tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77210671631844972362023-11-16T07:51:45.412-05:00The Hitch ListPolly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-58304632004361419862010-12-13T17:00:00.001-05:002010-12-13T17:00:43.739-05:00SHILL Moment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMrtdZKPKs0aTZLQZbfK3JdyVty0WOFtb42We9RP0IdbyVQ4K3DznTddun0riD6l91ojz68jtl00q8PmpMezRW7yDekvdAB_DBHXsBCsI6PKFz7f-qvezzhJnuPq-0h5TGLCWppq0g_nY/s1600/trouble_with_poet_square.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMrtdZKPKs0aTZLQZbfK3JdyVty0WOFtb42We9RP0IdbyVQ4K3DznTddun0riD6l91ojz68jtl00q8PmpMezRW7yDekvdAB_DBHXsBCsI6PKFz7f-qvezzhJnuPq-0h5TGLCWppq0g_nY/s320/trouble_with_poet_square.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>It's so kind that people have been asking me to post again. I'm sorry to disappoint. I'm blocked. This blog feels dead. The gimmick has worn off and my stories are interesting only to me. It all feels very trite and contrived. <br />
<br />
So, in place of a post, a shill for this blog: <a href="http://thetroublewithpoet.blogspot.com/">http://thetroublewithpoet.blogspot.com/</a><br />
<br />
Follow.<br />
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Now...to ponder the official killing of this blog.Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-18729585576805074812010-11-03T02:09:00.000-04:002010-11-03T02:09:52.778-04:00Filler, Filler, Filler, Wank, Filler, Filler, Filler<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZLIDxt5Hk5Y-D5AeVqsGkcAktF9TwS19ev4nKlNBCn7A3oZlcK2saxkeDR-D2KjAEE42jJ1RzLCCvNi6dZ7Cg-NzviFWiwSdaRrDeWHRiUCjj1m4VO_av6sk0l6aRwo954cf5UF9xxSY/s1600/writers_block_400.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZLIDxt5Hk5Y-D5AeVqsGkcAktF9TwS19ev4nKlNBCn7A3oZlcK2saxkeDR-D2KjAEE42jJ1RzLCCvNi6dZ7Cg-NzviFWiwSdaRrDeWHRiUCjj1m4VO_av6sk0l6aRwo954cf5UF9xxSY/s320/writers_block_400.gif" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I've been writing so much for other reasons I've run out of words for my playground.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Or have I outgrown the monkeybars? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It's like a sad little bagpipe here, all deflated and soundless, slung over a drunk Scots' arm. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I started trying to put New Orleans into words. I got two down on the page: "It was." After that I checked Twitter, brewed french-press coffee, went out to buy milk, returned, realized I needed to pee. In the bathroom I counted the the number of mini-shampoo bottles representing hotels: 12. I filed my nails, which didn't need filing, adjusted the way the toilet paper hung on the roll and cleaned out both bath and sink drains. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Since then I've adjusted my student loan repayment schedule, looked into series I-Bonds, applied for food stamps, read 17 pages of Colum McCann's <i>Let The Great World Spin</i>, obsessively checked Facebook status updates, cleaned every inch of another person's apartment, perfected a new way of evenly cooking bacon, transferred favorite texts from my phone's log onto a piece of paper.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Writing New Orleans. I don't know what I was thinking--some of the best in the world have been unable to do so.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I found this little passage and felt marginally better:</span><br />
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<div style="color: #333333; font: 7.5px Verdana; margin: 5.0px 0.0px 5.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>From Michael Cunningham, Pulitzer Prize Winner:</b></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>"Every writer I know suffers periodically from, if not actual writer's block, spells during which the inspiration seems to evaporate. </b></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>When I was younger, I became obsessed with trying to chart my good days and my bad. Was it related to sleep, diet, sex? I tried all kinds of variations, with the grim purpose of youth. Celibacy the day before a writing day? I'll give it a try. What about sugar, caffeine, alcohol? More, or less, of each, and in what quantities? Many trials were conducted. Needless to say, those experiments led me nowhere. It is, it seems, purely and simply a mystery, the coming and going of one's gift.</b></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>So I show up every day, and do the best I can. I've been known to write ten pages or more on a good day. On the bad days, I still force myself to write SOMETHING, even if it's one limp, sad little line that will surely be deleted tomorrow.</b></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Here's the funny thing — a month or so later, I can't tell what I wrote on the ecstatic days from what I wrote on the wrenching ones. The lines that seemed so good when I wrote them turn out, later on, to be neither better nor worse than the ones I squeezed out with my fingers pinching my nose against the stink of mediocrity.</b></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>All I can think, then, is this: Wherever inspiration comes from, it comes constantly, and what varies from day to day and week to week is our access to it. So I go on. I fasten my seat belt. I do my best to have fait</b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>h."</b></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Two words about New Orleans: "It was."</span></div>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-71592108708175289892010-10-22T00:23:00.015-04:002010-10-22T13:30:09.180-04:00Unnumbered List Item: Losing Your Goodbyes, Kidnapping Hellos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtJbRK6N3GhudMlJ0J9dYRBCbn0B2HgBs-s4nPOxrwFsYaO_ZcfYsMFenDRudmg723jVH-84RmHlnsUHVHtWY4Igghu_wUNV2rnTt4Rv_kfSHUWDttIB_t2QoX6SbmwsHkCTynPl0FMo/s1600/IMG_1008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtJbRK6N3GhudMlJ0J9dYRBCbn0B2HgBs-s4nPOxrwFsYaO_ZcfYsMFenDRudmg723jVH-84RmHlnsUHVHtWY4Igghu_wUNV2rnTt4Rv_kfSHUWDttIB_t2QoX6SbmwsHkCTynPl0FMo/s320/IMG_1008.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My mom called to yell at me yesterday about the stagnation of this blog.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I told her I’d been in mourning and to cut me some eff-ing slack. She told me to grow up and cut the eff-ing crap. (God, what is she, my </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">mother</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> or something?)</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I hemmed and hawed and said something about needing to create a mediabistro.com account to find work.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then the mother-sucker punch: “Rosie would be pissed if she knew that you weren’t writing.”</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A sigh from my end. She certainly got me there.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Two days before my grandmother’s stroke, which </span></span><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2010/08/prayers-during-purgatory.html"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I wrote about here</span></span></b></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, I left my dream job. It was that gig that other people pray for, the one that validated everything I was trying to do in life when I signed the contract in 2008. I worked at it so hard it ate my life and I was happy to be consumed. I worked so hard the skills I learned permeated my own ligature, influencing tiny movements, changing the way I communicate with everyone from baristas to lovers.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And then, not too long ago, sometime back in June, I sat up in bed and saw I had been devoured. I spent weeks figuring out how to staunch the bleeding...and realized the only way to save the patient was pull the plug entirely. I talked to every mentor I have and each one in turn agreed: To stay was to have my bones licked clean, to become a middling skeleton resting in the same position at my desk, fragile knuckles curled over a mediocre portfolio. So I resigned. I logged two final weeks, packed up my things, cried in the handicap stall of the downstairs office bathroom, and then left, hoping enough freelance work would start flowing that I could stop regretting every step away. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In the midst of many boxes and harried panic Rosie’s stroke came hard, followed soon thereafter by the phone call she had passed. I didn’t need the call. Rosie did come and see me, as I begged in that last blog post. She slipped into the middle of a dreamless sleep a friend couldn’t shake me out of. It started 10 minutes before her official time of death and ended 15 after the family was notified she died--we know because I missed exactly one 25-minute episode of the TV show we'd been watching. My friend said he’d never seen me sleep like that, sprawled out on the couch without a single nocturnal muscle twitch or puppyish attempt to cuddle. All I knew was blackness, warmth, and a feeling of being no where but being there with someone. No one said goodbye. I didn't see cerulean, which I always do in dreams. Just darkness and a presense. Then my friend’s hand on my arm sometime after 3:50am, his hands pulling me to my feet before placing me in bed. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In three days I was on the train home for a funeral. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">n the reception line, people I haven’t seen in years kept telling me how beautiful I’ve become. Which still seems an odd thing to do--to offer validation that someone's pretty while their family matriarch is painted thick with make-up in a coffin by their side. It wouldn’t be the first thing I’d say in the same situation. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I think we are forgetting how to be human around grief. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The day after the funeral, I keyed into Rosie’s empty house and went into her bedroom, pulling open jewelry boxes and fingering her keepsakes, looking for any cheap souvenir from grandma to keep on my person. I finally found an old costume jewelry pendent, black oval face laced with filigree flowers and strung on a cheap gold chain. I put it in the back pocket of my favorite pair of jeans, the ones that get saggy at the knees and loose in the waist after you wear them a week straight, then sat down on her bed.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Death and loss are two of those things that I hate as devices. Everyone writes about them. We want you to feel our pain. We put voodoo pins in the hearts of readers and then string them to our prose, making sure every reader gets the heavy-handed point. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">PLEASE FEEL MY CATHARSIS OR I’LL STAB YOU WITH THIS METAPHOR.</span></span></i></span><br />
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</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But I’d never lost anyone, so it was easy to be judgmental. </span></span></span><br />
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</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
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</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On her bed that day I tried to put pen to paper, and all that flowed out were the same cathartic cliches that have made me abandon authors in the past. Right there on my page: strings, cut and ready, voodoo pins already poked in place. I capped up my disgraced pen and solemnly retreated.</span></span></span><br />
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</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now, like she (and Rosie) did when I was a kindergartner, my mother’s over my shoulder, making me do my homework, forcing me to write through all this so I can write again. </span></span></span><br />
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</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’m threading the cliche even as I prep this paragraph, but here we go regardless: I needed Rosie to die to put things in perspective. Her passing has been the unnumbered item on this Hitch List, a milestone on a life list, that important thing on the syllabus I must have missed when stumbling late to class. </span></span></span><br />
