Off The Deep End: The Keri Ramos Story

I am pulling a chair up to a table I wasn’t invited to.

I am pouring over the partial personality you’ve created and plastered around. I am retracing your digital footprints back as far as I can. I am reading things you never expected me to find; you didn’t know me back then, and now that you do know me, you’ve forgotten what you wrote on all those hazy Sundays.

I am getting creepy. I am unrelenting in my search. I just want to know you. I am searching for keys to locks you will never present to me.

I am stalking you. I am memorizing you. I want to know what makes you tick. I dissecting your past to figure out your present.

I realize that all of this is wrong. The irony is not lost on me that I could impress you by spending a fraction of my detective energy on simply fulfilling my academic obligations.

I am making things awkward. I can’t maintain eye contact through a ten minute conversation. I can recite your favorite songs. I can’t remember your office hours. I wait for you at places we never agreed to meet.

I am only halfway through my first beer. I am thirsty for you. I am going crazier than I am known to. And I am not sorry.

You are oblivious. You are gracious. You are so much better in my head.

So I am keeping you there. I am imagining time we will never spend together. I am making you a game. I am keeping you a secret. I run to you when I am stressed, which as of late, is always.

I won’t let it slip, I won’t show how much I know you without you knowing. I won’t even try to know you in any real sense now. It wouldn’t be as good.

I am sculpting you a pedestal out of ice under the new spring moon. I am forgetting that the sun will rise and destroy all my hard work.

Or maybe I am counting on it.

When I see you next under those fluorescent lights, you’ll be further away than ever.

I will welcome the distance.    

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.

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.

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.

Open Letter to My Doctors

Dear Doctors:

For the most part, I think you are jerks. Maybe not all of you, just those of you I see on a regular basis. If I had to take my car to a mechanic as many times as I have to come see you, I'd get a new car or a new mechanic. I am stuck with my fickle health. And no matter how many second opinions I get, I seem to be stuck with you. And I hate you for it.

I have done everything you've asked of me. In return I am just asking you to do your job.

I show up early to appointments and wait in a room full of cranky looking sick people. I don't complain when Donna, the vapid "nurse" behind the desk kick starts my dreaded appointment with her painted on smile and dead-behind-the-eyes look. On three separate occasions she has typed my birth date into the computer incorrectly, thus yielding no results for my name in your system. I have gotten into the habit of telling her "01-26-88" instead of saying "January" because I have a feeling that the conversion is too hard for her to do in her head. I don't know why you haven't fired her, but I'm sure it's because she owns her own highlighters or gives really good blowjobs.

When a real nurse takes me back into the exam rooms I make small talk. When they ask "How are you today?" I respond with some frivolous pleasantry because it would be rude to say "I'm here, you moron. Something is terribly wrong with me and instead of living my life I came here to have you poke around all of my orifices. Your lube or mine this time?"

Sometimes you tell me to wear that paper dress and I do so without protesting even though I'm sure you don't need to check my vitals while I'm naked. Once I think you forgot about me back in Exam Room 4 so I walked to the water fountain with my ass hanging out the back. I wasn't thirsty, but I wanted to announce that I was still naked and waiting. It didn't really work because I still sat naked for half an hour on that table with tissue paper over it. However, I think you must have written something in my chart because that's the last time you made me wear the paper dress. I hope it says something like "Patient is not to be naked. Will cause a scene."

I don't self-diagnose because it probably irritates you and will be wrong anyway. I trust that your education and the fancy equipment that you don't let me play with is enough for you to tell me what's wrong with me. Every once in a while you tell me not to eat before an appointment because of some test that you don't explain to me. I stop eating at midnight even though I get an intense craving for an omelet about twenty minutes later. This does not stop you from seeing me at 1:25 when my appointment was for noon. From now on, I'm eating the damn omelet at 12:20 because with your ultra-considerate punctuality I know it won't affect the test.

When you ask me questions about how much I drink or smoke, I tell you. When you ask about my sex life or diet or sleeping patterns I give you detailed answers because even though I think it's weird, I assume that my answers may lead you to discover what freakish disease I have. (I secretly hope it's something so new and freakish that the medical community is forced to name it after me.) So far this has not worked, but when you ask me how many stuffed animals I had in the third grade or how often I eat hummus (often, because it's delicious) I will tell you.

But one time I asked you why I couldn't drink grapefruit juice with a certain medication. You curtly replied "I don't know" and moved on. I think that's a really dick move because I was just trying to be safe and I happen to have the curiosity of a toddler and you could have just told me the answer instead of being a dismissive prick. When I saw you next, you asked me how the iron supplements were working. I replied "I don't know" because I was still holding a grudge, but I know you didn't get it because you just looked at me like I was crazy.

And about the iron supplements - once I told you I had been excessively tired and I couldn't attribute it to insomnia or alcohol. You laughed and said "well, that's unfortunate, huh?" and didn't really address my problem. Three months and some bloodwork later, you told me I was anemic and iron supplements would help me be less tired. Thanks for listening. You owe me three months of good sleep, asshole.

In the short respite that comes after my visit and before the clusterfuck frustrations of the pharmacy, I want one thing and one thing only. A sticker. I want a dinosaur sticker or a Disney Princess sticker. I would prefer a princess riding a dinosaur sticker, but I realize those may only exist in my imagination. I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop judging me when I dig through the sticker box like a frantic junkie on a dumpster dive. Once you told me that the stickers were just for the kids. I told you that my insurance pays for my visits and all the fruitless tests you order for me, I always pay my co-pays and the amount of kickbacks you get from drug companies by recommending their brand of synthetic dope is more than enough to afford buying stickers a tad bit more often. In fact, I'm convinced that the revenue I alone generated last year paid for your ungrateful child's cello lessons or your two week summer vacation in the Poconos.

I don't need an ass-kissing every time I grace your office with my greasy hair, unwashed face and sweatpants. I don't need a TV in the waiting room or every issue of Good Housekeeping from 1993-1996. I just want you to fix me so I don't have to see you again.

Oh, by the way, do you remember the time you found about two dozen penises fashioned from cotton balls, tongue depressors, some crude Sharpie details and medical tape in the drawers of Exam Room 6? Yeah, that was me. That's what you get for being such a dick.

On Being an Asshole

Do you ever want to rip someone's face off? I mean no holds barred, total annihilation, bitch slap them so hard their grandchildren will feel it kind of thing? I am often overwhelmed with this urge to completely ruin someone's day. I've been told I have anger management issues. I prefer to think I am a normal human being. Well, "normal" might be a stretch, but I think wanting to lash out and verbally rip someone to shreds, either because you can or because they deserve it or both, is typical human behavior.

Moving, Orange Juice and Shame.

I think moving is the worst thing in the world. Moving, and the associated packing of things, make me a neurotic mess. I would rather have a root canal than move. I've never had a root canal; I hear they're painful but I understand they come with drugs. Not that bad of a deal if you ask me. I would rather have a pap smear than move. I have had a pap smear, and they are outrageously uncomfortable, but I'll take half an hour of awkward over three days of stress and panic.