I Might Actually Kill You

When we first met I did not like you. In fact, I hated you because you said something shitty about my sister even though you didn't know you were talking about my sister. You were just being insecure and snarky. I let it go because I was drunk already and I figured it would be bad form to beat you into a bloody pulp. I also wanted another vodka tonic more than I wanted to kick your ass. So I got another vodka tonic and ignored the untrue things you said about my sister. I almost kind of got it, too, because I am sometimes insecure and snarky. I remember thinking about this and wondering if I was self-aware or just drunk, and then a song came on the jukebox that made me collapse into my best friend's waiting arms with laughter. It's some kind of inside joke that I don't remember so I probably was just drunk.

Months later, I still did not like you. But you frequented my favorite place with my favorite people so you got the sort of pass that comes with being friends with one of my friends. I did not engage you in conversation, but I answered when you spoke directly to me. I did not kick your ass and I didn't drink vodka tonics either. You drank lots of something. You were slouched on a pool table and some guy whose face I don't remember had his tongue in the back of your throat. I pulled him off you long enough to ask if you were okay and if you needed a ride home. You yelled that you knew what you were doing so I left you there. The next few times I saw you draped over various furniture at 3 AM I didn't bother to check on you or look at the boy's face.

I still don't like you, even now. Which is weird because I've said out loud that you have grown on me. I guess it is true. You aren't as annoying as I used to think. But you are trashier. And more desperate than I ever could have imagined. It's gross. You're gross. I feel gross when I'm with you in public because I don't want people to associate me with your grossness. I feel like this means something because I had this habit of peeing behind the dumpster at McDonald's at 3 AM for a while. It was like tradition or something. But I outgrew it. I'm still gross, that's not the point. But I'm not like you.

I guess that's why I generally despise your presence. I'm not like you and you are not like me and we find common refuge in the same bar with the same people and that pisses me off to no end. Yes, I am 100% sure there is no end. My dislike for you is a Mobius strip of annoyance and confusion and shame and aggravation.

But, for whatever reason, I tolerate you. I have not kicked your ass like I so often want to do. I have this urge to slam your face through a window, but I know it will never come to that. Mostly because I'm not violent in real life and you wouldn't be worth it even if I were.

I have mostly forgotten the comments you made about my sister. I didn't blink when you left a trail of used hearts (and hopefully condoms) behind you at the bar. I shrug off the feeling of unease that your crooked smile brings. I've learned to tune out your voice. I don't want to vomit anymore when you kiss me on the cheek. I don't even hate you. Mostly because true hatred takes a lot of time and energy and you're not worth that either.

But if you send me another game request on Facebook for Bubble Safari or Toaster Hop or Tampon Bounce or whatever the fucking fuck you are playing, I might actually kill you.

"She taught me this above all else: things which don't shift and grow are dead things." - Leslie Marmon Silko

My Morning Glory has wiggled her way into my heart, and instead of recognizing her worth, she just treats herself like a charity case.

Even though she isn't.

Fast forward through the year's worth of random details to tonight, to the now, to the present which she so often refuses to live in.

I give her the keys (in an act of submission that so seldom happens) so she can drive. Not because I need her to. Not necessarily because she asks to. More because I want her to, because she made the mistake of telling me she was afraid once and I strongly believe that we don't fear things in this family. Because she is family, as much as she shies away from that.

When she drives my car, I pay attention. Not really to road signs or street lights, but to her.

I busy myself with playing songs that will calm her. I painstakingly weave through eons of iTunes downloads until I find songs that will tell her I love her, songs that will put her worried mind at ease, songs that will show her how much I just fucking get it. Because sometime bar conversations just aren't good enough for that.

I don't squirm when Morning Glory takes a turn too tightly. I just hold on and lean back and soak up her nerves. I try to inhale her anxiety along with my cigarette smoke until we don't even notice she's nervous. If I were insecure at all I wouldn't have given her the keys, I wouldn't have let her rev my engine, I wouldn't have fueled this. But I'm ready, and even though she isn't, she trusts me in a way that neither of us fully understand.

She isn't comfortable with being in charge. She bears this burden so much that it makes my own shoulders hurt. Such a delicate creature shouldn't fret so much. Such a beautiful girl shouldn't be so scarred with insecurity. Such a creative soul shouldn't shrink away from a chance to literally make her own way home.

I softly tell her to turn the lights on. I swiftly caress the windshield wipers into action. I guide her fingers to switches and knobs in the darkness. I don't laugh when she takes her sweet ass time backing out of the empty parking lot. (That part is actually a lie; I laugh excessively.)

Morning Glory doesn't know what I mean when I tell her to go home. I don't mean for her to drive to the place where her mom is crazy or her father left or her loved ones underestimate her. I mean for her to go and go and go until she is dizzy with happiness and collapses in a way that causes an earthquake so riddled with energy that everyone notices. But if she wants to go back to Seffner, that's okay too. Because I love her and I can sit in this passenger seat as long as it takes.

I want to tell her that "home" is not a real place. I want to tell her that home is just where people love you and that can be anywhere, even if you aren't there to feel it all the time. She will scoff and say something self-deprecating and I will remind her that half of my heart is currently in two hours away at Stetson University. And she will shut her mouth and get it because she is the only person to ever understand how much I miss my sister.

Morning Glory asks me where she's supposed to turn with a quiet confidence. "I turn here." It's not a question at all, but she still waits for me to say yes. I once gave her wrong directions so she would have to take the interstate back. She cursed me up and down and I just laughed. Sometimes when you're the driver you just have to make decisions. Right, wrong or indifferent, I just want her to choose.

