tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14009792829614536162024-03-12T19:11:00.190-04:00Shit by Carrie-Lynne DavisStories, Poems, and Other Awful Things Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-58458146117233543562014-09-11T17:09:00.001-04:002014-09-11T17:09:36.998-04:00The 5 Greatest Fears of Millenial Gals<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><i>We’ve all
got a greatest fear. But then there are the other core fears that are also
dancing around our brains, competing for dominance on our hierarchy of fears.
They’re all a part of who we are and they affect virtually everything we do. We
like to think of our fears as private, personal things that we don’t share with
others, but the truth is that we ladies share a shitload of them. As
Millenials, the media touched every aspect of our development, including the
development of our fears. Knowledge of the monsters that keep us up at night
better equips us to beat them to death! Or at least weaken them so we don’t
have so much goddamn anxiety all the time.
</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span><span>1<b> </b><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"></span></span></span><b>We fear
that we’ll never find “true love.”</b></span> Or rather, we’ll never achieve the
conceptualization of “true love” informed by years of Disney movies, teen magazines,
and pop music. Will we ever meet a man who will whisk us away from all of our
troubles and ensure we lead happy, fulfilling lives? What must we do to meet our
respective Prince Charmings? How should we look? How should we act? Are we thin
enough, tall enough, pretty enough? Despite our efforts at female
self-empowerment, feminism, and you know, simple logic/reason, we are
nevertheless haunted by memories of how bored and purposeless Princess Jasmine
felt without exciting and whimsical Aladdin. Or how lonely and stifled Ariel
felt under the sea without Prince Eric and the promise of mobility? Or how
Sleeping Beauty’s life really fuckin’ sucked until her prince showed up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are we waiting for men to save us? If we do
not nix this warped “true love” concept, we truly will be forever alone because
we’ll push anyone away who doesn’t meet the requirements of being “the one.” Prince
Charming isn’t real and if we wait around for him we’re gonna be sorely
disappointed. We also need to accept and understand that our lives do not need
entirely defined by the acquisition of love. Love is not all you need, ladies.
There are many other venues through which we can achieve happiness and
fulfillment that we haven’t been able to focus on due to our obsession with
love and crippling self-esteem issues. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span><span><b>2 </b></span></span><b>We fear
that our dream careers will remain dreams. </b></span>A banner hung across the walls
of my elementary school’s cafeteria that read: IF YOU CAN DREAM IT, YOU CAN
ACHIEVE IT! Girl PLEASE. This banner stuck with me not because of its general
corniness but because the ideology of its message was already being sneakily
nestled into the folds of my psyche. Our entire generation suffers from the illusion
that if you really, really, really want something and work hard to get it, you’ll
get it. Just like that! As if it were some millennial remix of the American
Dream, it really did a number on our parents who assured us that by going to
college and working hard, we will get the job we want and be able to support
ourselves by doing what we love. We’re in our twenties now and we’re scared. Maybe
we’re working in a completely different field, maybe we’re broke and working
whatever jobs will pay the rent, maybe our circumstances are in the way.
Whatever the reason for the distance between ourselves and the career of our
dreams, we harbor deep worry about that distance never waning. The depressing
fact is that it’s not easy to get paid doing what you love. In fact, it’s a
luxury that most people just don’t have. Does accepting this mean we’ve given
up? No, it doesn’t have to. I argue that it’s not always helpful to dream big.
Learn to compromise with yourself. What’s so bad about finding a job that keeps
you financially stable and professionally fulfilled? So maybe you’re not
performing in sold-out shows on Broadway, writing books featured on the New
York Times Bestseller List, or making tenure at an Ivy League university
teaching philosophy. Many of us cling onto the notion that what you do defines
who you are. But it isn’t true. We’re a hell of a lot more than that. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span><span>3<b> </b></span></span><b>We fear
that we are not pretty.</b> </span>Good god, look at our thighs/bellies/boobs/ass/legs!
How unattractive. We’re totally disgusting. We must fix ourselves. We need to
do everything we can to make sure we look as pretty as humanly possible. Ask
any of us what we want to look like and we’ll write you a whole goddamn book.
Ask us what we find pretty about ourselves and we’ll grow uncomfortable and question
your motives behind asking such a question. What we often fail to consider is
WHY are we so concerned with “being pretty?” Is it in some primal quest to
establish dominance over other females? Is it as simple as the desire to
attract a mate? Or is this obsession perhaps fed by cultural channels as well? Barbie
taught us that pretty meant blonde hair, giant knockers, and a waist the size
of a baby’s fist. Fashion mags taught us that pretty meant a diet of heroin and
cigarettes to achieve a more dramatic, frail look. Beauty pageants taught us
that the presentation of our prettiest selves can win us the crown! As women,
we subconsciously marry our perceptions of self-worth and appearance. If we are
pretty, we believe that our lives will be easier, that we will be more
successful, more attractive to men/women, more liked, more loved. We want to be
wanted. While there’s nothing wrong with that inherently, the level that we
allow beauty to influence our lives must be scrutinized if we don’t want to
drive ourselves absolutely bonkers.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span><span>4<b> </b></span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">We fear
growing old.</span> </b>And thus growing irrelevant. The fear of becoming our mothers
or grandmothers causes us great shame. We love these older women and we know
that one day we will become older women, but that doesn’t mean we’re rolling
out the welcome mat for age. I argue that men do not suffer from the fear of
age in the way women suffer; as women growing older fear not only for the loss
of another year to enjoy on this earth, but also the loss of relevance and
worth. Our culture doesn’t value the sexiness/fierceness of older ladies. Therefore,
they’re not worth a damn. This is evidenced by the drought of older women in our
media. With some exceptions, older women are present in the media to fulfill certain
tropes, like the matronly caregiver, the risqué cougar, or the masculinized
boss. There aren’t too many romcoms or dramadies about 45 year-old women
searching for fulfillment. Young women are a commodity, something to be objectified
for profits. We see young, pretty women plastered all over our billboards, our
television screens, our computers. They’re selling things to men. They’re
selling things to women. If a young, pretty girl has it, the men want it so
they can have the young, pretty girl. And the women want it so they can BE that
young, pretty girl. Welcoming age comes only with accepting that our cultural
construct of beauty need not govern our lives. We can observe it and fight
against it. Whatever age we are, we can be fucking fabulous. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span><span>5<b> </b></span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">We fear
that the world doesn’t know or care about us.</span> </b>I know—“wah wah poor us,”—but
I’m serious. We suffer from a widespread delusion that we have to somehow
matter to the world. Whether it’s by “making a difference” (helping to inspire
monolithic change), fame, or serving a god, we feel a deep intrinsic need to
matter to not only a few people, but all people. It’s what underlies our
dreams. Perhaps a by-product of our fear of loneliness, our fear of not
mattering influences many arenas in our lives and is another massive blow to our
piss-poor self-esteem. If everyone knows us, cares about us, loves us, we will
be happy. Right? No matter how many tragic overdoses or suicides of famous
people being dramatized on our televisions, we still cling to the false notion
that being known means being happy. It’s another example of us gals searching
for some external force to save us from a shitty life. All of these shitty
fears come down to our skewed notion of what it actually means to have a good
life. It’s a hard thing to do, but if we can free ourselves from the Clockwork
Orange-like grip the media has on how we view our own lives, we could perhaps see
the simplicity behind our core desire, which is to just be happy. If happiness
is determined by the exceeding our expectation of the outcome, then fuck, let’s
reevaluate our expectations! To do this, we have to identify and rebel against
the forces in the media that fashioned our unrealistic expectations. We will
overcome these fears. We will, goddamnit! It takes some awareness,
self-analysis, and time. Welp, ladies, looks like aging is gonna help us out
after all.</div>
Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-6259274279861561922014-03-04T21:24:00.000-05:002014-03-04T21:24:25.116-05:00The Fetus<!--[if !mso]>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">T</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">here’s a dull pain in my
stomach. I sit in the waiting room of an abortion clinic, chewing my
fingernails to bloody stubs. My mother is to my right. We're not talking. It’s
not because I went to a party under the influence of a bottle of Robitussin,
and was then raped by Garrett, the drunken big-gummed vice president of the
Cribbage Club at my high school and now I have to have an abortion. It’s
because she has heartburn from her hazelnut iced coffee, and I feel anxious and
uncomfortably pregnant. Up until this moment the fetus has been a mere tumor,
the cause of my dry heaves in the morning and relentless constipation, but now
I can’t help thinking of it as some sort of little version of me, trapped
inside of my womb, happy and completely oblivious to its miserable future,
which I imagine involves burning in an incinerator, or perhaps being eaten by
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">However,
I argue, if this fetus is some sort of “little me,” I am indisputably saving it
from years of pain. I imagine it, like me, eleven years-old, rummaging through
the pantry for a bottle of sleeping pills after a hard day at school. Danny
Bouyea does not <i>like-like</i> me back, and I’m crushed. Worse than being
crushed, I am embarrassed. My face is red, and his friends heard my confession.
They all tee-hee at me, and I decide that I will show them all! Really, I will.
They’ll sure feel guilty when they hear from our teacher that I’m <i>dead</i>
the next day. This will be the first time the fetus will try to take its own
life, and it will not be the last. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This
place looks just like any other doctor’s office. Earlier, I had envisioned a
kind of seedy, dingy shithole with rickety chairs occupied by some rather
morbid folks—ratty-haired girls with smudged lipstick, regulars of the clinic
I’d guess, sitting here and waiting to get the embryos vacuumed out of their
ragged wombs so they can go back out and fuck their boyfriends again, end up
here--their whole lives a cycle of <i>in</i>-penis-<i>out</i>-fetus, and though
I am certainly pro-choice and consider myself, you know, one of those raging
lefty liberals, there is something about this vision that leaves an unpleasant
taste in my mouth. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s
not dingy in here at all. On the contrary, it’s bright as all hell. The lights
are intense and unforgiving; there are a shit-ton of accent lamps on the tables
in between the green pleather chairs (the ones that fart when you move),
ghastly fluorescents overhead, and standing lamps by the doors. I look around
for a magazine, but for some terrible reason, the only thing within reach is an
old issue of <i>American Baby</i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Isobel?”
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
start panicking when the nurse leads me away. Oh, Jesus. Jesus Christ, God
Almighty. I envision a slew of horrors. I see the huge vacuum hose being shoved
up inside of my body. I see the doctor, all yellow-eyed and hungover,
accidentally hitting some red button somewhere that says <i>MAXIMUM SPEED!!!</i>
and the vacuum going mechanical apeshit, sucking out all my bones and organs,
leaving me in a puddle of my own membranes, like rolled-out Playdoh, a fleshy
mess of frowning skin. </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
am okay.</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
am okay.</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
am okay.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
am <i>not</i> okay! I’m trembling-- enveloped in a womb of terror until
everything is black and quiet and I feel nothing at all. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When
I wake up, my mouth is dry and tastes like corpse. It feels as if my body’s
full of a substance that wasn’t there before. Congested. Full. Bloated. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ugh</span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
vision’s blurred and the only thing I can see is a big ass to my left. The
nurse, I guess. She’s bent over and filling out paper forms at a desk near the
bed. Her hair's all askew, her uniform wrinkled, and her ass is cartoonishly
bulbous. Each cheek could be a pregnant belly. Truly remarkable. Nurse Fatty
Ass pays no attention until I try to sit up, but jerk back down because of the
pain.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
groan, “Fucking Jesus!” startling Nurse Fatty Ass. She tells me that I came to
earlier than expected. She shakes her fat ass out of the room, maybe to get the
doctor. She doesn't tell me anything. It's <i>fine</i>, really; it's not like I
just had a living thing sucked out of my nether regions or anything. I roll my
eyes and notice that on the nearby table there’s a yellow biohazard bag with
what I imagine to be the dead Fetus curled inside. My eyes are fixed on it. I
have an overwhelming, uncontrollable desire to see it. I <i>must</i>. Yes, yes.
I don’t even think about it, in a second, I’m sliding off the bed and I’m on my
feet, tip-toeing over to the table to take a tiny peek inside. The Fetus looks
weird as hell. It reminds me of a shrimp covered in cocktail sauce. But it’s
kind of cute. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
do not want this Fetus to be burned or eaten by dogs. It looks so sad and
adorable, and I’m filled with a feeling that is foreign to me. It’s
overwhelming--like a little storm raging in my head and my stomach gets tighter
and tighter and I feel dizzy and it’s hard to breathe. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Breathe.
Breathe. Breathe.</span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
start to cry and I want nothing more in the universe than to have this Fetus. I
want to keep it. It’s mine, isn’t it? I think that I would be a much better
mother to a Fetus than an actual human being that would grow up bitter and hate
me, hate the world, hate herself. She’d have 'the Depression', like me, and
probably end up killing herself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
wrap the Fetus up in its bag and gently place it in my purse, which is slung
over the chair beside the bed I’d been sleeping on. I feel nervous that the
nurse will question me about the missing Fetus, but Fatty Ass never returns.
Instead a man in a white coat opens the door holding a file folder and closes
it when he sees me standing up. His face has been taken over by a large jolly
mustache. The Mustache says, “Whoa there!” and pats the air down with his
hands, telling me to sit down. So I sit on the bed and I pretend to listen,
nodding a few times, while he talks to me like I’m a child—softly and slowly,
sure to give every multi-syllable word a thorough pronouncing. He’s got one of
those assuring voices they use in commercials for anti-depressants. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Now,<i>
ah</i>, we’ll want to see you again in a week,” he says, with a furry smile, “So
that we can make sure you’re, <i>ah</i>, doing well…” he smiles again. His eyes
get all squinty when he smiles. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“We’ll,
<i>ah</i>, want to know if you’re experiencing any, <i>ah</i>, pain.” Smile. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“But
it shouldn’t be anything worse than, <i>ah</i>, some uncomfortable men-stroo-ation
cramps.” Smile. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
Mustache blabs on and on and I start daydreaming about the Fetus. When I leave
the room and walk down the hallway, it’s still in my purse, sleeping its soft
dead sleep. I open the waiting room door to my smiling mother, who gives me an
enthusiastic nod and a thumbs-up with both hands. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At
home, my mother barrels into the apartment ahead of me and retreats into her
room to burn incense and ponder the meaning of life. I decide to store the
Fetus in the freezer temporarily until I can come up with a suitable place for
her. When I try to accomplish this discreetly by creeping into the kitchen from
the doorway, I’m confronted by my little brother, Adam, and this is how he
learns what a Fetus is: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I
will kill you, Dragon Eater!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He
stops then and looks inquisitively at the yellow biohazard bag in my hands. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What’s
that?” he says, a little face under a bush of brown curls. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“It
is a bag,” I tell him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What’s
in it?” he asks. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“A
fetus.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What’s
a fetus?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“A
fetus is like a baby, but it’s not.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Like
a baby,” he repeats.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Well,
hmm,” I pause a moment, “Let me show you.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
walk with the little guy back to the Playskool canvas in the middle of his
bedroom clutter, and unfold a new piece of paper. With a pencil, I draw a
fetus, but it looks more like some sort of merry bulbous worm. Instead of feet
it’s got more of a tail that curls up into its body, like this:</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYZxtzDpKBTqc_jhguYByV0RxKTxAEdNjWG-sefBCHyRUtZV0IahuOBcBYjOBehsUK90Hwyej2RsXl4luLXvWP15mUQvBc30alH6ce358zZYk4CqS0SVQw6wRhHqcEL-cP_n8NRRygHyw/s1600/thefetus.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYZxtzDpKBTqc_jhguYByV0RxKTxAEdNjWG-sefBCHyRUtZV0IahuOBcBYjOBehsUK90Hwyej2RsXl4luLXvWP15mUQvBc30alH6ce358zZYk4CqS0SVQw6wRhHqcEL-cP_n8NRRygHyw/s1600/thefetus.png" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“This
is a fetus?” he giggles. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes.”
I tell him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
leave him looking quizzically at the fetus drawing, and I go to the kitchen and
peek in the direction of my mother’s room; inside, she’s sprawled out on the
bed, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. I open the freezer and place the
biohazard bag inside a frosted box of two year-old old chicken fingers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
think about the Fetus incessantly over the next few weeks. I’ve been drawing
little cartoon fetuses all over my notebooks and financial aid applications for
college. The Fetus chills in the freezer all this time. I’m terrified of
putting her in a jar with liquid because I imagine that in a month, or maybe
even a few weeks, she’ll deteriorate into the liquid and I’ll have a horrifying
jar of Fetus Soup on my hands. This cripples me with fear, so I decide to tell
my mother about this and ask her what I should do. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s
three o’clock in the afternoon when I hold this conversation. Adam has just
bounced off the elementary school bus without his backpack because he’s lost it
again. My sister, Tonya, sits in front of her Facebook page, scrolling through
pictures of herself and holding an empty Cool Whip container filled with a disturbing
hamburger meat and cheese concoction.” My mother sits cross-legged at the
window-bench in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke spirals
out the window while watching the neighbors argue in the driveway below.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Darlene’s
hooking,” she says apprehensively. “I know it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
tell her this is ridiculous. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I’ve
seen her standing on the street in the early mornings,” she replies, blowing a
smoke ring.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
roll my eyes and sit at the kitchen table. “She’s like three hundred pounds and
has a lazy eye, c’mon.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Below,
Darlene’s wiggling her bloated arm, telling her ex-boyfriend to talk to The
Hand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“So
what? Men are pigs,” says my mother. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
shrug. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We
sit in silence for a few moments until I cough and tell her that I’ve, um, kept
the aborted Fetus. Her eyes bulge in surprise and she turns to me slowly,
dropping the cigarette into her ashtray. She asks me if I’m kidding. I tell her
I’m not. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Well,
my <i>God</i>! Where the Hell is it?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
look at the freezer and point. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Oh
Jesus Christ, Isobel, in the freezer? With the food?” she says, crinkling her
nose and grabbing her cigarette with her fingers, tapping the ash. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
wasn’t sure what to do with it, I tell her, I wanted to preserve it but I
didn’t know how. <br />
She thinks for a moment and eyes me suspiciously. “Why did you keep it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I’m
not entirely sure,” I say. She waits for me to go on. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
tell her that in the moment, I couldn’t <i>not</i> take it! Something made me.
I had no control. I felt guilty and I just walked over to it and took it. It
was almost unconscious. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She
seems to accept this and rolls her eyes. Tonya comes thumping into the kitchen
with her empty Cool Whip bowl, triumphant. My mother says to her, all wide-eyed
and excited,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Your
sister kept the aborted fetus, it’s in the freezer!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tonya
looks at me in disgust. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“That’s
grody, dude.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I
don’t care what you think,” I scowl, “I’m keeping it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This
is too much for my mother. She’s hysterical, giggling wildly. My cheeks redden
and I regret telling her. I’m silent until my mother settles down and continues
puffing her cigarette deeply. Tonya leaves and gives us the look that means
she’s busy increasing the brightness and contrast on her Facebook pictures, and
she’d better not be disturbed. She slams the door behind her. My mother and I sit
in silence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her
head perks up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Shellac!”</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
have serious doubts about the shellac, but after a few days I buy it anyway.