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</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Loss, grief, missing someone, misplacing goodbyes--all reveal new angles in the hands of death. </span></span></span><br />
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</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'm talking about Natural Death, ordered and without tragedy, that inventible thing that comes and then detaches all its aches from your ego. The only heartache I have ever known is the kind that comes from break-ups, the selfish kind that paints people as victims, villains, martyrs. Those have messy scripts and even messier definitives: “You hurt me.” “I hurt you.” “You deserve to hurt.” “I’ve earned what this is.” Sometimes, "Hey, fuck you." All of it is me’s and him’s and she’s and they’s and you's and lots of ego. </span></span></span><br />
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</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Natural Death, or loss, has transcended adolescent griefs. It's detached my child's ego and rebooted how to approach pain. Please: I am still a flawed, confused, maddening human being. I've not been enlightened. But I see things I did not now. And I cannot imagine being a true empathetic, forgiving partner to anyone without having met this new understanding of losing things through Rosie’s swift departure. It was one thing on a list I did not know that I should do.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But enough waxing poetic:</span></span><br />
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</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Having never been to the Sierra Nevada, shown a great desire to travel or demonstrated anything but a fanatic attachment to Catholic protocol, it came as some surprise that Rosie's last wish was to be cremeated, and to have my uncle spread her remains over the peaks of the Sierra Nevada. We were told about this shortly before the wake, momentarily kidnapping our grief and replacing it with a surprise new snapshot of a woman everyone claimed to know. I rolled the news around in my head as I sat on Rosie’s bed that afternoon, surrounded by all the trimmings of an utterly suburban and un-worldly life in one small New Jersey town. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Upon the occasion of goodbyes, Rosie prepared for hellos.</span></span></span><br />
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</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One week later, no money in the bank and no paycheck on the horizon, I pulled Rosie’s chain down my neck and got on a plane to New Orleans, a city I’d never been to, a place I didn’t know, clutching the little black pendant and its tiny, tinny flowers in my right hand as we flew. </span></span></span></div>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-48034875150705115262010-08-26T03:39:00.001-04:002010-09-03T17:36:27.510-04:00Prayers During Purgatory<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6kP-bMVvzlwz1r1yJoFSOWorS76KuhY-u3tv710Xdg3ur2ylbIiKJ8CwYN6L5qAyRY67IhnjiAINhMiVpnM0nuiVICGTjp2gudxR5k3T1uOYyHA2KwXKC2hbAjIrXZ5DwNuMJhGA1l2s/s1600/monmouthNJ1895.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6kP-bMVvzlwz1r1yJoFSOWorS76KuhY-u3tv710Xdg3ur2ylbIiKJ8CwYN6L5qAyRY67IhnjiAINhMiVpnM0nuiVICGTjp2gudxR5k3T1uOYyHA2KwXKC2hbAjIrXZ5DwNuMJhGA1l2s/s320/monmouthNJ1895.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> prayed for the first time in months today. I pushed back hair and pressed my forehead to steepled fingers, stretching myself diagonally across the landscape of a bed, elbows out like wings. I prayed to my grandmother, whose stroke was no surprise, whose stroke separated everything we'll remember of her from a memorable frame. Her body is still here, someplace in New Jersey, sunk into starched hospital sheets and stiff pastel blankets, but Rosie herself is elsewhere. They use the word "unresponsive." There's minute peace in knowing it was coming.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The family's reports come in over cell speakers along with texts that state--assure?--I don't need to come home. I bounce between online train schedules and old Google maps of Monmouth County, the place where Rosie raised four generations of my family. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They say she opened her eyes once but everything is glass; we look through, not into, her now. My aunt believes the liquid gaze means Rosie is still here, but my mother--the nurse, who works with death, whose life is acting both as its assistant and its adversary--has seen that look before, knows what it all means, understands how even heartbeats can be purgatory. She speaks the language of departing and is acting as our translator. The Rosetta Stone to Rose says that she is gone. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If she had died I could pass a message up to God, ask the universe to tell her that I love her and regret not coming home more, make some unseen force sing my goodbyes like a telegraph, but her body is still breathing and I don't know where a mind goes so I pray to her directly, palming an invisible microphone, broadcasting to an audience of one. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tonight's program skips the weather, throws out the traffic, leaves out time and temp, starts with affirmations and then rambles into "sorry," evolving into a monologue that pleads for her to hear me. Unrelated thoughts interrupt like static: "Grandma Rose it's me and I don't know if you hear me (**</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ksssshk</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">the iron: on or off?</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ksssshk</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">**). I don't know where you are but I want you to come visit. I want to say goodbye even though I know we did, the day with the Earl Grey and the tin of shortbread cookies, the day you tried (**</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ksssshk</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">he should have texted back</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ksssshk</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">**) to give me more money for shoes before cutting out that article about Madonna's H&M (**</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ksssshk</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">where's the dog?</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">kssssshk</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">**) discount fashion. I never pray anymore (**</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">kssssshk</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">what's this lump?</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">kssssshk</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">**) and know that you would hate that, but my faith's misplaced and we need to talk so Rosie please come find me." The reception on this station is some humming kind of mess.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I keep snapping rubber bands inside in selfish flagellation, as if punishment for not dialing more is something that's productive. I wrote to her last month, two letters in two weeks; it took so little effort there should have been two dozen. They say she read them out loud to everyone who visited, a little fact that pulls two strings into a knot, tying ego and shame into one dangling loose end. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the last letter I told her she's the reason I'm a writer, joked about the money I'd have saved if I'd studied it in college, lamented how much better I'd be if I'd studied it at all...or just done things the way she told me I should over lunch when I was 12. They say she read that part specifically over and over: "The moral is, Rosie, you should listen to your grandma." </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I never wrote how my next big piece is in a New York weekly, one she could hold between her hands and tell friends to buy at newsstands. She never really understood the whole news on the Internet thing--she would have been so proud to see something in old school print.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm so tired this is blurry. The figures curl together. But tonight I do not sleep. I keep praying direct to Rosie, thinking she'll tune in for some part of my broadcast, check-one-twoing the mic with one hand while tracing maps of Monmouth County with the other.</span>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-80187878450642177612010-08-15T03:34:00.003-04:002010-08-15T03:37:54.942-04:00And Now for Something Completely Different: A Poetic Prose Versus Hoes Offshoot<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwP74vkCTuD6mFHRXu0kuGh2NQKbDqMpsrjyTGfcm15K44eh9WwuCObnIKdoUmpAIbYGChdCe4cSU3nhh3mFkjfRzTWd75lDrUki6E94oTl9ypLGtY_lq9Xn2CTJJ0NoM-K3rhoGFM73s/s1600/IMG_0664.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwP74vkCTuD6mFHRXu0kuGh2NQKbDqMpsrjyTGfcm15K44eh9WwuCObnIKdoUmpAIbYGChdCe4cSU3nhh3mFkjfRzTWd75lDrUki6E94oTl9ypLGtY_lq9Xn2CTJJ0NoM-K3rhoGFM73s/s320/IMG_0664.jpg" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> blog is having an identity crisis. It can't make up its mind about whether it wants to be a narrative of adventures linked to a gimmick, a place for general musings, a public posting place for notes scrawled on napkins or a phlebotomist. Some days, it attempts to be all four. </span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tonight (read: this morning), inspired by <a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2010/08/hannah-miet-guest-blogs-or-hoes-before.html"><b>the previous post's guest blog</b></a> and Prose vs. Hoes/longform vs. poetry exhibition between the soon-to-be famous writer Hannah Miet and myself, I'm abandoning my general distain for my own poetry and tossing some up here. Because self-abuse is kind of sexy come 3:20AM. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So here, for no apparent reason and with no relation to this blog other than the fact it was written to someone I've posted about in this space, is a poem I pulled from the vaults. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><br />
</div><div><b>UNSAID, AS YOU WERE ANGRILY CLEANING UP DINNER</b></div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm sorry I don't save words for you. I try to,<br />
each morning, plug up and reserve something.<br />
Mostly by day's end the best drain out.<br />
The first of the day are barely worth speaking.<br />
I croak them to baristas and doormen,<br />
to women whose purses take up entire train seats;<br />
sometimes, I practice on bosses.<br />
Then "love" goes to my father, and "why" flies to my mother,<br />
and expletives dart to tourists who halt mid-step<br />
on the sidewalk. Loosed by noon,<br />
phrases marked yours slide by. That joke.<br />
That compliment. That piece of honesty.<br />
They slip into the ears of others and I don't stop them.<br />
Sometimes I pull a few to the side,<br />
apples at the weigh station, perfect pearls for stringing,<br />
but God, they age so quickly.<br />
I wish they weren't so limp when handed over.<br />
And of course the best ones--<br />
the things I mean, things you need, the way I mean to say them--<br />
struggle to survive in open air.<br />
Written down on paper they seem trite. Which is best,<br />
since I'd feather you in Post-It notes otherwise.<br />
So read them in my face. Study the way I slip a finger in your palm<br />
and trace avenues there.<br />
Listen how I ask for nothing.<br />
