the perfect everything

The second bar we went to had red lights and portraits of angry dogs, which on some level puts people in the mood. I wasn't drunk, but it's not like I needed to be drunk to be okay in this social context. It was so loud that I couldn't have really spoken anyway. The band played another poorly derivative sad song replete with too many guitars and slightly ahead of the beat drums.

"Want to dance?" I squeaked. I pushed my glasses up my nose. Then I fidgeted, taking them off, rubbing my scarf with them, and then placed them on top of my head so he could see my eyes. I don't know if my eyes are my best feature but I think they convey the most vulnerability, which is probably my only attribute.

"No. I don't dance," he said.

I just smiled at him. Whether or not he was dancing with me, my heart was clearly dancing in my chest. He gave me a quick dimple heavy grin and looked above my head. He smiled and nodded at a friend across the bar. I reached for him, aching to be held. He rubbed my lower back with one strong confident hand absentmindedly and took a sip from his beer. I leaned into him, fitting the top of my head under his chin, and looked up. 

"Do you want to get out of here?" I asked. My voice was so high and annoying. I coughed. Think about Scarlett Johanson! I told myself. Deep and sultry. Think cleavage but for your voice.

"Joe just got here. You really want to leave?" He said.

"Um, sorry,  I meant, like no, but maybe later maybe go back to your place together..."

"Oh."

"Nevermind," I said. "I'm uh easy going."

"Because that's what easy going people say."

"Yeah. No. Sorry."

He left me at the bar for awhile and talked to a couple of his friends. I replayed different scenes from Pride and Prejudice in my head and fiddled with my hair, or in other words, was awesome. After a while, he slung his messenger bag over his shoulders and stood up. He looked at me over his shoulder and beckoned his head. His black hair slid over his eyebrows with the confident toss. He smiled a little bit with just his lips, raising one eyebrow.

I hurriedly pushed the two books I was reading into my purse, grabbed my wallet from where I had dropped it clumsily on the floor, like an adult, and hopped up to follow him. He was looking down at his phone and slowly walking out the door of the bar. I jogged to catch up at him and he didn't say anything. I reached for his hand. 

Stammering, I added, "Just-to-be-clear-I-was-inviting-myself-over-to-have-um-you-know-like-sexual-intercourse." 

"Gross! Dummy," he said. He kissed the top of my head. I loved how tall he was. He was like the perfect height, the perfect everything.

We got to the bus stop and waited in silence for a minute. I reveled in how much I liked this guy, maybe loved him. I reminded myself not to say anything like that in bed. When we got to his apartment he unlocked the door and let himself in first. I made a note that that was a thing guys who were into equality probably did. He was probably a super big feminist  I followed him in. Once inside, I ran to him and threw my arms around his neck and tried to kiss him.

"Wait here a sec. I need to go clean my room," he said.

"Buddy, I don't care if it's messy," I said, kissing his neck.

"I do. I just... I have to put some stuff away, okay? Stuff I don't need you to see..." 

He pried my arms away and went into a room, closing the door behind him. It shut hard and I jumped a little, even though I was expecting it. I walked around his living room. The shelves were filled with various stacks of books, videogames, and movies, haphazardly organized. The top shelves where I couldn't reach were lined action figures, little robots, and various toys. I pulled a book from the shelf. It was Eugene Mirman's book... not that this detail is important. I just don't want you to think I was trying to put on any airs here. Like I coulda grabbed that Dostoevsky book, but that'd be like an intellectual push up bra, right?

After about twenty minutes, the bedroom door opened. He came back out. I shut the book and hopped off the couch, twirling toward him with a giddy grin.

"Heeeeey-" I stopped short and immediately dropped the flute-like trill from my voice. "Wait what's wrong?"

He was looking over my shoulder, above me. He looked scared and confused. His eyes were wide, red rimmed, and twitching. Tiny droplets of tears streamed from the corner of his beautiful ocean blue eyes. He didn't say anything. He stared hard away from me.

I ran to him and threw my arms around him. "Oh my god what... are you okay?"

"I just... I don't know what I'm doing with ...anything..." he said, his voice high and shaky.

I stood on my tippy toes so I could try to caress his head. He stayed motionless like a really big tree. It was so hard to hold someone who was taller and didn't want to be held. "C'mere," I said. I tried to lead him to the couch and he reluctantly obliged.

"What's... what happened?" I said. I realized I was trembling. He wasn't. 

"I don't know... I can't do this." He wouldn't look at me. He started crying again.

I sat on his lap. "Can't do what?" I dragged his arms around my waist, linking his hands together.

"This... I'm sorry. I don't know. I think I just need to be alone tonight," he said.

"Wait what? I'm sorry. Did I do something wrong?" I ran my fingers gently through his hair.

He wiped tears from his eyes. "Can you go?"

"Do you um not want to um have sex first?" I asked.

"No."

"Um, maybe a little bit of kissing?" I kissed his lips but he didn't kiss me back. I wiped a tear from his cheek. He brushed my hand away.

"Please." 

"Sorry. I'm sorry if I made you mad. I'm really... sorry."

"You did nothing. I just need to be alone."
"Can I do anything?" I was crying now too. "I want to help. I'm so sorry. I feel awful." I kissed his hand.
"No."

 "You know, buddy," I said softly. "We're friends. You can talk to me about whatever is... going on. If you want to... I mean. I'm here for you. You can tell me anything."

"I don't want to."

"I know."

Morning after

The sun barreled in and woke me up from my night of empty flirtation with sleep. I rolled over in the strange bed and looked at the human being laying next to me. His long black eyelashes laid down over cheekbones, vibrating as his eyes rapidly moved like a hummingbird's heart beat. A tiny droplet of eye water leaked from his tear ducts and I gently wiped it away without waking him up. I pulled the Star Wars sheets up to my chin, closed my eyes, and sighed. I couldn't believe we were finally here after so much wistful doodling his name in notebooks and making mix cds for him that I never gave.