Soon my mother and I are sitting at the kitchen table with cigarettes in our
mouths, concentrating on painting the Fetus with shellac, using Adam’s little Crayola
paintbrushes. I’m careful to bring the Fetus into my bedroom and onto my
dresser. Though there are no genitalia to prove the sex of the Fetus, I decide
she’s a girl. After a week’s observance, I notice that the shellac seems to be
making things worse. She’s starting to raisin and I fear that she might waste
away. She’s just going to have to be submerged in liquid, like in
science-fiction movies, and it’s not until a late afternoon in the living room
that I have the answer. I’m sitting on top of a few empty TV dinner boxes and
reading a book about fetal care when Tonya turns around from the computer and
clears her throat at me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I
was thinking about that thing on your dresser,” she says. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“The
Fetus?” I look up. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yeah,”
she rolls her eyes, “It’s technically a dead person, right?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Well,
I wouldn’t really call it a <i>person</i>, really, more of an embryo—an <i>almost-</i>person,”
I explain. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yeah
okay whatever. What if you put it in that stuff that morticians pump into dead
people?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Hmm,”
I close my book, “You mean formaldehyde?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yeah,
I guess,” she shrugs and turns around back to her web page of self-portraits. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">How
stupid of me. I hadn’t thought of formaldehyde. It’s perfect!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tonya
and I sit side-by-side at the computer browsing Ebay for formaldehyde. After
duking it out with <i>chemqueen69</i> and winning at a bid of sixty dollars for
a gallon of formaldehyde, I keep the Fetus in the freezer for the two weeks
until the package arrives in the mail, along with an acceptance letter to a
liberal arts college. I’m glowing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
find a jar of pickles on the refrigerator door. It’s so moldy that the pickles
have congealed to a lumpy green jelly. I wash it out, pour in the formaldehyde,
and this is now the Fetus’s home. She floats around in the jar happily and I
think that, for a moment, I detect a smile on her little underdeveloped lips. </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">College
is near. My room has become the world’s smallest warehouse, with boxes piled so
high I can’t even reach them anymore. I want to bring everything to New York,
leave nothing behind. Besides, Tonya’s already laid her claim to my bedroom and
casually informed me that <i>everything must go,</i> and what is left behind
will find its way to the curb. I’m careful to roll up my fetus watercolors very
gently, tuck the stuffed fetus I’ve sewn into a bag of its own, and leave just
enough room in the car for my senior year art project, a five-foot fetus made
of crinkled papers, paint, and duct tape, nailed to a seven-foot cross I made
in Shop class. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
mother is unhappy about driving me to college. I know this because with her
coffee in the morning she takes three Xanax bars and the kitchen ashtray is
already full of squished cigarette butts. She also asks me several times if
there are <i>any</i> other modes of transportation I can take to get to central
New York. I remind her each time, no. There are not. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In
the car she smokes and listens to Christian talk radio.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“These
idiots!” she cackles, cigarette bobbing up and down from her lips, “They’re
crazy!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
drive is nine hours too long for just the two of us. We alternate between verbal
fights and Helen Keller jokes. When we arrive at Ithaca College, my mother
drops me off with my boxes and gives me the peace sign as she drives away, back
home to Maine. </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
roommate hates me. She’s a Midwestern business major named Tiffany and she
likes Dave Matthews Band. I know this because the first thing she asks me is if
I like Dave Matthews Band. When I laugh and tell her that Dave Matthews sucks
balls, she looks at me like I confessed to killing her whole family and that
she was next.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
reside on the left side of the room. Every millimeter of the wall is covered in
fetusy artwork. The five-foot fetus nailed to the seven-foot cross hangs over
my bed like a shrine. The Fetus jar sits on my nightstand, next to my reading
glasses. On her side of the wall there is a poster of the holy Dave Matthews
and a framed photo of her white-bread mom and dad at her high school
graduation. That’s it. I offer to help decorate her side of the room so it’s
not so boring. She scoffs at me and declines. The next day I’m locked out of
the room so I have to ask someone from Residential Life to let me in. When they
unlock the door so I can get inside, I see that Tiffany is Skyping with her
boyfriend, a mere three feet from the door. She says she’s <i>sorry</i>, she
didn’t hear me knocking. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We
will probably not be friends, I gather. She blow-dries her hair in the early
mornings when I’m sleeping, so I make sure that the Fetus is, at all times,
facing Tiffany. She tells me it’s <i>disgusting</i> and I’m <i>perverse</i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
tell her that I’m bored with the <i>concept</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>of her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When
Tiffany is not around, I paint watercolors of her being killed in ways that
amuse me. Tiffany is attacked by a ravenous bear on the campus quad. Tiffany is
rolled into a blunt and smoked by Snoop Dogg and his homies. Tiffany is crushed
under a steamroller driven by the Fetus. I enjoy painting very much. It’s
inspiring. I like it particularly because I’ve started to fall into the
Depression, and I have made only one friend in college. Her name is Courtney
and she’s an art major who has a single dorm room covered in ashes and empty
beer cans. I don’t often visit her room because it smells like something dead.
This is because she paints portraits of beautiful obese women using her own
blood and feces. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I
find this very strange,” I tell her as she smears blood over a painted-woman’s
exposed nipple.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yeah,
well, you’re not the poster girl for normalcy yourself there, <i>Fetus</i>,”
she says with a Camel between her yellowing teeth, “Besides, that’s all life
is—<i>shit</i> and <i>blood</i>!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
like Courtney because she tells me that she just <i>can’t </i>be bothered with
the rest of the <i>dullards</i> on campus, and I’ve been feeling more and more
disconnected, myself. I’ve taken up chain-smoking Marlboros between classes.
Courtney and I will sit on the roof of the art building and shit-talk about the
campus bros and biddies. We moon the football players. On the weekends, we
drink red wine from the discount liquor store. After a bottle, we’ll sometimes
prank-call our relatives back home. We call Tonya. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Hullo?”
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Click, click, clickity-click,</i> in the
background. I can tell she’s at the computer looking at pictures of herself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Cunt-bucket!”
screams Courtney into the phone. She laughs. Then we hang up and call back.
Sometimes we get my mother. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ring, ring, ring. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes?”
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Jiggly
tits!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Ah
yes, the wonders of the bosom,” says my mother in a stoned whisper, “Caller,
please tell me, have you ever considered the amalgamation of the sexes? A
super-sex, if you will, with breasts, and a penis, and all that—a race of
hermaphrodites. I <i>do </i>think that it will be only then when we will
achieve true liberation from sexual oppression…” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We
hang up before she finishes and laugh until our stomachs ache. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lately
I feel sad all the time. It's halfway through the first semester and I've acquired
a job at the campus Information Desk, but I am a bad employee because sometimes
people will ask me simple questions on the phone that I should be able to
answer, but instead I’ll start crying and ask them questions of my own.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Have
you ever considered that our lives have a negative value? Do you think that we,
as human beings, are weak creatures, operating under will, which inevitably
entails misery?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">No
one ever has any answers for me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve
also developed a taste for strange foods and I’ve stopped eating at the dining
halls completely. Sandwiches and diet sodas and mashed potatoes are bullshit, I
decide. Instead I find myself sampling my watercolor palette and eating
Tiffany’s mail by ripping the letters first into pieces and having them with
milk, like cereal. I know this isn’t particularly normal, but I’m compelled to
do this and I find it soothing. When I eat dining hall food I feel like a<i>
dullard</i>. Tiffany finally catches me eating a postcard from her grandmother.
The <b>Greetings</b> bit of <b>Greetings from Florida! </b>sticks out of my
mouth. She rats on me to the director of Residential Life, who refers me to the
counseling center. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Pick
any seat you’d like,” the counselor tells me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her
name is Susie and her office is very <i>zen</i>. On the small table next to the
cushy armchairs there is one of those little trickle fountains and a box of
tissues. I want to eat one but I think better of it. She gives me a paper
assessment and the questions are hilarious. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: #D9D9D9; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #D9D9D9; border: none; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">6. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Have
you ever thought about ending your life?: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #D9D9D9; border: none; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Only
all day, every day</span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #D9D9D9; border: none; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">7. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Have
you ever attempted suicide?: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #D9D9D9; border: none; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What
do YOU think? </span></i><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">:) </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She
asks me to talk about my childhood, so I do. I tell her about the sad-sack
stuff, you know, <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">blah blah blah</span>--my
parents getting divorced, the near-abortion of Adam, being an obese child,
getting picked on, being sad all the time, and all that. I tell her about
Garrett, The Big-Gummed Rapist, and the abortion. Yadda, yadda. She's
consistently <i>zen</i> until I talk about the Fetus in a jar. She stirs
uncomfortably. That’s when I start to feel anxious. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh God, oh God, oh God. The</i> sweats and the shakes and the shudders.
I tell her I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My head's in my hands and I try
not to cry, but I do. She tells me that I have the Depression and I have to
find healthier ways to cope with my stress. In addition, she says, I can join a
support group for my Depression that is free, courtesy of the college. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Oh,
fun. </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This
is what I do: I stop going to classes and I move to a single room not far from
Courtney’s in the Towers residence hall, because Tiffany says she’s had enough
of my psycho-bitch bullshit. My room is high up, on the eighth floor. In the
mornings I roll joints and imagine tearing out the screen and falling until I
hug the pavement with my body. There's nothing more motivating than the image
of a brainy soup splatter and a pile of broken bones. There must be at <i>least</i>
four floors to guarantee death. I hope I’d land on my head and die instantly,
but I have terrible luck, and I fear that I’d just end up brain-dead or
paralyzed. I imagine the rest of my life wearing a frilly bib to catch my
drooping spittle, wheeled around a facility by the bitter working class who
dread going to work and changing my shitty diaper. I do not want this. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
support group is a circle of six sour faces, all waiting for their turn to
complain. I despise all of them except for a writing major who oddly resembles
Charles Bukowski, terrible face and all. His real name is Frank and he’s there
because he has a <i>mean</i> father who did <i>mean</i> things to him when he
was a child. He groans and rolls his ugly eyes when the whiny blonde talks
about her break-ups. I find this behavior attractive. After the first session,
we end up fucking in his dorm room. Aside from the rape in high school, this is
my first sexual encounter. I try to like it, but I don’t. He fucks the way he
looks like he’d fuck: hard, fast, and without mercy or consideration. Later, I
scan his bookshelf to discover that he’s not into Bukowski or Ginsberg or any
poet at all, really. He reads Dan Brown and Stephen King. I feel cheated. I
sulk out of his room, sore and considerably more Depressed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After
a few months of the routine class-therapy-work-studying, I stop drinking paint
water but it's still hard to get out of bed. I have fetal nightmares, wherein
the jar on my nightstand breaks and the Fetus is RIPSHIT, wiggling her way up
to my bed and eating my brains while I'm nestled in a stoned oblivion.
Sometimes I call my house to hear my little brother’s voice and then I hang up.
At night I sit on the grassy quad with Courtney, and we talk about the nature of
death.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“It
can’t be any worse than this shit-hole!” she spits. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
ask her, “What if it <i>is </i>worse?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She
considers this. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Nah.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">During
winter recess, I take a 14-hour long Greyhound ride, back to my family. My
bedroom has, as promised, become Tonya’s room and all of my remaining artwork
has vanished. We roll joints on her high school history book and play Uno.
Since I left, my brother’s been inspired by my fetus drawing and has taken to
drawing fetuses of his own. He draws them on the wall of the Storage Room and
paints them green. When I ask him why the fetuses are green, he says it’s
because they’re <i>moldy--</i>duh! He’s hung my original in a frame over his
bed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
sleep on the couch because Tonya’s taken the mattresses from her old room and
consolidated with my mattresses. Now she has a giant bed, and I have none. But
it’s okay. I only feel annoyed when, in the middle of the night, I slip my hand
under the pillow and my fingers smear some sort of pasty surprise. When I turn
the light on, I see that it's an old dinner plate caked with rotting spaghetti.
The Fetus in a jar sleeps on the floor next to the couch where I reside until
my mother sees it and sneers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Good
God, you still have that awful thing?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
frown at her, hugging the jar close. I keep it hidden for the rest of the
break, and when I return to school, the Fetus has her eyes open. They’re
milky-looking and underdeveloped. They’re kind of spooky, really. I show
Courtney and she’s impressed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Holy
Hell!” she says. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I
know.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What
the cra<span style="color: black;">p! It didn’t have its eyes open before?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“No, it didn’t,” I reply. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We look at the Fetus for the rest of the night while drinking
forties, musing about the formation of its eyes. We draw no conclusions that
coexist with reality as we understand it, so I go to slee</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">p
feeling uneasy for the next few nights. It only gets worse when the Fetus
starts talking to me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You
look better without all that eyeliner,” she tells me in the morning, and I drop
the black pencil on my dresser, feeling self-conscious. I’m suspicious about
this. I invite Courtney to my room because I want to determine if she can hear
the Fetus as well, but she doesn’t. It’s just me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
contemplate telling Susie about this new development, but I think better of it
because so far the Fetus hasn’t really said anything <i>terribly</i>
disturbing. On the contrary, really, she's been sort of complimenting me and
reassuring me. I enjoy our conversations. When I call my mother and she’s
stoned off her ass, I want to throw my cell phone against the wall and break it
into a thousand teeny tiny pieces, then jump out of my window or hang myself by
my own intestines, but the Fetus blinks her milky eyes and sighs softly. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Don’t
worry,” she says, in a voice like my own, “There is nothing you can do to
change her behavior. You can only focus on your own. Make yourself happy,
Isobel. Watch a movie. Go for a walk. Remember that I love you very much.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You’re
right,” I nod, and then I watch <i>Look Who’s Talking</i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This
is another thing that’s interesting about our exchanges: the Fetus tells me
that she loves me quite regularly. Sometimes this makes me feel uncomfortable.
Should I say that I love her back? <i>Do</i> I love her? We’ve spent quite a
bit of time together. It could only be natural to develop a bond stronger than
owner-object. Have I grown an affection for the Fetus that I’ve been unaware of
until confronted with its own feelings for me? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I
love you too, Fetus,” I say finally, and the Fetus blinks her eyes and smiles. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
school year’s almost over. I’ve been having these little moments where I feel
like I’m frozen in time. It happens in class often. I’ll be drawing fetuses in
my notebook and suddenly I’ll be in the midst of a panic. When I look up, no
one is talking and I’m flooded with racing thoughts<i>. </i></span><i><span style="color: grey; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="color: grey; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve wasted so much time here. I’ve screwed everything up. I’m a
fuck-up. A loser. An asshole. No one will ever love me. I’m ugly. I’m pathetic.
I’m fat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m stupid. Socially-inept.
Morally-corrupt. What have I been doing all this time? This whole year’s gone
by, and what’ve I accomplished? Nothing. Zero. I’m worthless. Utterly,
completely, entirely worthless. I’m a bad person. A bad, bad person, and I
deserve to die. </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: grey; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ll
try to take deep breaths to keep from crying hysterically in public, and then
time resumes as if nothing has happened, and I’m left feeling as if a storm has
just ripped through the room and I’m the only one who’s been caught inside. I’m
on edge all the time. I’m apprehensive and I’ve begun to truly start hating my
peers. They’re dullards—all of ‘em! I can’t relate to them and they sure as <i>hell
</i>can’t relate to me. I wouldn’t even want them to; I have nothing to say to
them. I even stop talking to Courtney. I stop seeing Susie because I’ve grown
suspicious of her motives, certain that her bias, whatever it may be, pollutes
her counseling and further undermines my well-being. The only being who can
make me feel anything at all lately is the Fetus, who has started sprouting
hair and is growing significantly larger. Her body's all mushed inside and her
head’s poking out. Sometimes she turns her head so she can watch me if I’m not
in her view. This would scare me, normally, but I’m preoccupied with my
mind-storms and the little artistic projects I’ve been working on, like writing
haiku on other people’s doors in my own blood, which I’ve been collecting in a
small jar by cutting my wrists open and letting it drip slowly. It’s a tedious
process and consumes most of my time. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL7mDVbJhzvVyDtUwZ24Pxq9_5iNCLVf-Vc8mcRByJmD9BDGBiBD4nFtFRe-H0vhyphenhyphenQKBdx4sEuOKNNDUk7801dFYkp8e6UtMgwlsBaX24A0L5DtNa8pMfkuTWAnQTPupWhC5hDHDd5twE/s1600/thefetus2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL7mDVbJhzvVyDtUwZ24Pxq9_5iNCLVf-Vc8mcRByJmD9BDGBiBD4nFtFRe-H0vhyphenhyphenQKBdx4sEuOKNNDUk7801dFYkp8e6UtMgwlsBaX24A0L5DtNa8pMfkuTWAnQTPupWhC5hDHDd5twE/s1600/thefetus2.png" height="92" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve
stopped sleeping. Instead, I stay up and have slumber parties with the Fetus.
She watches me paint my chewed-up fingernails. I throw popcorn at her when she
makes a corny joke. We talk about things I’m too embarrassed to talk about with
other people, and the little Fetus is always kind and honest. I ask her what
it’s like to die, and she tells me that it’s sad and scary, but it’s okay,
because it’s the last time I’ll ever be sad or scared again. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
look like a corpse now. I walk around campus like the living dead. My eyes are
black and crawling back into my head. My hands are grey and tired. My limbs
seem withered. I start wondering if I really am dead, so I cut myself deeper
and in more places just to make sure. I use the extra blood I’m producing to
write longer poems on the walls. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Your
poetry is wonderful,” the Fetus tells me, “but I <i>do</i> wish you wouldn’t
hurt yourself like that.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I’m
creating art,” I grumble. I can’t be bothered. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You
should really go back to your counselor,” she says sadly, “I think you might be
in danger.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I’m
not in danger, Fetus,” I say with a paintbrush in between my teeth.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“How
can you be certain?” she peeks her head out of the jar.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Because.
I don’t want to talk about this anymore. You don’t know what you’re talking
about.” I face her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“It
would appear to me, Isobel,” she lifts herself out of the jar and sits on the
night stand, “that <i>you</i> may not know what you are talking about anymore.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
consider this. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
hands are covered in blood and I feel suddenly overwhelmed with confusion. The
Fetus and I look more and more alike than I’ve ever noticed. I stop what I’m
doing and look into her sad little eyes with my own sad little eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Do
you think I’ve gone crazy?” I ask. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
Fetus says nothing. I start to cry.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I’m
sorry,” she offers, and touches my hair with her tiny hand. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I’m
sorry, too,” I shake, “What should I do?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
Fetus wobbles when she tries to stand, and when she does, she pushes the jar of
formaldehyde towards me and jumps onto the carpet by my feet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
take the jar in my hands and I look at the teary-eyed Fetus. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You
will have to drink it very fast, because your body will reject it,” she says
between sniffles, “I am terribly sorry it had to be this way, but I don’t want
you to feel pain anymore.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Those
watery eyes get round and her body expands before me. The baby hairs on the top
of her head grow long and brown like my own, her belly stretches out, and the
little nubs on her hands and feet develop into fingers and toes. She unbends
her body and rises from the carpet, a little version of me, more and more
identical by the second. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
try to think about my future but I can’t. There is nothing. It’s like trying to
imagine a color you’ve never seen before. There is nothing ahead of me. No
pages left. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What’s
going to happen?” I ask her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I
will take good care of your life,” she says softly as I sit on the carpet and
lift the jar, “I promise.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
have been waiting for this for a long time, I suppose. I'm sad and scared. I
curl into a fetal position next to the wall and watch the Fetus nod at me. I
clutch the jar and pour it into my mouth. I swallow and swallow and swallow and
there's a sharp pain in my stomach, now pregnant with poison. The Fetus asks me
what I see, and I want to tell her, but I'm gasping and choking. The
formaldehyde burns and burns and burns. I want to tell her that I see nothing.
Nothing at all, while I waste away. But it's not true. The last thing I see is
the smiling Fetus. I smile back. I'll never feel sad or scared again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-8073287527101193012014-02-13T03:46:00.000-05:002014-02-13T03:46:35.045-05:00ugh<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5lm_F-w9zebMClJMOWn2wMb2FN-pOtGl6alpC_x1LDsNWisApmTFS8RvgPYNejaSWogEpDLJKweKZEkBCxmoz9dCymbHQjOQgx66DVtdlR8QgvaeQPnmUHu7zwxwvRNxNG4ipSru1vpo/s1600/yep.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5lm_F-w9zebMClJMOWn2wMb2FN-pOtGl6alpC_x1LDsNWisApmTFS8RvgPYNejaSWogEpDLJKweKZEkBCxmoz9dCymbHQjOQgx66DVtdlR8QgvaeQPnmUHu7zwxwvRNxNG4ipSru1vpo/s640/yep.png" /></a></div>
I'm doing awesome<br>
and clearly the answer to the question at the bottom is: all of themCarrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-56948947183070458752014-02-11T22:29:00.001-05:002014-02-11T23:01:26.896-05:00Thank You, Philip Seymour Hoffman<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]-->Anyone that knows me well is aware that Philip Seymour Hoffman is/was one of my favorite actors--no, fuck that--<i>artists.</i> I am devastated by his death in a number of ways. I'm sad that he was in so much pain that he risked ending his consciousness as a human being in order to alleviate it. The first thing I felt when I found out that he died was anger. I was angry that he left me alone here to deal with "all of this" by myself. I'd felt a connection with him through how well he could share the dark, sad parts of being human that people don't like to acknowledge. I thought that he'd "gotten it" and had been not only able to deal with that shitty pain in order to survive the day to day, but to conquer it, expose it, manipulate it to create art--to show others something true and meaningful. <BR><BR>
One of the reasons why I think he was such a great actor was because you could tell, you could really <i>feel</i>, that he understood the nature of that kind of immense, existential pain that chills you to the bone, the kind of pain that makes you afraid to open your eyes in the morning, the kind of pain that is so great and so massive that you feel like no matter what you do, where you go, who you're with, it's always there, waiting to consume you. I'm talking about that void inside of you that threatens to take you over if you let it. All people have that void, feel that deep pain because it is an integral, inescapable aspect of humanity. However, it's my belief that addicts are affected by that void more deeply. Few people know how to channel their knowledge of it to create such compelling illustrations of the human condition. Philip Seymour Hoffman was one of those people who knew how to do that and did it well. <BR><BR>
Below are a collection of scenes that demonstrate his abilities as an actor, an artist. These scenes have affected me greatly.<br /><BR>
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Doubt – Father Flynn</div>
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Capote – Truman Capote</div>
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Almost Famous – Lester Bangs</div>
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Magnolia – Phil Parma</div>
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Happiness - Allen</div>
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The Master – Lancaster Dodd</div>
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Mary & Max – Max Horowitz (voice)</div>
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Synecdoche, New York - Caden</div>
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Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead - Andrew</div>
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<BR><BR>
There are other movies that Philip Seymour Hoffman did an incredible job in (Love Liza, The Savages, Boogie Nights, etc), but it was in these films that I feel he truly shined and contributed something human, beautiful, and uniquely unsettling to the narrative. He was the kind of actor that would not only make you believe he was the person he was playing but would make you believe that this person was <i>real</i>, that you had met them or some version of them, and that you would meet them again. His influential monologues stayed with you after you watched them, nestling somewhere inside of your psyche. That's why his acting was art. You believed him so much that you let him in. You let him move you and change you. And that's what art does.
<BR><BR>
My mourning does not continue purely because he was a person that I admired and now he is dead but for a more selfish reason; he was a part of me and he taught me something significant about my own pain, fear, self-loathing, and more importantly, the very nature of human suffering. He helped me identify the terrifying age-old question that has haunted me my whole life: "Why do we suffer?" and I thought, through that forlorn, wise way he had about him, he had accepted the heartbreaking answer, which is simply, "Because we do and we always will." It fucking kills me that someone who was able to both understand and portray pain's nature so intimately on-screen could not bear it himself, off-screen.