Let an egg, broken in a pan and poached in oil for you, speak.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Happy Sunday morning. </span></span></span></div>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-30257658823442349502010-08-09T02:22:00.010-04:002010-08-09T17:46:04.345-04:00Hannah Miet Guest Blogs, or, Hoes Before Prose<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6deNk5h7-FoM46_zRpJk4dC9J0LcpiiTOp88yb_7slhQlvgehLsf7pcMtJaxOH-TT_1R51Q-1dosQBAeToW5XFNvniwWoAAV0YbORDHlxbyAMgjRjVDBAch0cW3ydp2bnsHfZ7efkBlA/s1600/whiskey-whiskey1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6deNk5h7-FoM46_zRpJk4dC9J0LcpiiTOp88yb_7slhQlvgehLsf7pcMtJaxOH-TT_1R51Q-1dosQBAeToW5XFNvniwWoAAV0YbORDHlxbyAMgjRjVDBAch0cW3ydp2bnsHfZ7efkBlA/s320/whiskey-whiskey1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">It's a Hitch List first: A GUEST BLOG. (**Ooohs and Ahhhhs.**) Hannah Miet, of My Soul is a Butterfly, is below. <b><a href="http://www.hannahmiet.com/2010/08/prose-before-hoes.html">I am on Hannah's blog, slinging prose</a>.</b></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Explanation: I</span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"> am a literary nymphomaniac, untreatable and unashamed. My toes curl in paper shops. My bookshelves are promiscuity on display. I shirk social responsibilities to sequester in and read. Sometimes a passage goes by that plunges two fingers into my brain, making me squirm with jealous delight while releasing audible moans of approval. I will read almost anything. (Except artistic statements which use the word "dystopian" in the opening...sorry, just can't.) </span> </span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Poetry is no exception. In fact it's more inception, some seed planted in my subconscious years ago which has since grown into a verbose piece of virulent foliage, one that needs to be watered regularly or it will whither and turn grey. Not just any verse will do...I need a powerful image. Word combinations which speak monologues. Narratives that lead me to a gingerbread house where the edible doorknob's laced with dopamine and cyanide. Shit that isn't ABAB rhyme scheme.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I've been lucky enough to meet with some poets and writers whose work is so good it simultaneously thrills me and makes me feel I should return to that Hooters in New Jersey and give up this attempt at writing altogether. Hannah Miet, of </span><a href="http://www.hannahmiet.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My Soul Is a Butterfly</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">, is one of those people. Hannah creates vibrant verbal mandalas with the crumbing sand of memories, then does us the solid of preserving them on the internet rather than destroying them as monks do. She's also a fucking badass. </span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So a recent exchange about guest blogging for one another put us at a crossroads. The Hitch List is mostly prose, an archive of occasionally vapid and debauched experiences punctuated with general relationship musings and the occasional nervous breakdown. Hannah's blog shanks you in the ribs with a screwdriver, then hands you a poem to read during recovery. Guest blogging for one another would mean attempting to work in the other's medium, which terrified...uh, both of us.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So, instead: She's built a narrative poem tailor made for a space more familiar with paragraph-long sentences and strip club jokes. I've passed on <a href="http://www.hannahmiet.com/2010/08/prose-before-hoes.html">a piece</a> of fictional prose to her space in return and hope it doesn't collapse on its self. The piece she wrote it fantastic and I'm happy to have it here.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But, less ramble, more read. Hannah Miet's words:</span></div><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Whiskey</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> and Waldorf Salad, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">by Hannah Miet</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; font-family: Times; font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> </span></span></span></span></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">My mother met my father through a personal ad</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">in The Village Voice.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">It said, “I like jazz and Indian food.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I would like to start a family.”</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">They were both in their 40s and my mother says</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">they instantly became best friends.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">My father says that it was love at first sight</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">without all the bullshit “romance.”</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">3 months before the wedding they fornicated on an island</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">off the coast of the former Yugoslavia.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">My mother made the announcement of my birth</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">at the reception in a Chinese Restaurant in the West 70s</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">that is now a wine bar. She was wearing a blue dress and looked thin</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">but not skinny, </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">mostly, she looked happy.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">My mother called me yesterday while I was forking</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">through a puddle of vegetables in mayonnaise</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">surrounded by two grapes and two walnuts.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I told her that the Waldorf isn’t all it’s cracked up to be</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">though it’s good for people watching</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">and you have to people watch very carefully</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">when you’re scanning the crowds of suits and tourists</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">for your date, who never shows, most likely due to work</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">or marital strife</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">or something equally</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">boring.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I tell her that if I had a personal</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">in the Voice, it would only say</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">“Please use correct grammar in text messages”</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">because that’s all I knew about wanting</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">or being wanted</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">and my mother said that I’ve always been too picky about the wrong things</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">and not picky enough about the right things and that my problem is that</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I’m uninterested</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">in the calm after the storm.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I wanted to remind her that she ran away</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">to France for six years</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">and lived on a hippie commune in San Francisco where clothes were forbidden </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">and communicated through letters across borders, sealed with kisses and written</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">in full sentences with correct punctuation, no ebonics or emoticons, or lols</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">but my mouth was full of Waldorf salad and my date was calling on the other line</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">with a proper plea for mercy so I held my tongue and washed it down with the burn</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">that never hurts.</span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span></blockquote><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I won't say what I love about this piece because people should chew things uninfluenced, but yeah, she is very good. So good, in fact, she's got a book coming out. Miet's met the Kickstarter base goal needed to get one of her debut projects off the ground and into book form, and I encourage all to pass even a $1 to the cause. The book may be funded already...but just a few extra dollars could be the difference between something nice and something so fucking epic you have to hike it across Middle Earth and drop it in the fires of Mordor just to destroy it, that's how badass it is. THE FIRES OF FUCKING MORDOR PEOPLE.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBwSkIYrJ68tPFOORCfEz04_6sAtykH0wVcI2BIZr9tQchQwjbq0B4VhjNMhDhWsZBFkL2ygWYAu-0MWZivdxiM71W-2swh8N9vnA10e3Q1znXdqTTOg23tRJLIE1-6I8lPukjUvluzE9E/s1600/Mordor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBwSkIYrJ68tPFOORCfEz04_6sAtykH0wVcI2BIZr9tQchQwjbq0B4VhjNMhDhWsZBFkL2ygWYAu-0MWZivdxiM71W-2swh8N9vnA10e3Q1znXdqTTOg23tRJLIE1-6I8lPukjUvluzE9E/s320/Mordor.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>Book burning was taken particularly seriously at Mordor State University.</b></i></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">See? That's SERIOUS. So please. Support Hannah by going to her blog and reading EVERYTHING, then click here: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><b>http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/Hannahmiet/hello-absurd-world-a-book-of-5-minute-poems/comments</b></span></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Many thanks to Hannah for sharing her world in this humble blog. </span></div>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-35532429314793249392010-07-28T00:54:00.006-04:002010-08-06T18:49:44.082-04:00Just F-ING READ THIS #2: How To Ruin Your Ex's Wedding Day AND Opinion of You Without Leaving Your Laptop<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWWJMSMKLqPDQg5-V-h9RZgE6NLa-bkRa3uAqI1n4nI66qJxdIQUNxAwiIi2IzIiPIRrZ3zHh91zGLm-21l_rnyEVJ8l3Mfk7srwvnk8lJyQ5eclr5R7MxhvJ6swhv1Tw5lahwhnpRUIA/s1600/fuckingread.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWWJMSMKLqPDQg5-V-h9RZgE6NLa-bkRa3uAqI1n4nI66qJxdIQUNxAwiIi2IzIiPIRrZ3zHh91zGLm-21l_rnyEVJ8l3Mfk7srwvnk8lJyQ5eclr5R7MxhvJ6swhv1Tw5lahwhnpRUIA/s400/fuckingread.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br />
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</div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Is anyone else entertained by the bleeding entrails of another human being's emotional dignity? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am.</span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well. I mean, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">my</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> own bleeding entrails aren't funny. To </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">me</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. But they should be to, like, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">other</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> people. Otherwise what would the point be? When <i>I</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> make a stiletto-ed, snot-dripping gazelle run down 7th Avenue at 3am, wailing like a menstrual raptor during hormone therapy while being chased by a lover driven to such madness by my estrogenic meltdown he can't figure out whether to offer consolation or knock me unconscious/jam me in a cab/pay the driver to drop my body somewhere in the Palisades, it isn't funny to me. At least at that moment. But I draw comfort once the dust settles that someone who bore witness to my public breakdown might have been able to turn to their drunk friend with a chuckle and say, "Did you just see </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">that</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> shit?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ASIDE: I believe that no one does visual representations of "bleeding entrails of another human being's emotional dignity" better than Kiki Smith. Just look at how belligerent her art is.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2yEmfbtjp3gGDY0r1Md3utyJodNcUbXgfIBaunZn0hJ_-_JswphlmBrpW7J1Iz29evQuJ_xhidyyUJG0nGd5ORN8ox3jlSqJMVnJpmZRjhqm2jL0H5nOzc4v_iJw9R7Xgx6hbB8KaZY/s1600/kikismith.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2yEmfbtjp3gGDY0r1Md3utyJodNcUbXgfIBaunZn0hJ_-_JswphlmBrpW7J1Iz29evQuJ_xhidyyUJG0nGd5ORN8ox3jlSqJMVnJpmZRjhqm2jL0H5nOzc4v_iJw9R7Xgx6hbB8KaZY/s320/kikismith.