I don't think she understands yet that there really isn't a wrong choice. I'll be in the passenger seat no matter what. I can take the reins any time, but I want to see how she commands things - or doesn't. I want her to take the wheel and spin it wherever she wants to go. I want her to be comfortable with control. I want her to understand that she is good enough.

And I know Luis is pissed reading this thinking "every time Khylee drives I'm in the back seat, you stupid bitch," and I politely want to remind him that back-seaters don't get dedication blogs. And this blog's about Morning Glory.

She once asked me why she didn't have a nickname yet. She does. She always has. I just didn't know how to tell her that she's my Morning Glory. I only see her blossom after sunset. And when she is content, when she is alive, I fully believe that the moon isn't shining so brightly because of the sun - the moon is just reflecting her. I wanted to make her a flower because she knows that things which don't shift and grow are dead things. And she will get the reference. And now she will hopefully understand that pretty much everything I do is on purpose.

And when Morning Glory drives - like she did tonight - I adore her, even if she's only commanding things because I made her do it. I study her calm eyes and envy her determined grip. Had someone I loved tossed me into a sea of demands like this, I might have drowned.

But I don't dare tell her that she's stronger than me, even now, simply because she wouldn't believe it.

Even though she is.

"I know I'm being used. That's okay man 'cause I like the abuse." -The Offspring

I don't think anyone sets out to find despair and chaos in relationships. No one yearns to constantly crave affection from the hand that squeezes at their throat. It's never any little girl's dream to be in love with the anxiety that comes with constant belittling and marginalization.

It wasn't mine. But today I woke up and realized that I am in an abusive relationship. I fell in love with a man who built me up like a skyscraper and then pecked away at me like his personal game of Jenga. And in true damaged fashion, I loved The Man anyway.

Because The Man is my job.

I do some freelance writing here and there and I adore it. Most of my gigs are a dream come true, but The Man was a fairy tale. At first it was the "this is new and this is awesome!" feeling that we all love. Dozens of emails in a day. Cute links and tags on Facebook. I was the new girl; The Man drooled over me, told me I was the best writer he'd ever had, and he could see a bright future for us. I was smitten. No, more than that. I got a taste of intellectual heroine and I was hooked. The first hit is always free, you know.

Slowly the emails stopped. No more blinking light on my Blackberry, but I checked obsessively anyway. Maybe my phone was broken. Maybe The Man's email was broken. Maybe the whole internet was broken and The Man was at home wanting to reach out to me just as much as I wanted him to. Yes, that was it.

I still go to networking events, but The Man has pushed me away. Gone are the nights of cuddling in the corner and pouring over our article notes. It was subtle at first, him just saying he had important people to entertain, but soon I was at the bar alone, getting beers for The Man. And who is that catching his eye? A new writer? No, it can't be. He loves me. The Man may have a wandering eye, but he always comes home to me.

I stopped getting phone calls. Now it's just the occasional freelance booty call of "hey, I know it's last minute but can you cover this?" I happily work that Wordpress the best way I know how as to please The Man. But when it's over I don't get any feedback, just a stale "thx" via text. No discussing of strengths or reworking of weaknesses. The writer's pillow talk that I ache for has vanished. I still make The Man a sandwich, but never seem to get the mustard/mayo ratio right.

If I could just write more often The Man will remember the good times. If I could just write better, if I could just stop fumbling over simple feature pieces, then he will be happy again. Happy with me. I just have to focus more, stop forgetting attachments when I send emails and learn something, fuck, anything about HTML. I can make The Man love me again. I can change him.

Emails with questions about articles go unanswered for torturous amounts of time. I have suggested topics that I can write about, just to have the chance to wow The Man like I did in the beginning. The Man answers when The Man feels like it. And the response usually ignores my question anyway.

It's probably my fault. If I weren't so needy and jealous none of this would have happened. Everyone needs space, right? Everyone should a get a second chance nine times, right?

I have a buddy who I talk to about this. He's in the Freelance Friendzone right now, helplessly watching as I go back to The Man time after time. He tells me that I deserve better and any publication would be happy to have me and let me write as much as possible. He's offered to let me write for his website, but I just can't commit. I'm hoping I can work things out with The Man. I can't just leave him. He needs me, okay?

It's not so bad with The Man, really. Every so often I get some dollars in my PayPal account or a stack of business cards, and once I got a fancy name tag with my picture on it and everything. The Man isn't disrespectful of my time, he's just busy. He's not ignoring me, he just knows best. I met his sponsors. He. Loves. Me.

I spent some time looking at old pictures and crooning along to shitty Radiohead break up jams. I wrote a text, deleted it, wrote it again four times before eventually sending "let's talk plz" and then regretting it. I called up my besties for a girls' night out but ended up crying in my martini before we could even go dancing. I scoured The Man's Facebook and Twitter pages, trying desperately to figure out where it all went wrong.

Today I realized how unhealthy this is and how much bullshit I put myself through just to see my name in print. It's not worth it. It never was. I was just so beaten down and confused by the sudden silent treatment that I craved the attention I used to get from The Man. I cannot change the Man, but I can change me. I'll find someone who really loves me, not just for my verbs but for my adjectives too. And I'm not going back. I'm nobody's Rihanna.

I'm not selling myself short, I'm just sold out.