<BR><BR>
Philip Seymour Hoffman: Though I didn't know you, you made me feel like I did. I'm sad that you're gone. Your death frightens me to the core, for if the answer to the question you explored so expertly was not good enough for you, what does that mean for me? If anything positive has come of this, it's that you've made me understand that pain is a part of living and if I don't accept that, if I too allow myself to continue the fruitless pursuit of pleasure without pain, I will die, never again to create anything meaningful to others, just like you did. You've hurt me and you've helped me.
<BR><BR>
Rest in peace, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and thank you. Thank you for the art you shared with us and the lesson that your death has taught me. I promise to try to find a way to live with the pain you couldn't, to fight against the dark that swallowed you and countless others who suffered from the same addictive delusion of painlessness. Your waving white flag terrified me at first. But now it's made me realize that what I'm fighting for every day that I'm sober is my life. Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-93791220939290362013-12-10T21:38:00.003-05:002013-12-10T21:53:01.701-05:00The C.A.R.R.I.E. System<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]-->Ladies and gentlemen, there is a careful, systemic approach that has allowed me to become the unpredictable, infamous manic pixie dream girl from Hell that I am today. Behold, the powerful, traumatic, shit-storm of a routine I'm calling the C.A.R.R.I.E. System.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>C</b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">onnect intimately
based on fears and insecurities by end of first date.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>A</b></span> <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">ccentuate the desirable, hide the undesirable, portray self as ideal partner.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>R</b></span> <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">ecognize sexual proclivities & coquettishly present them as own.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>R</b></span> <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">eact to perceived or anticipated rejection by aggressive counter-rejection.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>I</b></span> <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">nitiate seemingly endless cycles of intense idealization and devaluation.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">E</span> </b></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">mpathize strategically for total emotional, mental, and sexual control.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>WARNING</b>: Employing the C.A.R.R.I.E. System may cause side-effects in partner(s), including but not limited to major depression, anxiety, unstable sense of self, new-found fear of relationships, chipped shoulders, wounded egos, damaged psyches, and a butt-load of cautionary tales for friends, family, coworkers, and complete strangers who still believe in love. </span></span>Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-32473654959947739772013-11-30T00:10:00.005-05:002013-11-30T00:10:53.334-05:00 Thought Catalog published my article, <a href="http://thoughtcatalog.com/carrie-lynne-davis/2013/11/the-pros-and-cons-of-growing-up-with-crazy-parents/" target="_blank">The Pros & Cons of Growing Up with Crazy Parents</a>Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-22089406580833432332013-11-10T02:17:00.001-05:002013-11-10T07:01:34.312-05:00On Being a Psycho Ex-Girlfriend<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I’ve been a psycho
ex-girlfriend. It’s an embarrassing and incredibly hard thing to admit to
yourself, let alone someone else. I’m telling the Internet because I think understanding
the mentality of the psycho ex-girlfriend might be helpful, or at the very
least, entertaining. I’d like to stress that my use of the term “psycho
ex-girlfriend” is meant to be light-hearted & comical; I intend to simply discuss
the unhealthy behaviors of ladies who lose control in response to breakups. I
use the term lovingly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
You’ve all probably had at least one psycho ex at
some point. Or you’ve heard stories. Are you curious about how the girl you
once loved and cared for could behave like a sadistic, insane mega-bitch from
Hell the second you broke it off? Allow me to offer some insight into the bitter,
pissy heart of the psycho ex-girlfriend—who we are, what we might do, and why
we would do it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">(Mental
illness + Breakup) - Coping Skills = Psycho Ex-girlfriend. </b>A lot of us
psycho ex-girlfriends actually have a mental illness that negatively impacts
our thoughts, feelings, and behaviors. If your ex-girlfriend’s reaction to the
breakup was dramatic, violent, malicious, or just bizarre as hell, it’s
possible that she has a mental illness and poor coping skills. Maybe it’s
generalized anxiety disorder, bipolar disorder, PTSD, or perhaps a combination
of illnesses. My own brand of crazy is called Borderline Personality Disorder.
Borderline individuals are prone to shitty, dramatic breakups. The diagnostic
criteria for Borderline Personality Disorder looks like a recipe for making a
future psycho ex-girlfriend. A little bit of insecurity, a couple splashes of
emotional instability, a pinch of identity disturbance and voila! A monster is
born. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Psycho
ex-girlfriends don’t want to be psycho ex-girlfriends.</b> Feeling and acting
out of control is not fun. I get the feeling that a lot of dudes think that
their psycho ex-girlfriend is just lovin’ all the drama she’s created. You
imagine her kicking back, sipping a mojito, and smiling devilishly as she plots
her revenge, as if her new goal in life is to ruin yours. While it may be true
that the thought of you being happy with someone else is admittedly
devastating, acting psychotic in response to a break-up is in no way a fun
experience for us. More often than not, it’s an involuntary reaction as result
of some unresolved psychological shit. We’re probably not painting our nails
and giggling with our girlfriends about how we want to key your car. It’s way
more likely that we’re listening to a song we both loved and crying in the
dark.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">You’ve
offered us a shit sandwich but we’d prefer to watch you eat it.</b> How
thoughtful of us. <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">:)</span></span> After a fresh breakup, images of you with some anonymous
woman who’s more beautiful, more successful, and more charming than we’ll ever
be pervade our waking moments. Remembering the good times with you inspires
nothing but despair. And so, we want you to feel the way that you’ve made us
feel: insecure, depressed, and alone. We daydream about your future girlfriend
dumping your sorry ass the way you dumped ours. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized
about breaking up with my ex in a bad-ass way before he could break up with me.
For example, (a) baking him a breakup pie with “Goodbye, Asshole” written in frosting
and then throwing the pie at his face, (b) going to a football game, getting on
one knee, and proposing we break up on live TV, (c) sending a photo of my boobs
to his phone with the caption, “Say goodbye to these!” or (d) hiring a pilot to
trail a banner in the sky over his apartment that reads “Dear -----, I faked it
every time. Love, Carrie-Lynne.” Oh, the possibilities! </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">You’re the
crazy one, not us!</b> That’s what we try to make others believe. One of the
worst parts about being a psycho ex-girlfriend is the social consequences of
our actions. If I’ve unleashed the cray-cray on my ex, he’s naturally going to
tell his friends. This especially sucks if his friends are also my friends. The
psycho ex-girlfriend may race to get your mutual friends on her side. If you
get there first to tell your version of the story, we’re introduced as the
villain. All of a sudden Jane, John, and Whoseewhatsis start acting differently
around us. After you rejected us the last thing we need is to be rejected by our
friends, too. That’d certainly be the motherfucking cherry on a shit sundae. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
People love breakup stories. We may reflexively
spew out lies or use selective storytelling to make you look like a total
shitbag. Why? It’s to justify the crazy things we did that you might talk about
with our mutual friends. It’s likely that we’re embarrassed by how we’ve acted.
If it gets out that I’m a psycho ex-girlfriend, who will ever want to take a
chance on me? The fucked up belief behind our smear campaign is if we can get
everyone else to hate you for your role in the breakup, we won’t hate ourselves
for our role in the breakup.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Don’t
accept our invitation for friendship.</b> Danger! We have an ulterior motive,
duh. 99% of the time it’s to win you back. Seriously, after a messy break-up,
who in sound mind is ready to immediately dust themselves off and pursue a
friendship with the person that dumped them? No one. We’ll act like
everything’s a-okay and we’re SOOOO over the break-up and we just really miss
you as a friend. We’ll swear, scout’s honor. If you entertain the idea, we’ll
go to great lengths to make you miss having us as your girlfriend by wearing
that dress you thought was sexy, doing that cute thing that made you smile,
playing up the characteristics that made you fall for us in the first place,
and acting like we’ve moved on to better things. It’s an act. We want to get
back together. That’s it. The best thing to do after a breakup with one of us
is to cut off communication until you’re absolutely certain that we’ve moved
on. Then maybe we can be friends. Maybe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">We’re
sorry.</b> It takes time, but eventually we get over it. We regret the things
we said and did. If we could go back in time and react to the breakup in a
healthy way, we would. Instead of leaving you fucked up voicemails, we’d talk
it out with a friend. Instead of damaging your property, we’d buy something new for
ourselves. Instead of trying to break your heart, we’d work on healing our own.
Over time, we stop ruminating about the past and start focusing on how we can
be better in the future. On behalf of all the psycho ex-girlfriends out there,
I’d like to say that we’re sorry. We really are.</div>
Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-47528494059586702052013-11-07T11:52:00.000-05:002013-11-07T19:18:59.537-05:005 Horrifying Things Caused by Gluten-Sensitivity<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">You
become a nasty-ass, putrid fart monster from hell.</b> My ex-boyfriend would,
in the most polite but firm way possible, insist that I leave the room to fart
after ingesting gluten. The farts of the gluten-sensitive are not only
persistent and seemingly endless, but I cannot through words convey to you what
it is like to endure their smelly wrath. I am in no way exaggerating when I say
that gluten farts are a million times worse-smelling than the prank “bottled
fart” merchandise you can buy at Spencer’s. Gluten farts are hot, heavy, and so
pungent that it’s offensive to anyone in the vicinity. You could win a war with
gluten farts. The government should find a way to weaponize them.<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Bloating,
stomach aches, and noisy bellies become the norm.</b> Until you adopt a
gluten-free lifestyle, the sweet hereafter of eating a delicious pasta dish is
more like a sickly nightmare. You curl into the fetal position on the couch and
wonder why you did this to yourself. WHYYYY, PASTA ALFREDO? I LOVED YOU SO
MUCH! You fantasize about going back in time and wiggling your finger at the
pasta dish. No means NO, gluten! You won’t take this shit anymore! Speaking of
shit…<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">OMG SCARY
DEMON POOPS. </b>After a gluten-filled meal, your body wants to show you just
how upset it is with what you have done—give you a little, ah, token of
appreciation for the respect that you’ve shown it. This anger, sickness, and
betrayal is expressed very dramatically in the toilet bowl once you’re finished
shitting your brains out. I’d gotten myself into the routine of purposefully
not looking while flushing the toilet. That kind of shit will ruin your day. I
mean it. There are some things you just can’t unsee, and gluten poop is one of
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Pain
here, pain there, pain everymotherfuckin’where. </b>For the gluten-sensitive, a
“gluten contamination” causes your body to send its antibody soldiers out to
destroy the enemy. The problem is that your antibody army is made up of a bunch
of Anton Chigurhs that will just fuck your shit UP. No mercy. Gluten can cause
inflammation that’ll give you achy joints, fatigue, and general all-around
soreness. You’ll feel more tired and grumpy than your grandfather.<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Depression.</b>
Everything seems to cause depression these days. We can add gluten to the list
for the gluten-sensitive. It’s annoying because a life without delicious
gluten-rich foods is already pretty sad. There are a bunch of gluten-free
options out there, but let’s not front, they’re simply not as good as the real
shit. I’m convinced that the holes in Udi’s bread are from gluten-sensitive
folks punching the loaves in frustration. The good news is that the longer you
live a gluten-free lifestyle, the more the symptoms from eating gluten make
your brain realize that you’ve essentially poisoned yourself instead of
thinking it’s just a natural consequence of eating. Cutting gluten out of your
diet can not only free your body of the hellish torture you had endured for so
long, but also lift your spirits! </div>
Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-25844252004661658022013-10-10T09:56:00.001-04:002013-10-10T09:56:34.562-04:00<a href="http://thoughtcatalog.com/2013/11-powerful-movies-that-will-completely-decimate-your-heart/">11 Powerful Movies That Will Completely Decimate Your Heart</a> by Carrie-Lynne DavisCarrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-1708519558328201012013-09-17T21:53:00.001-04:002013-09-19T15:53:03.932-04:00Movies That Will Break Your Fucking Heart<div style="text-align: center;">
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I love sad movies. It’s weird, but a good sad
movie actually makes me feel better; it’s like the story absorbs my shitty
feelings and attaches them to a something fictional instead of whatever chaotic hell
storm of emotion is currently raging in my brain. You know how sometimes
cheering up a friend when you feel sad yourself makes you feel better? It’s
like that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
The movies below are my favorite emotional
shit-shows not simply because they are sad but because they creep into the crevices
of your psyche and stay there forever. Like aneurisms that kill you softly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
The most powerful works of art are those that
affect who you are, how you live, and/or what you understand about the human
condition. The best sad movies are ones you don’t forget because, well, you can’t.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
The
movies below broke my fucking heart. </div>
</div>
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<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 24.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Requiem for a Dream (2000)</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></div>
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I know a lot of people who first watched Requiem
for a Dream with a group of friends. I don’t know how they did it without
everyone in the room feeling like they all just experienced the same tragic
crisis, like surviving an airplane crash or being subjected to an old man
jerkin’ it on the subway. Requiem for a Dream is a story about four people from
Coney Island whose lives are destroyed by the very drugs they took initially to
achieve their goals. What makes this story sad is not simply the devastation that
addiction causes, but how far people are willing to go to be happy, to satisfy
that core “dream” we all harbor inside, how we can so easily destroy ourselves
in pursuit of it. This movie isn’t about our addiction to drugs. It’s about our
addiction to dreams. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 24.0pt;">Dancer in the Dark (2000)</span></div>
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Lars von Trier is a sad man who makes very, very sad
movies. Dancer in the Dark is a film about a Czechoslovakian immigrant named
Selma, who works long hours at a factory in rural Washington to save up money
for an operation to save her young son’s eyes from a hereditary disease that
causes blindness. Slowly going blind herself, Selma deals with the grim nature
of her fate by escaping into whimsical fantasies wherein she’s the star of her
own musical. The movie is, in fact, a musical, but it’s the saddest fucking
musical you’ll ever see. “In a musical,” says Selma softly, “Nothing dreadful
ever happens.” The irony in this statement becomes harshly clear once the movie
ends and you’re left red-eyed, breathless, and clutching your torso in fear
that your heart might just fucking explode out of your chest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Fun fact: Lars von Trier’s dedication to capturing authentic
emotion from his actors is, well, a little insane. For starters, he manipulated
Bjork into acting in Dancer in the Dark. Keeping his true intentions hidden, he
originally only asked her to create the music for the film. After she did so,
he threatened to not use ANY of it unless she played the role of Selma as well.
Afraid that her work would go to waste, she reluctantly agreed. On set, they
had a relationship so contemptuous that Bjork experienced daily the very
martyrdom that was written for her character to endure. Cruel stunts like this
were apparently common for directors involved in the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dogme_95">Dogme95</a>
movement, for the sake of the art!<br />
God, how miserable. I love it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 24.0pt;">Fat Girl (2001)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Brought to you by another brilliant and cruel Dogme95
director (Catherine Breillat), Fat Girl is a disturbing coming-of-age story
about a twelve year-old girl named Anais who is burdened by a lack of
self-esteem, a compulsion to overeat, and a rivalry with her attractive,
promiscuous older sister, Elena. Through Fat Girl, Breillat delivers one of the
most honest portrayals of the plight of the fat girl I’ve ever seen. The love
and attention that Anais so desperately craves, Elena takes for granted. On a
family vacation the sisters meet Fernando, a charming Italian college student
who’s determined to seduce Elena. The results of this provocative and troubling
experience precede tragic events that reveal the horrific reality of what Anais
has come to understand about sex and love. The angst in Fat Girl will ring
true for any girl that grew up with eating issues, depression, or a bitch of an
older sister. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 24.0pt;">Synecdoche, New York (2008)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York stars
Philip Seymour Hoffman as Caden, a theater director who’s struggling with his relationships,
health, and work. His quest to solve these problems influences the increasingly
complicated nature of his new artistic endeavor, a play meant to be his magnum
opus, a theatrical reproduction of his life. He hires a cast of actors to live
out the lives he’s scripted for them in a massive structure housing a
replication of the city outside its walls. This “play” causes elements in his
real life to change, which in turn causes elements in the play to change, and
on and on, until Caden’s reality and the play become indistinguishable.
