11.8.10
Everyone keeps telling me, "there are plenty of fish in the sea." I have no doubt that they're right, but once you take out the girl fish, old fish, baby fish, ugly fish, gay fish and married fish, you're left with not so much an ocean but a pond. Take from that the dull fish, weird fish and fish with issues, and what you've got is something just short of a teacup. And not many fish fit into a teacup. More importantly, I'm not sure how many would take my bait.
9.10.10
Sometimes I take mental snapshots of my life and imagine what I’d think if I saw them from the past. What the me from three years ago would say if someone handed her a picture of me, right now, standing on this bridge overlooking the Chicago River. Aside from having longer hair and a noticeably smaller percentage of fat on my ass, she probably wouldn’t say much. I mean, what could she? For all she knows, I’m still feeling the same things she’s feeling, I’m still doing the same things she’s doing, and I’m just visiting whatever place I’m seeing. This always makes me smile. Despite any homesickness or nostalgia for whatever changed between then and now, doing this gives me the strangest sense of accomplishment. Because little does she know, everything is about to change.
Wax Fruit
I sat next to a man on the plane who told me his serendipitous life story. As nice and melodious as that word is, I’ve never liked it. It reminds me of the movie. Which reminds me of Hollywood. Which reminds me that scripted romanticism is different from reality, which makes me doubt that my story will be a series of beautifully orchestrated events filled with fortuitous happenstance. I shook his hand, followed him down the jetway, and waved as we turned in different directions.
That night, I read the depressing Facebook status of a jobless mid-20-something living at home. I felt sad for her. And then for me. Though our circumstances are hardly the same, we share the same fear of never amounting to anything and, worse yet, doing it alone.
The funny thing is—we’re not alone. Almost every mid-20-something I know is suffering from what I’m officially naming Transplantancy Syndrome. Trans-PLAN-tan-cee-sin-drom: the unfortunate side effect of having a solid education, geographical freedom and unlimited possibilities. We have 580+ confirmed friends yet we lie on our backs in the dark and stare at the ceiling, increasingly aware of the silence. And loneliness.
In some psychology class, I read that emotional bonds are fostered by face-to-face contact. Being able to read human expression. Feel empathy. And with face talk/book/chat, you’d think we’d feel closer than ever. But what we see isn’t our friend’s face. It’s a picture of their face. An illusion of closeness. A kind of faux-proximity that is as satisfying as binge eating—elation when it’s in front of you, emptiness when it’s gone.
My poor generation is starving for closeness, and Facebook is a wax fruit.
That night, I read the depressing Facebook status of a jobless mid-20-something living at home. I felt sad for her. And then for me. Though our circumstances are hardly the same, we share the same fear of never amounting to anything and, worse yet, doing it alone.
The funny thing is—we’re not alone. Almost every mid-20-something I know is suffering from what I’m officially naming Transplantancy Syndrome. Trans-PLAN-tan-cee-sin-drom: the unfortunate side effect of having a solid education, geographical freedom and unlimited possibilities. We have 580+ confirmed friends yet we lie on our backs in the dark and stare at the ceiling, increasingly aware of the silence. And loneliness.
In some psychology class, I read that emotional bonds are fostered by face-to-face contact. Being able to read human expression. Feel empathy. And with face talk/book/chat, you’d think we’d feel closer than ever. But what we see isn’t our friend’s face. It’s a picture of their face. An illusion of closeness. A kind of faux-proximity that is as satisfying as binge eating—elation when it’s in front of you, emptiness when it’s gone.
My poor generation is starving for closeness, and Facebook is a wax fruit.
8.10.10
Sometimes I’m okay with the fact that guys don’t have to deal with this. It’s a strange motherly instinct that makes me want to keep them so carefree. But when I’m wrapped in a paper tablecloth and spread-eagle with a metal car-jack shoved in my vagina, I’m not as sympathetic.
I bled orange for a week after my last colposcopy. All things considered, the ordeal wasn’t as horrifying as I’d anticipated, but being told there was a .5% chance I had cervical cancer made the “statistically harmless” mild dysplasia something to throw up about. And now I have it again?
But I got the shots. I stored the trio at less than 50 degrees Fahrenheit. I waited 2 months after the first shot and 6 months after the second. I scheduled the appointments exactly within the allotted 7-day windows for maximum effectiveness and I still managed to smile in public. What man would diligently execute such a fragile plan without complaining about the pin-prick? Or the frightening news after – that it might not have worked.