We laid there together, not in each other's arms, but close enough. Outside, cars drove by, and a train yelled at us from the distance. Eventually, Evan's alarm went off. He groaned and shut it off. I took this verbal exclamation of discontent as my cue to curl up and wrap my arms around him. I kissed his warm neck and snuggled into his shoulder. Evan rubbed his hand through his thick black hair. I caught his hand as it was coming down and wrapped it around my waist and then pulled it down farther. He opened his eyes and looked at me.

"Hey!" I beamed.
"Hi," he said.
I inched forward, contracting my body like I was doing a sideways worm and kissed his warm full lips. He kissed me, and then rolled onto his back.
"I can't believe we finally... um... I'm just so so happy right now," I said.

Evan's cell phone rang and the Doctor Who theme song echoed through his tiny room. I giggled, even though nothing was funny, but just because I was so full of bliss I couldn't hold it in. He reached across me and grabbed it from the nightstand along with his thick black rimmed glasses. Shoving the retro frames over his nose, he looked at the phone and  then looked over at me. His eyes looked bigger behind the lenses, like a weird anime boy character. I involuntarily looked at the screen and saw the picture of a girl blowing a kiss over her shoulder.

"It's Joanie," Evan said.
"Oh."
Evan looked at me with big blue eyes. His lips curled into a grimmace.
"I didn't realize you guys were still, um... oh, nevermind," I said.
"Yeah."

He sent the call to voicemail and put the phone down. I smiled, thinking, oh this is because he likes me more, because I was an idiot. I crawled on top of him and kissed his neck and ears. He let his hands reach up to my waist.

"You're so handsome and wonderful," I murmured.
"No. I'm not."
Do you want to...?" I whispered.

Evan pushed me gently off and sat up in bed. "I don't feel very well. Kind of hung over."
"Oh," I smiled. "Wanna go get breakfast? My treat!"
"I think I'm too hung over even for that."
"You don't regret anything crazy you did last night, do you?" I teased with a giggle. I kissed his shoulder.
"I don't know, Babs."

I looked up at him. He grabbed his phone and stared at the screen a while. Then he started texting. His face was strained and lined with worry. I liked forehead lines on guys. It made them seem like a little bit older and smarter and brooding like a hot Charlie Dickens. I'm not like attracted to bad boys, but a little bit of misery seems to make for a lot of passion.

"You, um, okay?" I asked.
"Want me to look up the bus for you?" He said.
"I.... um... I mean.... would you want to go somewhere and work together, like maybe sit on your couch and write or draw or something? You don't have to talk to me, um, it would just be uh...."
"No. I need to get some things done."

I hugged him tightly. I just wanted to be held. Why didn't he lean into me? He continued staring at his phone. His messy hair stuck up like a cockatoo.

"I... I've liked you for so long," I whispered.
He didn't say anything.

I climbed out off bed and grabbed my bra from the floor. I always felt self conscious hooking bras in front of people. I do it upside down and then flip the straps up. I don't know if that's normal. I don't watch a lot of girls put on bras. It's not on my youtube fave list yet. I pulled on my panties. It's weird how many men have told me they hate the word "panties." I think it sounds childish, not dirty. Maybe that's the problem.

"I'm falling in love with you," I said.
"Jesus, Babs." Evan pulled on a t-shirt.

I looked over at him. This was the part where the guy takes you into his arms and says it back, right? The part where he quotes Mr. Darcy and his pacman shirt gets gets drenched in your tears when he tells you you're amazing and that he's never met anyone like you? This is the part where the Wilco-esque music starts playing and it cuts to a montage of the two of you laughing on a beach and riding bicycles and kissing in a park? ....Right?

I got dressed and waited outside for the bus alone. The wind was cold and I tried to calculate if I could walk home faster than the bus would take to come and how many calories that would burn. The sun laughed at me while I checked my phone again for text messages. By the bus stop, lying against the curb was a dead wet mouse. I screeched a little when I saw it, you know, like a grown up. I started walking, my feet numb and damp from a sneaker penetrating puddle. It was kinda raining, just enough to moisten my hair and face, but not enough to make a sound. I pulled my i-pod from my purse, but it's charge was dead, as to be expected.

together

Abby allowed her finger tips to caress the spines of the books. The bookshelves lined two of the four walls in the office, stretching from the floor to the ceiling. His desk sat along the third wall with the window, overlooking a garden. Piles of literature, mostly fiction, were stacked taller than she could reach, encasing thousands of hours of stories and adventures and escapes. She outstretched my arms and spun around in a circle singing in a high pitched offtune voice, "The hills are alive..."

"Sorry, baby," said Matt, sitting at his desk without looking up. "I just need to get this work done really quick."
"Don't be sorry," Abby said with a happy grin. "Why would you apologize, sweetheart?"

Matt typed for a minute. The bright computer glared into his eyes. His back was towards her. His strong shoulders were wrapped in a green t-shirt that Abby adored. He was hunched over his computer, which lit up his face and neck, sending a glowing glint off his glasses. The glasses framed the sparkling eyes that she had fantasized about for years before they had hooked up. She had idolized him for so long before he had ever noticed her. She had dreamed about him incessantly but she had never dreamed about the two of them together because even in her fantasies she lacked that kind of hubris. Now it was reality. Unable to contain her desire to be in his arms anymore, she gave an uncontrollable yelp and ran to him.

"You're so handsome," she said. She kissed the back of his head and hugged his shoulders.
"No, I know I'm not." He kept his back to her. She leaned into him, smelling his neck.

Abby tugged the fabric of her new dress, hoping Matt would comment on it. Her bare feet rocked back and forth on the clean carpet. She twirled around again, singing, "...with the sound of music..."