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>I mean OH MY GOD buy a journal already.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Seriously. Kiki Smith. Google her. ANYWAY.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Point is, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Politics Daily</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> "Legal Analyst" Andrew Cohen may have allowed his own break-up pathos to become one of the most entertaining pieces of Loss of Emotional Dignity Pornography the interwebs have had in...well, say days, with a piece that went up a few days ago.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">BACKSTORY: On the eve of his former love's nuptials to another man, Cohen "gifted" his ex with the traditional wedding present of a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Batshit Backhanded Compliment Meltdown Column</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, appropriately published in a political web magazine. (Also, someone paid him to do this. Which means my diary must be worth </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">at least </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">$0.50 a word, or around $7000 dollars.) </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here's Cohen's original post:</span></div><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">The great love of my life marries today and I am not the groom. I had my chance, a few years ago, but did not realize until too late how fleeting my moment with her was meant to be. Whether it was my fault or hers, and, let's face it, it was probably mine, I will wonder always about the life I might have had with the most loving and loveable woman I have ever known. Sometimes, I finally now understand, love, even crazy love, is not enough. Sometimes, as the romance novelists know, timing </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">is</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> everything.<br />
<br />
But today is not a day for remorse. It is not a day for lost causes. Today is a day for celebration. The woman I once promised to keep happy </span></span> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">is</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> happy. She tells me she is marrying a wonderful man, with a good heart, whom she believes I would have liked had we met in different circumstances. She lives where she wants to live. She has selected her life's path. All that is left for me to do is to wish her well and to hope that she has made the right choice; that she continues to find in him what she did not find in me. And I am sure he considers himself today the luckiest man on the face of the Earth.<br />
<br />
The present I humbly send her today is this column; this public note, this irrevocable display of affection and support and gratitude; this worldly absolution from any guilt or sadness she felt between the time she said no to me and the time she said yes to him. No one ought to have to carry that with them into a marriage. I showered her with as much love as I could muster when we were together. I still love her and always will. So I am only too happy to offer my toast to her now, one more time, before she takes her vows.<br />
<br />
I want to thank her, mostly, for rescuing me from hopelessness. When we met, back in the spring of 2005, I was nearly 40 and had been dating off and on for two years following an unexpected divorce. I had lost faith in relationships. I had given up on love. She arrived, unexpectedly, and showed me what was possible. She raised me up from the emotional dead. She drew out of me the </span></span> <leo_highlight id="leoHighlights_Underline_0" leohighlights_keywords="poison" leohighlights_underline="true" leohighlights_url_bottom="http%3A//shortcuts.thebrowserhighlighter.com/leonardo/plugin/highlights/3_2/tbh_highlightsBottom.jsp?keywords%3Dpoison%26domain%3Dbeta.blogsmith.aol.com" leohighlights_url_top="http%3A//shortcuts.thebrowserhighlighter.com/leonardo/plugin/highlights/3_2/tbh_highlightsTop.jsp?keywords%3Dpoison%26domain%3Dbeta.blogsmith.aol.com" onclick="leoHighlightsHandleClick('leoHighlights_Underline_0')" onmouseout="leoHighlightsHandleMouseOut('leoHighlights_Underline_0')" onmouseover="leoHighlightsHandleMouseOver('leoHighlights_Underline_0')" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 50%; background-repeat: repeat; border-bottom-color: rgb(255, 255, 150); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 2px; cursor: pointer; display: inline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">poison</span></span></leo_highlight><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> of divorce and betrayal. Eleven years younger but already more mature than me, she was dazzling, brilliant, funny, and sweet; she both gave and taught me patience and devotion and sacrifice. No woman before or since ever made me feel as desired, needed, beloved, appreciated as she did. No one has yet made me want her more. Some men live their whole lives without this kind of love. At least I had it for one brief, shining moment.<br />
<br />
I want to thank her for being so delightful with my son, who talks about her still, and to my parents, who couldn't believe their son's good fortune to have landed such a sweetheart. Until almost literally his dying day, my dad would ask me about her. Near the end, almost exactly two years ago, I did not have the heart to tell him that we had broken up. It gives me peace figuring that he died thinking she'd be in my life when he was gone. And in a way I suppose she is. Rarely a day goes by when something in my life -- the law, journalism, horses, celebrity gossip -- doesn't make me think of her or what she'd think.<br />
<br />
I want to thank her for-- it's now such a cliché that I'm almost embarrassed to write it -- making me want to be a better man. She really did. It happens. She made me less judgmental and more open to new ideas. She gave me a confidence I had never felt before. She gave me incentive to reach out professionally into areas I had not yet gone. I became more productive and back involved in the world. And, most important, I learned how to respond with love when so much love was offered to me. I learned how to trust but also show it. And in some way, virtually every friend, family member and romance in my life since has benefited from the gifts of grace she gave so willingly to me.<br />
<br />
I want to thank her for making me laugh, at her and myself, and for making me swoon whenever she walked into a room. I want to thank her for the advice she gave me, and for the soothing tone of her voice during times of trouble. I want to thank her for completely changing my outlook on life. Before I met her, as a single father, I never would have considered having another child. Although it took more time than it should have, I came to realize through her love and devotion that there would be nothing more I would rather do in the world than have a child with her. How many poor souls go their whole lives without the heart-string pull of such emotions?<br />
<br />
I want to thank her for giving my life's dream contours and a calculus. I want to live on a farm one day, a farm filled with horses and wireless connections where I can write. And now, thanks to her, I know exactly what I want and need in a partner who might just want to get there, too. That's just another gift she gave me; the gift of knowing what is possible in a relationship; of refusing to settle for mediocrity where it counts, and of taking the chance when something inside tells you it could be love. I sound like a sap. I know. But it's no less true. No matter what my romantic future holds, I know there will be no retreat from the standards she has set. Like the song says, surely someone will one day dare to stand where she stood. I can't wait.<br />
<br />
On her wedding day, I want to thank her for all those times she stuck up for me -- with her friends, with her family, with her work colleagues. It could not have been easy, explaining to all those cooler heads, why she was so devoted to an "old guy" who lived so far away. Yet she did it, even after she had decided that she would not throw down her lot with me. That's the sort of character I'd like to instill in my son. It's the sort that we think is all around us but actually is rare. It is courage and self-confidence and the ability to see right from wrong. She displayed it every day, right down to the end. Ours was a romance without rancor; a love affair that ended in peace, not war.<br />
<br />
I want to thank her for being such an inspiration. She did not give in or sell out or become one of those poor women of a certain age in </span></span> <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">New York</span></span></st1:place></st1:state><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> who have put their careers ahead of their lives. When we met, she was living in </span></span><st1:state w:st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">New York</span></span></st1:state><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> but was not </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">of</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> </span></span><st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">New York</span></span></st1:place></st1:state><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">; transplanted from the West Coast, she had not allowed herself to be seduced entirely by the City's charms. She took from </span></span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Manhattan</span></span></st1:city></st1:place><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">, like so many other beautiful women do, but she never gave to it her heart and soul. She was always rooted even among the rootless of her age and time. She knew she would one day leave the City, and she did, on her own terms. I admire her for that. I respect her for that. And I love her for it.<br />
<br />
It wasn't too long after we met that I began imagining what our wedding day would be like. My second, her first, I nonetheless pictured her not taking it too seriously, laughing off the little crises that always pop up. I pictured her stunning in her dress and with that smile that would melt me. I pictured her having a vodka and soda to ease her nerves. I pictured us laughing a lot. I pictured myself at the end of the aisle. It was not to be. I've known that for years. But that doesn't make the love any less real.<br />
<br />