Synecdoche, New York’s sadness derives from its postmodern view on life. </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“What was once before you - an exciting,
mysterious future - is now behind you. </i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lived; understood; disappointing. You
realize you are not special. </i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You have struggled into existence, and are now
slipping silently out of it. </i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is everyone's experience. Every single one.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Jesus, Charlie Kaufman. Thank you your totally not-depressing interpretation of human life.<br />
I guess the reason it seems sad to us is because we're narcissistic creatures, we're the star of our own
movies. We cling to the notion that we matter, and we are afraid of death. I
think one of the sad implications in Synecdoche, New York is that we are so
obsessed with our mortality that we miss out on living; a life spent in
obsession with its preservation is not a full, meaningful life.<br />
TL;DR: Your life has no meaning and you will die one day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 24.0pt;">The Elephant Man (1980)</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“I am not an animal. I am a human <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">being</i>.” For anyone that’s ever felt like
an outcast, or a freak, or a monster, the Elephant Man will make you feel
better about your circumstances. Whatever bullshit you’re dealing with pales in
comparison to what John Merrick had to deal with on a daily basis in this emotionally-devastating
drama. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The feeling you get watching this
movie is similar to how you feel when you witness a pregnant women getting hurt or a grown man trying not to cry in public. Watching bad
things happening to good people is one thing, but watching an innocent, fundamentally
moral person suffer permanently from an affliction that severely hinders his
ability to ever be loved or to even be treated as a fellow human being—well,
FUCK. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 24.0pt;">Mary & Max (2009)</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/KZ3vlMO-Z-I" width="420"></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
And you thought a Claymation couldn’t make you cry
– hah! The story’s about an 8 year-old girl with an alcoholic mother and a middle-aged
obese man with depression and Asperger’s Syndrome forming a friendship through
snail mail, each learning important things about life through the other. The
premise itself is cute and seemingly light-hearted, and I won’t spoil it for
anyone who wants to watch it, but shit gets real. Real in a miserable kind of
way. The kind of sadness evoked from this movie is the hopeful, “having-to-accept-painful-things-that-happen-in-life”
kind of sadness. I honestly think the Claymation contributes to the empathetic
connection between character and viewer. Kinda like how we all wanted to die
after watching <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5oEYMGL0ZtA">Sad Kermit</a> (how can something that looks so cheery be so unbearably depressing?).</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 24.0pt;">Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/lnSgSe2GzDc" width="560"></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Have you ever told someone you loved that you
wished you’d never met them? After watching this movie, you will seriously
reconsider saying that ever again. Watch Joel and Clementine fall in love,
watch them fight, watch them fall apart, watch them wish they could erase each
other from their memories completely. Then watch them do just that –
erase each other. The plot in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is played
out via Clementine’s erasure from Joel’s memory. We get to relive the entire
relationship with him—the sting from when they fuck up and do something to hurt
you, the little disappointments from unresolved tiffs, miscommunications,
failed expectations, and the inevitable suffering of falling out of love or
someone you love falling out of love with you, but also the excitement of meeting
someone who seemed so other-worldly, the thrill of new experiences, the comfort
of companionship with someone who has “picked” you to share their life with,
the indescribable feeling of being truly connected to another human being in
this world—through Joel & Clem’s relationship, we’re experiencing all
relationships. What we come to realize is that if we were to erase a person who
we once loved, we would be erasing not only the bad, but the good as well. One
can never learn from their mistakes if they don’t remember them. We find
ourselves screaming right along with Joel, “Can you hear me? I don’t want this
anymore! I want to call it off!” But no one can hear him. He made a
choice. He chose to forget. This movie makes you sad because it inevitably
causes you to go into reflection mode and ruminate about your previous
relationships, reliving both the moments that made you want to kill yourself or
your significant other AND the moments that made life itself worth living. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 24.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 26.0pt;">Happiness (1998)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/nSQ1y5BknnY" width="560"></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Happiness is about a group of interconnected
people on a quest to achieve happiness from the sick or dark places within
them. It’s not sad in the way that starving children or puppies with tumors are
sad. The sadness lies in the film’s ruthless honesty about a variety of very
taboo and very real topics that most directors wouldn’t dare touch. It’s a
movie that explores the darkness that lives in every human being and how our
core desires and fears are often directly related. You don’t watch Happiness
because it’s enjoyable to watch because, in my opinion, it’s not. It will shock
you, make you sad, and make you incredibly uncomfortable, but it’s worth it
because after the credits roll, you feel as if you’ve seen something you
weren’t supposed to see, something that the world was hiding from you, but
something that is true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 24.0pt;">The Hours (2002)</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/gbc7jtmuOJM" width="420"></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Any woman who has experienced major depression
gets this movie. They may not like it, but they get it. The story follows three
women's lives during a single day, all connected by the Virginia Woolf novel,
Mrs. Dalloway, and all separated by time. Each woman, in their own way, is
trapped by having to keep their feelings hidden for the sake of others. Consequently,
they conceal their true identities and project artificial ones constructed from society’s
expectations of their feminine roles: wife, mother, caregiver, hostess. This
movie’s particular brand of sadness arises from the realization that when you live your
life solely for others and not for yourself, it’s not a life really lived. For
example, Laura dedicates an entire day to plan a party for her husband, whose
happiness, she realizes, is solely based on her just being there, being his
wife, being the mother of his children, not based on who she really is or what
she can do. This movie provokes the viewer to question their own roles in
others’ lives, what they’re really living for, and how they’re missing out on
what meaningful things they could produce or who they could be. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 24.0pt;">Precious (2009)</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/NmByQkq1xNI" width="560"></iframe></div>
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The fact that this shit happens to many girls in real life is enough to put Precious on this list. This movie is not
depressing because of its implications like a lot of the others on this list,
but rather because the story itself is heartbreaking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
If you have any doubts about the crippling sadness
this movie induces, please refer to the following scene. </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/3ZQFpUxopm4" width="560"></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I can’t get this scene out of my head, to this
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why? I’ve seen way more tearjerkers
than I care to admit, so why do I come back to this one? I think what makes
this film so poignant, so hard to watch, and so unforgettable, is that it accurately
portrays the humanity in the broken, fucked up people involved in perpetuating
a cycle of abuse, and that’s something we don’t like to see. Regarding people
that do evil things as purely evil people is something that provides us with
some sort of comfort but it fails to recognize that they are PEOPLE, just like
us. We don’t want to think of people like Precious’ parents as people like us
because that makes us wonder what terrible things we are capable of doing after
experiencing enough pain. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 24.0pt;">Breaking the Waves (1996)</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/SHqZh-9AiCs" width="560"></iframe></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
Are you
there god? It’s me, Lars von Trier! Um, God… why are you crying?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I probably could’ve put every Lars von Trier movie
on this list because they’re all emotionally disturbing, but this one is less
in-your-face about it. Its passive quality (along with von Trier’s stricter
adherence to Dogme95) somehow makes Breaking the Waves even more heart
wrenching. It’s like we’re watching a home video of someone’s life completely falling
apart. The story is about a mentally ill woman, Bess, who falls deeply in love
and gets married, despite the reservations of her tight-assed church. She frequently
escapes into conversations with god, using her own voice to play both roles. Her
new husband becomes seriously injured and Bess is devastated. Bedridden, he manipulates
her into having sex with other men so that he can hear about it, convinced that
it’s god’s will. Bess begins to truly believe that the more she sleeps with
other men, the better her husband becomes, until her actions cause hellish outcomes
and end in horrible tragedy.<br />
Naturally, amirite? There should be a support group for the
emotional victims of Lars von Trier’s movies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
___________________________________________________________________________</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br />
These are in no particular order. I could
have listed more but by the end of writing about ten of ‘em I was already
teary-eyed from watching all these trailers.<br />
<br />
Movies I could've included but didn't: Leaving Las Vegas, Magnolia, any other Lars Von Trier's film (esp. Dogville, Manderlay, Melancholia), Adaptation, A Woman Under the Influence, Tarnation, Boogie Nights, Persona, Blue, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, La Strada, American History X, Boys Don't Cry, What's Eating Gilbert Grape, Life is Beautiful, and... you know, Beaches. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Tell me, fellow sad-sacks, what
movies broke YOUR fucking heart?</div>
Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-65042890535402777482013-09-11T21:30:00.001-04:002013-09-11T21:31:51.308-04:00The Pros & Cons of Growing Up w/ Crazy Parents<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]-->An estimated 1 in 4 people are affected by mental
illness sometime in their lives. As a result, a shit-ton of children grow up
with parents who suffer from mental illness like I did, whether it’s a
personality disorder, affective disorder, or a more severe mental illness. When
this happens, sometimes it falls on the kids to take on inappropriate
responsibilities and roles, which, I argue, provides both advantages and
disadvantages. <br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 20.0pt; font-variant: small-caps; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">+ You will never be boring. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
When you grow up with crazy people, crazy things
happen. You develop a thick skin and a sense of humor because you have to. I swear,
the jokester in every circle of friends is the one with an asshole alcoholic
father. You’ve got stories. Lots of ‘em. Funny ones, like that time your paranoid
mother wrapped the computer in tinfoil to protect it from government hackers. Happy
ones, like that time your sister called the parents of your bully, Bitchgirl,
to tell them that Bitchgirl was a downright lousy coke dealer and if there wasn’t
better quality shit next time, she would buy from Crazy J instead. Sad ones,
like that time your father dragged you down the stairs by the hair for telling
him you’d rather eat shit than go to the beach. Your life has been interesting
and will probably always be interesting. Remember this when you feel upset
about your circumstances. No matter how crappy you feel or how bad it gets, you
have stories, so you have something to give this world. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 20.0pt; font-variant: small-caps; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">-You learn how to be an adult on your own. </span></div>
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If your parents are mentally ill and haven’t sought
treatment or even acknowledge their own illness, it’s very likely that they don’t
quite have the “adult stuff” 100% figured out. Maybe your mom doesn’t know how
to manage her money. Maybe your dad doesn’t know how to control his temper in
public. Our parents are the first models we have for knowing how to live and
one of the primary ways we learn is through imitation. When you have crazy
parents, you have to learn & un-learn a lot of things on the road to
adulthood. For example, one of the biggest things I struggle with as an adult is
money. Growing up, my mother dealt with bill collectors the way she dealt with
any entity she considered powerful and malevolent: routine avoidance. A credit
score was an arbitrary number that “the man” used to keep you fearful and
submissive. As an adult, I don’t know how to save my money. I don’t know how to
keep up with bills. It’s something I’m learning little by little by trial and
error, which sucks, but hey, it’s what you have to do to survive. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 20.0pt; font-variant: small-caps; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">+ You know how to deal with crazy situations. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
You’ve certainly witnessed enough of them. I know
so many people who would not know how to handle it if they were in a crisis
situation. When you have crazy parents, that shit’s old meme. If you grow up in
a household that is erratic and/or hostile, you quickly come to view the whole world
as such and you act accordingly. I’ve experienced robberies, homelessness,
divorce, drug deals, custody battles, repossession, being arrested, being harassed,
being assaulted. I’ve witnessed apartments burning down, people overdosing,
people getting murdered, people committing suicide. Yes, over time you might
come to understand the nature of the world as cruel and apathetic to you, to
human beings—and this is undoubtedly a painful and terribly hard thing to
accept—but honestly, it’s the truth, the way it really is, and once you make
peace with this realization, you’ll surprisingly find that life is a lot easier
to live. We are just chemicals, products of our environment; nothing is our
fault but there is no one to blame. Things sometimes happen and you don’t know
why. I feel like people who have crazy parents come to this realization a lot
sooner than those who don’t. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 20.0pt; font-variant: small-caps; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">-You are bitter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Life handed you a shit sandwich. It’s not fair. Why
me? Everything sucks. No one understands. Etc, etc. We all feel like that at
some point. I felt like that for years. Aw, fuck it, I still secretly feel like
that sometimes. This is truly poisonous thinking and it can prevent you from getting
better. For years I felt like it wasn’t my responsibility to fight off my
natural, unhealthy ways, because goddamnit, I didn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">choose</i> to be this way, I had nothing to do with the shit-show of
genetics I inherited, nor would it have been humanly possible for me to have had
the maturity in my developmental stages to realize that “Hey, Mom and Dad
probably aren’t acting the way healthy folks act.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
If you spend your whole life being bitter about
your shitty circumstances, your shitty circumstances probably won’t improve.
Sometimes when I think about my mom and dad, I get really fucking sad, because
they’re still in the throes of their respective mental illnesses and maybe they
always will be. That doesn’t mean I have to be. With bitterness comes an unconscious
understanding that it could’ve been different, which means that it CAN be
different. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 20.0pt; font-variant: small-caps; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">+/- You’re probably also crazy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Who we are is determined by our experiences and
more importantly, our brains. It’s not faaaair, we can’t hellllllp it, wah wah
wah, but that’s the way it is. Your self-esteem comes from your prefrontal
cortex. Your memory comes from your hippocampus. Your emotional tendencies? Oh
hey, amygdala. Not only are you born with the burden of your parents’ shitty
genetics, which determine the hardwiring of your brain, but you’re also more
likely to develop behaviors, feelings, thoughts, and personality traits that
are unhealthy if you’re subject to harmful behavior when growing up. Therefore,
you’re probably crazy, too. However, nothing is permanent; your biological
tendencies can make you predisposed to the crazy but guess what? Our brains can
change. How, you ask? Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Once you’ve determined
your specific brand of crazy, the next step is to distinguish what you do and
feel that is healthy and what is not. Therapy can help with that. A fresh set
of eyes when trying to solve a complicated puzzle can work wonders. Mental
illness has caused you a lot of pain over the years, but there’s a reason that
natural selection hasn’t voted it off the humanity island and I’ll bet you a
shot of whiskey that your own family brand of crazy has made you stronger in
some way. For the children of crazy parents, in chaos is where we feel
comfortable. And that’s what life is. Chaos, baby. ;)</div>
Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-79819134347075528012013-08-22T16:48:00.000-04:002013-08-22T17:02:30.811-04:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 40px;">15 Songs </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 40px;"> for When You're Depressed as Fuck</span></div>
<i></i><br />
<center>
<i>(or: Songs I Will Pretty Much Always Relate to on an Intimate Level)</i></center>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>01. </b>A Better Son/Daughter by Rilo Kiley</span><br />
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</div>
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<br />
<center>
<i>Your mother's still calling you, insane and high, swearing it's different this time, </i></center>
<center>
<i>and you tell her to give in
to the demons that possess her & that god never blessed her</i></center>
<center>
<i> insides.
Then you hang up the phone and feel badly for upsetting things, and crawl back </i></center>
<center>
<i>into bed to dream of a time when your heart
was open wide and you loved things just because,</i></center>
<center>
<i>like the sick and the dying...</i></center>
<center>
<i> </i></center>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>02.</b> Going for the Gold by Bright Eyes</span><br />
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<br />
<center>
<i>They will detail their pain </i></center>
<center>
<i>In some standard refrain. </i></center>
<center>
<i>They will recite their sadness </i></center>
<center>
<i>Like it's some kind of contest. </i></center>
<center>
<i>Well, if it is, I think I am winning it, </i></center>
<center>
<i>All beaming with confidence
as I make my final lap.</i></center>
<center>
<i> </i></center>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>03. </b>Between the Bars by Elliott Smith</span><br />
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<br />
<center>
<i>Drink up with me now and forget all about</i></center>
<center>
<i> the pressure of days;
do what I say </i></center>
<center>
<i>and I'll make you okay, and drive them away:</i></center>
<center>
<i> the images stuck in your head</i></center>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>04.</b> Little Person by Jon Brion</span><br />
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<br />
<center>
<i>I'm just a little person, </i></center>
<center>
<i>One person in a sea, </i></center>
<center>
<i>Of many little people </i></center>
<center>
<i>Who are not aware of me</i></center>
<center>
<i> </i></center>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>05.</b> Holocaust by Big Star</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Your eyes are almost dead, can't get out of bed, </i><br />
<i>and you can't sleep. </i>
<i>You're sitting down to dress, and you're a mess , </i><br />
<i>you look in the mirror--you look in your eyes, say you realize </i>
<i>Everybody goes, leaving those </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>who fall behind. </i>
<i>Everybody goes, as far as they can; they don't just care </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>06. </b>Hope There's Someone by Antony & the Johnsons</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>How can I fall asleep at night<br />
How will I rest my head?<br />
Oh, I'm scared of the middle place<br />
Between light and nowhere<br />
I don't want to be the one<br />
Left in there, left in there</i></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>07. </b>Mad World by Gary Jules</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>And I find it kinda funny<br />
I find it kinda sad<br />
The dreams in which I'm dying<br />
Are the best I've ever had</i></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>08. </b>John Wayne Gacy Jr. by Sufjan Stevens</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>He dressed up like a clown for them<br />
With his face paint white and red<br />
And on his best behavior<br />
In a dark room on the bed he kissed them all--<br />
he'd kill ten thousand people<br />
with a sleight of his hand</i></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>09.</b> Good Woman by Cat Power</span><br />
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<br /></div>
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<i>I don't want be a bad woman<br />
And I can't stand to see you be a bad man.<br />
I will miss your heart so tender<br />
And I will love this love forever. </i></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">10. Bankrupt on Selling by Modest Mouse</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Well, i'll go to college and i'll learn some big words, and i'll talk real loud,<br />
goddamn right, i'll be heard, you'll remember all the guys that said all those big words</i><br />
<i> he must've learned in college and it took a long time / i came clean with myself /<br />
i come clean out of love with my lover / i still love her /<br />
loved her more when she used to be sober </i><br />
<i>and i was kinder
</i></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>11.</b> You by Amy Lee</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>When we're together, I feel perfect <br />When I'm pulled away from you, I fall apart...</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>...So many nights I cried myself to sleep <br />Now that you love me, I love myself </i> </div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>12.</b> The Crying of Lot G by Yo La Tengo</span><br />
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</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> Sometimes I wonder why we have so much trouble<br />
cheering each other up sometimes,<br />
when one or the other of us is down.<br />
Instead it's like, when you're in a bad mood<br />
I look at you and I say, maybe she's knows something<br />
I don't know, maybe I should be upset...</i></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>13.</b> Radio Cure by Wilco</span><br />
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Cheer up, honey, I hope you can<br />
There is something wrong with me<br />
My mind is filled with silvery stars </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>14. </b>Same Mistakes by The Echo Friendly</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I never did grow up <br />
Feels like I never will<br />
My friends are all adults<br />
I'm still a teenage girl </i></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">15. Videotape by Radiohead</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> This is my way of saying goodbye<br />
Because I can't do it face to face<br />
So I'm talking to you before it's too late<br />
No matter what happens now<br />
I shouldn't be afraid<br />
Because I know today has been the most perfect day </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I've ever seen. </i><br />
<br />
<i>____________________________________________________________________ </i><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-65126768700489874052013-08-22T16:25:00.004-04:002013-08-22T16:27:33.717-04:00How Carrie-Lynne Davis Learned to Tell Stories <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> A Story by Carrie-Lynne Davis</span></span><br />
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This is a story about me. I write stories. Let me tell you
about them. The first story I ever wrote with the conscious notion that I was,
in fact, writing a story for other people to read, was a long time ago, in the
beginnings of elementary school. In the second grade, I was quiet, sad, and
unkempt, you know, one of those ratty-haired girls who sat in the corner, cried
after recess, and smelled a little bit like cat pee. My teacher, an old French
lady named Mrs. LeClair, held me in class after the bell rang to talk about my
writing. She told me that she had a “secret assignment” for me, and gave me a
blank book with a blank cover. I was to fill the pages. So I wrote a story. <br />
<br />
This story was called “The Vampire, by Carrie-Lynne Davis,” and it was about a
Dad who got a new job. His new job was being a Vampire, and he had to suck
people's blood! The Dad didn't mind doing his job, he was very good at it, and
it didn't much bother him that people were dying under his fangs. That is,
until he came home to his family and they smelled oh-so-good! His wife had
cooked him a GINORMOUS meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy and green beans
and everything! And the two nice daughters had colored him pictures of cats and
houses and happy families at school and they showed him. And he said they were
good, even though he couldn't pay any attention because the smell of blood was
so, so, so wonderful to him. At dinner he couldn't eat. He just wanted blood.
When everyone went to sleep, the Dad couldn't help himself, and he drank his
wife's blood. It was so delicious! Then, he went to his daughters' bedroom and
sucked their blood. It was also delicious! But then, the Dad was covered in
their blood and he started crying, because he was all alone. The Dad realized
then that he didn't wanna be a vampire anymore. He was sad that he killed his
family, and he missed them very much, so he bit into his own hand and drank all
of his blood. It tasted like the best thing he's ever tasted in his whole life.
The Dad died, and he and his family lived happily ever after in heaven!<br />
<br />
“The Vampire”, so riddled with obvious signs of depression and family troubles,
won me a place in the gifted program at my school. I was excused from class in
the middle of the day with the other artsy-farts in my grade and we were all
put in a room with grown-up chairs and treated like we had something to say. We
were given attention, and I loved it. Going to school, getting good grades in
school, being creative in school, became a way for me to not only express the inner
sadness I felt as a child, but gave me the attention that I sorely lacked at
home. How well I did in school became a measure by which I could determine my
own value. I was very fortunate that this occurred, because even as a nine
year-old, before I learned that creative expression was a way to deal with the
chaos in my life, waking up, getting dressed, and going to school was a
terribly overwhelming process that seemed entirely futile. Childhood depression
is serious and troubling, particularly when undiagnosed, because the child may
develop into adolescence and adulthood without a sense of what the world is
like (or could be) free of the tangled, black veil that is depression. Without
therapy or some sort of guidance, they may not acquire the tools needed to live
a functional life despite the illness. Thus, creativity has allowed me to live.
<br />
<br />
I hear similar stories from a good bulk of my other writing-major friends, a
lot of whom have mental illness of some sort, particularly forms of depression.
Why do we sad artists commit ourselves to writing? Why do we spend so much
money on a degree that promises nothing? We write because we have to—it's
become not merely a way to tell stories, but a way to deal with life itself.
Writing, like any form of creative expression, can be a tool for artists to
sort out, understand, and articulate the complex inner turmoil that depression
brews, which can then allow the afflicted to develop skills to better handle
it. <br />
<br />
The notion of writing as a coping mechanism can be either supported or denied
based on first experiences with writing. Deborah Brandt, in “Remembering
Writing, Remembering Reading,” interviewed four hundred people about such
experiences and found that most memories of writing were characterized by
“loneliness, secrecy, and resistance” (461), whereas reading was considered
more of a family activity and was therefore not only more memorable, but
defined by moments of joy, interactivity, and social bonding. My own first
experiences with writing were very private—it was something I could have all to
myself, so I could be as honest as I wanted. My first journal was a cute little
Winnie the Pooh diary with one of those impossible locks and a baby key. In it,
I practiced writing my name, drew pictures of my family, and recounted my day.
Since then, I have kept journals for nearly every year of my life; I found one
from the sixth grade the other day while rummaging through old boxes under my
bed. Here's the first entry:<br />
<br />
Carrie-Lynne Davis, age 11.<i><br />
I have chosen to write my feelings. Today is </i><i>January 7th, 2001</i><i>. I am sad. I know that sound
so childish, but that is the only word I can describe myself. I'm sitting on my
porch, on the third floor </i><i>Pine Street</i><i>
apartment. The rent is ridiculius, its on a bad street, and most of our
neighbors have children that smoke, drink beer or have been in jail. <br />
Mom says the sky is a polluted light and color show, with dark blue clouds in
its whole surrounding. She asked me and Tonya if we thought that was normal,
and I said no. <br />
I have never lived in a house in my life. I would like to though.<br />
Anyway. I have (think) I have a hard time expressing my feelings, so I have
decided to keep a diary of whats going on, what I think, and what (especially)
I feel. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
I remember how serious everything had seemed when I was eleven. It was the
beginning of my intense relationship with reading. The sixth grade. Overweight,
bespectacled, unpopular. Mrs. St. Andre wrote “Minutes Marathon” on the
chalkboard. This was a contest, she said, a reading contest for everyone in the
elementary school. You'd read books and log the amount of minutes you spent
reading in a log. At the end of the quarter, whoever won would receive an award
and get a limo ride with the principal. Big deal, a lot of 'em thought, but my
eyes widened and I decided that this was an opportunity to kick some ass in the
only way I felt that I could—escaping into imaginary worlds and timing myself
while doing it. Reading was not an
experience characterized by joy or family-togetherness or leisure, like Brandt,
in her article, suggested it was for most individuals. It was a competitive
obsession, something I must do to win and beat all those other kids and be the
best there ever was! I'd show those fuckers, and give 'em the peace sign out
the window of the limo as we'd drive away from the school. That year, my
desperation for attention and notoriety pushed me to read works that were far
beyond my comprehension—Orwell, Huxley, Vonnegut, Salinger—new concepts, ideas,
philosophies unfolded before me and I barely knew how to interpret any of it. I
won the Minutes Marathon and I got my damned limo ride.<br />
<br />
My award hung on the wall over my bed in a frame that my mother bought because,
she said, she was proud of me. Winning was something that would garner me
attention from my parents, my peers, and most importantly, my teachers. Richard
Rodriguez, in his literacy autobiography, “Hunger of Memory,” writes that as he
became more successful in school, academic activities like writing and reading
became all the more distanced from his family. His teachers, rather than his
parents, became the adult figures he was fervent to impress, and succeeding
academically became his primary focus. My experience very much mirrors his—my
mother, who, throughout my childhood, suffered from intense bouts of major
depression, was often as uninterested in reading my writing as she was in
brushing her hair, paying bills, or doing the dishes. I would, however, find
new audiences. Inspired by Louis Sachar’s Wayside
School books and Marcia Thornton
Jones’ Bailey School Kids, both popular series at my elementary school, I
discovered the joy of character development and reader identification. I
started writing stories for my classmates about my classmates, and I’d print out
copies for each person to read their own dialogue with each other. From grades five to seven, my teachers would take breaks
in the class to have everyone read my stories, which satisfied my yearning for
notice as well as my need for creative expression. Pleasing my classmates and
showing off my narratives forced me to observe how each one of them were
characters—I studied them and figuratively made caricatures out of their
behaviors. Taking note of individual and group reactions, I would tweak
characters based on how it appeared the classmates thought of themselves and of
each other. The most difficult aspect of this process was watching me in
relation to others, thus identifying my own character. <br />
<br />
This would come to be a consistent struggle throughout my adolescence and even
now, as an adult. I was a watcher, an observer, a writer, and a learner,
undoubtedly an active participant in school, yet I was still
socially-withdrawn, self-loathing, publicly crippled by fleeting attacks of
anxiety. How could I feel as if I knew so much about people and the way they
interact, yet know nothing about how I could or should interact with them? In
high school I started joining after-school clubs and if I was interested in
something that didn’t exist, I’d create them in hopes that other like-minded
people would come together and I could discover people to befriend. Founder and
President of the Art Club. Founder and President of the Spanish Club. Arts
Editor of the school newspaper. Vice President of the Environmental Club. Young
Writers. Collage Magazine. I fostered friendships through activities, goals,
group-activities. It was all very academic, but school was the only arena
through which I could express myself. <br />
<br />
My friends became the artists, the fuck-ups, the druggies, the screamers, the
passive dreamers. We felt we had something to say but not the words to say it;
we wrote bad poetry on napkins at the diner and played shows in basements and
spread graffiti under the Androscoggin bridge because we were too young and too
angry to know how to fix the mess we were about to march into. We felt our
parents selfish and drunk and sad, our teachers rigid and unwilling to teach us
what really mattered. We found solace in the loneliness of each other. We sat
in circles with nothing to say but always talking. We cried in bed, or the
shower. Some of us were fast food workers, some of us were chained to cubicles,
and some of us would just lie in bed and wait for the time to pass. <br />
<br />
The ashes of our adolescence scattered over America.