If I were to quit my job right now I don't think anyone would miss me, save the girl I eat lunch with and the manager we get lunch for sometimes. This is not a self-deprecating twenty-something moment, just a fact. The twenty-something self-deprecation comes later. While I'm probably the most entertaining receptionist ever, I'm not very important. And one of the managers goes on a weekly tirade about how we're all expendable and she can just get rid of us all whenever she wants, so I'm half expecting to get fired every other day anyway. Which would be okay too. 

I'm not exactly sure how it started, but someone noticed that I have more than four brain cells and the ability to follow directions, so I help a few different departments when I can. It's fun, although I'm not ever exactly sure what I'm doing because I'm not an engineer and words like "splitter add" and "jumper" and "ipid" mean absolutely nothing to me. I don't know what cut sheets are. I don't understand the process of throwing switches. But you know what, I kick fucking ass at data entry.  

I know that these kinds of work orders go on this tab in The Spreadsheet. And if it has that code? It goes over here in The Spreadsheet. I spend a few hours a week updating The Spreadsheet. I respect The Spreadsheet. I fear The Spreadsheet. 

The guy I help with The Spreadsheet is arguably one of the nicest people I've ever met. He has tattoos that I refrain from asking questions about. He is probably a foot and a half taller than me. His shoulders could carry 9 bushels of apples. (I hope 9 bushels is a lot.) I think he's an MMA fighter when he's not at work creating The Spreadsheet. He once showed me pictures of a baby that I assume is his. He sent me a link to a cool Pedro the Lion song recently. And four months ago he told me to stop saying "I'm dumb" when I make a mistake. 

He told me not to sell myself short. 

Now about The Spreadsheet; the information that I put into The Spreadsheet comes from other less revered spreadsheets and a labyrinth-like website that requires ninja access and a Nancy Drew sense of urgency to figure shit out. It gets confusing. 

And today I fucked it up.    

That's not really true. Today I realized that some of the less respected spreadsheets had been sorted a certain way when they arrived in my inbox, and I should unsort them in order to see if there was anything for me hidden in those rows and columns of mysterious technical gibberish. Did I think to do this? No. I was all like "SEEMS LEGIT, NOTHING TO SEE HERE, LET'S CALL IT A DAY!"

Creator of The Spreadsheet was very gracious, saying it wasn't my fault and not to worry about it and he maybe should have unsorted everything before he gave me the inferior spreadsheets. He told me this wasn't business critical and I shouldn't be freaking out. 

Well, I excel at freaking out. And I over-zealously attempted to fix everything. So I went through the last week of emails and looked at everything and caught a few work orders I'd missed and, feeling very smug, I thought "SEEMS LEGIT, LET'S CALL IT A DAY." And off the email went. 

Then I realized I fixed last week's but didn't update today's work orders. 

Perfect. 

And then chaos ensued - a barrage of phone calls and people needing staples and shit out of the supply room, random drama with managers screaming at each other in the hallway behind me, people on break asking me if there were anymore mints for the candy dish - just chaos. 

And I finally emailed the Creator with The Final Updated Spreadsheet. And he, of course, had already fixed it himself. 

I wanted to march back to his desk, through the drafting floor and past the soda machines, silently crying the whole time in that broken but regal way, and collapse at his feet. I would look up, and seeing the Creator would unleash the sobs I had been choking back. I would breathlessly explain that I am exhausted, I am stressed about school and both of my jobs and home and my family and I'm not really this stupid, I just haven't slept in days and I drink until I pass out just so my mind will shut down for a few hours. He would hand me a tissue with his massive arm and I would finally ask about his sleeve of tattoos. 

But that's not the way it works, because I'm at work, and I'm supposed to be all grown up. Or at least not crying in people's laps. And as much as I'd love to fling myself on someone's desk (or up on a cross, apparently) and beg for mercy, it's really not that necessary. 

What I actually did was send him a message apologizing for the chaos. He said, once again, that it was fine, that I'm still learning and it's okay, and I shouldn't sell myself short. 

What's that? A minor glitch in a spreadsheet isn't the end of the world? Well for fuck's sake, I wish I would have known that earlier. 

When so many of us define ourselves by what we do and how well we do it, I think it's important not to let little mistakes turn into anxiety-ridden stress-fests like how I did earlier. I should have made the mistake, learned from it, and moved on. Instead I let it snowball and made it so much worse all because I couldn't calm down. 

So I put on my best Tony Robbins face and told myself to put on my big girl panties and deal with it. I reminded myself that I'm a goddamn member of Mensa and that utilizing some of my critical thinking skills wouldn't be such a bad idea. I'm not too smart to make mistakes, but I am too smart to let mistakes get the best of me. 

Determined to take back control and not let this keep me frustrated all day, I grabbed Lunch Girl and headed to Subway to bring back food for us and Mama Bird Manager. 

Where I promptly forgot her chips. And her straw. 

Sonofabitch. 

#3, extra pickle, homophobia on the side.

It has always been my intention not to get political here. And hopefully, this post doesn't come off that way. The only agenda I'm interested in pushing is how awesome I am, and while that sounds horrible, it's at least honest. So please, don't take this as political, read it as personal. Because that's all it ever is with me.

Whenever something really gay happens, my friends look to me for my opinion because I am half gay on my mom's side. My mom is "married" to a woman who also has kids and we call ourselves the Gay-dy Bunch because we are hilarious. I'll insert a few FAQs here because I always get questions:

     1. How long as your mom been gay? Forever. She just took a while to figure it out. She's late for everything, this was no exception. Yes, she married a man (hi, dad) and had some kids and then got a divorce and started dating ladies. I was about 8 when I figured this out.