"I'm working on this new program where I design this character with two heads-" Matt started.
"That's awesome! Like two heads with separate personalities or...?" Abby jumped in abruptly and then trailed off, looking out the window. Her stomach growled and she put her hand over it. "Our robot baby is hungry."

Matt looked up at her for the first time since she'd come into the room. His eyebrows were down, narrowed over his forehead. His lips were tightly closed. His eyes were tired, but sparkled nevertheless. "Sorry, you go ahead," he said politely.
"What?" She grinned down at him. She arched her back downward and kissed his cheek.
"Go ahead and finish your thought, baby."
"Oh. Um. No, I wasn't trying to talk over you. I just thought you were done talking."
"Well, I wasn't. But you go ahead."
"Okay. Oh, I don't remember it anymore." Abby shrugged and gave a sharp laugh. Matt sighed again. Abby looked back over at him "So what's the thing you're working on?"

Matt frowned and looked back at his computer. He rubbed his eyelids beneath his glasses. He looked back at his computer and stared at the paragraph he'd been working on for the last hour. It was growing dark outside and he still had hours of work to do. He was swamped at work, and he barely got any sleep as is with Abby over every night. She had so much energy, an effervescent boundless overflow of emotions that had initially rendered her quirky and endearing, but now the hyper outbursts were the scraping of a knife against a plate that sat in his brain, unwashed and waiting for her to finally maybe think about doing a dish once in a while.

Obliviously, Abby playfully put a strand of her long messy hair in her mouth while absentmindedly picking books from the shelf. She never seemed to put them back in the right place. Through a muffled mouthful of her own hair, she sang to herself a whimsical song about kittens that she had made up. Matt cracked his neck. The shadows crowded in through the window, casting his once warmly lit office into cold empty darkness, a gloomy cave of suffocating fear.

Opening to the first page in a sci-fi horror novel, Abby spat the hair out of her mouth. "What do you want for dinner, Matt?"

"Jesus, baby! I'm trying to work!" Matt said loudly. He slammed his fist on the table and Abby jumped. Her eyes widened and her lips parted. He looked up at her, turning halfway in his swivel office chair. She took a step back. Her lip quivered. His voice quickly resumed the soft, gentle tone. "I'm sorry. I know I'm annoying. I know you hate it when I try to get work done. I'm so annoying."

"Matt, I never said that!" Her eyes bloated like an engorged drowning rat. She stepped towards him, reaching out, and he leaned back, away from her, looking down at his desk. Her hand fell to her side. The room seemed to be moving around them, as if they were on a very smoothly running train hurtling somewhere unknown in the darkness.

"Sorry, baby, I know you are disappointed and annoyed with me."
"Sweetie, no, I never said that!" Abby yelled. She waved her arms anxiously, desperately in a flourishing brandishing motion. Her voice escalated to a higher pitch and she could feel herself on the verge of tears inexplicably. She wasn't sure what was happening.
"Please stop yelling at me," he pleaded.
"Matt... I'm not yelling at you!" she screamed at top volume. "I never have! I never do!"
"Okay. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Abby pounded her fist into her thigh, releasing a sharp pain that almost felt refreshing in her mind numbing rage induced trance. Her lips twitched and her chin wrinkled up like a pug. "Okay. I can tell you don't wanna hang out tonight. I'm just gonna leave you alone." She choked and tears poured down her cheeks and onto her chest as if running off in tiny gutters of insecurity.

"Fine. Leave me. I know you want to." Matt's eyes watered also, much quieter and more graceful than Abby's. Their mutual inner turmoil was a malicious monster that thirsted for these tears, licking it's lips expectantly.
"I'm not leaving you!" she screeched. She ground her fingernails hard into her palms. Her tears grew snotty and her voice cracked as she began to blubber like a gooey baby. Matt's neighbor's dog barked from the apartment next door. Matt winced.
He said, "It's okay. I know you don't want to be with me."

They weren't crying together. They wept separately, alone on two different islands identically floating in the same ocean.

"What? Are y-y-you breaking up with me?" Abby stammered. "Can we talk about this?"
"We are talking about this."
"Do you want t-t-to...?"
"This is all you, baby."
"Then please don't... don't break u-u-up..." she sobbed.

Abby shook violently and leaned against the wall with the door. She slid to the ground, unable to stand she was crying so hard. She bent her knees and pulled them inwards, tucked her head down and sobbed into her lap. Her skirt piled up around her waist. Snot ran through her long wavy hair, globbing it into a messy congealed nest. Tears soaked the weird dress she looked frumpy in but mistakenly thought made her look "adorkable." Chubby unshaven white thighs poked out from the dress, clapping against each other as she writhed. Her skirt rose up enough that her pink and turquoise little girl underwear flashed into view. Her sobs were loud and shrill like a child's. She cried so hard she started hicupping and rocking back and forth, struggling and gasping to breathe. Oxygen was tight and thick around her, strangling her snotty throat like a throbbing snake.

"Fine. Okay."
"Matt?"
"You win. We're staying together. Whatever you want."
"Please hold me?" Abby blubbered.

Matt sighed and walked away from his desk and knelt beside Abby on the floor. He put his arm around her trembling shoulders. His voice dropped to the gentle soothing tone. "You're okay. We're together. We're fine."
"Together?"
"Yes. Let's never talk about this again."
"Okay."

MSN Messenger Chat with 15 Year Old Me

Due to a rift in the space time continuum, I was able to log on through the internet to reach out ten years into the past to talk to myself as a teenager and attempt to give myself some advice and encouragement during the sulky high school years.

25 year old me: Hey, younger self,

Charmedfan224: Hey dude! Wassup?!

25 year old me: We don’t have a lot of time before the space time continuum returns to normal, so I gotta make this quick. I just wanted to say, hang in there. I know high school can be isolating and anxiety inducing, but it doesn’t feel that way forever, little Barbara.

Charmedfan224: I’m not little. I’m hella fat.

25 year old me: No, no you are not. And when you get to be older, you’ll wish that you appreciated that body while you had it, instead of constantly hating it.