Danica became a morphine addict in Portland, Oregon.
Ellis, in a manic frenzy, was kicked out of Evergreen from trying to incite a
violent transgendered revolution on campus in Washington.
Courtney grew sick of watching herself snort amphetamines off a dirty mirror in
her art school dorm room in Boston.
They all came back, and the rest never left, except for me. I fell in love with
these characters and now I tell stories about them. I write about a beautiful
woman who falls in love with a beautiful God called Morpheus. He sings her to
sleep and makes everything feel okay. I write about people forever in
transition and the violent struggle to remain in the center of a seemingly
binary spectrum. I write about a quiet girl who grew older too quickly in the cold,
how she stays warm in her fishnets because there’s nothing colder than being
alone and absent the sweet-sticky drip of the night, the fast-talking friends,
the wide eyes, and the frenzied laughs. I write about a father, too, who’d
always suck the red out of wine glasses and hide until he goes to work, whose
wife called him once an emotional vampire. I write about these people. And now
I write about myself.</div>
Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-61743999773616824582013-07-27T11:56:00.001-04:002013-07-27T11:56:17.327-04:00<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 24.0pt;">O</span></b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt;">n Having Borderline Personality Disorder:</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 24.0pt;">10 Things You Discover About Your Crazy Self</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <span style="font-size: xx-small;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">You must meet 5 out of 9 criteria to be diagnosed with
Borderline Personality Disorder:</span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span>1.<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span>Frantic
efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment. Note: Do not include suicidal or
self-mutilating behavior covered in (5). </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span>2.<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span>A
pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by
alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation. This is called
"splitting." </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span>3.<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span>Identity
disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span>4.<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span>Impulsivity
in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g., spending, sex,
substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating). Note: Do not include suicidal
or self-mutilating behavior covered in (5). </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span>5.<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span>Recurrent
suicidal behavior, gestures, or threats, or self-mutilating behavior. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span>6.<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span>Affective
instability due to a marked reactivity of mood (e.g., intense episodic
dysphoria, irritability, or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely
more than a few days). </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span>7.<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span>Chronic
feelings of emptiness. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span>8.<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span>Inappropriate,
intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g., frequent displays of
temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights). </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span>9.<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span>Transient,
stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><div align="right" class="MsoNormalCxSpLast" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span>-DSM-IV</span></span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormalCxSpLast" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormalCxSpLast" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">People
will not understand you.</b> Or your diagnosis. If you tell a friend you have
Borderline Personality Disorder, I guarantee that, if they’re not a psych major
or a fellow member of the Krazy Klub, they’ll mention “Girl, Interrupted,” Jodi
Arias, or that football guy. I’ve even heard, “Oh… like Glenn Close from Fatal
Attraction?” And they step away from you ever-so-slowly. Hell no. Just because
we have BPD does not mean we are inherently evil, future murderers, or out to get
you, my pretties, and your sexy boyfriends, too! The media, medical community,
and even the very researchers that have written about BPD have contributed to
the negative stigma attached to the Borderline diagnosis. Most of this is
fueled by misinformation. What most people don’t realize about people with BPD
is that above all else, we just want to be loved, understood, and respected. We
want to be happy and healthy, just like the rest of you freaks. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">What
feels right at first is usually wrong, wrong, wrong.</b> Your natural reactions
to stressful events tend to exacerbate the stress of that event. Borderlines
often feel the most extreme version of a feeling. A fight with the bf/gf can
almost instantly send you into a head-exploding rage or a major, debilitating
depression – either he/she is the Anti-Christ / Torturer of You 4Ever / User
& Abuser Extraordinaire, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">or</i> you
just destroyed the best and only relationship your sorry ass will ever have and
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">omghowfuckingstupidareyou</i> and you’re
never going to find someone that loved you the way that he/she loved you and so
you have no reason to live and maybe you should just text them and ask them to forgive
you-- <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pleasepleasepleaseOMGyou’lldoANYTHING!</i>
It’s okay to feel extremely. It’s not okay to recklessly act on those extreme
feelings. Certain therapies (CBT, DBT) are great for identifying and
extinguishing chaotic, seemingly uncontrollable emotions when they arise before
they cause you to use That-Professor-Who-Criticized-You’s email address to sign
them up for a tentacle porn website’s email updates or tell a good friend who
forgot your birthday that it’s fine, really, you knew they didn’t give a shit
about you anyway. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sometimes
you’re the villain.</b> After finding out you have BPD, it’s necessary to
review your life, particularly those times when you felt wronged. Some of those
“So-and-So fucked me over royally” moments from your past suddenly seem to have
new meaning. The first time it happened to me, it felt like when a game-changing
piece of evidence surfaced on a Law & Order episode and the whole nature of
the crime had consequently changed. Except I was both the unknowing audience <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and </i>the criminal the audience had never
suspected. <br />
Did my best friend <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actually </i>betray me
by calling the cops after I told her I was suicidally depressed in order to get
her attention, or was she genuinely concerned for my life and did what she
thought was best? Did my boyfriend <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i>
break up with me because he never cared about me, never loved me, and always hated
me, or was it because I drove him away with my incessant accusations fueled by
the fear of those accusations being true? <br />
These new realizations about some of the most painful moments in your life can
be bitter pills to swallow, but those pills are the medicine that will help you
get better.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">You have
a love/hate relationship with your diagnosis.</b> Your life has most likely
been, well, hellish. Finally knowing what your role is in the insufferable pain
you feel (and sometimes cause) can be a massive relief. One of the most helpful
practices for improving your life after you’ve been accurately diagnosed is consistent
therapy with a professional you trust and to be 100% honest with them about
your life. That can be super fucking hard to do at first. Therapy flipped my
whole shit upside down. I used to truly, madly, deeply believe that I was the
victim in almost every situation, completely justified in taking from someone
who I thought didn’t deserve what I wanted, and I felt it was normal to
constantly require praise because that was how I’d learned to value myself as a
human being. <br />
After years of therapy, when I find myself daydreaming about that cute-ass
bartender I’ve had a couple dates with and suddenly feel the overwhelming urge
to text him a craaaazy amount of times just to reassure myself that he’s still
into me and I’m still worthy of being liked, I am able to stop myself. As a
teenager, that was nearly impossible. Now I can catch myself before I let the batshit-bullshit
torpedo out of my brain and subsequently scare people away that I’m trying to
befriend or love. Once you recognize<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>that
a thought or behavior is a manifestation of your disorder and not how you
actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want </i>to act/feel/think, it’s
easier to be in get your shit together. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">You’ve
got some extra baggage.</b> Statistically, you’re more likely to also be an
alcoholic, cutter, habitual shoplifter, gambler, pill-popper, frequent
overdrafter, Adderall sniffer, reckless driver, dope-copper, or compulsive
woo-hoo’er. You’re more likely to eat way too much, way too little, or be an
active member of the double-finger diet club like I was for a near-decade. <br />
Many of us are hard-wired for impulsivity; we experience intense, unbearable emotions
and have—err—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">differently-abled</i> “stop
and go” receptors in our brains that are fucking terrible at their job, which
is to remind us about things like how binge-drinking at a party where you don’t
know anyone will make you feel less anxious in the short term, until you get so
shit-canned that you become “That Hot Mess at that Party Last Night” and you
don’t remember what you did or who you backed dat ass up on or when that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">humiliating </i>Facebook photo was taken or
why the hell you now have two mismatched black boots that are clearly different
brands, sizes, and styles. <br />
The most detrimental aspect of this impulsivity is that we consistently fail to
remember what happens when the chase ends and we’re left feeling even lower and
emptier than ever. The desire for pleasure becomes even more enthralling in
this state. And so, the chase becomes cyclical and has no end. This is the
biggest complication in getting better. Most Borderlines who committed suicide
had a longstanding addiction they were unable to shake. Programs like AA and NA
can be quite therapeutic for Borderlines because they’re so inclusive, saccharinely
positive about living one day at a time, the meetings are run by a familiar set
of routines, and the program itself offers a set of principles by which you can
live until you get healthier and feel enough strength and conviction to develop
your own. </div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It’s not
your fault!</b> Most folks are under the impression that “personality disorder”
is just headshrinker jargon for “shitty person.” People tend to equate
personality with identity. Rah, rah, rah, if the problem’s with your
personality, then it must be a choice! Right? No, not really. Or at all. There
are many different players in the development of BPD. Research suggests that it
can be attributed to both biological factors <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and </i>your shitty-ass childhood. Nature and nurture double-teamed us.
And it hurts. Biologically, genetics, neurobiological factors, and
irregularities in certain areas of the brain can all contribute to the
development of BPD in a child. A good 65% of us with BPD have a mother or
father who also has it. <br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hint: It’s probably the one you both
calls you and fights with you the most.</i><br />
A lot of us were abused as kids. A lot of us had at least one parent who
continuously shamed us for expressing emotions. A lot of us never had a stable
parental figure that we could rely on to be there and not disappear. These are
all things that can drive identity disturbance, fear of abandonment, emotional extremes,
“splitting”, etc. </div>
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I’m not saying any of this shit is an
excuse to act out, however. Just because it’s not our fault that we have this
disorder does <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>mean we are not
responsible for our actions, especially when they hurt others or ourselves. Living
with BPD means having to evaluate your intentions, feelings, and actions on a
regular basis until the healthy ways become the natural ways.</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">7.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">You’re
interesting and exciting to others.</b> If there exists any kind of “upside” to
the behaviors I described above, it could be that to those we meet for the
first time, we often exude a mysterious passion and insatiable lust for life that
both men and women find pretty alluring. Most high-functioning Borderlines I’ve
met have been intelligent, artistic, and overwhelmingly charming, despite their
issues. We can be some of the most entertaining people at parties. We’ve got
some of the best stories because we’ve experienced some crazy shit and the
attention of a crowd fuels our performance of such stories. People tend to be
drawn to us, entertained by us, romanced by us. Our [American] culture has glamorized
being whimsically impulsive, thrill-seeking, and acutely intuitive, e.g. the “Manic
Pixie Dream Girl” craze. Most artistic muses I’ve met and read about exhibit a
number of Borderline traits. There’s just something arresting about our oceanic
moods, lust for pleasure, and that dreamy way in which we drift with obstinacy
from genre to genre, scene to scene, person to person, desperately searching
for who we really are. <br />
Tell me that isn’t romantic as hell. </div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">8.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">You’re crazy
in bed.</b> Alright, alright. This is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">purely</i>
a theory I have based on all the Borderlines I’ve known personally, my own
experiences, and research. Maybe the old wives’ tale is true: insecure girls are
just good in the sack. Why, you ask? We have an insatiable desire to please
those who want to please us, we’re eerily intuitive (particularly if we grew up
in scary and/or unpredictable households wherein we had to figure out how to
act all the time to avoid explosive conflict), and some of us have some serious
Daddy/Mommy/Authority issues, which can certainly make for, well, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">interesting </i>sex. The finely-tuned
Borderline intuition is an example of what I like to call a “mental illness
gift” that can be used for good or evil. It’s what can make us good at
manipulation, invalidation, or thought policing. But it can also be used to
pick up on how your loved ones are feeling even if they’re trying to hide it,
be insanely good at gift-giving, know intrinsically how to act around different
people, and decipher exactly what it is that makes your lover tick sexually. </div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">9.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Your best
friend/partner is one strong motherfucker.</b> You have both preciously loved
and vehemently hated them. You’ve probably accused them of not caring about you
and maybe even caused a fight based on your feelings, not fact. One
particularly damaging feature of BPD is what’s called “splitting,” which is
when you alternate between idealizing and devaluing a person. Way more often
than not, you don’t even know you’re doing it and it can occur over anything from
a full-on blowout to a perceived slight, regardless of the other person’s true
intentions. For me, I tend to experience splitting with the people I care about
most and have the greatest fear of losing. The intense Borderline fear of being
abandoned by someone you love can drive you to both obsess over their
involvement in your life and also push them away in response to perceived or
anticipated rejection. My favorite BPD book is appropriately called, “I Hate
You, Don’t Leave Me,” and the title, though a little cheesebally, accurately
describes how splitting feels. You both love the person for the fuzzy feelings
that the close relationship fosters and hate them for the equally unfuzzy and
scary feelings that losing that close relationship provokes. </div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">10.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You</i>
are also one strong motherfucker.</b> Having BPD pretty much guarantees you a
rough time in maintaining healthy, stable relationships, regulating your
emotions, reacting to stress, subduing your impulsive whims, and remembering
who you are and what you value at all times. It’s a hard disorder to live with.
But it gets easier with the more awareness you have about yourself and the more
willing you are to act in healthy ways, despite how it goes against everything
that comes naturally to you. It gets better, Borderlines! And then it gets
worse. But then it gets better again! And so on, until you’ve got a firm grasp
on identifying the BPD parts of your personality and knowing how to use what
you know to be the best person you can be. Because honestly, that’s how we’re
going to successfully love someone healthily and be loved back, to give respect
and be respected, to understand and be understood. As a person with Borderline
Personality Disorder, I spent most of my life feeling like the weary captain of
a damaged ship, trying to stay afloat in a treacherous storm. I spent years
wallowing in despair about my situation instead of working to save myself from
myself. If you have BPD, you’ve probably unknowingly spent your life trying to
get others to save you, but this simply isn’t possible. Please remember: yes, the
storm within you is raging, chaotic, and seemingly endless, but all you must do
is hold on and navigate your way out of the storm. A happy, healthy life does
exist beyond.</div>
Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-64321957739951059362013-06-19T23:50:00.000-04:002013-06-19T23:50:12.325-04:00A collection of short fiction, poetry, and creative non-fiction. I also write short humor pieces, academic essays, and novellas.<br />
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Feel free to contact me at carrielynnedavis@gmail.com. Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-22368649211396000722013-03-17T01:18:00.000-04:002013-03-17T23:34:48.263-04:00THE FETUS<style type="text/css">
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>T</b></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">here’s a dull pain in my stomach. I sit in the waiting room of an abortion clinic, chewing my fingernails to bloody stubs. My mother is to my right. We're not talking. It’s not because I went to a party under the influence of a bottle of Robitussin, and was then raped by Garrett, the drunken big-gummed vice president of the Cribbage Club at my high school and now I have to have an abortion. It’s because she has heartburn from her hazelnut iced coffee, and I feel anxious and uncomfortably pregnant. Up until this moment the fetus has been a mere tumor, the cause of my dry heaves in the morning and relentless constipation, but now I can’t help thinking of it as some sort of little version of me, trapped inside of my womb, happy and com</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">pletely </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">oblivious to its miserable future, which I imagine involves burning in an incinerator, or perhaps being eaten by stray dogs out of a trash can. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">However, I argue, if this fetus is some sort of “little me,” I am indisputably saving it from years of pain. I imagine it, like me, eleven years-old, rummaging through the pantry for a bottle of sleeping pills after a hard day at school. Danny Bouyea does not </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>like-like</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> me back, and I’m crushed. Worse than being crushed, I am embarrassed. My face is red, and his friends heard my confession. They all tee-hee at me, and I decide that I will show them all! Really, I will. They’ll sure feel guilty when they hear from our teacher that I’m </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>dead</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> the next day. This will be the first time the fetus will try to take its own life, and it will not be the last. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This place looks just like any other doctor’s office. Earlier, I had envisioned a kind of seedy, dingy shithole with rickety chairs occupied by the utter filth of humanity—ratty-haired girls with smudged lipstick, regulars of the clinic I’d guess, sitting here and waiting to get the embryos vacuumed out of their ragged wombs so they can go back out and fuck their boyfriends again, end up here--their whole lives a cycle of </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>in</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">-penis-</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>out</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">-fetus, and though I am certainly pro-choice and consider myself, you know, one of those raging lefty liberals, there is something about this vision that leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s not dingy in here at all. On the contrary, it’s bright as all hell. The lights are intense and unforgiving; there are a shit-ton of accent lamps on the tables in between the green pleather chairs (the ones that fart when you move), ghastly fluorescents overhead, and standing lamps by the doors. I look around for a magazine, but for some terrible reason, the only thing within reach is an old issue of </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>American Baby</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “Isobel?” <br />
I start panicking when the nurse leads me away. Oh, Jesus. Jesus Christ, God Almighty. I envision a slew of horrors. I see the huge vacuum hose being shoved up inside of my body. I see the doctor, all yellow-eyed and hungover, accidentally hitting some red button somewhere that says </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>MAXIMUM SPEED!!!</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> and the vacuum going mechanical apeshit, sucking out all my bones and organs, leaving me in a puddle of my own membranes, like rolled-out Playdoh, a fleshy mess of frowning skin. <br />
I am okay. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am okay. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am okay.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>not</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> okay. I’m trembling!-- enveloped in a womb of terror until everything is black and quiet and I feel nothing at all. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When I wake up, my mouth is dry and tastes like corpse. It feels as if my body’s full of a substance that wasn’t there before. Congested. Full. Bloated. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Ugh</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">. My vision’s blurred and the only thing I can see is a big ass to my left, bent over and filling out paper forms at a desk near the bed I'm on. The nurse, I guess. Her hair's all askew and her ass is cartoonishly bulbous. Each cheek could be a pregnant belly. Amazing. The fat-ass nurse pays no attention until I try to sit up, but jerk back down because of the pain.<br />
I groan, “Fucking Jesus,” and Fat-Ass is startled. She tells me that I came to earlier than expected. She shakes her fat ass out of the room, maybe to get the doctor. She doesn't tell me anything. It's </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>fine</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">, really; it's not like I just had a living thing sucked out of my nether regions or anything. I roll my eyes and notice that on the nearby table there’s a yellow biohazard bag with what I imagine to be the dead Fetus curled inside. My eyes are fixed on it. I have an overwhelming, uncontrollable desire to see it. I </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>must</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">. Yes, yes. I don’t even think about it, in a second, I’m sliding off the bed and I’m on my feet, tip-toeing over to the table to take a tiny peek inside. The Fetus looks weird as hell. It reminds me of a shrimp covered in cocktail sauce. But it’s kind of cute. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I do not want this Fetus to be burned or eaten by dogs. It looks so sad and adorable, and I’m filled with a feeling that is foreign to me. It’s overwhelming--like a little storm raging in my head and my stomach gets tighter and tighter and I feel dizzy and it’s hard to breathe. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I start to cry and I want nothing more in the universe than to have this Fetus. I want to keep it. It’s mine, isn’t it? I think that I would be a much better mother to a Fetus than an actual human being that would grow up bitter and hate me, hate the world, hate herself. She’d have 'the Depression', like me, and probably end up killing herself. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I wrap the Fetus up in its bag and gently place it in my purse, which is slung over the chair beside the bed I’d been sleeping on. I feel nervous that the nurse will question me about the missing Fetus, but Fat-Ass never returns. Instead a man in a white coat opens the door holding a file folder and closes it when he sees me standing up. His face has been taken over by a large jolly mustache. The Mustache says, “Whoa there!” and pats the air down with his hands, telling me to sit down. So I sit on the bed and I pretend to listen, nodding a few times, while he talks to me like I’m a child—softly and slowly, sure to give every multi-syllable word a thorough pronouncing. He’s got one of those assuring voices they use in commercials for anti-depressants. </span></span> </div>
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“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now,</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> ah</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">, we’ll want to see you again in a week,” he says, with a furry smile, “so that we can make sure you’re, </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>ah</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">, doing well…” he smiles again. His eyes get all squinty when he smiles. </span></span> </div>
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“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We’ll, </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>ah</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">, want to know if you’re experiencing any, </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>ah</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">, pain.” Smile. </span></span> </div>
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“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But it shouldn’t be anything worse than, </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>ah</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">, an uncomfortable menstruation.” Smile. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Mustache blabs on and on and I start daydreaming about the Fetus. When I leave the room and walk down the hallway, she’s still in my purse, sleeping her soft dead sleep. I open the waiting room door to my smiling mother, who gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up with both hands. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">At home, my mother barrels into the apartment ahead of me and retreats into her room to burn incense and ponder the meaning of life. I decide to store the Fetus in the freezer temporarily until I can come up with a suitable place for her. When I try to accomplish this discreetly, creeping into the kitchen from the doorway, I’m confronted by my little brother, Adam, and this is how he learns what a Fetus is: </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “I will kill you, Dragon Eater!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He stops then and looks inquisitively at the yellow biohazard bag in my hands. <br />
“What’s that?” he says, a little face under a bush of brown curls. <br />
“It is a bag,” I tell him.<br />
“What’s in it?” he asks. <br />
“A fetus.” <br />
“What’s a fetus?”<br />
“A fetus is like a baby, but it’s not.”<br />
“Like a baby?”<br />
“Well, hmm,” I pause a moment, “Let me show you.”<br />
I walk with the little guy back to the Playskool canvas in the middle of his bedroom clutter, and unfold a new piece of paper. With a pencil, I draw a fetus, but it looks more like some sort of merry bulbous worm. Instead of feet it’s got more of a tail that curls up into its body, like this:</span></span></div>
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“This is a fetus?” he giggles. <br />
“Yes.” I tell him. <br />
I leave him looking quizzically at the fetus drawing, and I go to the kitchen and peek in the direction of my mother’s room; inside, she’s sprawled out on the bed, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. I open the freezer and place the biohazard bag inside a frosted box of two year-old old chicken fingers. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I think about the Fetus incessantly over the next few weeks. I’ve been drawing little cartoon fetuses all over my notebooks and financial aid applications for college. The Fetus chills in the freezer all this time. I’m terrified of putting her in a jar with liquid because I imagine that in a month, or maybe even a few weeks, she’ll deteriorate into the liquid and I’ll have a horrifying jar of Fetus Soup on my hands. This cripples me with fear, so I decide to tell my mother about this and ask her what I should do. <br />
It’s three o’clock in the afternoon when I hold this conversation. Adam has just bounced off the elementary school bus without his backpack because he’s lost it again. My sister, Tonya, sits in front of her Myspace page, scrolling through pictures of herself and holding an empty Cool Whip container filled with a meat and cheese concoction. My mother sits cross-legged at the window-bench in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke spirals out the window while watching the neighbors argue in the driveway below.<br />
“Darlene’s hooking,” she says apprehensively. “I know it.”<br />
I tell her this is ridiculous. <br />
“I’ve seen her standing on the street in the early mornings,” she replies, blowing a smoke ring.<br />
I roll my eyes and sit at the kitchen table. “She’s like three hundred pounds, c’mon.”<br />
Below, Darlene’s wiggling her bulbous arm, telling her ex-boyfriend to talk to The Hand. <br />
“So what? Men are pigs,” says my mother. I just shrug. <br />
We sit in silence for a few moments until I cough and tell her I’ve, um, kept the aborted Fetus. Her eyes bulge in surprise and she turns to me slowly, dropping the cigarette into her ashtray. She asks me if I’m kidding. I tell her I’m not. </span></span> </div>