     2. Do you like your mom's wife? Yes. I love my mother's wife. She came into the picture when I was 18 and out of the house so it's not like she helped raise me. Regardless, she is a swell lady. And for what it's worth, I love her kids too. Remember when I wrote about taking my step-brother to the zoo? That's her youngest son. Any of the problems I've had with her would have happened as a result of her being with my mother and not because of her sexual preference.

     3. Did your mom try to push her gay agenda on you? Yes. As I child I was only allowed to watch Ellen and NEVER Oprah and I wasn't allowed to play with straight kids in the neighborhood. My Barbies had to date other girl Barbies and when I asked to go to church she told me I had to stay home and practice witchcraft with her. I was home schooled to avoid learning about straight conspiracies like the moon landing and global warming. Stupid questions get stupid answers.

If you have questions about what it's like to have a gay mom, you can email me and I will answer you honestly. But back to my original point...

YOU CAN NEVER EAT AT CHICK-FIL-A AGAIN BECAUSE THEIR NUGGETS ARE FILLED WITH HOMOPHOBIC HATRED AND THE SWEET TEA IS BREWED WITH INTOLERANCE.

Haha, just kidding. GUYS, it's a chicken fucking sandwich, and it's delicious. In the midst of the most recent controversy surrounding Christ-Fil-A's President speaking out against gay marriage, I've seen all kinds of "well I'm gonna boycott the shit out of that place" type things on Facebook. And as hilarious as the memes are, I am going to tell you a secret:

Liking a post does not make you an activist. The fact that you watched the Kony video or reblogged a clever quote or pinned some picture of chicks making out doesn't make you a champion for gay rights.

I have a problem with the Chick-Fil-Gay outrage for two reasons. First, the mentality that not contributing (i.e. spending money) with the enemy is helping is false. Dick-Fil-A will make millions regardless, and they will continue to donate to Focus on the Family whether or not they swindle you out of 4 dollars (American) for a chicken sandwich. Second, there is an alarming rate of inconsistency amongst reactionary boycotters. Are you boycotting Salvation Army, Target, Best Buy or Heinz? Do you know why you 'should' be? Are you doing anything else? Protesting unfair laws or campaigning for equality in any other way? Are you writing letters to congressmen or helping to lobby for equal rights? Are you fighting discrimination against the LGBTQWERTY community? No? You just gave up the chicken caesar wrap? Well, don't be surprised when the gays don't rush to give you a rainbow sticker at the next PFLAG meeting. Did you have to google PFLAG? I rest my case.

Go volunteer at an AIDS clinic. March at Pride. Donate to charities that help gay youth. Vote on legislation that matters. Do something that will actually make a difference. The fact that you swore off waffle fries isn't going to help my moms get legally married in the state of Florida.

Related: my brother, step-brother and step-sister all work at a Chick-Fil-A. As teenagers, they are smart enough to realize that they don't need to prescribe to their company's beliefs. Making milkshakes and stocking straws doesn't mean they are standing in their mothers' way to equality. And our moms are just happy they have jobs.

Unrelated: my step-brother and step-sister are Jewish, but they thank Chick-Fil-A for the Sundays off.

Missed Connection

I got hit on in my favorite way yesterday: at a red light. Timing is so crucial since you have 90 seconds to get your best "hey 'sup?" look and grin across traffic and through the distractions of stop light texting and frantic radio station surfing. I wish we had more time together... I hope you see this.

There you were, leering at me through your open passenger window, waiting for me to look up from my iPod. You were in a red truck not quite big enough to hang those classy truck nuts off the hitch, but you did anyway. Instantly I was interested.

I was in the right turn lane, white Honda all squeaky clean thanks to the rain, window down to allow the humidity to make my face oily and my hair frizzy. My eyeliner was all smudged; I know because I saw it when I left work, but I was all like "whatever I'm just going home." Little did I know I'd run into you.

I saw you as I put my iPod back in the cup holder. You were not wearing a shirt. Your tan lines indicate you spend a lot of time outside in a t-shirt. I like the outdoorsy type. Your $5.99 Circle K sunglasses hid your cool stare, but I felt the gleam in your eye. This was confirmed when you took them off to wink at me. Your smile showed that you had most of your teeth, but no concept of dental hygiene.

I smiled, as is polite. I felt your stare boring into me when I focused on the car ahead of me. It was almost too much. I fought the urge to climb across cars and into your lap. I turned my attention to your truck. Red and rusty, worn but still useful. That's good. I don't like guys who are too flashy. You had a "Student of the Month" bumper sticker. I swooned at the thought of your virility. Or maybe, since the truck was definitely older than you are, you were once that prestigious student of the month. I love a thinkin' man.

Our time was coming to a close, I could tell. The left lane was turning. Your lane would be given the green light of go time soon. I choked on my own lust. Or maybe it was the fumes from the gas tanker fueling the Hess on the corner of 301 and MLK.

You broke the ice first. "I like that song!" you shouted. I like it too. That's why I put it on my iPod and subsequently played it in my car. I smiled and looked away, my shyness getting the best of me. "Hey meet me at the gas station. We can talk." Your words came out thick like exhaust from your bent tailpipe. I smiled once more, brushing my bangs out of my eyes, pointing that I was turning right, away from our torrid rendezvous.

And like that, it was over, as quickly as it began. I got swept up with the traffic and continued my battle through Brandon to get home. In my rear-view mirror I saw that you had "Redneck Boyz" in vinyl lettering on your windshield.

God, I should have gone to that gas station. If for no other reason than to throw up.