Charmedfan224: Eww, gross, so you’re like fat!!

25 year old me: No. So, okay, what I’m trying to say is, I know you’re super depressed and all, but it’s going to work out okay. Everything that gave you panic attacks in high school won’t even matter to you as an adult.

Charmedfan224: You don’t get panic attacks anymore?

25 year old me: Um. Well.  

Charmedfan224: Yesterday, I had a panic attack in marching band practice, and I peed my pants, and I was sitting next to Steve, but I just told him I spilled soda so totally tricked him! Yay!

25 year old me: Smart thinking.

Charmedfan224: So, what’s Steve like as an old man?

25 year old me: I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since high school.

Charmedfan224: STEVE AND I BREAK UP?!? WHAT DID YOU DO?

25 year old me: Me? I… I didn’t do anything.

Charmedfan224: You need to tell me exactly specifically why he broke up with you so I can prevent it from happening!! Did I not touch up my black nail polish often enough? Were my combat boots not as clumpy as the other girls? Were the pink streaks in my hair too “cute pink” and not “punk pink” enough?

25 year old me: I don’t even remember.

Charmedfan224: How could you not remember losing the love of your life?!?! Are you like totally stupid or something?

25 year old me: Listen, little Barbara, you’re gonna fall in love so many times and get your heart broken a lot, and it’ll hurt a hell of a lot but afterwards Mom will take us out for shopping and ice cream.

Charmedfan224: Haha! You still hang out with Mom! That’s so embarrassing! Tell me at the very least you don’t let her walk next to you!

25 year old me: ….

Charmedfan224: Gross! You’re like a little baby! I bet everyone thinks you’re a little baby! Hahaha!

25 year old me: My therapist says I’m emotionally mature enough for my age. Never mind. I just… I just wanted to tell you that it all turns out okay.

Charmedfan224: Does it? Does Morrissey get our letter and get The Smiths back together?

25 year old me: No. I don’t know. I don’t really keep up with music trivia news so much anymore.

Charmedfan224: Oh, does your boyfriend not care about music?

25 year old me: I don’t have a boyfriend.

Charmedfan224: Why?

25 year old me: I’m just taking some time and working on me right now.

Charmedfan224: What does that mean?

25 year old me: I don’t know anymore.

Charmedfan224: Okay, so I have a chat room date with the girls from the Dawson’s Creek fan club in an hour, so if I want to have enough time to call Rebecca I better log off now. I just want to tell you… good luck with everything. I’m sorry your life sucks so much. Maybe there’s like a band camp for adults? Best of luck to you, old Barbara!

Nutmeg

"What is this?" I said. First I said it inside my head. There was no identifiable answer to the question. There were responses but most of them were "What if we tried to write a comic book about fish tears?" Or "How about instead of getting a coffee out in the real world around human folks, instead, we run away and turn into a burrito by wrapping our-self in a flour tortilla and smothering our-self with guacamole and then lying in wait? Yeah, that sounds pretty good."

After a moment of polite listening, I realized that no one would deign to answer my question. Then I said it out loud. "What is this?"

Brylie looked over my shoulder at the canister I was holding. She shrugged, sending her beautiful natural blonde hair bouncing in a quirky-pretty-care free rhythm. "Nutmeg or something." She grabbed a packet of sugar and started shaking it to get all of the evil out, or get the grains to the bottom, I don't know.

"Is it for coffee?" I asked, bringing the nutmeg to my ear and giving it a listen.
"Yeah, sure."
"Is it good?"
"I don't know." She sounded exasperated now, rightfully so.

I lifted the lid of my coffee cup and set it on the counter, perfectly aligned with my cup. Brylie turned and headed to our usual seats. I brought the canister of alleged nutmeg to my nose and sniffed. The nutmeg smelled like nothing. Or maybe everything smelled like nutmeg. I took a sip of my foamy latte to bring it down a few fractions of a centimeter below the lid.

Holding the canister with both of my hands like a novice, I shook it hard over my coffee. The lid of the nutmeg flew off and the tiny brown speckled powder dumped everywhere, coating the counter, spilling onto the floor. The silver can clanged loudly as I dropped it. Dozens of people looked up at me. Embarrassed, I bent and began to sweep it up with my fingers, struggling to herd the nutmeg mess into some sort of pile or less obtrusive clutter of disgusting dust and empty insipid dregs of life.

As I rubbed my hands over the counter, I gathered sharp splinters into my fingers but I kept rubbing the nutmeg, despite the striking pain. A barista came over to help me but I mumbled something unintelligible. I was beyond help now. I was the nutmeg girl. My mess was light and floated through the air. I inhaled it directly into my nostrils. I breathed in the nutmeg, absorbing it into my brain.

Tiny little balls of painful light burned bright in my sinuses. They led the way, glimmering beacons through my nose and up behind my eyes.

The tiny balls of light whispered "This is the way! This is where the demon lives! follow me, I'll show you how to slay it." Up the pathway through my nasal tunnel, the light lead a knightly hero in armor with a sword to the dragon's cave.

I shook my head. Shaking and trembling in what could only be described as the sense of fear you get from waking up mid night terror, I tried to clasp the lid back onto the nutmeg canister. The hutmeg opened the door to everything and nothing. A flash flood of memories spurted through my consciousness. I wanted to through my arms around Brylie, my best friend, my soul mate, but I knew she would hate that sort of thing.

Staggering, I coughed fifteen times. I wiped my lips and my watering eyes. Always a sweet and empathetic friend, Brylie raised her eyebrows, staring at me with genuine kindness and concern. She told me to calm down and to walk it off.

When I was six I had my first panic attack. I was in school and I had rushed to complete a spelling homework assignment. The worksheet was so easy and I swam through it like a fish through soup. Upon completion, I handed it in and my teacher lovingly teased me about forgetting to put my own name on my paper. I started sobbing and ran to hide under my desk. I hugged my backpack to my chest and shook in a violent rage filled sadness, rocking back and forth.