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“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well, my </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>God</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">! Where the Hell is it?” <br />
I look at the freezer and point. <br />
“Oh Jesus Christ, Isobel, in the freezer? With the food?” she says, crinkling her nose and grabbing her cigarette with her fingers, tapping the ash. <br />
I wasn’t sure what to do with it, I tell her, I wanted to preserve it but I didn’t know how. <br />
She thinks for a moment and eyes me suspiciously. “Why did you keep it?”<br />
“I’m not entirely sure,” I say. She waits for me to go on. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I tell her that in the moment, I couldn’t </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>not</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> take it! Something made me. I had no control. I felt guilty and I just walked over to it and took it. It was almost unconscious. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She seems to accept this and rolls her eyes. Tonya comes thumping into the kitchen with her empty Cool Whip bowl, triumphant. My mother says to her, all wide-eyed and excited, “Your sister kept the aborted fetus, it’s in the freezer!” </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tonya looks at me in disgust. <br />
“That’s grody, dude.”<br />
“I don’t care what you think,” I scowl at her, “I’m keeping it.”<br />
This is hilarious to my mother. She’s in hysterics, giggling wildly. My cheeks redden and I regret telling her. I’m silent until my mother settles down and continues puffing her cigarette deeply. Tonya leaves and gives us the look that means she’s busy increasing the brightness and contrast on her Myspace pictures, and she’d better not be disturbed. She slams the door behind her. My mother and I look at each other in silence.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Her head perks up.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Shellac!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">*</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I have serious doubts about the shellac, but after a few days I buy it anyway. Soon my mother and I are sitting at the kitchen table with cigarettes in our mouths, concentrating on painting the little Fetus with shellac, using Adam’s rainbow paintbrushes. I’m careful to bring the Fetus into my bedroom and onto my dresser, but after a week’s observance, I notice that the shellac seems to be making things worse. She’s starting to raisin and I fear that she might waste away. She’s just going to have to be submerged in liquid, like in science-fiction movies, and it’s not until a late afternoon in the living room that I have the answer. I’m sitting on top of a few empty TV dinner boxes and reading a book about fetal care when Tonya turns around from the computer and clears her throat at me. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was thinking about that thing on your dresser,” she says. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Fetus?” I look up. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yeah,” she rolls her eyes, “It’s technically a dead person, right?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well, I wouldn’t really call it a </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>person</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">, really, more of an embryo—an </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>almost-</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">person,” I explain. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yeah okay. Well, what if you put it in that stuff that morticians pump into dead people?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hmm,” I close my book, “You mean formaldehyde?” </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yeah, I guess,” she shrugs and turns around back to her web page of self-portraits. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">How stupid of me. I hadn’t thought of formaldehyde. It’s perfect!</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tonya and I sit side-by-side at the computer browsing Ebay for formaldehyde. After duking it out with </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>chemqueen69</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> and winning at a bid of sixty dollars for a gallon of formaldehyde, I keep the Fetus in the freezer for the two weeks until it arrives in the mail, along with an acceptance letter to a liberal arts college. I’m glowing. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I find a jar of pickles on the refrigerator door. It’s so moldy that the pickles have congealed to a lumpy green jelly. I wash it out, and this is now the Fetus’s home. She floats around in the jar happily and I think that, for a moment, I detect a smile on her little underdeveloped lips. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">*</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">College is near. My room has become the world’s smallest warehouse, with boxes piled so high I can’t even reach them anymore. I want to bring everything to New York, leave nothing behind. Besides, Tonya’s already laid her claim to my bedroom and casually informed me that </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>everything must go,</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> and what is left behind will find its way to the curb. I’m careful to roll up my fetus watercolors very gently, tuck the stuffed fetus I’ve sewn into a bag of its own, and leave just enough room in the car for my senior year art project, a five-foot fetus made of crinkled papers, paint, and duct tape, nailed to a seven-foot cross I made in Shop class. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My mother is unhappy about driving me to college. I know this because, with her coffee in the morning, she takes two Xanax and the ashtray is already full of squished cigarette butts. She also asks me several times if there are </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>any</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> other modes of transportation I can take to get to central New York. I remind her each time, no. There are not. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the car she smokes, listens to Christian talk radio, and cackles. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">These people!” she exclaims, her cigarette bobbing up and down, “They’re crazy!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The drive is nine hours too long for just the two of us. When we arrive at Ithaca College, my mother drops me off with my boxes and gives me the peace sign as she drives away, back home to Maine. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">*</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My roommate hates me. Her name is Tiffany and she likes Dave Matthews Band and I don’t. I reside on the left side of the room. Every millimeter of the wall is covered in fetusy artwork. The five-foot fetus nailed to the seven-foot cross hangs over my bed like a shrine. The Fetus jar sits on my nightstand, next to my reading glasses. On her side of the wall there is a poster of the holy Dave Matthews and a picture of her white-bread mom and dad at her high school graduation. I offer to help decorate her side of the room and she scoffs at me and declines. The next day I’m locked out of the room so I have to ask Residential Life to let me in, and when they break the lock open, Tiffany is Skyping with her boyfriend a couple feet from the door. She says she’s </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>sorry</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">, she didn’t hear me knocking. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We will probably not be friends, I gather. She blow-dries her hair in the early mornings when I’m sleeping, so I make sure that the Fetus is, at all times, facing Tiffany. She tells me it’s </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>disgusting</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> and I’m </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>perverse</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I tell her that I’m bored with the </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>concept</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> of her. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When Tiffany is not around, I paint watercolors of her being killed in ways that amuse me. Tiffany is attacked by a ravenous bear on the campus quad. Tiffany is rolled into a blunt and smoked by Snoop Dogg and his homies. Tiffany is crushed under a steamroller driven by the Fetus. I enjoy painting very much. It gives me inspiration. I like it particularly because I’ve started to fall into the Depression, and I have made only one friend in college. Her name is Courtney Keach and she’s an art major who has a single dorm room covered in ashes and empty beer cans. I don’t often visit her room because it smells like death. This is because she paints portraits of women using her own blood and feces. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I find this very strange,” I tell her as she smears blood over a painted-woman’s exposed nipple.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yeah, well, you’re not the poster girl for normalcy yourself there, </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Fetus</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">,” she says with a Camel between her yellowing teeth, “Besides, that’s all life is—</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>shit</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> and </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>blood</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I like Courtney because she tells me that she just </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>can’t </i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">be bothered with the rest of the </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>dullards</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> on campus, and I’ve been feeling more and more disconnected, myself. I’ve taken up chain-smoking Marlboros between classes. Courtney and I will sit on the roof of the art building and shit-talk about the campus bros and biddies. We moon the football players. On the weekends, we drink red wine from the discount liquor store because we’re </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>classy</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">. After a bottle, we’ll sometimes prank-call our relatives back home. We call Tonya. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hullo?” Click, click, click, in the background. I can tell she’s at the computer looking at pictures of herself. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cunt-bucket!” screams Courtney into the phone. She laughs. Then we hang up and call back. Sometimes we get my mother. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ring, ring, ring. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yes?” </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jiggly tits!”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ah yes, the wonders of the bosom,” says my mother in a stoned whisper, “Caller, please tell me, have you ever considered the amalgamation of the sexes? A super-sex, if you will, with bosoms and a penis, and all that—a race of hermaphrodites. I </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>do </i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">think that it will be only then when we will achieve true liberation from sexual oppression…” </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We hang up before she finishes and laugh until our stomachs ache. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">*</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lately I feel sad all the time. It's halfway through the first semester and I've acquired a job at the campus Information Desk, but I am a bad employee because sometimes people will ask me simple questions on the phone that I should be able to answer, but instead I’ll start crying and ask them questions of my own.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Have you ever considered that our lives have a negative value? Do you think that we, as human beings, are weak creatures, operating under will, which inevitably entails misery?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">No one ever has any answers for me. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’ve also developed a taste for strange foods and I’ve stopped eating at the dining halls completely. Sandwiches and diet sodas and mashed potatoes are bullshit, I decide; instead I find myself sampling my watercolor palette and eating Tiffany’s mail by ripping the letters first into pieces and having them with milk, like cereal. I know this isn’t particularly normal, but I’m compelled to do this. When I eat dining hall food I feel like a</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> dullard</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">. Tiffany finally catches me eating a postcard from her grandmother. The </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Greetings</b></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> of </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Greetings from Florida! </b></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">sticks out of my mouth. She rats on me to the director of Residential Life, who refers me to the counseling center. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Pick any seat you’d like,” the counselor tells me. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Her name is Susie and her office is very </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>zen</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">. On the small table next to the cushy armchairs there is one of those little trickle fountains and a box of tissues. I want to eat one but I think better of it. She gives me a paper assessment and the questions are hilarious. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">6. Have you ever thought about ending your life?: </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><u>Fuck yes!</u></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">7. Have you ever attempted suicide?: </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><u>What do YOU think? </u></span></span><span style="font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="font-size: small;"><u></u></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She asks me to talk about my childhood, so I do. I tell her about the sad-sack stuff, you know, </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>blah blah blah</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">--my parents getting divorced, the near-abortion of Adam, being an obese child, getting picked on, being sad all the time, and all that. I tell her about Garrett, The Big-Gummed Rapist, and the abortion. Yadda, yadda. She's consistently </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>zen</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> until I talk about the Fetus in a jar. Then she stirs uncomfortably, and I start to feel anxious. Oh God, oh God, oh God. The sweats and the shakes and the shudders. I tell her I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My head's in my hands and I try not to cry, but I do. She tells me that I have the Depression and I have to find healthier ways to cope with my stress. In addition, she says, I can join a support group for my Depression that is free, courtesy of the college. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Oh, fun. </span></span> </div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">*</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This is what I do: I stop going to classes and I move to a single room not far from Courtney’s in the Towers residence hall, because Tiffany says she’s had enough of my psycho-bitch bullshit. My room is high up, on the eighth floor. In the mornings I roll joints and imagine tearing out the screen and falling until I hug the pavement with my body. There's nothing more motivating than the image of a brainy soup splatter and a pile of broken bones. There must be at </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>least</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> four floors to guarantee death. I hope I’d land on my head and die instantly, but I have terrible luck, and I fear that I’d just end up brain-dead or paralyzed. I imagine the rest of my life wearing a frilly bib to catch my drooping spittle, wheeled around a facility by the bitter working class who dread going to work and changing my shitty diaper. I do not want this. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The support group is a circle of six sour faces, all waiting for their turn to complain. I despise all of them except for a writing major who oddly resembles Charles Bukowski, terrible face and all. His real name is Frank and he’s there because he has a </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>mean</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> father who did </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>mean</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> things to him when he was a child. He rolls his ugly eyes when the whiny blonde talks about her break-ups. I find this attractive. After the first session, we end up fucking in his dorm room. Aside from the rape in high school, this is my first sexual encounter. I try to like it, but I don’t. He fucks the way he looks like he’d fuck: hard, fast, and without mercy or consideration. Later, I scan his bookshelf to discover that he’s not into Bukowski or Ginsberg or any poet at all, really. He reads Dan Brown and Stephen King. I feel cheated. I sulk out of his room, sore and considerably more Depressed.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">After a few months of the routine class-therapy-work-studying, I stop drinking paint water but it's still hard to get out of bed. I have fetal nightmares, where the jar on my nightstand breaks and the Fetus is RIPSHIT, wiggling her way up to my bed and eating my brains while I'm nestled in a stoned oblivion. Sometimes I call my house to hear my little brother’s voice and then I hang up. At night I sit on the grassy quad with Courtney, and we talk about the nature of death.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It can’t be any worse than this shit-hole!” she spits. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I ask her, “What if it </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>is </i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">worse?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She considers this. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Nah.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">During winter recess, I take a 14-hour long Greyhound ride, back to my family. My bedroom has, as promised, become Tonya’s room and all of my remaining artwork has vanished. We roll joints on her high school history book and play Uno. Since I left, my brother’s been inspired by my fetus drawing and has taken to drawing fetuses of his own. He draws them on the wall of the Storage Room and paints them green. When I ask him why the fetuses are green, he says it’s because they’re </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>moldy--</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">duh! He’s hung my original in a frame over his bed. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I sleep on the couch because Tonya’s taken the mattresses from her old room and consolidated with my mattresses. Now she has a giant bed, and I have none. But it’s okay. I only feel annoyed when, in the middle of the night, I slip my hand under the pillow and my fingers smear some sort of pasty surprise. When I turn the light on, I see that it's an old dinner plate caked with rotting spaghetti. The Fetus in a jar sleeps on the floor next to the couch where I reside until my mother sees it and sneers. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Good God, you still have that awful thing?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I frown at her, hugging the jar close. I keep it hidden for the rest of the break, and when I return to school, the Fetus has her eyes open. They’re milky-looking and underdeveloped. They’re kind of spooky, really. I show Courtney and she’s impressed.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Holy Hell!” she says. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I know.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What the cra</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">p! It didn’t have its eyes open before?”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">No, it didn’t,” I reply. </span></span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We look at the Fetus for the rest of the night while drinking forties, musing about the formation of its eyes. We draw no conclusions that coexist with reality as we understand it, so I go to slee</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">p feeling uneasy for the next few nights. It only gets worse when the Fetus starts talking to me. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You look better without all that eyeliner,” she tells me in the morning, and I drop the black pencil on my dresser, feeling self-conscious. I’m suspicious about this. I invite Courtney to my room because I want to determine if she can hear the Fetus as well, but she doesn’t. It’s just me. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I contemplate telling Susie about this new development, but I think better of it because so far the Fetus hasn’t really said anything </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>terribly</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> disturbing. On the contrary, really, she's been sort of complimenting me and reassuring me. I enjoy our conversations. When I call my mother and she’s stoned off her ass, I want to throw my cell phone against the wall and break it into a thousand teeny tiny pieces, then jump out of my window or hang myself by my own intestines, but the Fetus blinks her milky eyes and sighs softly. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Don’t worry,” she says, in a voice like my own, “There is nothing you can do to change her behavior. You can only focus on your own. Make yourself happy, Isobel. Watch a movie. Go for a walk. Remember that I love you very much.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You’re right,” I nod, and then I watch </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Look Who’s Talking</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This is another thing that’s interesting about our exchanges: the Fetus tells me that she loves me quite regularly. Sometimes this makes me feel uncomfortable. Should I say that I love her back? </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Do</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I love her? We’ve spent quite a bit of time together. It could only be natural to develop a bond stronger than owner-object. Have I grown an affection for the Fetus that I’ve been unaware of until confronted with its own feelings for me? </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I love you too, Fetus,” I say finally, and the Fetus blinks her eyes and smiles. </span></span> </div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">*</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The school year’s almost over. I’ve been having these little moments where I feel like I’m frozen in time. It happens in class often. I’ll be drawing fetuses in my notebook and suddenly I’ll be in the midst of a panic. When I look up, no one is talking and I’m flooded with racing thoughts</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>. I’ve wasted so much time here. I’ve screwed everything up. I’m a fuck-up. A loser. An asshole. No one will ever love me. I’m ugly. I’m pathetic. I’m stupid. Socially-inept. Morally-corrupt. What have I been doing all this time? This whole year’s gone by, and what’ve I accomplished? Nothing. Zero. I’m worthless. Utterly, completely, entirely worthless. I’m a bad person. A bad, bad person, and I deserve to die. </i></span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’ll try to take deep breaths to keep from crying hysterically in public, and then time resumes as if nothing has happened, and I’m left feeling as if a storm has just ripped through the room and I’m the only one who’s been caught inside. I’m on edge all the time. I’m apprehensive and I’ve begun to truly start hating my peers. They’re dullards—all of ‘em! I can’t relate to them and they sure as </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>hell </i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">can’t relate to me. I wouldn’t even want them to; I have nothing to say to them. I even stop talking to Courtney. I stop seeing Susie because I’m suspicious of her motives, certain that her bias, whatever it may be, pollutes her counseling and further undermines my well-being. The only being who can make me feel anything at all lately is the Fetus, who has started sprouting hair and is growing significantly larger. Her body's all mushed inside and her head’s poking out. Sometimes she turns her head so she can watch me if I’m not in her view. This would scare me, normally, but I’m preoccupied with my mind-storms and the little artistic projects I’ve been working on, like writing haiku on other people’s doors in my own blood, which I’ve been collecting in a small jar by cutting my wrists open and letting it drip slowly. It’s a tedious process and consumes most of my time. </span></span> </div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’ve stopped sleeping. Instead, I stay up and have slumber parties with the Fetus. She watches me paint my chewed-up fingernails. I throw popcorn at her when she makes a corny joke. We talk about things I’m too embarrassed to talk about with other people, and the little Fetus is always kind and honest. I ask her what it’s like to die, and she tells me that it’s sad and scary, but it’s okay, because it’s the last time I’ll ever be sad or scared again. </span></span> </div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">*</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I look like a corpse now. I walk around campus like the living dead. My eyes are black and crawling back into my head. My hands are grey and tired. My limbs seem withered. I start wondering if I really am dead, so I cut myself deeper and in more places just to make sure. I use the extra blood I’m producing to write longer poems on the walls. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Your poetry is wonderful,” the Fetus tells me, “but I </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>do</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> wish you wouldn’t hurt yourself like that.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’m creating art,” I grumble. I can’t be bothered. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You should really go back to your counselor,” she says sadly, “I think you might be in danger.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’m not in danger, Fetus,” I say with a paintbrush in between my teeth.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">How can you be certain?” she peeks her head out of the jar.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Because. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I face her. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It would appear to me, Isobel,” she lifts herself out of the jar and sits on the night stand, “that </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>you</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> may not know what you are talking about anymore.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I consider this. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My hands are covered in blood and I feel suddenly overwhelmed with confusion. The Fetus and I look more and more alike than I’ve ever noticed. I stop what I’m doing and look into her sad little eyes with my own sad little eyes.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Do you think I’ve gone crazy?” I ask. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Fetus says nothing. I start to cry.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’m sorry,” she offers, and touches my hair with her tiny hand. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’m sorry, too,” I shake, “What should I do?”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Fetus wobbles when she tries to stand, and when she does, she pushes the jar of formaldehyde towards me and jumps onto the carpet by my feet. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I take the jar in my hands and I look at the teary-eyed Fetus. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You will have to drink it very fast, because your body will reject it,” she says between sniffles, “I am terribly sorry it had to be this way, but I don’t want you to feel pain anymore.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Those watery eyes get round and her body expands before me. The baby hairs on the top of her head grow long and brown like my own, her belly stretches out, and the little nubs on her hands and feet develop into fingers and toes. She unbends her body and rises from the carpet, a little version of me, more and more identical by the second. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I try to think about my future but I can’t. There is nothing. It’s like trying to imagine a color you’ve never seen before. There is nothing ahead of me. No pages left. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What’s going to happen?” I ask her. </span></span> </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I will take good care of your life,” she says softly as I sit on the carpet and lift the jar, “I promise.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I have been waiting for this for a long time, I suppose. I'm sad and scared. I curl into a fetal position next to the wall and watch the Fetus nod at me. I swallow and swallow and swallow and there's a sharp pain in my stomach, pregnant with poison. The Fetus asks me what I see, and I want to tell her, but I'm gasping and choking. The formaldehyde burns and burns and burns. I want to tell her that I see nothing. Nothing at all, while I waste away. But it's not true. The last thing I see is the smiling Fetus and I smile back. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'll never feel sad or scared again. </span></span> </div>
<br /><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">COPYRIGHT 2010 CARRIE-LYNNE DAVIS </span></span></span> </div>
Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-6363742999033770722012-07-21T18:03:00.001-04:002012-07-21T18:03:44.809-04:00Liberating the Sheeple, Chapter One<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 26.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;">JESUS S<span style="color: red;">A</span>VES</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Emmeline
Reiner’s last cigarette drooped from her pursed lips as she sat in the square
nook of the open window from her dumpy third-floor apartment. She was in a
right foul mood. Someone had been nicking cigarettes off her, she knew it. Her
fingers probed the empty belly of the pack, as if one were hidden somewhere in
the creases of the cardboard. She’d have to go out today. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">What
a pisser.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Below,
an old woman stood on the corner sidewalk, holding a sign that read: JESUS
SAVES. Emmeline rolled her eyes. Jesus saves what? Money by switching to Geico?