"This isn't high school" - Brand New

Breakups are hard. Ending a friendship is a whole different world of awkward clusterfuck. It's one thing to say, "hey, I don't want to bang anymore" and it's a different kind of devastating to tell someone you don't even want to hang out. Not even via social media.

Friendships ebb and flow in tidal ease; they take the shape of the vessel into which they are poured, evaporating over time due to work, school, schedules, distance, kids, relationships, whatever. Left untended, friendships will fizzle, so why is there the need to actively kick someone out of your life?

Because sometimes, people are assholes. And they deserve it. And it's not even really about that. It's about you deserving better.

Many moons ago, I was friends, good friends, with a nice young lad. We clicked instantly. It was that crazy "OMG I know exactly what you mean!" kind of friendship. It was fun and safe and warm and just super nifty. He was one of those genius types, and our conversations would meander for days.

When it all fell apart and I walked away, I was pretty bummed. Then, over time, I wasn't. Because that's how it works.

Years later (which is the same as a few months ago) I received the following message on Facebook and in a moment of weakness I found myself giving a shit again:

If I were to ask you to be my friend again, would you accept? You were one of the most important people in my life in high school. It was so long ago now but I still feel so ashamed over this. I'm so, so, so sorry I treated you this way. I read this exchange every now and then to just to remind myself of it, of you, and of the great wrong I did you. I know how fucking weird, or juvenile, trivial or downright unpleasantly surprising and erratic this might seem to you-I'm aware of the large probability of all those things- and I recall that we met at Steak and Shake and I apologized before, but a thousand apologies aren't enough for this bullshit, and were you to accept them all, this feeling still wouldn't go away. And I wouldn't want it to. I don't want to ever forget what I'm capable of. I don't know what sort of response to expect from this, I really imagine the whole gambit of possibilities, or perhaps there will be absolutely nothing. At this point, it'll be another lesson for me, regardless of what you choose. But I'm intensely interested to find out. I'll take whatever it is with a smile... I'll be thinking of way distant and fonder days, whether that smile be happy or sad. There's so many things I'd like to be able to talk to you about, and I'd really like to rediscover who you are, learn who you've become. Believe me, I know these are a lot of selfish requests I'm making, but all I can do is ask, and see. All my life I've moved around, made new sets of friends, over and over. But you really were one of the best I ever had. Guess I should have thought of that before I performed the greatest act of douchebaggery in my life. I have no defense for that act, but you were, and are, too important to me to not at least try and reach out one more time.

p.s. I'm not drunk or drugged as I write this. Truth is, I haven't felt this clear of mind for a long while. However this plays out, I'll always hope for your happiness.

Well...

First off, bravo. I have always had a flair for the dramatic and I am an absolute sucker for heartfelt mea culpas such as yours. I haven't heard your voice in years, but reading this brings your inflection up, clear as a bell.

Second, I only have a vague idea of your "greatest act of douchebaggery" filed away in my memory. I remember there was a falling out. I remember having a half-assed reconciliation. I think it was a over one of those "my-girlfriend-hates-you-so-I-can't-be-your-friend" things. But then it wasn't that either because you lied about something I think. I had to reread our thread of messages from 2006, the "exchange" you mentioned, and I'm still fuzzy on the details. Unrelated: Facebook saves messages from six years ago even if you have deleted that person. Weird but slightly helpful in this situation.

That might be your answer. I was indeed surprised to hear from you, but I had no idea you'd dug yourself a hole, filled it with anguish and decided to dive in occasionally for the last six years. Why? Because I didn't. I almost feel bad that you feel so bad and I don't feel bad at all. I find it interesting that I haven't thought about this at all and you seem pretty hung up on it.

I am not going to forgive you because I don't think you need it. Once upon a time when you were 18, you decided to end our friendship in favor of getting your dick wet. If that's truly the worst thing you ever do to someone, you are in fact a better person than most people, myself included.

But I hope you forgive yourself. Admittedly, I don't remember all of what happened (which still makes me think it wasn't that bad) but whatever you said or whatever you did couldn't have been that devastating. And if it was, I'm okay now. So you can totally climb down from the cross on which you've hung yourself. You can stop with the Hail Keris. I think the statute of limitations is up on kicking yourself over high school drama.

I hope for your happiness as well. I'm just not sure I'm an ingredient in that recipe anymore. And as far as rediscovering who I am, I am still the queen of second chances. I'm just more of an asshole about it.

Everyone needs (and sometimes deserves) closure. I hope this was yours.

My job and how I suck at it.

My job sucks.

I am used to running around, talking to massive amounts of people, being creative, making decisions, being in charge. I currently do none of these things. It is excruciatingly boring. At worst, I try to entertain myself with music and making things out of paperclips. At best, I get to dick around with some numbers in an excel spreadsheet somewhere. I try to be helpful. I once spent two days cleaning out the supply closet because I snapped and had to do something. I ask for things to do, if for no other reason than to keep from stabbing myself with a paperclip samurai sword, but more often than not, I'm bored. At first I would feel guilty when I got caught playing Yatzee on my phone (current best game is four Yatzees) but I slowly realized that I am supposed to be sitting at this desk, waiting for the phone to ring or for someone to need me, in a room the temperature of Siberia all by myself.

It's kind of nice to have limited responsibilities. I answer the phones. I talk to people as they leave for lunch or go on smoke breaks. I help when people ask. I help when they don't ask. I sing even though I'm pretty sure people can hear me through the window. The FedEx guy and I talk about classic rock.

