeccable, and he had me going. To say we were “on the same page” would have been incorrect, for it would have implied a cease in motion. He was right, we were both wandering confused in the direction of a fuzzy dream city where art meets money, where broken rules find struggle to find a place in society. I calmed myself in time to notice him hook his thumbs into the straps of his back-pack and give a forced exhale.


We stood waiting for the last train to come, the conversation still going.

“It’s cold”

I said with my hands at my elbows, meaning just that. He moved towards me and put his arms around me, rubbing his hand on my back to create friction. It wasn’t something I had been searching for but I was in no mood to complain. I remembered our conversation the week before where he had mentioned that doing this actually drew blood away from vital organs, but I was in no mood to argue. Who needs vital organs anyways?


One thought on “I will write anything but my history paper.

  1. WOW I'm FUCKING PISSED. I wrote this amazing comment that didn't go through and it didn't save ANY OF IT. Wow. I would just give up right now… if I were a quitter.

    Well first, I should have looked at how long this was before I started reading it because I really didn't have 20 minutes to read this but once I started I couldn't stop.

    Second, I wish I had been taking notes so that I'd remember everything that I thought of but had I taken heed of the first thing, this would have been taken care of.

    Now onto things (that I remember).

    You are so much happier now. (it seems)

    Omg Thai Food.

    I loved the passage recounting the exchange we had in his hallway the morning after.

    Moreover, it was SO GOOD to read your writing again!!

    Also, “I feel like I’m crazy because I’m one of the few women I know who doesn’t want to manipulate the men around and then I watch myself do it subconsciously from a third person perspective, the invisible camera in the corner of the ceiling. My security system. We are smarter than you, and we know it.” – Fucking brilliant. And I totally agree.

    Bobby's hands are really awesome!

    So are yours. In the same kind of delicate artist-y way.

    Lastly, love!

    And, just think of how awesome the first comment was because I'm really pissed it got deleted. I call this direct FB-comment deleting karma.


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