Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

It's been a while it seems.  February, when I was in the throes of a broken foot and a doubly ruptured plantar fascia.  In all this time, I've thought about writing, longed to, and yet . . . I wrote for other places, I wrote for books, I wrote in my mind. I stopped time, in many ways. 2019 has been brutal to me. It's been an unending barrage of punches to the face and gut. As I type this now, I shiver a little wondering what will happen next. Will the universe serve me another blow? What insult and injury awaits me this week? I hold my breath. In the fires of memory, I spent a large portion of August in Colorado. Per usual, I found myself footing myself up and down mountainsides, and most pointedly, I made it 3/4 of the way down an expert level hike in Black Canyon. I didn't make it all the way as lupus and asthma said hello, more than once, and my sister from another mother and father--Jen--and I agreed that wrecking myself to make it up and down was not an...

The snow falls, daffodils bought last week droop from the mason jar long wilted, dried flowers--from the fall--still stand in another mason jar providing another touch of me in this space as dried bouquets have long intrigued me, the lone orchid stands dying as a reflection of my mood and life as of late, my foot aches in the backdrop, and music no one wants to listen to plays.  Sad songs.  Moods and memories.  In the shower, I notice a new bruise on my shoulder.  I wonder when it came to be, where it came from, and why I didn't see until now.  Did I do that in my sleep? Was it someone on a crowded subway? It's the wrong shoulder for my handbag. I wash my hair and forget about it.  Riddled with aches of Lupus and arthritis I do yoga in my studio.  I can't make it out for a run, as my post-pneumonia lungs are still reminding me of things of I should not do, and pole dance is planned for Friday.  I play mixed songs, of a favorite playlist i...

Perhaps it is this time of year.  Perhaps.  Though, this time of year typically means I've bought myself daffodils.  Ironically, I did not buy them in the rain this year.   Someone told me a few weeks back I was very Wadsworth with the daffodils.  Perhaps.  The English Major for Life in me wants to agree with his own English degree self, but the feminist in me wants to knee gut that shit.  I think I'll step back and take the romantic imagery of Wadsworth instead.  "A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze." Indeed, probably one of the more famous poems of the language I type in.  "I Wandered Lonely on a Cloud" was one I recited back in my undergrad days for a lit professor I once had.  All that was a lifetime ago, scores and hundreds of daffodils purchased have come and gone.  As another arctic vortex swoops in, threatening to freeze me in my solitary ex...

As January is only eighteen days in, and I'm failing at life and 2019, I sit here wondering when the swells of damage will subside.  Perceptions will always fool you. In seven days: I lost one of my emergency contacts as she made it clear she wanted to know my contingency plan.  Well, it was never for her to take care of me.  So, I won't bother her again.  That one rips me to my core as I've never asked anyone to take care of me.  I'm done being there for people, as in the end . . . Had someone comment, more than once, that we've known each other for a long time.  Well, we've known each other so long that he lied to my face.  Even more: he doesn't know me.  At all.  He doesn't know my brother's name, my favorite color or flower, doesn't know that he's a big reason the occasional date usually ends as a dud as the dude across the table falls flat in comparison.  He doesn't know I still remember the day he told me to call him by his...

I stopped writing for a while.  Well, here I did.  Writing, though, is a daily occurrence.  There's a new novel in the works, even though I'm still committing guerilla warfare on trying to find an agent.  Or something like that.  More like they are committing omission by silence or bizarre notes of "we love what we read, but we can't take you."  Sounds like the story of my life.  Always.  Auto, rinse, repeat. There's a new academic piece coming out next month, or this. . . Depending on the press's literal press.  There's a new academic piece, part of the forthcoming monograph I have a soft offer on, coming out next fall.  My last monograph should hit paperback next month.  There's a short story under final review.  Wouldn't that be grand?  The one aspect of my life I haven't broken into the publishing world on that I always said was what I wanted to do. As of recent, I'm waking up from seven days in the hospit...

As the air chills, well freefall to six degrees above freezing, I find myself drinking tea in my favorite NYC cup with fuzzy socks on and my favorite university pullover.  My hair is up in a messy bun, and since I'm not planning on washing it tonight, the said style should make it bouncy for tomorrow.  Or . . . Or it will be a dry shampoo Monday, which sets an entirely new tune for the week.  You probably think I'm listening to rap and white girl rolling it out.  Not today, my friends.  It's late on a Sunday.  Sunday's are no place for rap.  Mondays, now, are a different story.  Instead, I've got an even whiter mix of mellow and slow songs going that I've had on repeat for two days.  I make no apologies, as sometimes we just need the same twenty songs to move us along.  Sometimes.  This is all sounding pretty white bougie right now.  I probably shouldn't tell you I had a gluten-free blueberry bagel this mo...

Dating, or failed and semi-failed attempts, still circle the air these days.  Of the best of the best, here are a few moments that make you wonder why you bothered to shower, flat iron your hair, or wear heels instead of a pair of hole-riddled college sweats and a wife beater. Instead, the weak nature of humanity--and yourself--seek companionship, and you continue to hate and torture yourself . . . Time and time again.  I've had my share of duds and everything in between, and tonight I broke down and asked an old friend what the fuck is wrong with my profile to attract every asshat clown this side of the Mississippi. He assures me it is not me.  I think he's being kind.    I still feel like it is me, as it always is.   Doesn't help that two weeks ago I found out the dude I've been keeping up long distance texts with since August is a racist, wall supporting, anti-social program fucktard.  As the truth unfolded in his ill-punctuated texts, I...