The only reason I haven't pulled an Office Space is that the people I work with are just fucking amazing. All walks of life, all different backgrounds, so many different kinds of awesome. If you know me at all you know that I love people, and this place is overflowing with blindingly intense personalities. I want to meet them all, I want to know about them, more than just what's on a timesheet or an expense report.

Backtrack: when I started, I tried to look normal. I washed the purple out of my hair. I took my lip ring out. I wore something other than jeans and a t-shirt. Minimal makeup. No bar wristbands or bags of drunken shame under my eyes. This, of course, did not last long and I have eased those around me into the pierced and provocative Keri we know and... know. My socks don't match. I think people are catching on that I have the same shirt in 5 colors. I decorated my desk with dinosaurs and Legos. I talk to everyone I can about whatever I can, because I am so starved for attention and the only gratification I get comes from using up a highlighter or running out of staples. It happens.

Fast forward: now that I have been there long enough, it has begun. It is the thing that happens to me anywhere I have ever worked, be it a drugstore, mall boutique, sports bar, sports radio or otherwise:

I am the biggest slut ever. I have slept with or sucked the dick of four different guys (I hope I get bonus points since they're all in different departments). My good morning smiles? They are a nod to our passionate night before. My delivering of the mail? It's because he got in my box and now it's my turn. My calls to his extension? No, I don't need help, I just want to bang you. And my cheery attitude and pleasant inquiries about your weekend? OH MY GOD JUST DO ME ON THE COPIER. When I am nice to someone, it becomes irrefutable evidence that I want nothing more than to ditch my clothes and bend over right then and there. The engagement ring on my finger and the cutesy picture on my desk? Nah, that's just a cover for my wanton ways.

End sarcasm.

I knew these rumors and barely concealed whispers would happen, because they always do. And it came to my attention today that most, if not all of these rumors have been started by the other women. The funny thing is that I haven't been hit on once by a dude, although I did have someone look me up on facebook and try to throw me off by mentioning this blog. I told him his mugshot was super hot, and we both dropped it.

Remember how I said I'm usually not busy? Yeah, I'm the only one. The company has legit shit to do, and usually everyone has a hectic day. Our Fridays are most people's Mondays. That makes our Mondays... four times harder than theirs because I tried to come up with an analogy and failed so I'm just working the mathematical angle. My point is that I don't know where these bitches find the free time to make up stuff and disseminate it. You know why I'm friendlier to the guys? Because you ladies can be absolute cunts.

I know that if I ignore it, it'll go away. I also know that's not even close to my style. So prepare yourself for the week of slut, courtesy of low-cut dresses, dramatic makeup, high heels and a knock out leather-pants-corset ensemble ala-Easy-A on Friday. I hope the women gossip. I hope they shake their heads every time I talk to anyone. I hope they are consumed by their own petty jealousy. I hope it drives them crazy and I get under their skin all while being nice as fuck because that's my game.

And on Monday I'm going back to jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt, whereas they can go back to kissing my ass.

My job rocks.

Right Now

It is interesting and sucky to me how writer's block on one piece often leads to a breakthrough in another. As I struggled to write my next band write up due two days ago, I finished a challenge set forth by a writer friend weeks ago. He asked me to write a poem about "anything, it just has to be something you're experiencing right now." This is for you, Ryan. Your move.

Around 9 AM 

I am composed of nicotine and coffee

to make up for lack of breakfast 

and last night's beer. 

After midnight I am mumbled lyrics

and smiles that come too easy.

Right now I am thirsty for words, 

hungry for a painkiller in the form of 

somebody else's problems. 

You inhale my condolences, 

taking them deep into your 

already charred lungs. 

My whiskey whispers spill into 

your tonic stare and we become

bubbly yet bitter

sweet and smooth, 

a deadly cocktail 

of apathy and boredom,

blurring the edges of

rules we used to follow. 

Past the stage and 

away from prying eyes

we are drunk 

on each other

and this intoxicated transgression

won't go unnoticed

because we are all guilty, 

every acquaintance an accomplice, 

every patron a witness,

every shallow hello a new charge

on a rap sheet of tipsy crimes, 

but this bar is the only place 

where arraignment never comes.  

If the sky weren't overcast

we'd make it that way 

with our endless breaths of cigarette smoke.

If we weren't sick of going home 

or running away

we'd quit standing around.

We wait for the crack 

of some unseen cue ball

to smash into our formation, 

breaking up the patterns 

we squeeze ourselves into,

sending us racing toward pockets 

of comforting darkness. 

Instead bright headlights

wash over us

exposing our empty hands 

and tired eyes 

as we stand in this dingy parking lot

searching for one more shot

at belonging 

after last call. 

Your fingers interlace with mine

but I lean on my car

instead of you.

"I'm a wild light blinding bright, burning off alone."

I like these times, the times when I have to be awake four hours from now but I just can't stop facebook stalking or listening to songs that remind me of high school on YouTube. I am drinking soda, typing at my kitchen table, listening to American Dad which is on in my bedroom. It has just occurred to me that I am unaware of how to punctuate titles of television shows, if at all. I am not looking it up because I don't fucking feel like it but for the record, I have an AP stylebook app on my ipod. That's just who I am. When I got my new ipod for Giftmas, I immediately filled it with nerd things.

I like these times because my mind is quieter. I can catch one thought at a time and deal with it. Probably because I am tired and I lifted an approximate ten million pounds at the gym today. That's how my arms feel, anyway.  I want some bananas. I find it hard to spell "bananas" without singing that awful Gwen Steffani song. Well, it's not that bad. I say that because I think I have that on my ipod too. Once I saw Bush in concert and I thought they were just stellar and I didn't know the lead singer was married to Gwen. I responded "that shit is bananas" as I was trying to be clever but the person I said this to did not get the "Holla Back Girl" reference and thus my joke fell flat. But I thought it was cute that he didn't get it.