I remember my teacher telling me to act normal. I wanted to be normal. I didn't know why I shook with pain and fear constantly. I wanted to be just like everyone else. Subsequently, the more I tried, the worse the anxiety attacks got. The more I noticed that I was alone and lonely, the more my habitual panic and freak outs made sure I would stay that way. My panic attacks were both my prison and also the guard that stood in front of the locked cage door with a dorky hat and a sharp spear.

I didn't have a lot of friends. The more I struggled with my anxiety, the worse it got.

The nutmeg obviously didn't think much of this situation. It never asked for this kind of attention. Poor nutmeg, sitting alone at every coffee shop. The nutmeg gets to read the crossword puzzle and keep the sugars and creams and straws and lids company. But what fun is that? Lids are boring. The nutmeg is not sure if it belongs in the coffee or if it's just some sort of weird groupie. Nutmeg sits in the back of the room staring at the coffee, watching the proceeds, taking notes, licking its, and waiting for its turn to get off the bench.

I sympathized with the plight of the nutmeg and wanted to show it a better world. I wanted to come back at night and take the canister and shove it into my bag. I wanted to make nutmeg and peanut butter sandwiches and eat them on a picnic blanket with the nutmeg in a park forever. I wrote a note to myself to come back and remember to steal the nutmeg, to run away together with it, in the hopes of a better future, but I knew I never would.

Dedicated to Matt Robinson

Coffee date

Insipid acoustic guitar blathered through the air. The yellow warm light spilled through the room, illuminating everything too happily. The coffee shop was mostly empty. A few people came in to order coffee and then got theirs to go. Blowing on their steaming beverages, they headed out into the cold. They escaped this place. They were the lucky ones.

My hands were folded tightly over each other, resting on the grainy wood. Well, not resting. Resting was too smooth and relaxed of a word. Resting implied laying in a big white bed all day in a beach house listening to the ocean outside the window, intermingled with a touch of Enya music whilst thinking about pink ponies. That would be restful. My hands not. They squeezed each other so tightly, they shook at a top vibration speed.

I sat across the table from him. His eyes were two glowing spheres of blue energy, lit up from the inside and blazing as if with the blue part of the flame. They were wide as he watched me. They twitched slightly like a cat's tail when it was trying not to twitch but the more it tried, the more it did twitch. Why was he the one scared one when I trembled so violently that the cup on the table was reenacting a scene from Jurrassic Park? His lips were soft and full and it hurt me to see them, so deliciously close after so long, and yet, upon realization, farther away now than ever.

"Hi," I said. My voice was inaudible and came out more like a squeaky mumble that translated to a "hrmigh." But I think he understood me. He raised his eye brows and smiled a quick bleep of a grin. He could interpret the language of anxiety.

"You look really good," he said. He was on guard, his eyes were defensive. He didn't face me directly and crossed his arms.

"Thanks for coming."
"No problem. I'm happy to see you. You seem to be doing well."
"I'm not."
"Sorry, I'm so sorry," he said.
"Don't be."
"I shouldn't have come. I should go."
"No, stay," I said. "Um. How are you?"
"I'm... I'm fine."
"What have you been up to?"
"Oh you know."
"No, I don't, because you never tell me."
"Stuff, working, stuff," He said. He looked around.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I miss you."
"I...I should go." He wrapped his scarf around his neck tightly. He pushed his coffee to the center of the table without taking more than a two sips.
"Fine."
"You really have to stop doing this."
"Okay."
"You can't do this anymore... you are acting like a child."
"I am a child," I replied.
"You're not. You're a fucking adult. We both are. I'm sorry. I should go."
"So go."
"I will."

He turned halfway away from me, giving me his etched profile. Not looking at me, he grabbed his bag and slung it around his shoulders, his big muscular shoulders that could hold someone if they wanted to. They smelled of sweetness and fall and were always the perfect temperature.

"Do you have to go call your girlfriend or something?" I asked.

I was surprised at how much anger those words came marinated in. They stunk of loathing. I choked on the hate as I spat it out. My cheeks burned as I listened to myself. It tasted evil and disgusting in my mouth. I was uncomfortable with that much rage. I hadn't been taught to handle it, or whether it was healthy, or what to do with any of my feelings at all. The hate sat out in the air around us, a thick purple fog of disgusting feelings floating in ugly clouds, suffocating me.

I hated myself for being capable of producing such a sick emotion. I grew angry at myself for being angry. When did I become this way? This rage was not an emotion that I was characterized for. It didn't belong to me. I was filled with a dark poison in my stomach. The rage wasn't my own. It was a hex, a curse that someone had bestowed upon me, and I wanted it gone.

I didn't know why I still wanted to be friends with him, best friends, actually. I still don't. Maybe I still had feelings for him and I didn't know how to process them. Maybe I just so desperately looked up to him, that I needed to impress him, like a father figure. I just couldn't bear the idea of letting him go.

He was gathering his belongings, shoving random pieces of paper into his bag. I didn't remember when he had acquired those scraps of tree carcass, nor when he had taken them from his bag, but there they were. He crumpled shit into his bag while I shook with emotions. I excused myself to go to the bathroom while he packed his stuff up.

The bathroom had a code to get in but I guessed that it was 1-2-3-4. I'm a genius; hire me. I let myself in and didn't turn the lights on. Darkness surrounded me like a cape, protecting me and keeping me hidden and safe and in power. The rage and the disgusting soiled ooze of hatred filled my torso and stomach and lungs. I knelt in front of the toilet and heaved.

Crap flew out of my mouth easily. I gagged and vomited. The pain was excreted from lips. It was a yellow, orange and brown mixture of blegh and anxiety and nasty rage. I didn't remember eating anything yellow or brown. Orange maybe? The rage and hatred glugged out of my mouth with the satisfaction of drinking a thick cup of milkshake, but the opposite.