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Although
it was a hot mid-August morning, the old woman wore a raggedy winter coat and a
kerchief around her head, as if it would save the pathetic fluff of hair she
had left from the humidity. Emmeline pulled the last drag of her cigarette and
tossed it out the window into the tiny patch of grass in front of the
apartment. She went to close the window but stopped upon seeing a Ford pick-up
slow to a halt beside the old woman on the corner. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">The
driver was a no-good kinda guy from the looks of him. He wore a greasy mullet and
sunglasses. He hurled a Big Gulp at the old woman. Then he gunned it down the
street. Emmeline squinted, making out the figure of the old woman behind the
billowing dust from the pick-up. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">When
the air cleared, there she was, standing on the corner like a stop sign,
drenched in red soda. She was still holding her sign, which looked suddenly
eerie, with little red rivers flowing off its edges, imbuing the background
with stains the color of watery blood. Poor old bat. She might’ve been ignorant
but she sure as hell didn’t deserve to be Big Gulped. Emmeline coughed. The old
woman turned her head toward the window, narrowing her sad little eyes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Emmeline
shut the window with a bang and pulled down the shade. Some people in this
world. Some people made no sense. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">In
the kitchen she poured a day-old coffee from the pot and eyed the calendar on
the front door. What day was it? She peered. Wednesday. Oh, hell. That meant
work. She moseyed into the living room to find her teenage daughters slumped in
darkness, like gargoyles, hunched behind glowing screens. Isobel, the elder,
more embittered spawn, chugged from a one-liter bottle of Mountain Dew, her puffy
face illuminated by the multi-colored lines of scrolling text from a chat room
on the computer screen. Genevieve, the obedient, more tolerable of the two,
read from the Bible in front of the TV. A talk show played behind the screen.
The host unfolded a notecard and shook his head. After a dramatic pause, he
shouted maniacally, “You are NOT the father!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">On
stage, a frazzled, twenty-something <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>leapt from her chair and began wailing into her
hands. The would-be father made fist-pumps. The audience members did ‘the wave’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“Bullshit!”
cackled Emmeline, startling Genevieve from her reading. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“Do
you ever find out who the father is in these damned shows?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Genevieve
shrugged. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Isobel
swiveled around in her computer chair and said, “Who the fuck cares?” with a
mouthful of chips. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“Does
it matter?”</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">¿</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Lewiston,
Maine was a grim little city. The folks from the greener parts of Maine started
calling it ‘the Dirty Lew’ some years back. Emmeline supposed this came from
how unhappy people were around these parts. Nobody smiled. Nobody laughed.
Nobody whistled in the streets. In the summers, children ran around pretending
to shoot each other. Hassled mothers slouched languidly out their windows,
rolled cigarettes in their wrinkled fingers, maybe two or three hard drinks
deep. Among the wilted apartments, the downtown was littered with the empty
storefronts of failed Ma and Pa shops, all boarded up and stickered with For
Sale signs. Leaving the apartment meant passing through this failure. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Emmeline
sighed and threw herself out of her apartment and into her rickety Toyota. She
peered out of the driveway. The old stained woman was gone. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-language: AR-SA; mso-font-kerning: .5pt;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">¿</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"> </span><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"></span></i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Nestled
within the confines of an old, vacant Ames department store was Great Falls
Sales. This was where Emmeline worked part-time for cigarettes and rent money.
The job itself was pretty monotonous. Two days a week, she sat there for a good
six hours straight, calling old cranks who never had the money to buy what she
was trying to sell. This month’s special product was called Memorall, a
supplement that increased one’s memory. Despite sitting through a grueling
two-hour training session on the product, Emmeline was still not quite sure how
it worked. Luckily, she read from a script. They all did. Everything was
scripted at Great Falls, even the answers to questions people asked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">The
inside of Great Falls was a dreary labyrinth of cubicles with computers and
most of downtown Lewiston’s working population attached to headsets, many of
them yelling into their microphones at the hard of hearing. Emmeline slumped through
the maze to find an empty cubicle, audible pieces of the script bouncing on and
off the walls, creating a tornado of noisy sales pitches that swirled into the
metallic rafters. She found her seat and logged into the computer, already
craving a cigarette. Sprouting from the top of her cubicle’s back wall was a
mass of grey curls. A raspy voice croaked from beyond.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“No
ma’am! CRED-IT CHECK! CRED-IT. CREDIT!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">The
grey curls bobbed up and down. Susie. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“YES,
WE WILL CHECK YOUR CREDIT.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">According
to Emmeline, Susie was the most tolerable co-worker. She, like many of the
older folks, absolutely dreaded technology, could only type with one finger,
and shared an intrinsic resentment for supervisors half her age. Emmeline coughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Susie looked up, nodding a hello. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“It’s
not free, ma’am. The ad says it’s RISK free.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Susie
made a gun with her fingers and shot herself in the head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">When
Emmeline put on her headset, someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was Kenny,
her twenty-two year old supervisor, flamboyant and relentlessly animated about
everything. Kenny looked like the type of guy in advertisements for cell
phones, so comparatively clean-cut that you wondered why he was working there.
His voice was high and had a jangle to it, as if he was always whining. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“Hiiiiii,
Emmeline. How’s it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">going</i>?” he sat at
the empty chair next to her cubicle and tilted his head toward her, as if they
were girlfriends. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“It’s
another day,” she said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“You’re
up for a performance review today.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Emmeline
stiffened. This was bad news. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“Can
you follow me?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kenny escorted her to a back room.
Inside, the walls were grey and windowless. There was a table and two metal
chairs, one of which was occupied by a man in a suit that she wasn’t quite sure
if she recognized. He motioned for Emmeline to take the adjacent seat. Its
metal feet screeched against the cement floor as she pulled the chair back. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Emmeline Reiner, yes?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To Emmeline’s horror, she realized
there was gum in her mouth. She swallowed it down with a nod. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You understand the importance of
the scripts we use here, don’t you, Ms. Reiner?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Emmeline sighed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“Of
course. It’s just that people don’t want to be talking to a robot, you know?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“But
they’re not talking to a robot, are they, Ms. Reiner? They’re talking to a
human being. They’re talking to you.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“That’s
all well and fine. I understand. It’s just that sometimes people think they’re
talking to a recording and get frustrated with me. I’d be frustrated, too.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">The
man scribbled something illegible on a pad of paper. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“You
see,” he folded his hands, “There are legal reasons why we must read from the
script and only the script. I have no doubt that you can find ways to be
personable while still adhering to the script we provide. It is your job, after
all.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">He
smiled, baring small square teeth so bleached that they shone like diamonds.
The sense of finality in his voice suggested that Emmeline’s job relied on her
compliance. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“I
understand,” she said, defeated. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">“Great.
No more slip-ups, okay? This will be considered a formal warning. Thank you for
your understanding in this matter.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">The
man shook her hand with firm, icy fingers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When she returned to her cubicle, Susie
spun around and around in her chair. Emmeline put on her headset and began
dialing numbers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hello?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, hello, is this Mr. Robert
Greco?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Eh, who’s askin’?” he coughed into
the receiver. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Emmeline’s eyes glazed over, the
script blurring on the screen ahead.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My name is Emmeline. I’m a
representative for Memorall—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Click. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This went on for hours. In the break
room, management had arranged a basket full of free Memorall samples. After a
much-needed cigarette, Emmeline stuffed a bunch of them into her pocket. Back
at her cubicle, Susie was doing the Macarena and yelling into her headset. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes Ma’am! That’s thirty-nine
ninety-nine. No, thirty-nine. THURR-TEE NINE.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Emmeline ripped open a Memorall
sample and tossed the supplement down her throat. It left a bitter taste.</span></div>Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-85193510387439488982012-03-15T23:53:00.000-04:002012-03-15T23:53:16.366-04:00Great Falls<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"> The call center where I work is called Great Falls Marketing, though you wouldn’t know it unless you knew someone who presently worked there or worked there yourself. Even former employees lose track of the names on account of them changing all the time. There are alotta outside things that change about the place, like the lower-level salesfolk (the turnover rate’s higher than most fast food places), the managers who either get busted for doing drugs on the job or moving out of the city to find other work, and the many products. Like most places that base employee’s pay on commission, some products are considered more important than others. The importance of selling a certain product depends on how much money they pump into the call center. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">I guess that’s sorta obvious. Sorry.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">You know those TV advertisements for products that seem to always cost just ‘one low payment of 19.95’? The butt-wipers, potted plant litter boxes, cure-all supplements, and specialty pancake grills? All those products meant to make some aspect of life significantly easier—those are the ones we sell at Great Falls. The highest call volumes occur early in the morning for the old fogies and stay-at-home mothers or late at night for the drunken prank-callers or unemployed fathers. Surprisingly, most of the people who invest their money in, well, what I’d consider mostly useless products are not the rich housewives of fat-cats with disposable incomes, but rather the poor folks, the working class, the very people that work at Great Falls. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">Anyhow, I’ve been working here for three years, which you’d think would give some kinda sense of job stability. That’s not the way it works here though, or, from what I understand, at alotta call centers. Even though the longer you’ve been there means you’ve had more time to work on your sales pitch and the more comfortable you become trying to desperately sell relatively useless products to old cranks who are hard of hearing and don’t have money, the fact is that the company has to pay you more for each sales you make the longer you’ve been there, and companies hate spending money when they don’t have to. What I’ve noticed is that callers already got their minds made up when they make the call anyway, so inexperienced youngsters who are grateful to make more than the minimum wage and can type faster and use the computer with more ease than us old folks make the best employees. It’s a real shame how that works. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">On the sales floor there’s not much community. Great Falls Marketing’s building is the shell of what used to be an Ames department store which went under like so many other stores did when the last of the factories moved out of Lewiston and there were no jobs, which meant no income coming in and therefore no money, gas, or motivation to visit different stores for all the family essentials. That’s when Wal-Mart came in, but that’s a story for another time. Like all department stores, the inside is huge—much bigger than you’d think on account of the aisles and department signs and tall shelves that are now absent. If you could take the roof off and have an aerial view of Great Falls’ insides, you’d see a labyrinth of desks with computers and swivel chairs placed in circles with gray cubicle walls only tall and wide enough to keep in each sales rep’s voice from bothering their neighbor. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">(unfinished) </div>Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-24693431123379998702012-03-15T23:49:00.001-04:002012-07-21T18:23:58.489-04:00Notes on Borderline Personality Disorder<br /><h1>
<b>01</b>. HOW DO I BEGIN?</h1>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
“This is about you,” the woman smiled warmly, “How do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you </i>want to begin?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
This woman was my new therapist. She told me to call her Winnie. She had a very relaxed, yet purposeful demeanor. I guess I’d describe her as an ‘intensely zen’ black woman with wild curly hair that hung freely in all directions. I was drawn to that hair, which was black but for bits of grey streaks that made her seem wise. Her clothing was very earthy: lots of greens and browns, loose-fitting, professional yet casual. It was very Ithaca. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">She</i> was very Ithaca, I concluded. I’ve wanted so badly to embody this place, especially because people there always seemed just so damn content with their lives. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Well,” my voice cracked pathetically, “I guess we should start with the purpose of all this. Right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Winnie nodded. What was the purpose? I looked around. There was a bookshelf neatly packed with psychology and self-help books with titles like “Walking on Eggshells” and “I Hate You, Don’t Leave Me!” I stifled a laugh. Winnie was apparently a specialist in Borderline Personality Disorder and that’s why I was there. Was Winnie, too, a borderline? I wanted to ask her. If she was, did that mean I could one day get my shit together and have a fulfilling, decent-paying job one day? Could I have friends and love people without hurting them? Could I feel and act the way healthy people feel and act? Could I ever be just, I don’t know, happy to be alive? </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“If there’s one thing I know about myself with complete certainty is that I’m into goals. I always have been. Maybe it’s that working class ‘if you can dream it, you can achieve it’ bullshit American ideology I was force-fed growing up, but I do tend to work as hard as I can toward something.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This attribute, I’d found, could be either beneficial or harmful to me, depending entirely on circumstance. That’s the thing with being Borderline, though. My perception of the entire universe could change in a moment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I know about my problem. I’ve done an insane amount of online research. I’ve gone to support groups. I even joined an intense twice-weekly group therapy session specifically for people with BPD. I know all that stuff so we can skip the educational blah-blah whatever, I just want to fix my life. Now that I know the reason behind it all, I just want to figure out how to live normally.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She raised a brow. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“How do you define ‘normal’?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Damnit. I knew that was coming. Suddenly I felt frustrated. Come on, she knew what I meant. Did this lady really think I needed to define normality or clarify that I really meant I wanted to live healthy? </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I don’t mean normal, I mean healthy. Sorry.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“What does healthy living mean to you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
How predictable. She was starting to lose me. I questioned her ability. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
After a dramatic sigh, I told her my vision of an ideal, healthy life. If I could have it my way, Isobel Libby would be a recognized name in the artsy-fart literary community. I’d be a published writer and a professor of writing. I’d have tenure, a good credit score, and a fat savings account, living comfortably but modestly in Ithaca or the outskirts. Accompanying me in this fantasy life would be a faithful, intelligent husband who loved me unconditionally, a couple of uncharacteristically sociable housecats, and maybe a vegetable garden or something like that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
What would a typical day look like in a life like this?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Imagine! I’d wake up without hitting the snooze button a thousand times, totally ready and willing to begin a new day. My husband and I would shower together and then over breakfast we’d debate whether The Smiths or The Cure were superior in expressing the pain and sadness of the human condition through song. We’d agree on The Smiths. Then, I’d go to work and inspire hungover, disenchanted undergrads to write about their own unique pain and it would work. Students would leave class inspired, which would inevitably make me feel accomplished. On weekends I’d do things healthy, content, middle-to-upper class adults do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Winnie laughed when I told her this. She asked me what I meant and admittedly I wasn’t sure. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“You know, go on a wine tour, or go kayaking or some shit. Visit a national landmark. Have brunch with friends. I’d love to just go to an art gallery and stand there admiring the famous artwork without hating myself the entire time for not having my own artwork displayed in some swanky gallery. I want to have sex and feel comfortable enough about it to not wake up extra-early in the morning to fix my hair and do my makeup in the bathroom, for like a whole hour, just so I can avoid looking unattractive to the guy for even a second. I want to be able to save my money instead of compulsively spending what I earn on useless things that, in the moment, I’m certain will make my whole life better if I own it. Does this make sense?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Did it? Winnie didn’t say, so I continued. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Basically, I want to have control over my life—but I mean, also acknowledge that there are things I don’t have control over, and I want to feel okay with that fact. You know?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
She knew. I could tell from the look on her face. Maybe she could help me after all. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Winnie, according to her degrees on the wall, had apparently lived in Arizona and Texas before settling down in the liberal, hippie, college town of Ithaca, located in what most people consider “upstate New York” but is more accurately called central New York. I began to wonder about Winnie’s origins. Did she grow up religious and conservative? Was that why she moved here? Or was it more random? Is the job market for therapists competitive? </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“You’re very self-aware, Isobel.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I beamed. Positive reinforcement has always been my favorite part of therapy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“How can you know that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Come on Winnie, convince me of my own intelligence. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Isn’t that sorta one of the major hurdles of being Borderline, the identity thing? Like, I can <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i> I’m self-aware, but what if I’m lying to myself and make myself believe the lie in order to fit the emotions I’m experiencing? I could lie to you about my entire life history, tell you my made-up version of how everything went down, and make my whole character conform to what I think you want my character to be. What then!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Of course you can do that,” she said, “Borderlines most often do. That’s why it can be hard to treat. Sufferers of BPD are some of the most therapy-resistant individuals out there for precisely those reasons. But you know all that. And I know you know. It appears to me, Isobel, that you’re well-informed on the nature of that which causes you pain. So, perhaps we can start our therapy by integrating what you’ve learned into your daily life,” she adjusted her glasses, “The fantasy life you described isn’t all that unrealistic, you know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I was in love. She was saying everything I wanted her to say. Yes, I can get better! Things will work out after all!</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Upon leaving her office, some sort of natural high enveloped me; I felt confident, hopeful, and empowered. Why <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i> I feel so fucking good? To be real, I’ve always had a raging hard-on for introductory meetings with therapists, doctors, academic advisors, or other figures of authority in my “betterment.” I get high off telling people about my tumultuous childhood and all my miserable problems. It makes me look like a fucking champion contrasted with my accomplishments. After those intro meetings, I’d walk out the door with the gait of the triumphant underdog at the end of some movie critics would call ‘heartwarming.’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Deciphering one’s own identity is at the core of many issues for someone with Borderline Personality Disorder. When I feel like someone else truly knows or understands me, it makes me feel like I know myself. This can be a problem. For me, it meant constantly performing a role, some fragmented version of myself, emphasizing the personal characteristics that a particular person would like and hiding those that would prove unfavorable. To my father, I was a diligent, asexual, intelligent hard worker, bursting with promise and destined to achieve the sort of economically-flourishing, prestigious life that he always wanted for himself. He lived far away and I made damn sure to fax every report-card, mail local newspaper clippings of my name on the Honor Roll list, email him links that featured me on the Internet, send him pictures of me Accomplishing Things. When he’d ask me about my day or what I’d been up to, it was almost as if the answers went through some sort of filter I’d subconsciously constructed to give people the best possible story—the story that ends the way they’d want it to end. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
For this reason, throughout my life, I’ve gravitated toward people who are open about their problems. The depressed, the addicted, the lonely. In a similar sense, I’ve also been drawn to others in search of identity. If I could figure other people out, that is, to discover the nature of their existential pain, I could pretend it was mine, too. The most salient example of this behavior was probably at thirteen. Isn’t it for all of us, really? </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
To Amanda, my best friend in the eighth grade, I was not only a fellow misanthrope and jaded anarchist, but a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> rebel artist, not one of those fucking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">posers.</i> Fuck them! They were even worse than boring, square people because they<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> pretended</i> to be marginalized and rejected. They didn’t care about art or music or culture the way we did, spending hours in the basement listening to underground indie bands and educating ourselves about their histories. Yeah, the loud distortion was a little deafening, but so was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">life</i>. Fuck easy-listening! Fuck popular music! Fuck popular--anything! If our parents hurt us, if our government lied to us, if our God damned us, then fuck ‘em all. Goddamnit, we trusted them, and they fucked us over. When we were little, we thought the world was one way, and then we learned it wasn’t anything we thought it was. I would compare my emotional baseline in middle school to how you feel the first time you learn what the pilgrims <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actually</i> did to the American Indians when white people claimed America as theirs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Fueled by feelings of betrayal and some serious cognitive dissonance regarding our perception of the world we lived in, Amanda and I constructed our identities based solely on opposing the majority. It was my personal mission to embody the opposite of I thought society wanted me to be. Admittedly, my knowledge of society’s ideal citizen was mostly informed by punk rock lyrics and contemporary films depicting American dystopias. In retrospect, it was perhaps this period in which I was most unsure about who I really was, but hey, can you really blame me? I think we all experience identity distortion on the bumpy road to adulthood. The road for some people, I guess, can be really, really fucking long. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
How other people saw me used to completely determine how I saw myself. I’m sure most people can relate. You know how in twelve step meetings they always reference a Higher Power? For the longest time, mine was praise, approval, or being rewarded. If I sat and thought about it for a while, I’m sure I could attribute the entire course of my life to my addiction to praise. Even writing. Though I’ve kept journals since forever (the oldest from age five), I started to take storytelling seriously when I was in the fifth grade. It all started with a lie. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Do you remember when computers first became a common thing to have in the household? I harbored secret feelings of superiority because I could type at a speed that could make my mother’s eyes fall out. I loved typing. Being able to create words by making my fingers dance in memorized routines seemed to me like practicing the violin or playing a sport. I’d pick a children’s book from the mess of books in my closet and type out the entire story in a word document. I found this activity entirely enjoyable and worthwhile. Soon I began to print the stories out, examine them for typing errors, and admire the word count I’d put at the bottom of the last page. As such, the stories became my own. One day, I put a ten page story on my teacher’s desk when the closing bell rang. It was not titled. The story simply began at the top of the page and ended with: “Word Count – 6,218 by Carrie-Lynne Davis.”</div>
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Naturally, when Mr. Bee came to class the next day, drank his coffee, and began reading this legitimately publishable story supposedly written by me, a mere fifth grader, in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> class, he probably thought he’d stumbled upon a child prodigy. I was treated as such when I arrived to school that day. Mr. Bee took me aside and sang my praises. I was a promising young writer, destined for literary greatness! He asked me to read it to the class and when I did, they too began treating me as if I were gifted. When I got home that day, I kicked my mother off the computer because, I told her snidely, I had to work. This was when I began to type a story of my own. It was like telling a story to a friend, but my fingers the voice and my friend the glowing white nothingness of an empty word document. </div>
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I desperately wanted to know people, and then show people how well I know them, and most important of all, I wanted people to know me and love me for how well I know them. That’s what writers do, right? I suppose this could be applied to all artists. Now, don’t get twisted, I’d never try to start one of those freshman seminar “What is Art?” conversations or anything, but I do think that writers have to not only live their lives but also garner the ability to see it in terms of the bigger picture, and by that I mean the human condition, or what it means to be alive, to be conscious, to feel. </div>
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Some character in some movie once said that the best way to make someone like you is to ask questions about them. People love talking about themselves. I know I certainly love talking about myself. Or maybe I just like telling stories. I’ve been doing it ever since I could. </div>