I like these times because I feel more focused on my goals even though I'm too tired or lazy to to do anything about them just yet. In addition to wanting bananas I also want a cigarette. I quit smoking recently, and it's pretty much the worst thing ever. Everyone will tell you that the cravings are a bitch and breaking the habit is fucking hard but you'll start to feel better immediately and that's so great and it's so worth it so keep going, hooray! But what no one tells you is that as soon as you quit smoking, between 72 and 88 things will go horribly wrong. Your car will break down, your mom will be exceptionally cunty, you will fail a math test, you will run into the third machine in your circuit training routine and have a nasty bruise on your thigh, you will be insulted by a girl you barely know at your favorite bar, you will lose one of your coolest earrings and you will inadvertently hurt someone you love and care for deeply. You will try to resist smoking and you will fail.

I like these times because I feel calm in the midst of chaos. I should be a hurricane of clusterfuck right now, but I'm okay. The last time I felt like this, I was shot 390 feet into the air on the ride called The Slingshot in Orlando. Once you get to the top and your stomach slides out of your throat, you free fall and you can see all the lights swirling past you and you can see the ground rushing up to meet you and you feel a little panicked because you have no control over anything. But you also feel weightless and giddy and you can hear the person sitting next to you laughing and it's okay because you're not alone. And then you feel pretty and safe and fun and adventurous and happy and relieved and relaxed and all the good feelings in the world at once.

I like these times because I can feel without being consumed by it. I can think about the times I've been hurt or angered or let down, I can remember feeling slighted or marginalized without it being just as painful as it was the first time. And I think that's important for things like healing and forgiveness. You should acknowledge the shitty things sometimes. Someone ruined your first anniversary? That's sucky. But when I was in Orlando I stepped in gum after getting off The Slingshot. That was also sucky, but it didn't ruin the experience.

I like these times because I let my mind wander but I usually wind up thinking my way back to the same place. Tonight I've started with insomnia and banana cravings and cigarette temptations and gym mishaps and Orlando and music and Rexy and Words With Friends and laundry and subway coupons and my favorite purse and a million other things, and no matter what, for whatever reason, for better or for worse, the last stop on the train of thought is the always the same.

I have to be awake three hours from now, but I can't stop thinking about you.

The Scariest Thing That Ever Happened To Me

I don't even know where to start. My brain is still all "holy crap, really?" about this one.

I was drunk. Shocking, right? The kind of drunk where I could smell the alcohol seeping out of my pores already. I hadn't slept yet. Maybe I had, I don't know. The sheets on the surprisingly comfortable hotel bed were glaringly white. Afternoon sun poured through the open window. I thought hotel windows didn't open so people don't jump? But they were swung wide open, sea breeze tangled in the white curtains. I could smell the ocean. When I stumbled out of bed, a fine layer of sand seemed glued to me, mixing with my tequila sweat. Where was Paul?

I heard his voice then, coming from the other room in the suite. We had a suite? The lights in his room were on, I could see the four globes lined atop the mirror-sink hotel combo deal. You know, the counter where the coffee pot sits. Coffee. I was thirsty.

Paul was talking, saying something about the beach. Laughing. I couldn't see him, but his voice made me feel safe and less dizzy. A door slammed. Silence.

I thought the lights in the room were getting brighter, but it was really the sun dimming, sinking behind the hotel next to us, diving to meet the ocean. I flailed around in bed, my ankles bound in the seaweed sheets again. How did I get back here? Fuck. THIRSTY.

I made it into the hallway, determined to find Paul. Why did we even come here? I brushed the sand off my arms in the elevator. Paul told me once that he loved the beach but hated the sand. No kidding. It gets everywhere.

I tore through the lobby, shot into the restaurant only to be met with darkness. Heavy curtains kept the dazzling sunset at bay. Candles on the table made each place setting its own little barely lit bubble in the blackness. The brown and gold marble floor chilled my bare feet.

WHERE. THE FUCK. WAS PAUL. A waiter came rushing to me, asking if I needed to sit down or if I wanted water. He had a white linen napkin draped over his left arm, in his right he held a silver pitcher. I pushed him. Hard. He must have pushed back or maybe I was just that drunk but I started falling backwards and in that moment I panicked and screamed for Paul and in the same instant I realized I must be dreaming because Paul died in Afghanistan in 2010.

I waited to hit the floor and wake up. Nothing, just the sensation of falling. I think I fell for hours, thinking about the dream and Paul and how the curtains looked so real when I was lying on the bed and how I felt the slight pull in my belly from the elevator and how the sand made that gritty crunchy noise when it got caught between my teeth. I thought about old times with Paul, about the real life time we went to the beach one night. He told me then he hated sand. He told me the same thing before he deployed. I thought about lunch with him at school and going to watch his band play and being at Dan's house for practice and the time Eric got pushed in the pool and the way he would crack this shy smile that made me laugh uncontrollably. I thought about riding the bus with him and I thought about his twin brothers and I thought about the time we got kicked out of math class. I thought about how it got harder to stay in touch when he went to college, but not impossible. I thought about the last time I saw him, which was an accident, when we ran into each other at Target. I thought about our best friend secret and how we said we'd take it to our graves and how he did and now I'm waiting for my turn to keep that promise. Why hadn't I hit the floor yet? 