I shook with anxiety as the darkness flew out of me and I felt empty and clean and void of evil again. My soul was a vacant clean porcelain box with nothing inside.

I let myself out of the bathroom and he was gone. I quickly thought of several passive aggressive cruel things to text him but before I did I deleted his number. It wouldn't do any good if I was really committed to getting in touch with him, because I had his number memorized. However, it was a start.

I slung my ukulele and knapsack over my shoulder and headed outside into the sunlight. The warmth was so bright that it cut me like a cold knife. Couples walked hand in hand down the street, staring at me while I stumbled in fear and shock, half crying into the harsh brightness of reality. The joy saturated the sidewalk and oozed onto me. It wouldn't be absorbed. It washed off my plaster skin, bouncing away from my pores and splattering downward onto the dirty sidewalk.

Morning Elevator Ride

A high pitched bell rang, announcing the arrival. The fake wood paneled doors slid open. A soft yellow light emanated from the tiny room. My feet were heavy with the morning fatigue, blocks in my boots. I flexed my leg muscles, forcing myself to move. The doors were just closing as I stepped inside. They reopened with another bell ding, as if the elevator was scolding me.

I turned and faced the doors, leaning against the back wall of the small box room. I called it the back wall, but I guess that was because I had decided the doors were the front, but the back wall could easily be identified as the front or side wall if your perception could be thus influenced. I squished my fingers hard against my eyes, pressing the squelchy globs into the sockets of my skull. The pressure felt elatedly glorious. I ground my eyes into myself and saw stars in the darkness, letting out a soft moan of pleasure.

The elevator began to rise at a steady, rapid speed. As the earth slipped inches and feet and meters farther away my heart started to beat faster. I dropped my hands promptly to my sides. my wrists aligned with my hips as if poised there by the robot designer. My breath rate accelerated in frequency. I was breathing more, but the breaths were shallow and tight in my chest. The more I took in oxygen, the more desperately I was gasping for air. My shoulders raised higher and higher until my back was hunched and they cuddled my ears. All of my muscles, especially those in my neck tightened.

Every inch of my being was so tight that I began to shake in a rhythm so small and quick that it may have looked as though my skin was vibrating on my skeleton.

The walls leaned in on me and the ceiling bore down. The room was clearly getting smaller, like the scene that still gave me nightmares from A New Hope. I couldn't absorb oxygen and my heart was jumping around my body. My blood pounded in my ears with a heavy throbbing. The gasping shallow air dove into my chest, missed my lungs, and clutched at my heart like an icy hand with a suffocating tight grip. My own palm flew to my chest and I grasped the sides of the elevator wall for support.

The intensity of the respiratory lacking air squeezing my heart filled my body and I felt an immense need to relieve the pressure. It was like being underwater inside my torso. I needed to get rid of the painful inner strangling. Leaning against the wall of the elevator, I held my chest and dry heaved painfully. I bent over, gagging, but nothing came out. Hot dry tears stung my eyes but never fell.

The tears filled me up inwardly, clinging to the inside of my throat and webbing together in a sticky mess. I wondered if spiders would crawl into my tear web and lay eggs and catch flies and mummify them for dinner. I wasn't actually sure how spiders prepared their meals.

Another high pitched bell dinged to signify imminent pain. Thus, trembling, gagging and holding my pain stricken chest, I stood hunched over when the doors opened. They slid apart in slow motion, revealing the crisp white and grey light of my office. A few of my coworkers stood in the lobby, holding files and piles of paper respectively. They looked into the elevator, naturally. I held up my hand in a half waved and tried to say something. My words came out like "hmmmgummmhumm" in a sound so soft I doubt it even made it out of the elevator. The first words of the day are always the mumbliest.

The doors began to close and my coworkers watched me lean back in agony. They didn't know about my panic attacks, or anything really personal about my anxiety. I didn't share a lot, but I knew they thought I was weird and different.

The elevator slid back to the first floor level. The decent was a slow journey downwards towards depression, down in elevation and down in mood. As did my height, my anxiety attack began to decrease as well. Down I traveled in the shaft, listening to the whir of the elevator, smelling the metal trying to quiet the screaming in my head.

Because of my anxiety attack, I was in the elevator for an extra minute. Because I was in the elevator for an extra minute, my cell phone didn't have reception for an extra minute. And that was the moment when you were weak, when you saw a picture of me online, when you heard my laugh in a dream. That weak moment was when you finally called me after all these years, and I missed the call.

You called to say you're sorry and you missed me and you were wrong and you wanted to be with me. You called to say you wanted me back, and that things would be different and that you forgave me for everything, or maybe you don't forgive me, because now that you think about it, there was nothing to forgive.

But you never said those things, because my phone went straight to voicemail, because I had no reception.

Drumming your fingers against the desk you listened to my voicemail pick up, before the phone actually rang. My squeaky voice tried desperately to seem polite and grown up, instead coming out unsure and scared. You listened and right at the beep you hung up. You stared at the phone for a second and then placed it on your clean, organized desk. You shook your head, amazed at yourself and your moment of insanity. What had you been thinking? You climbed back into bed with your perfect, beautiful girlfriend who didn't get crippling panic attacks in elevators, and forgot it ever happened.

Because I didn't have reception, my phone didn't tell me I had even missed a call at all. Maybe I hadn't. Whether or not you called me would remain in the schrodinger box of the elevator, simultaneously a transportation device and a coffin in which I am both crying and shaking until you open the doors and I stumble out.

The doors opened with the second to last ding of the morning. I stepped outside and walked around, breathing in deeply, feeling the color come back to my face. After walking around for a few minutes, my anxiety subsided and I headed back up to work.

Things I have apologized for

In the gym: "I'm sorry I was naked in the locker room."

At work: "Yes, I'm here early, sorry."