So at last my wedding toast today is sincere: I wish the deepest and most profound love of my life a </span></span> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">happy</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> life, a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">good</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> life, one in which she gives to and gets from the loved ones in her world the hope and the passion and the comfort and the support she always and so magically gave to me.</span></span></span></blockquote><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Wow. Good work Andy. This is pure poetry. I mean it. Like a Nicholas Sparks letter. If that letter had been covered in razor blades and the envelope filled with Anthrax. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But even more enjoyable than Cohen's original column are the pieces it's inspiring in response, which you should also read. Enjoy. Highlights:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">* </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Amanda Hess's breakdown of the letter and its babbling interior monologue at The Sexist, which you can find here:</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.washingtoncitypaper.com/blogs/sexist/2010/07/27/the-gift-of-creepiness-on-your-wedding-day/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;">THE GIFT OF CREEPINESS, ON YOUR WEDDING DAY</span></a></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eeeeee; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">* As well as Lizzie Shurnick's</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.politicsdaily.com/2010/07/26/how-not-to-congratulate-your-ex-on-her-wedding-day/">How Not to Congratulate Your Ex on Her Wedding Day</a></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #f3f3f3;">Epic. Anyway. I'm off to go stalk Facebook status updates to make sure none of my exes have done something to send me off the deep end, then disable both my ovaries and Internet to insure nothing like this ever has my byline on it. </span></span>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-70557438464890104462010-07-19T15:29:00.012-04:002010-08-06T19:04:29.061-04:00#23: I Am Polly's Total Inability to Ride the Subway, or, How to Break a Drunk Man's Teeth<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNFzbjt2id1qFoA4ExStLluT0kDbmX60HIortlgAcaJe-_BucfudYJ3APeuLKFjwsOFRqOiH_hBpxWD2wt0rUtdg1rPv8zHjw-C0L46jEjxqxvUXuVwbYbzu2KsDAVe1FcuMomtqZWJ3U/s1600/fight+club.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNFzbjt2id1qFoA4ExStLluT0kDbmX60HIortlgAcaJe-_BucfudYJ3APeuLKFjwsOFRqOiH_hBpxWD2wt0rUtdg1rPv8zHjw-C0L46jEjxqxvUXuVwbYbzu2KsDAVe1FcuMomtqZWJ3U/s400/fight+club.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Since this blog's been brooding harder than a Belle and Sebastian fan held hostage at a Jonas Brothers concert without his cardigan sweater, I thought I'd lighten things up a bit. Specifically with drunken fisticuffs, lesbians and a new "Reasons my Father F-ing Rocks," in which Daddy Dearest coins the phrase "gorilla snatch" (hint: that's in reference to his arch nemesis' labia). So, the first in a series of non-brooding posts: That Time I Got in a Fist Fight With a Latino Man on the Subway. (My second failure at riding the subway like <b><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/07/epic-fail-or-please-do-not-bash-gays.html">a normal human being</a>.</b>)</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now, anyone who knows me understands I'd rather be bound, gagged and forced to listen to a vegan propaganda opera scored by sitars than voluntarily quote Chuck Palahniuk.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That being said: "How much can you know about yourself [if] you've never been in a fight." - </span><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">Fight Club</span></i></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">With that quote in mind "Get in a Fight" made the original Hitch List because, despite my desire to avoid the hipster bandwagon (mainly because I get carsick from riding all the way in the back), I fundamentally agree with Palahniuk's philosophy there. A good full contact fight can do more to unlock the primal core of a repressed suburbanite than all the ayuasca at Burning Man...and I'm mildly curious as to whether my core is made of hot, liquid badass or limp angel-hair pasta. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">ATTN. EDITORS: This press release embargoed until 2am or your 4th vodka/Redbull</span></i></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i><br />
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</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">While I have an advanced degree in shit-talking (from New Jersey U), I've never actually gotten in a physical fight, i.e. the kind where pieces of your body make contact with pieces of another person's body without the shared goal of orgasm. The closest I'd ever come before this post's incident was</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">A) The time some married drunk threatened to kick the ass of my boyfriend for cock-blocking his attempts to bed my best friend. I flew into an overprotective rage and threatened to "slit" his "fucking throat myself" while making belligerent hand gestures until wingman Ariel and two other friends pulled me off him. I have no idea why I said this, because I don't carry a knife appropriate for throat-slitting. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">B) The time 10-Year-Old Me slapped my 7-Year-Old Sister in the face over the last Fruit Roll-Up. (She started it.) NOTE: It was one of those awesome rainbow flavors and therefore worth fighting for.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Despite the deeply introspective nature of both events, I learned nothing about myself during those encounters, except that the darkest parts of me are willing to hit a blood relative in the face over a rainbow-colored corn syrup carpet rolled in plastic and marketed to children during Nickelodeon's <i>Doug.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My fight cherry was recently popped when I stepped onto a rickety Brooklyn-bound subway train with intent to see some hipster band play a late-night set with a friend. With just two other passengers in the car--a middle-aged woman reading <i>The Fountainhead </i>and a nebbishy 30something guy in a skinny tie--I happily plopped myself down on one of those L-shaped tetris-piece seats near the door. There, I commenced standard "Please Don't Talk to Me" protocol: iPod in, journal open, eyes down. Also, knees shut. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Two stops later the doors parted to reveal a bleary-eyed, balding, mustachioed Latino man (PS: This is not a Racist post. This isn't evan a Poor Little White Girl Victimized By A Demon Minority post. This<b> is </b>a Drunk Jaggoff Whose Race Is Relevant Because He Looked So Much Like An Oversized Cheech Marin It's Worth Mentioning post. Cool? Moving on.) reeking of tequila and swaying slightly on the platform. He waved a limp hand at some equally hammered pals, stepped into our car, examined the four dozen empty seats ready to cradle his drunk ass all the way to Brooklyn....then sat down right next to<i> me.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Every woman knows what it's like to be leered at in a totally inappropriate way. It's a creeping, burning sensation that registers on some piece of skin facing the perpetrator, then slowly spreads across your consciousness like sexual harassment napalm. Doppel-Cheech Marin was an advanced leer-er...and his gaze was a tactical air strike on the right side of my body. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But I can handle a leer. What I can<i>not</i> handle is a lime and salt-scented hand reaching into my peripheral vision and toward my be-legginged knee. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Mami, tu estas bonita," he was slurring as the hand approached its target. I channeled Daniel-San and waxed-off the incoming set of digits, propelling them to one side with my forearm while vomiting expletives. Doppel-Cheech look perplexed.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"DON'T TOUCH ME, understand? No nos moleste? Leave me alone."</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Ehh....," Doppel-Cheech grunted, both hands up in surrender. I went back to the journal.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Just as I was getting my narrative back, a brown face and neck crept into sight from the right again, Cheech's nubby mushroom nose near-level with my eyes, hands creeping to my seat.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'M TELLING YOU TO LEAVE. ME. ALONE!" At this point, both of our fellow passengers were watching, but not saying a thing. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Doppel-Cheech got angry. "Mami, whasss it is your problem, eh?" I noticed as I silently glared back at him that one eye was wandering off on its own like the fat kid with ADD on a museum trip, further evidence that I attract life's congenital mishaps even more reliably than reality TV shows.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was determined to stand my ground, lest the dick see he was scaring the shit out of me and gain some sort of situational foothold. "You are the problem, now PLEASE back off."</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He did. For about 1 minute. Then the shit hit the fan.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I felt one of the wandering hands reach behind me toward my shoulder, causing me to spring out of the seat so fast I almost stepped out of my own shoes and into the metal stripper pole strap-hangers cling to during urban commutes. I was a banshee at this point, brandishing my tiny index finger like a switch-blade and screaming at him to back the fuck off. We were hurling through the tube toward Brooklyn at top speed, the sound of squealing wheels only emphasizing that I was in essentially trapped in a tin can trying to fend off a tequila-fueled sex demon with no way out. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Instead of backing off, Doppel-Cheech stood up, squared off and asked me why I was "such a fucking beetch."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">NOW: </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Thanks to years with Alex, a former all-state wrestler and devout MMA fan, I know how to successfully execute a d'arce choke, which looks like this:</span></div><object height="405" width="500"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/UmjkraaZ4lE&hl=en_US&fs=1?rel=0&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/UmjkraaZ4lE&hl=en_US&fs=1?rel=0&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object><br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Thanks to the immortal film Monster Squad, I also know how to do this:</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><object height="405" width="500"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qu6L9pG_E6o&hl=en_US&fs=1?rel=0&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qu6L9pG_E6o&hl=en_US&fs=1?rel=0&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And thanks to a year and a half living in Bushwick, Brooklyn, I actually OWN one of these...and it was in my purse at the time:</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmyYfP3hcK1bUrJPCpU8R29xvuy2Rwvjme7xxWmDMOGIn6P23NDptrg5y2m0jPVGjR6Yzwi_eHaVOijLRPtZyJE8tZusabKYRwqe8lKza6zgS8fe4f62TitOXci_C1FHrEugUni_Y-Wfs/s1600/kitty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmyYfP3hcK1bUrJPCpU8R29xvuy2Rwvjme7xxWmDMOGIn6P23NDptrg5y2m0jPVGjR6Yzwi_eHaVOijLRPtZyJE8tZusabKYRwqe8lKza6zgS8fe4f62TitOXci_C1FHrEugUni_Y-Wfs/s400/kitty.jpg" width="356" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <i><b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Yes, these are eye-gouging knives, made to look like kittens.</span></b></i></span></div></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Did I utilize any of the above tools or techniques?<br />
<br />
No. Of course not. Instead, I blacked out, probably squealed like a ferret dropped in a bathtub and remembered the one piece of advice Alex gave me when I announced I was moving to the big city alone: "Always surprise them with first blow and make sure it's devastating...you're small as fuck and that's your only hope unless you've got a gun." (Thanks, Alex.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I remember the stubble on the underside of Doppel-Cheech's chin as he swaggered toward me. I remember cocking back my right wrist, fingers drawn in. And I remember stepping forward as fast as possible while driving the heel of my right palm up toward his chin as hard I possibly could. The impact of my hand clicked Cheech's jaw shut with a sound like ice being chewed, then snapped his head back until his eyes (at least the one <i>not</i> meandering off to Mordor or wherever the hell it was wandering) were at the ceiling. Cheech stumbled until the back of his knees hit the rim of his seat, the combination of now-halting train and terrified Irish girl sitting him down in the process. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I've no photographic evidence of the encounter, but I hired an extremely reliable police artist to sketch a rendering of the event. It looked something like this:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMbyXJeBoZXq2710fnwc75txJVyRG4KIDtFmNkJMBe_9gPN8iJoSbw2WoaqI4ncjDa_nInpXjEdilbRoMxJMBXo8r5DKvm-r1RDv5uAerQ9Tkd4ey3xvHf-pGFu2MOjxgK8cmjgbiGm5E/s1600/SUBWAY.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMbyXJeBoZXq2710fnwc75txJVyRG4KIDtFmNkJMBe_9gPN8iJoSbw2WoaqI4ncjDa_nInpXjEdilbRoMxJMBXo8r5DKvm-r1RDv5uAerQ9Tkd4ey3xvHf-pGFu2MOjxgK8cmjgbiGm5E/s400/SUBWAY.bmp" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As the train stopped I hurled myself toward the doors, screaming at Cheech--both of his hands at his mouth while he moaned--to stay where he was and not to follow me. The doors opened. I ran out, passing Nebbishy 30something Man, whose hadn't said or done a thing the entire ride. "And FUCK <i>YOU</i> TOO."</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Cheech didn't follow. The doors shut behind me and I was alone on the platform save for a few late-night commuters straggling toward the exit. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Having survived the whole shitshow, I did what any self-possessed woman with adrenaline coursing through her veins would: I burst into tears and called my mommy. Who didn't answer because she was watching <i>American Fucking Idol.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<div><span style="font-size: small;">It took me about 15 minutes to collect myself and figure out what to do next. I didn't know the subway car number, had no injuries, was unfamiliar with the section of Brooklyn I'd ejected myself at and generally wanted to pretend the entire thing never happened. So, instead of calling the cops, I headed back underground, got on a fresh train (after looking for a car with lots of people on it) and went and saw Beach House shoe-gaze their way indie-rock glory. My friend bought me a warm Blue Moon. I probably should have hit <i>him</i> in the face for that. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