Then I was awake, shrouded in darkness. Not the restaurant kind of darkness, but a thick, choking black nothingness that pressed on my eyelids. I felt the dream melt around the edges and evaporate the way they seem to do upon waking.

And then, terror. Sheer terror like nothing I have experienced before. The dream was gone and I was awake and the only thing I could feel were my eyelids, squeezed shut. I tried in vain to open them. In my head, I yelled for my arms or toes or anything to move. Nothing worked. I tried to force my eyes open by picturing the contents of my room, the color of the walls, the shape of the window, but all I could feel was the unrelenting heaviness.

I thought of Paul and of the white room and it occurred to me that I was already dead. I tried to suck in a deep breath, to prove somehow that I was still alive, but nothing happened. I can't think of words to describe the level of panic or fully convey the weight of that fear, so I am left saying simply this: there is nothing more frightening than being conscious and unable to move.

It was my ankle that twitched first. Then I became aware of my body, ankle on top of ankle, knee on top of knee, wrists tucked beneath my chin, left ear against the pillow. Feeling flooded back into me the way cold water hits your empty stomach.

Thirsty. My eyes shot open and I swear to you, I have never been so relieved in my life.

I usually try to wrap up blogs with some lesson to be learned or some take home moral or even some witty commentary on the human existence, but I don't have any of that this time.

Now I just think "Rest In Peace" is really strange thing to wish for the dead.

Maybe it's not for them. Maybe it's for us.



More about sleep paralysis.

The latest on Paul. 

Remember Me?

I am not dead, contrary to popular belief.

Over casual (drunk) conversation recently, a friend looked me dead in one of my four eyes and said, "you suck at blogging." Ouch.

But it's very true. The last time I posted was when I took November off to participate in NaNoWriMo. I cheerily waved at all of you as my writing adventure train pulled out of the station, and I confidently blew you a kiss while shouting, "see you in December!"

That, as you know now, was a filthy fucking lie. I did not see you in December at all, nor have I been around much in January either. It doesn't mean I didn't miss you. I just got caught up in being lazy in terms of posting. That, and I don't think I was particularly clever or witty (read: worthy) the last few months. When I get in those moods, I slink about life pathetically sloth-like, eating cookie dough ice cream and sobbing "I don't word good" over reruns of All My Children. (Is that still a show?)

As for NaNoWriMo, did I succeed? Depends on what you consider finishing. I was supposed to write 50,000 words. I wrote 26,842 words of a story that I grew to resent so much I wrote scenes of the characters getting tragically injured in bat shit crazy ways to punish them for not translating on paper correctly. So then I started over somewhere around the midway mark (liberating but unwise) and wrote 32,014 words of another story which also turned out to be very sucky.

I suppose I could have combined the two pieces of shit and had my 58,856 words of super turd to submit, but that felt so embarrassingly wrong. I'm glad I buckled down and wrote on the daily, but I'm so displeased with what came out that I wanted to bury it deep in my most humiliating of memories, past the place where I got on the wrong bus in first grade, past the awkward perm I sported for two months, even past the time I got drunk at a work function and threw up on my boss after accusing him of being a spy.

Less depressingly, during November I was a guest author for the infamous and amazing Clark Brooks and it was completely badass. You should check it out, along with the other guest bloggers and of course, Mr. Clark Brooks himself. (He's solid gold, that guy. Oh, and hilarious.)

December and January were filled with very mundane twenty-something year old things (and my birthday, more on that later) which brings us right up to that breezy Tuesday night when, under the glow of flat screen TVs playing Sportscenter and through the hazy blinks of too many beers, my buddy blurted out "you suck at blogging."

Well. Yes. Yes, I do.

I am not consistent. Admittedly, I'm not that funny anyway. I still haven't decided if I like jump-breaks or not.

I don't know what a Creative Commons License is. I don't know if I should have some kind of "don't steal my work, motherfucker" page. Or badge, or whatever. I never know what to write in "About Me" sections and the page here is no different.

I don't really understand the templates on Blogger. I just know I like purple and I managed to get some stuff to be purple. I use tags that make no sense, and therefore, are not very helpful.

I am horrible at whoring out my blog networking. I just deleted 200 people off my Facebook and another 20 or so off my Twitter. They could have been important people to "share ideas" with. (But some of them were whores AND I'M TIRED OF READING ABOUT HOW DRUNK YOU GOT AND WHO YOU BANGED, YOU UGLY SLUT.)

Sometimes my grammar slips. Sometimes I end a sentence with a preposition. Sometimes I start a sentence with the same word three times in a row.

I talk about my friends and family more than anything, dangerously toeing the line between "creative firecracker" and "whiny kid with a Livejournal account."

I am not concerned with monetizing, page views or going viral. The last one just sounds gross anyway.

But this, the awful organization and the awkward formatting; the shitty homepage banner that took me an hour to make and still looks horrendous because I don't understand Photoshop; the late night rambles and rants and painfully articulated memories; the journeys through the clusterfuck that is my agonizing thought process; this, this mess, this is for you.

And even though I sometimes seemingly don't try very hard, it's still for you. Because I like when you think. And I like when you argue with me. I like when you like it. I like when I get to make you laugh and above all, I like when I momentarily trick you into forgetting whatever stress or bullshit you're dealing with in your life. Have you thought about your overdue car payment in the last ten minutes? You're welcome.

So yes, I suck at blogging. But I hope it's a good kind of suck. The kind of suck that makes you want a cigarette when it's over, even though it was sloppy and forgettable. Because when I get on here and blow my load, it's for you.

Asshole.