To a guy in the bank complaining about the line: "Sorry I came to the bank at the same time as you."

To my dad: "Sorry I said I don't care about the actress from the dragon tattoo movies."

To my roommate after he said I've been working late a lot: "Sorry."

To my roommate after he commented that I've been home a lot: "Sorry."

To my boyfriend: "Sorry I don't like MMORPGS."

To my best friend: "Sorry I called. Sorry I love you."

To a lady at the coffee shop who almost bumped into me but didn't: "Sorry."

In my room completely alone, to a dresser: "Sorry."

The ideal receptionist as imagined by the older white man on the other end of the phone

The ideal receptionist as imagined by the older white man on the other end of the phone:

"Yeah, I do have weekend plans. And furthermore I feel totally comfortable sharing them with a stranger."

"Oh my gosh, you got an attorney's voicemail? I cannot believe it! The only possible explanation is that sinister wrongdoings have transpired. Let me scour the building, nay, the world for him! No, of course I won't put you on hold; I have a bluetooth, sorry, sorry I mean a magical wizard hat. I apologize for confusing you with my loud, brassy slang. Just one second while I train this flamingo to cover the front desk while I find your attorney, because I have nothing else to do."

"You're right, I do have a slight lisp. Yes, it is hilarious that you pointed out an obvious physical handicap of mine. Hahaha!"

"Yes, it is cold outside. It's good that weather happens."

"No, I didn't just accidentally call you dad, sir... I said 'rad'."

"I AM in fact eating something! You caught me! Now you win a prize elephant named Albert. Yeah, I know you really wanted that prize, otherwise why else would a stranger identify my snack consumption?"

"So, you don't know who you're calling for, you're not sure if they have ever worked at this office, and you haven't talked with them in 40 years, but you know that he/she played golf once with an Asian man? Yes, I know exactly of whom you speak."

"Oh, fascinating."

“Wait a minute, are you telling me that you tried to call someone and they didn’t call you back? WHAT MADNESS IS THIS PLACE?!”

"My voice sounds too childlike? Thank you so much for telling me! Because I have complete control over it, so obviously I appreciate any and all constructive feedback."

"Sorry, they aren't in the office at the moment. Oh, they're expecting you? This. Changes. Everything."

"Good afternoon, thank you for calling- oh, er, um, Barbara... Oh really, that's your mom's name? How interesting. Yes, I do know her. From the great war."

"Of course I remember you from when you called two months ago."

"Wow, thank you so much for asking how my day is going! Someone in this miserable world does care! I am going to telegram my mother to tell her that I do matter. Sure, we wasted a few seconds of our lives with small talk, but I'll make that time back tonight tenfold because I won't have to lock myself in the bathroom and cut a tiny notch in my arm!"

"No, TGIF to you, sir. TGIF to you."

Eugene

In second grade there was a little boy named Eugene, who would come to represent the debacle of my romantic life. Eugene was an overweight, pink faced, sweaty little boy with glasses who I hadn’t given much thought to. One day in class I was reading a book while the other kids worked on their math worksheet that I had finished a week ago. (Teachers, if you’re going to photocopy all your assignments from the back of the book, don’t be surprised when kids do them all at once and turn them in laminated, indexed and corrected for you.) Eugene randomly and deliberately stood up in class, walked over to me, and dropped a pink and blue beaded necklace on my desk. Without saying anything or making eye contact he turned to walk away.

“Um, what,” I mumbled, picking up the necklace. “Is this, did you, is what is….”
“Huh?” Eugene turned around and looked at me. Eugene was super gross and moist.
“Why did you leave this here?” I held up the necklace at arm’s length like a snake.
“Oh, I made that.”
“Really?” I whispered. Other kids looked up.
“Yeah, I wanted to give it to the prettiest girl in class…” He said.
“Really?” I caught my breath. Maybe Eugene was the love of my life. Maybe he was the only one to see that my tangly messy hair was like a mermaid's.
“Yeah, but Sarah didn’t want it, so…”
“Excuse me?”
“The prettiest girl in class, Sarah, didn’t want it.”
I looked over at Sarah who was staring at me, daring me to take the necklace. She looked smug and calm while my cheeks flushed uncomfortably.
“She said I was disgusting and gay,” poor little Eugene said, hanging his head. “So I guess you can have it or whatever.” He turned to walk away.
“Because I’m second prettiest?” I asked. There was a still pause.
“What? No. I just thought you could have it. I don’t want it.”
“I’m not second prettiest?” I said. Everyone had grown quiet and was looking at me anxiously.
“I didn’t rank everyone.” Eugene said.
“Maybe you should have,” I said (wow, from the girl who would later call herself a feminist.)
“Please, just… I don’t want it. I don’t care. Throw it away if you want.” Eugene walked away.

In retrospect the poor kid was probably way more uncomfortable than I could imagine. He had just tried to give a home made gift to the love of his second grade life and been turned down, humiliated, and then I had called attention to it. It was as if Menelaus had launched a thousand ships and Helen had been like “oh, but, you know, I didn’t want that.” And he was like, “oh, really? Um, you sure? A thousand is a lot. I already launched them for you, because of your face, but okay.” And just when Menelaus thought he couldn't feel any more embarrassed, a bird came and crapped on all the ships and that bird was me.

I left the necklace on my desk and didn’t touch it. I went home and told my mom the story and she said “You need to give that back to him. That is an insult to think of you as an afterthought.”

That complex would stay with me, the more I was around men. Oh you asked Rebecca to the prom and she said no so you thought you’d ask me? No thank you! You got drunk at this party thinking you could french with Jen but she turned you down so you ended up in my dorm room? Fuck you, no way. I've defined myself as a consolation prize since seventh grade. I’m pretty sure if anyone ever proposes to me I’ll be like, which of my friends rejected you?