At my last visit, I told them to check everything. Aside from wanting piece of mind, I knew that I’d easily get 4 vials of blood drawn before any guy signed up to plunge a Q-Tip in his dick. And why would they? If girls are the ones being poked, swabbed, scraped and drained to ensure the highest quality of sterility, what’s left to worry about? I’d appreciate it, too, if I were them. But that’s what’s so unfair. They can’t appreciate what they don’t know.
I bled orange for a week after my last colposcopy. All things considered, the ordeal wasn’t as horrifying as I’d anticipated, but being told there was a .5% chance I had cervical cancer made the “statistically harmless” mild dysplasia something to throw up about. And now I have it again?
But I got the shots. I stored the trio at less than 50 degrees Fahrenheit. I waited 2 months after the first shot and 6 months after the second. I scheduled the appointments exactly within the allotted 7-day windows for maximum effectiveness and I still managed to smile in public. What man would diligently execute such a fragile plan without complaining about the pin-prick? Or the frightening news after – that it might not have worked.
At my last visit, I told them to check everything. Aside from wanting piece of mind, I knew that I’d easily get 4 vials of blood drawn before any guy signed up to plunge a Q-Tip in his dick. And why would they? If girls are the ones being poked, swabbed, scraped and drained to ensure the highest quality of sterility, what’s left to worry about? I’d appreciate it, too, if I were them. But that’s what’s so unfair. They can’t appreciate what they don’t know.
7.30.10
When I lived in Manhattan, I shared an apartment that realtors lovingly referred to as a 1-bedroom flex. But mid-way through our 2-year lease, we were told that the plaster dividing my bedroom and the living room had to be torn down. Blah-blah-something-new-fire-codes. Not wanting to deal with finding another apartment, Erik and I lived out the rest of our lease. He, in a 12x15 bedroom, and I, behind two bookshelves and an oversized IKEA picture frame.
After moving to Chicago, a friend sent me a newspaper article about the dawn of a "cataclysmic change" in Manhattan living. Apparently, the fall of plaster is being heard throughout the island as building managers suddenly face the strict enforcement of a 5-year-old law spawned by the death 2 firemen in a Brooklyn 1-bedroom flex. According to the story, the firefighters became disoriented by the random construction of walls and ultimately jumped to their deaths.
As a human being, I feel for the men who were undoubtedly surprised by an uncharted layout, especially considering it was thick with smoke. But as someone who paid $1,200 a month to sleep next to a dishwasher, I can't help but feel for the new generation of 1-bedroom flexers.
Our wall (and most I've seen) are anything but random. They tend to perfectly divide small living spaces, ultimately creating some semblance of affordability. But if these trained firefighters are becoming disoriented in a 650-square foot apartment...well I just don't know what to tell them.
After moving to Chicago, a friend sent me a newspaper article about the dawn of a "cataclysmic change" in Manhattan living. Apparently, the fall of plaster is being heard throughout the island as building managers suddenly face the strict enforcement of a 5-year-old law spawned by the death 2 firemen in a Brooklyn 1-bedroom flex. According to the story, the firefighters became disoriented by the random construction of walls and ultimately jumped to their deaths.
As a human being, I feel for the men who were undoubtedly surprised by an uncharted layout, especially considering it was thick with smoke. But as someone who paid $1,200 a month to sleep next to a dishwasher, I can't help but feel for the new generation of 1-bedroom flexers.
Our wall (and most I've seen) are anything but random. They tend to perfectly divide small living spaces, ultimately creating some semblance of affordability. But if these trained firefighters are becoming disoriented in a 650-square foot apartment...well I just don't know what to tell them.
Men Aren't Actually Lost
I've decided it's not that men are too embarrassed to stop and ask for directions - depending on where you're making them go, they're happier being lost.
Bathroom Signs
I don't understand why some bathrooms have obscure symbols on the door instead of clearly-gendered stick figures. I once stood for an absurd amount of time trying to decide with which I emphasized more: a hibiscus or an iris. After coming to some phallic conclusion, I chose the hibiscus. I was wrong. And I still had to pee.
Raisins
I feel bad for them. I'll never buy raisins. Ever. And that's exactly why I feel bad. Aside from probably being a farmer's mistake, they're shriveled up fruit that have been twice rejected. I didn't buy the grapes before--I certainly won't buy them after someone left them in the sun.
Attachment
She asked me if she was a slut since she wasn't emotionally attached to him. I said absolutely not because there are three types of perfectly acceptable attachments: attachment of the head, attachment of the heart, and attachment of the vagina.
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