So. I don't know if the whole event technically counts as a fight. But it's as physical I've ever been while in a state of utter panic, so I'll count it. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here's what I learned, Tyler Durden:</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">1. I need to begin learning Brazilian ju-jitsu. Like, immediately. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">2. When finally faced with the opportunity to use it, I will forget about the MMA d'arce choke entirely.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">3. Stubble leaves marks on the heel of your hand for 2-3 days.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">4. Adrenaline makes me cry.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">5. If you're nearly black-out drunk and all the odds are stacked against you, I just might be able to kick your ass. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-61523860842429454902010-06-24T01:42:00.008-04:002010-07-28T02:42:06.054-04:00Empty Inbox Neurosis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb7LlE-qpl5_HSGNWyLBwGT9uEVESD5uSBn34DjrLgM0BpoRKIqckMIWKpOoEhHMAxkUPH4fMxQfokVq3KWeF4GNySwi3BV0GxHcBO1kdcyio9wOe8UgC0nKam_z9ZaJYePVVvOOgs3qA/s1600/empty1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" ru="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb7LlE-qpl5_HSGNWyLBwGT9uEVESD5uSBn34DjrLgM0BpoRKIqckMIWKpOoEhHMAxkUPH4fMxQfokVq3KWeF4GNySwi3BV0GxHcBO1kdcyio9wOe8UgC0nKam_z9ZaJYePVVvOOgs3qA/s400/empty1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I fucking hate empty inboxes. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Loath their statement, what they do, things undone in saturninity. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All that purposed silence. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">One day I'll go renegade and fill each inch with words, letters fucking letters until the whole sky goes black. They'll ask why she burnt the sun but there'll be no way to describe it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Somewhere there's a conversation going on without you. It's every word you dreamed but you were not invited. Phrases you've been spelling out are changing people's lives, lolling soft and hard on the palates of rogue speakers. I wish we could hear them but the accoustics here are bad.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Somewhere else a piece of you is hung up on a question. Check your neck--you're noosed, throat caught in that curve. They all end with inverted fishing hooks</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> maybe you didn't notice? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Dangling feet are doing panicked pointe solos on the dot. If the answer you've been waiting for fails to arrive in time, they kick the dot from under you and all translation ends. The neck shouldn't be so fragile it can be snapped by a query, but it is. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And here we dare not ask what barbed punctuation does to tongues or hearts.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Somewhere deeper still: a corner with a stool. The cruelest sit and stare there through milky cataracts, judging whom to give replies. "Do not linger long or you'll go blind."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Quick--someone left the crumbs of their resolution behind. I'll give you my share. You look so hungry and there's still hope for you, I think.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">But leave us. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I'm resealing the envelope and leaving one edge open. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I'd rather bleed to death from paper cuts than endure a pageless silence.</span>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-58790152532779481132010-06-18T01:45:00.015-04:002010-06-20T02:18:11.875-04:00Confession: Snapshots From the Whole Picture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2wsqjSgeRFjiAq2Iw5wm0fDcnsoo6drWtv3VHQe8M-ThFg5d79W9IuMygPNUEzP3hOnAvF02BMh6cNQJRDViqSAlcIaARprjIe4iQbDCQv0496FCdm8ozIBhKJz5T5KHBeodVAMEKzY/s1600/choke_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2wsqjSgeRFjiAq2Iw5wm0fDcnsoo6drWtv3VHQe8M-ThFg5d79W9IuMygPNUEzP3hOnAvF02BMh6cNQJRDViqSAlcIaARprjIe4iQbDCQv0496FCdm8ozIBhKJz5T5KHBeodVAMEKzY/s400/choke_small.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I think I have to acknowledge something finally. My avoidance of it here has written me into a corner, made me into a character I cannot sustain. Right now it is, and recently has been, such a large part of my life that editing it out left me with swiss cheese story boards, gap-toothed puzzle pieces that will never fit together. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s something I’ve put into words only once from the safe distance of a fictional narrative, so I’m asking for leniency if I fail to articulate compellingly, or at least in a way that doesn’t end up reeking of every self-pitying “sick people” illumination I’ve read. If I fail, let this post be buried and replaced with jokes and extended metaphors, easily tagged tales of anecdotal insignificance...remember those when you see the pink crosshairs on your screen. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’m sick. Diagnosed, filed and case numbered, body penned in the autoimmune/neurological/sorry-we-just-don’t-have-a-cure-for-you zoo. I etched the vocabulary to categorize it on the inside of my mouth years ago so I wouldn't forget, as if that were an issue. It reads like beat poetry in chant: Chronic. Progressive. Degenerative. Post-vir<i>al</i>, cyclic<i>al</i>, et <i>al</i>. Non-transmittable, thankfully. “Life-threatening” maybe at some point. Not tomorrow or the next day. The major symptoms are mostly managed. The little ones are dealt with daily in the most unobtrusive ways we can devise. Most of it blends into the scenery. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There's a picture of me drinking martinis with my mom in the backyard one summer, IV jammed in the hand not holding the glass. You notice the liquor before the saline; the bag's just another set piece, more laundry dangling on the clothes line. It's been this way 8 years, but the last two years have been different...the last two have been about time. Feeling like there’s not enough of it. Wondering what to do with it. Recognizing I force resolutions and timelines on people because my clock hands finger minutes differently. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Lately I feel reduced to numbers. Viral titers. Bacterial levels. Cell counts. Electrolyte balances. Blood pressures. Dosages. 1mg, 3 mg, 50mg. 1g twice daily, 2tsp once daily, two packets at night only. 500cc’s out? 1lt back in. 10 days of antibiotics, 21-day cycles, 36-page reports. Helvetica typeface calender dates pulled out for fresh appointments. Everything is numbers. It might be why I always try to make love with my words. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Parts of it have threaded so casually into the fabric of my life it’s like it is supposed to be there. Like how blood work records make me remember events which had nothing to do with sickness; my sterile paper print-outs trigger memories like photos albums. “My virals were _____ in August 2008...the month Alex and I went to Connecticut for our anniversary. It rained that day at the winery.” I smell the rain, oak barrels, grapes. Taste chocolate-cherry port, suck on phantom tannins. Then wonder what ever happened to that bottle we stashed away. A full, tactile memory of an unmarred weekend, fished out of the pool of experience by numbers baited on a barbed diagnosis code. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But parts of it I will not allow to assimilate. Hundreds of dollars of cosmetics paint over whatever can be; I blend grey flesh into a pink glow so healthy you’d think I was born pretty. I cover scars, herx reactions, IV bruises, any surface sign of abnormality, hiding them with specifically tailored clothing, scarves, oversized jewelry. I fuss with the pieces all night, check every reflective surface making sure the costume’s on right. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This is war paint, this is armor. This is my choice to identify as anything but a patient.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I fuck like a whore in heat on my back, my ass, or folded in half, wrapped around the front of partners like a papoose, sometimes lowered down from above. I lap at them until their eyes roll back just so they’ll never turn me over, never take me from behind...never see the marks on my back and shoulders from where the meds make me break out in hives. I don't want to waste energy worrying if the've noticed, wondering what they think.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“I always forget you’re sick,” an ex-lover told me recently. “I’d never have known if you didn’t tell me.” </span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And I do tell. It’s no secret. Anyone in direct proximity knows. A choice few know what it really looks like. A smaller number help me live with it day to day. Usually I bury it and most days I can hide it; when I’m sickest, I retreat until I’m better. For people out of the inner circle of care, the retreating comes off as many things its not; for me, it is all about isolation. Self-imposed quarantine makes sure the normal things that comprise a life cannot be infected by the infection. If too many people see, it spreads. You cannot uninfect perception.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What’s odd is that I’ll talk about it freely if asked, to the extent that I know how. I’m sure I talk too much about it, sometimes. But I find it hard to write about. To me it’s not something readable. Too hard to make funny, too Lifetime TV. Lands with a thud on 20Something Bloggers. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">**NEW SUBJECT: Are you afraid you’re going to die young?** </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mostly, though, it has a way of hijacking what I want to do when I write, which is to entertain, elucidate, verbally masturbate. Tell a good story. Examine how I feel emotionally, so I can stop thinking about what hurts physically. The rough content's carefully extrapolated, censored by the source. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But it is in many ways the root of this whole blog. Especially that one etched qualifier: “progressive.” It resonates more than “incurable,” nags more than “chronic,” is more vulgar than "degenerative." It is a one-word incantation that alters my sense of time, skews the scale on which everything must be balanced. The panicked need to collect experiences, to cram as much in as possible, to choose to feel emotions most people should protect themselves from just to have learned the whole spectrum in time...all of that lives here. This blog is, in its own way, a covert shrine to it, the place I watch the half of me that wants to settle down bare-knuckle brawl the part that that’s terrified it will miss something if I do.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Please don’t get me wrong. This is a brooding kind of post, cryptic, rambling, frustrated in this moment, out of remission, scared. I know I am lucky. I’m generally happy. Blessings: My degeneration is slow and can be hidden most of the time. It doesn’t keep me, at this point, from getting into experience most pieces of ordinary l need.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I no longer remember what the point of this post is. I guess I was tired of writing about everything except what’s on my mind, which lately has been this, and tired of focusing every choice I’ve made through a homogenized lens that doesn’t quite project the whole picture. <i>Why do you do the shit you do? </i>I'm not sure...but this is a factor. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This is a little bit closer to the whole picture.</span></span></span><br />