When I got back to class the next day, the necklace was still sitting on my desk, leering at me like a troll peeking out of a cave to remind you that you're ugly and not special. I could feel Sarah watching out of the corner of her eye as I slid it inside the tiny cubby of my desk. Later that day I made a show of throwing it away in front of a bunch of girls who giggled and cheered as the homemade present went into the garbage, after triple checking that there was no way Eugene could see.

The rest of elementary school every time I saw Eugene I felt like I was going to throw up. Before the necklace instance he had been a creepy pig boy that I never noticed. But now he was someone who did not think I was second prettiest but had noticed me enough to give me the necklace. I made excuses to run into him and blushed whenever he looked at me. He had unintentionally made me aware of my romantic value or lack thereof. Unconsciously I started laughing louder around him, just to show him how much fun I was having not being the second prettiest.

Dear Spanaway, we're fighting

Last night when Yogi picked me up I clambered into his mom's car with my microphone and amp. "Why are you bringing that?" he asked. "The booker called and said there was no PA." Sadly this was not the first clue that the show we were about to go to would be a horrible mess of sadness and souls crying and comedy dying. That shouldn't have rhymed. We picked Emmett up and had a nice hour long or so conversation about puppets, beards (Yogi's and Emmett's, not mine), movies I haven't seen, getting high and bottom intercourse in the bottom hole.

As soon as we get to the restaurant I read the "Family Fun Restauraunt!" marquee and groan. In bright clip-art style font: "Kids eat free on weekdays!" Seriously. The waitress goes "You're the comedian? Honey, you look like you're 15." Which isn't too surprising, except I hadn't spoken yet. I don't look like I'm 15 I SOUND that way. And without any sounds coming out of my squeaky childlike lispy mouth, there is no way to guess that. I took it as a compliment because I could tell by her sparkly studded belt that she thought 15 was a pretty cool age to be.

Almost immedietly the owner of the restaurant attacks us and tells us that the comedy shows have been going really poorly and that no one has been funny. He said it like an angry accusation that already he had decided we weren't funny, as I watched out of the corner of my eyes the waitresses moving the kids tables and high chairs out of the way to create space for the comics to stand. He proceeded to tell us that a local guy was going to open for us and he was bringing 40-50 people and that he'd never gone up before. I said that was fantastic of course he can do a guest spot if he's bringing that type of crowd. "Yeah," the owner of the family fun restaurant says, "so he'll be getting his half hour." "Half hour?" I said. "He's never gone up before? Realistically he'll probably want to do 3-5 minutes for his first time." The owner exploded, "I have had calls coming in asking about this guy all week! I have had more interest in him than I have in any of these other comedians who I've never heard of before. He's getting his half hour of time."

The average age of the audience in the more redneck version of denny's is 60. They all look like they're about to fart or die. This new guy James had brought maybe 6 people instead of 40 and they were all just like really out of it, like they were high but I don't think they were. Just staring into space not facing me. I opened as the mc with attempting to fire it up (they cheered and clapped as much as I would expect them to in a well lit Denny's.) I did my condom joke and the greedy stripper. The condom joke got laughs in weird places but worked. The greedy stripper bombed. I brought this new guy James up and he played some cheesy intro music and danced a bit. Then he sat on the stool. (Used up all the energy with his intro?) and for half an hour he talked (no jokes) and ate shit. He didn't seem to care that he was bombing. I ate my veggie burger and drank my two beers quickly trying to quench the despair rising inside me.

After James I went back up and proceeded to start to do jokes. I did maybe two jokes. They wanted a relateable comedian who they could watch and laugh at and be like "oh yes women do go shopping! I can identify with that! Commonality makes me feel less insignificant and boring!" I don't have a lot of relatebility on stage unless the audience also has spent a few days not leaving their apartment because they're afraid that by interacting with their friends and family they're making everyone's reality worse. When I started going into my Hulk joke I stopped and said "Do you guys know who the hulk is?" Nothing. I stumbled verbally. "What kind of jokes do you guys like? I have hundreds I'm sure I have something." Silence. I addressed a guy in the front row. "Sir, what kind of jokes do you like?" "Nah, you doin fine, you doin good." "If I'm doing 'good' then why aren't you laughing?" Nothing. I started bringing random audience members on stage to try to warm them up. When I brought two women on stage and tried to talk to them who looked bored one of them told me, "Well fuck this joke, just do the next one!" and ran back off the 'stage.' I moved on to singing songs to people in the crowd and started doing better. I got a sing a long going and decided that was as warm as they were going to get.

I brought Yogi up and he did well. He just did his material and didn't address the crowd or talk about how much it sucked. I could tell that he was miserable up there. He got off stage looking really down and I brought Emmett up. Emmett had the best set. He didn't do a lot of his alternativer stuff but mainly did stories and tried to engage the crowd. That whole night Emmett was kind to everybody, even the bar owner who was a short angry man on the verge of yelling, the new guy who did half an hour, and the booker who had no idea what the fuck a comedy show was supposed to be. Fact: it should not be in a family fun restaurant. I wished after seeing Emmett's set that I had more story jokes. My favorite line of the night was when he was telling a story about his wife and he was talking to the audience: "How long have you folks been married? 23 years? That's older than Barbara....'s self esteem! Anyone else been married longer than 2 weeks?"

Yogi is one of the most hilarious and hard working comedians I know. He's got a special talent, especially for riffing/thinking on the fly/being in the moment that most comics don't. He is one of the most creative and unique voices I've ever met. He's an amazingly funny person and comic, consistently getting better and he's one of my best friends. And that show made him doubt himself as a performer. So you might wonder, was it worth it to get $30 and a free burger and two beers to do a shitty room? Sure. But was it worth it to make a hilarious friend of mine feel bad about himself? Nothing is fucking worth that ever. That room is where comedy goes to die.

The only good thing about doing completely awful family fun style hick restaurants with senior citizens as the audience is that comparitively I won't be scared of those snobby hipsters.