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After I left the mental health clinic, it was off to the local coffee shop to embark on the literary career of my dreams. I sat there with my laptop and a coffee, feeling slightly like an asshole. What do you write about when you discover that the nature of your human struggle stems from the lack of a consistent human identity? Could you then write about anything or nothing at all? </div>Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-49913021863869296062011-09-10T23:14:00.001-04:002011-09-10T23:14:25.244-04:00I gave myself a writing exercise today.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Joanie Loon sits bug-eyed and yellow under a greasy blanket of hair in front of a laptop in the bedroom of her new downtown apartment, its wallpaper curling at the corners and floral in the ghastly sort of way, reminiscent of what she imagines the 1960's to have looked like. Her nails are chipped black and chewed up, fingers clicking on the mouse fast as a heartbeat as she groans through the pictures of herself on Facebook. Now that she's graduated college she has to find the most appropriate picture for her default. That's what employers do nowadays, the old people blabbed on and on about it. They Google the shit out of young applicants in search of bong rips, nip slips, and other evidence of drunken debauchery and general tomfooleries. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">What does the Internet think of Joanie? Who exactly is she on the Internet? What do people think? How do they see her? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">What Google shows is her Facebook, naturally, then her old Myspace, some vague webpage featuring a list of undergraduate scholarships, and--to her horror--her ONLINE DIARY, its description under the header reading: IF ONE MORE PERSON LOOKS AT ME I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD I'M GOING TO KILL MYSE--(cached).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She thinks about deleting it as dozens of blog posts flood the screen. This journal's years and years old, there's gotta be over a hundred entries. She'd have to delete the whole thing or make each entry private. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Is it worth it?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She blinks. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">This time would be better spent working on a cover letter. This time would be better spent exercising.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">This time would be better spent cleaning her room. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She picks up a notepad from the desk and pops the cap off a Sharpie. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">"Things I Should Do Right Now"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">by Joanie Loon</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">1. Apply to jobs</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">2. Attract a mate</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">3. Call a parent</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">4. Go poop</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">5. Drink some water</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">6. Take a shower</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">7. Make a new friend</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">8. Volunteer </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She scratches that one out. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">8. Give a bum a cigarette. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She scratches that out, too. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">8. Join a Facebook group about Darfur (etc)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">9. Learn to play guitar</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She decides these are all terrible. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">10. Dance like no one's watching</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">11. Let the good times roll</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">12. Don't worry, be happy. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">13. Commit suicide. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">The box of warm beer in the kitchen is calling. She retreats and cracks one open, tries to gulp down as much as possible. When she can't stomach it anymore, she puts the can down and burps at her reflection in the mirror, her lips flapping like Homer Simpson.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">"Heyyyy," she says to herself. Almost half the beer's gone. If she can do this twelve more times she'll be drunk in like what, ten minutes. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She sits back at the computer, looks at the can and thinks. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Too much work. Too gross. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Back to the screen.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Why are all the jobs on Craigslist scams? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT POSITION ENTRY LEVEL 14.00 AN HOUR EMAIL RESUME $$$$$. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">EGG DONORS NEEDED 12,000 DOLLARS NO PHONE CALLS.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Yeah, okay, she'll get right on that. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She clicks on her Gmail tab. One unread message from her OKCupid account.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">"Ooh la la..."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">According to this email, she's just been virtually winked at by a user who calls himself "Stackhouse." She clicks on his icon and his photo jumps up at her on the screen like an angry boner. He's wearing a baseball cap and facial hair that reminds her of something from a Rorschach test. Her eyes narrow, assessing. What a shit-show. He's got a tribal tattoo on his forearm and he was too stupid to turn the flash off in front of the mirror. Stackhouse. He's gotta be like thirty-something because he doesn't know shit about the Internet. Everyone's a stereotype with a pulse.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She starts typing a message for him: "Tits or get the fuck out."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Deleted. Whatever. He won't get it anyway. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Joanie sighs into her chair and looks at the clock. Seven-thirty. Is that too early to start drinking seriously? The question depresses her. Back to Facebook. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Would Joanie hire Joanie? Probably not.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">This is insufferable. Now that she’s graduated she’s not allowed to drink beer or be silly in pictures? Or wear black nail polish or skirts higher than the knee or reference The Smiths in Sharpie on her purses or say Fuck or Shit or Cocksucker or sit on the sidewalk or roll her eyes or gauge her ears or smoke cigarettes or spit in public even if she’s got a really big loogie filling her mouth? How the fuck can anyone breathe around here? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">The oppression grips her bladder. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">In the bathroom she pees while staring at her toenails, which have seen better days. In the magazine rack is her unfinished novel. She’s been editing it every time she takes a shit. Lately she’s been all sorts of wound up. How do people with jobs live? Does everyone make some unspoken commitment to squaredom once they hit the workforce? </span></div>Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-74493431044467781402011-09-02T22:35:00.000-04:002011-09-02T22:35:35.860-04:00The Ambien Brain<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> This is something I wrote while on Ambien a couple weeks ago. I thought it was hilarious so now it's here. </i></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"> *</div>look:<br />
<br />
I'M STAYING AWAKE FOR THE DOUBLE FEATURE!<br />
<br />
observe: hindered ability to perceive location. i actually thought i was at 110 s quarry for a moment. <br />
<br />
Shapes do not assume their general movements when moved. These fuckers are unpredictable and must not be trusted at face value.<br />
<br />
<br />
Interruption by the old woman faces in the towels. They don't even bother speaking. Hags. <br />
<br />
Dust flies menacingly, without destination.<br />
<br />
weird shit's happening on the couch. First, I'm here. Second, there seems to be an array of multicolored dust particles masquerading as insects moving about to and fro on the screen of the monitor. This is madness. At least the silly neon aesthetic shit show happening right now renders it threatless.<br />
<br />
So tired. Must sleep, right? Must close eyes.<br />
MOMENT: I feel as if I'm moving in a car. I can see the outside of the wheel before anyone else can. Praire land and rolling hills beyond; this is what I imagine a long drive through Kansas to look like. Of all places, why would Ambien send me to Kansas? I want my money back.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm on the couch, not in my room, I can't just lay here passed out and making devillish noises at six in the morning. Come on Internet, hit be with your best shot. <br />
<br />
Why am I not in bed? Christopherrrrr. <br />
<br />
This is just silly now. I suspect I might have to go outside for a cigarette but god knows all the horrors which lie beyond the knowing caresses of this leather couch. Some air might do me nicely, though. Maybe just for five? I'll check facebook and try not to wig out if my profile picture is the repo man doing doughnuts in my car while giving me a menacing thumbs-up under the boom of some mixtape my mother made me.<br />
<br />
Wait!<br />
<br />
<br />
Best idea. Wish I could fucking remember two seconds later. Whatever.<br />
<br />
Yo I love dat gentle crisp wind at the end of August. I feel immediately less terrible once treating myself to some fresh Commons air. I have cankers on my tounge and it hurts so good to smoke cigarettes again. <br />
<br />
<br />
Who or what is alive at 6am on a Wednesday morning? Citizens, from what crevices do you crawl?<br />
<br />
Does coffee exist at this time? <br />
<br />
Ooh, I hear the dull groan of the TCat. I look north at the wheezing blue bus, dragon-like, passing the library and consider whether Gimme might be open. Probably not, the pansies. <br />
<br />
<br />
Did Matt Broadhead actually talk to me through my open window on the fire escape or did I hallucinate that? What did we talk about? Probably how shitty Lewiston is. When in doubt, always talk about Lewiston, a city so festering in bitter nostalgia that its downtown Jenga-like stacks of faded bricks, broken windows, and barbed wire is held up by leaning hipsters or No Trespassing signs covered in graffiti.<br />
<br />
My baby, Lewiston.<br />
<br />
Won't someone put us out of our misery? What did we do to deserve this city? Sure, we spilled poison into our beloved Androscoggin, sat back in our lawn chairs while local government axed our unions, and pushed our children into crowded daycares to be raised by people more frazzled and disillusioned than ourselves.<br />
But think about it: before the industry, we had nothing. <br />
<br />
<br />
Aqua-blue dots in the corner of my eye. Why aqua? How tacky. <br />
<br />
<br />
Ugh, Starbucks or Gimmie? Is that the same as deciding between Democrat and Republican? I think I'm still technically registered as a Green Party member. What was I thinking?Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-53613269257628927182011-03-08T06:01:00.000-05:002011-03-08T06:01:47.614-05:00the hours (unfinished)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At 9pm,</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">at last, the snow stopped falling, </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">all the lights in the house</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">are as yellow as the sun.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Upstairs in the attic bedroom,</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">a towel dresses the crack</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">of the door, so I can sit, smoking</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">another cigarette invisibly.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At 10pm,</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I think of showering and imagine</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">myself naked and saggy behind a glass,</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">under the storm of a sodium sulfate spigot. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Instead, I check my Facebook and smile</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">at endless photographs of cats.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At 11pm,</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">silence sneaks into each room</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">of my house. Doors close softly</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and the yellow lights fade. I am</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">all that's left. The calendar falls</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">onto the hardwood; I daydream</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">about finding another tack.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>At 12am,</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">the house on southern Quarry</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">sounds like a single mouse</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">scrolling through interviews</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">of Charlie Sheen. Ashamed,</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I sneak into a cigarette and try</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">escaping; I intend to write a story</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">about a woman who sleeps forever.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At 1am,</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">my inbox has three new messages. For</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">a brief moment, there is joy. Two </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">are from companies, insisting they help</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">fix the size of my waist, and the other </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">from my future rich-prince husband</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">longing for me in his Nigerian palace.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The candles burn out. I fantasize.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At 2am,</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">night time cough syrup teases me</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">on the desk, beside a capless soda</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">from the bowels of the fridge, where</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">my groceries go to die, unloved</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">because they demand the energy</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">it takes to prepare them. I slice</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">crescent fingernails into the trash.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At 3am,</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">tv shows are funnier,<span> </span>actors less </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">amateur, the sound of canned cheer</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">after the joke is less commanding.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A cookie drowns in a milk glass</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">while I watch Richard Simmons</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">dance away his heavy past.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At 4am,</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">the bed is still made. From the yellow eye</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">of my house, I watch men feed a truck</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">with my empty packs of cigarettes, tissues</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">in crusted wads from bad days, the empty</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">bottle of Cymbalta, whose label hides</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">its refill, and ashes from the empty bowl.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At 5am,</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">world news slaps my doormat. On</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">my bed, the pillows lay spooning</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">like lovers; I long for their empty</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">invitation. I squish another cigarette</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">into a mass grave of each smoky hour.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Refreshing pages for anything new</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">dulls the agony of having to think.</span></div>Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-8367178584140135862010-11-26T15:10:00.004-05:002010-11-26T15:15:57.017-05:00The Hipster Summer<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Every night tastes like piss </span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">in a forty ounce bottle, smells </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">like sweat and the staleness of our cluttered,</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">knick-knacky bedrooms, closing us </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">in with their picture-book</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">walls, sounds outside like hello's and good</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">bye's and high-fives, inside </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">jokes, heavy breathing and little moans, sights </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">like dim lights, the watery wandering </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">of his eyes, headlights and lighters, the wide </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">grins of friends and the pretty red </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">buds at the ends of our American Spirits. <br />
<br />
Every night's air is thick </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">with smoke and laughter. Often we feel</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">like we could evaporate, disappear </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">in the thin folds of a moment, be tucked </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">away in arms soft and salty in the sweat </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">we bleed, blink and exist only in the past. </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">The hipster hates the hip and loves</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">only that which has been discarded,</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">the naïve, forgotten remnants of our mothers' decades</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">which seem somehow more genuine, and this</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">is the inevitable conundrum, the wounded hole</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">in the heart of the hipster: the authenticity parade</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">is inherently inauthentic. </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">And so we dance away the disillusionment,</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">melt into each costumed other, our identities lost</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">in the crush of a pill or the bottom of a PBR, knowing</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">sadly that the tortured artist ceases to be</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">the moment we stand next to another.</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">COPYRIGHT 2010 CARRIE-LYNNE DAVIS </span></span></span></div>Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-1670533256215947262010-11-24T01:14:00.000-05:002010-11-24T01:14:14.403-05:00Mustache & Gums: A Love Story<style type="text/css">
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<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Susan was afraid that she had become one of those pathetic, saggy-boobed, sweat pants-wearing, white bread bologna sandwich in a plastic baggy-munching, bird-watching, tacky, boring women whose asses drooped down off rolly chairs behind cubicles plastered with knick-knacky things, like calendars with pictures of kittens in costumes or mugs that say Merry Christmas. Those women who type ads in </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Craigslist</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> or </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Singles.com</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> with one glossy-nailed finger, too old to type without looking and too young to meet men at diners, or the library. Susan, not one for epiphanies or self-realizations, felt all of a sudden uneasy and self-conscious as she sat alone at the corner table inside of an </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Olive Garden</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">, waiting for her blind date. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Roger, according to his online profile page, was an Aquarian telemarketer who sold “all-natural, all organic” products and his hobbies included long walks, hiking, dancing, and deep thought. Susan was delighted. Though she hated dancing, had never actually hiked, and was often exhausted from long walks, Roger seemed like the type of person that Susan aspired to be, and so she contacted him with a picture of her from five years ago, when probing her scalp for grey hairs for fifteen minutes wasn’t a part of her morning routine. But she still looked the same. Mostly. What Susan liked most about Roger was that he had a thick yet humble mustache that implied fiscal responsibility, the desire to have children, and middle-class values. Their short email correspondence appeared to support these assumptions; he used proper grammar and punctuation, did not use silly modern acronyms, and had a pre-made online signature with his contact information at the bottom. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Roger was five minutes late and Susan was crinkling a piece of her napkin into a ball, wondering if she should leave. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe Roger had changed his mind. She thought about her own online profile page, wondering if he had considered her a catch.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><u><b>Susan Deschaine</b></u></i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>, 39</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> (but actually 45). </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>An executive assistant who enjoys swimming</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> (she didn’t), </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>nature walks</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> (she hadn’t technically been in the woods in over fifteen years, but she thought if she had the opportunity that she would absolutely enjoy them), </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>and music</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> (mostly talk-radio in the mornings). </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Looking for a man who wants commitment</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> (no cheating with the slut next-door neighbor after five years), </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>and who</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>is passionate</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> (but not kinky), </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>and loving.</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Surely Roger fit the description, and she didn’t peg him for a man who would back out, particularly because she fancied herself slightly more attractive, especially in the picture she gave him, which featured her </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>more</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> slender but still-not-particularly-slender body leaning against the fence outside of her father’s farm with a big-gummed smile under her favorite shade of red lipstick and her brown curls blowing in the wind. Yes. She was more attractive than Roger. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> This conclusion was immediately confirmed as she watched Roger walk towards her table. He was wearing a large pair of glasses that had not made an appearance in his photograph and dress pants that were slightly too short for his long legs. </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">His thick mustache smiled at her and her big gums smiled back. </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “Susan?” he said, with a friendly point to her face. </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “Yes, Roger?” </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “I certainly am!” he exclaimed with a sort of whistle, sitting down across from Susan.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The waiter, who had refilled Susan’s water glass several times out of pity, approached the table upon seeing Roger sit down, and asked them if they’d like any wine. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “I’ve never done anything like this before,” Susan began, trying to blush and seem bashful.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> But Susan had indeed done this before. In fact, for the past three years Susan had been perusing dating sites online and had gone on eleven blind dates. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “I haven’t either, but I looked at your picture, and read your profile, and something told me that I could trust you,” Roger said with a hairy smile.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Susan felt confident that Roger approved of her and so they indulged in small-talk. Susan ordered a soup and salad (though she really desired the garlic haddock or the white sauce ziti but could not risk the possibility of bad breath from the fish or gas from the alfredo). Roger ordered chicken parmesan and when their food arrived, Susan wished she had not been so reserved with her ordering, and looked lovingly at his plate. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> In between bites and chews and slurps, they talked about their lives. He rode a bike to work, he said, not because he couldn’t afford a car, but rather because he cared deeply for the environment. Susan liked this. She envisioned the future: they would share a two-seated bike, ride along a rocky trail in the mornings after granola and lovemaking in his Lincoln-Log cabin, within the bowels of some far-away dream-forest, where there were no insects and they’d often have picnics under trees with pretty singing birds in them. As Roger talked about the realm of telemarketing, Susan listened only to the sound of his voice, while daydreaming about cuddling on the couch with him and his mustache, watching </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Lifetime </i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">dramas for middle-aged women, and sipping coffees and teas with more sugar than necessary. She imagined him not only tolerating this, but enjoying it as much as she, and when she would wear her baggy, pink-bowed pajamas, he would not find them distasteful but rather he would get entirely turned on by the honesty in them. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> So when their dinner was clearly over, the table with empty plates and wine glasses, Susan boldly asked Roger if he would be interested in having coffee and perhaps watching a television show at her apartment. Roger’s mustache smiled wide. </span></span> </div><div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">_ _ _ _</span></span><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Susan had every intention of sleeping with Roger. She hadn’t been with a man in months and had forgotten that she should have shaved her legs and armpits before the date and given herself a thorough washing in the shower. She’d showered the night before and was afraid that he would feel the prickling stubbly hairs on her legs and lose his erection or worse, find her pathetic. She had left Roger on the couch with the coffee and the television program to stand in front of her bathroom mirror, frowning at the thin black hair growing out of a small mole on her face. She plucked it. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> She then hurried to prepare for lovemaking, afraid that if she took too long, Roger may suspect that she had reacted poorly to the food at dinner and was embarrassingly confined to the toilet. This idea crippled Susan with fear, and she rushed to lather soap on her legs and run a cheap razor down them, and do the same with her armpits. She splashed water on them and reapplied deodorant. She then took her pants off and frowned. She wondered if Roger would approve of her unruly pubic hair. She did not have time to trim it, so she merely gave herself a sink-washcloth mini-bath and quickly lubricated her skin with a thin layer of lotion she bought at a </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Bath N’ Body</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> in the mall on a Friday shopping trip with her mother. </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Did she smell like a woman? </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Susan felt that she had to compensate for her slightly aged and sagging body, so she sprayed a strong perfume on her neck and then that was that. She opened the door slowly and Roger was laughing loudly at a sitcom. She cleared her throat and he turned around. He gave her the up-and-down with his grain-colored eyes and winked.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">_ _ _ _ </span></span> </div><div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> They made love modestly in Susan’s bed. Roger slowly moving up, down, up, down—a type of mechanical movement, without any sort of natural rhythm guided by pleasure. Susan was not bold enough to move with him, though occasionally she did release a small, contrived moan for the bliss she imagined she was supposed to be having during sex. Roger had not been very good at foreplay, so when he was busy kissing her neck, she sneaked a small spit on her fingers and applied an artificial wetness onto herself, hoping that in discovering that Susan was moist for him, Roger would become inspired to make love more passionately. </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> And though this didn’t happen, Susan felt content nevertheless because after Roger was spent, he did not curl away from her like some of the others had, but rather wrapped his arms around her, held her drooping stomach, and for once, Susan thought that her expectations matched very nicely with Roger’s, and she felt as though this was the man she had been looking for and had now found. He began snoring loudly in her ear, a tiny breeze of parmesan-breath on her cheek. Susan smiled and fell asleep as comfortably as she would if she were alone. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span> </div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She was happy.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">COPYRIGHT 2009 CARRIE-LYNNE DAVIS</span></span></span></div>Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1400979282961453616.post-52342059451060829152010-11-24T01:12:00.001-05:002010-11-24T01:12:01.554-05:00The Centipede<style type="text/css">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I sat smoking a cigarette as a centipede </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> crawled towards me,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> its little legs speeding onward with a lively passion </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> that startled me</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> so I jumped up and from a distance watched, sickly curious,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> my stomach soured by the threat of its closeness, how it seemed</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> that it might crawl onto me, for a moment </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">become a part of me.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I could have killed it, ground my heel into its ugly writhing body</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> but instead I stood over it like a God, smoking and wondering</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> how something so small and insignificant could race toward death</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> with such arrogance. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Does it know? I asked myself. Does it know that I'm here?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> That my eyes follow its every pathetic creep and crawl?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> How the life moving its legs toward me could in a moment be taken </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> by a single movement from my own mighty legs?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I imagined myself in its millions of little eyes, </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Death herself, in billowing clouds of a ghostly smoke.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The centipede could see nothing else.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> As I squished the fire out of my cigarette,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I thought perhaps I knew then how God might feel</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> as she watches the human centipedes creep and crawl</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> over the world she thought she made: </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> terror.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">COPYRIGHT 2010 CARRIE-LYNNE DAVIS </span></div>Carrie-Lynne Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10458402944719256734noreply@blogger.com0