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</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPddagaQJ15LKhrslgjLPW7PLbhG3xNvGMlbNKHZYPt9wgeVtNLr90ZP_hDWkJE0HF98SYN-LcP1FiCJgzk5S3nzLKM1YiY-F4aE3UtUqAZ5wscELeTQT__AkCD0CO1SO8hFsOcW6gKoU/s1600/begging_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPddagaQJ15LKhrslgjLPW7PLbhG3xNvGMlbNKHZYPt9wgeVtNLr90ZP_hDWkJE0HF98SYN-LcP1FiCJgzk5S3nzLKM1YiY-F4aE3UtUqAZ5wscELeTQT__AkCD0CO1SO8hFsOcW6gKoU/s400/begging_small.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Photos taken by Alex, during treatment session, February 2009.</b></span></div>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-13679448915089653572010-06-16T02:25:00.006-04:002010-06-16T17:35:49.083-04:00Randomness: A Conversation Between a Man and His Cheesesteak<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpZLEPmnVbqID_aidX_hjc-NFCjInOpVM1uidCz9ZMbC5JERIb_TJ-4KrzJf6YxE3PSL1zO6d0KEY4RwlTLCH6EDOZweW5qN8rVVYcPrTOK4lSuzwE8r0bTKzbwak6DnnDBaFXlJjy05E/s1600/pats-philly-cheesesteak-sandwhich-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpZLEPmnVbqID_aidX_hjc-NFCjInOpVM1uidCz9ZMbC5JERIb_TJ-4KrzJf6YxE3PSL1zO6d0KEY4RwlTLCH6EDOZweW5qN8rVVYcPrTOK4lSuzwE8r0bTKzbwak6DnnDBaFXlJjy05E/s320/pats-philly-cheesesteak-sandwhich-01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 14px Verdana; margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14px Verdana; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">“Please, please, <i>please</i>, you have to bring me back a cheesesteak from Pat’s,” a voice on the end of the line pleaded.<br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>“Alex, it’s a two hour trip back and the thing’s going to be a soggy mess by the time I get back.”</b><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">“I don’t care.”<br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">“It’s going to grow bacteria on the ride back and you’re going to get </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">e. coli </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">and shit yourself.”</span></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">“I don’t care.”<br />
<b>“Dysentery. Ebola. Mono. Cold onions. It’s going to be disgusting. I’m not bringing you back that sandwich.”</b><br />
“Yes you are.” (Insert Jedi Mind Trick here.)</span></span></span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">“Okay, fine, I’ll bring you the sandwich.”</span></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">(Goddamn you Alex.)</span></span></div></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">As ya'lls already know, I'm currently living on the Lower East Side with my wingman and polyamorous ex-lover a few blocks from Alex, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-dont-know.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">the guy I was going to marr</span></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">y</span></span></b></span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"> but bolted on when I (and then we) realized the walls of our sheltered suburban existence were closing in faster than the giant, swampy trash compactor that almost killed Luke and the gang in </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Star Wars</span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">. Remember that backstory? No? I wrote </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2010/06/shes-ba-ack-creature-from-hack-lagoon.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">this post</span></span></b></span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"> about it? And </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/08/decent-proposal-second-first-date.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">this one</span></span></b></span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">? And </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/12/confession-hiding-in-plain-sight.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">this</span></span></b></span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">? Still nothing, huh? Then you clearly haven’t been reading this blog and landed here via Google Images by accident, probably by searching the phrase “face herpes.” (Seriously. You would not believe the amount of traffic I get from those keywords. It’s really disturbing.) </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Anyway. Given the circumstances, a lot of people have politely asked recently how Alex and I are able to coexist they way we do--which is quite happily, at the moment, even with sandwich related demands--given all that’s happened. Some of it comes from living six blocks apart, sharing a social circle and having joint custody over a pit bull with the sweetest fucking smile you’ve ever seen...when you’re logging that much face time, you learn to coexist because the alternatives (stony silence, battles outside Alphabet City bars, passive aggressive Facebook statuses, etc.) are excruciating. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Some of it comes from the amount of history we have: six-ish years, on and off, as lovers; three as a live-in couple; seven as the type of wingmen that get arrested and bail each other out of jail. (His was a felony charge, mine was a misdemeanor...just sayin’.) All seven years included him caring for me, sometimes alone, during bouts with a chronic degenerative illness, which is the kind of nightmare that bonds people beyond what anyone who hasn’t been through it personally can understand.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">But mostly, it’s shit like the conversation above, and the subsequent one that's below. Sometimes, people </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">get</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"> you, maaaaan.And when they do, embrace their randomness.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">A little while back, I took a trip to Philadelphia with new roomie Duchess. Duchess didn’t know it at the time she extended the invite, but it’s been a decade-long tradition dating back to <i>college</i> for members of this social circle to blaze entirely too many medicinal herbs, wake up in a clouded munchie-haze at 2am and decide it’s time to drive across two states for that fair city’s ubiquitous sandwich item, order and eat said sandwich, smoke again, then order another sandwich to eat on the way home. Ten years of recreational drug abuse and binge eating is just the sort of thing Alex can get behind. He’s helmed at least two of those artery-clogging voyages in the past. So I was prepared when that pathetic, pleading call came through.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Two days later, the cheesesteak, ordered from Pat’s (where a bungled order can get you kicked to the back of the line), was still sitting in my fridge at work, waiting in some sort of clotted-cheese purgatory for Alex to come eat it. It was pathetic...an abandoned snack-baby wrapped in parchment paper and left in the dumpster to die after a difficult delivery. (Have you ever tried to transport one of these things intact across state lines and two different subway exchanges in heels? It’s harder than it sounds.)</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
By 5pm, I’d had enough.</span></span></span></div><div style="color: #c53e1a; font: 14px Arial; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b></b></span></div><div style="font: 14px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:04:42 PM):</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> ALEX.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:04:48 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> This is your cheesesteak calling.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:04:52 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Hey</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> baby, what's good?</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:05:02 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> I hear you ate at a vegetarian restaurant the other night.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:05:10 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> I was really hurt, but I understand.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:05:14 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> You're in the lower east side now...</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:05:19 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> ...hanging out with all those hippies...</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ALEX:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> (5:05:24 PM):</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">hahhaha</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:05:29 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> ...but, like, you know, i thought we had a thing going on.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:05:35 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> All those memories.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:05:43 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> Remember when you used to drive to visit me in Philly?</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:05:51 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> and cradle me in your arms?</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:06:00 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> sometimes, you'd share me with your girlfriend?</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:06:04 PM):</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> It was really hot.</span></div><div style="font: 14px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ALEX:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> (5:06:11 PM):</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">look</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:06:12 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> so, I guess what I'm asking is</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Arial; margin: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ALEX:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> (5:06:15 PM):</span><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">we had a great run</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:06:17 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> Is...is it over between us?</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:06:26 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> I never see you anymore, and I need more from a man.</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ALEX:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> (5:06:32 PM):</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> </span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">I’ll still eat you once in a while.</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ALEX:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> (5:06:38 PM):</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> </span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">You just have to come to me.</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:06:46 PM):</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> But Alex...</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:06:50 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> ...I don't have thumbs.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:06:57 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> I can't even hitchhike to you.</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Arial; margin: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ALEX:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> (5:07:25 PM):</span><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">You’ll find a way.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:07:40 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> You're really high maintenance.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:08:12 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> I do all the work in this relationship.</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ALEX:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> (5:08:18 PM):</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> </span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Excuse me? People have to order you properly or be removed from line</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ALEX:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> (5:08:26 PM):</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> </span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">and I’m high maintenance?</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:08:32 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> Look, I told you my father was a monster!</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:08:41 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> if you'd just marry me, we could get away forever</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ALEX:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> (5:08:59 PM):</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">I cant.</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:09:07 PM):</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> Why?</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Arial; margin: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ALEX:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> (5:09:12 PM):</span><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">You’re too sloppy.</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:09:57 PM):</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> i</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:10:01 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> i don't even know what to say</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:10:04 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> I don't even </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">know</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> you anymore</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ALEX:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> (5:10:11 PM):</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Go eat urself.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> (5:10:21 PM):</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"> **bursts into cheese**</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Arial; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ALEX:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">(5:10:28 PM):</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ahahahahhaha</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">ALEX: </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">(5:12:01 PM):</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> </span></b><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">I really enjoy these highbrow conversations. Same time tomorrow?</span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Polly: </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">(5:12:03 PM)</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Duh. But only if you eat this poor fucking sandwich. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Arial; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">See? This kid totally gets it. Or at least me.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Epilogue: Alex finally got his hands on the three-day old cheesesteak. He said it’s the best damned sandwich he’s ever eaten in his life. He did not shit himself. </b></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Or, if he did, he was smart enough not to say anything about it. </span></span></span></div>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-81575859582532592432010-06-15T00:47:00.004-04:002010-06-16T13:06:10.059-04:00She's BA-ACK: The Creature From the Hack Lagoon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVBdyFD7NtcQ8TLSgAhmspJYKBzvrpl1ZOW0jNF1dea4Ka8Jv9UZaLBa1wMciFxJZk0SuTHsPfGHctCfe73TUD0kZO9fb5BA-NotGPJVx-gQxdg_1XKCi1pdBtCAUYCUeFq-OI0GcPjSU/s1600/im_back.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVBdyFD7NtcQ8TLSgAhmspJYKBzvrpl1ZOW0jNF1dea4Ka8Jv9UZaLBa1wMciFxJZk0SuTHsPfGHctCfe73TUD0kZO9fb5BA-NotGPJVx-gQxdg_1XKCi1pdBtCAUYCUeFq-OI0GcPjSU/s320/im_back.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><div style="font: 12px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Alright. So, I’m back. I know, I know, this changes everything--the BP(issed) Oil Spill, the spewing of ash from an unspellable volcano, that pathetically low number in your bank balance. After a two month hiatus, I’m finally back to set </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">everything</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"> right.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">But first I have to blog. The other stuff can wait. Right? </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">I think we left off </span><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2010/03/epic-fail-rough-patch.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span">somewhere around here</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span">, with my hack-y, verbose recounting of a lost battle against public crying somewhere in the vicinity of Astor Place, served with vague allusions to bad decisions and garnished with epic writer’s block (imported from Italy right to your table). </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Dessert was two months of silence, a wordless emergency flare which signaled my descent into those dark, twisty pieces of transitional purgatory not easily expressed when you're being stripping naked and dumped out the side door of a metaphorical van by life. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Now that the road rash has scabbed over, I’m feeling far more talkative.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Not that anyone will find it riveting, but a lot has gone down during the silent void that followed that mid-spring cryptic post, some of them happenings vital to know about for the context of future posts. So I’ll do a whirlwind inventory of events recently gone by, and if any lone, insomniac reader should find themselves curious as to any specific incident, I’ll be happy to elaborate. Otherwise, note them and file it away as my derailed train climbs back on its tracks and chugs onward to Blogtopia:</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<ol><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<li>I jumped from mid to late 20s, landing officially at age 27.</li>
<li>I accidentally completed <a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-dont-know.html"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;">Hitch List</span></b></a> item #21 via an unexpected 100% lesbian date, courtesy of the jalapeno tequila at Flatiron Lounge, three beer executives discovered somewhere in the Financial District, and an enigma of a human we shall heretofore call The Duchess. </li>
<li>I got in a fist fight with a drunk Mexican on an ancient Brooklyn-bound R train, hereby completing List item #23.</li>
<li>I had a mini-nervous breakdown which made every good friend save a few want to gouge my eyes out with one of those fancy slotted sugar spoons normal people use to serve Absinthe. </li>
<li>I rekindled an old romance with a former fling: brown liquor.</li>
<li>I failed to successfully complete <a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2010/02/unintentional-list-item-one-where-i.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><b>Emotional Detox</b></span></a>, and so, like Shifty from Celebrity Rehab, may need to readmit myself for a fresh round of treatment.</li>
</span></ol><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span> <br />
<div style="font: 12px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">And. Um...</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Fuck, I’m forgetting something important...why do the little details always seem to evade...?</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">...oooh, right. I moved out of Hoodwick Brooklyn and into a three bedroom on the Lower East Side with <a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/09/19-wingman-chronicles-part-1-taking.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><b>wingman Red</b></span></a> and new roomie The Duchess who may or may not be my polyamorous ex-lover. We have a cat. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Did I mention the apartment is six blocks from where Alex, as in </span><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-dont-know.html"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><span class="Apple-style-span">this blog’s Alex</span></span></b></a><span class="Apple-style-span">, previously isolated in New Jersey, moved in after his own quarter-life crisis? With the beloved deaf pit bull we have joint custody over? And Philly BadMath (he's from Philly and sucks at math. we work really hard on these nicknames), one of my best male friends who I may or may not have once smashed out with once in college, which leads to no small number wildly inappropriate jokes at increasingly inappropriate moments in public places? </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I didn’t? Okay...um, so that happened.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Point is, nothing much to see here folks. Just another Lower East Side Hot Mess with a blog, a bizarre list, a desire to write, and what looks to be a very average summer in front of her. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Nice to see you all again.</span></span></span></div>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-52156931190281773242010-03-27T00:46:00.000-04:002010-03-27T00:46:51.763-04:00Epic Fail: Rough Patch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQE-q4cNePHE2HGfDfeNPoHKWVkHkYa67sJDnBTE7NZvTIPMrQ_WVQkl7fb5Cq8HRywtadUyHfipCbqIyX6JlvaxXihpOoclVNiTTENHFPOaN7bI9GK7WwZA5_J0IkNu-y1oFClkfJNCY/s1600/HPIM1975.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQE-q4cNePHE2HGfDfeNPoHKWVkHkYa67sJDnBTE7NZvTIPMrQ_WVQkl7fb5Cq8HRywtadUyHfipCbqIyX6JlvaxXihpOoclVNiTTENHFPOaN7bI9GK7WwZA5_J0IkNu-y1oFClkfJNCY/s320/HPIM1975.JPG" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eeeeee;">I'v</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eeeeee;">e got no words. I lost them. Misplaced them under a pile of bad decisions and dead ends and now can't find them again. Makes blog writing pretty impossible. The stick figures aren't effective. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eeeeee;">I did scrawl this on the back of an office memo on a bench tonight, so at least some words were left behind when the others ran for cover. But I don't like the looks of them:</span></span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">"</span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">at Astor Place"</span></b></span></span><br />
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</span> </b></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">on a peeling bench at Astor Place she lost the week's last battle, lost the half hour war of blinking eyes and twitching lids and index fingers sniping tears, miscalculated where to jam a fingertip or what distraction to mobilize, chose the wrong piece of Preamble to the Constitution to recite over and over and underestimated the burden of an otherwise harmless marvin gaye playlist. or maybe it was more abstract, maybe she picked at the wrong shard of paint<br />
trying to liberate itself from the armrest, or should have fanned both eyes with an old show program better suited for that fight, or focused more on mudra poses executed with energized hands. maybe it was just weak character. but on a bench at Astor Place she lost the final showdown, lost when they finally felled the lower lids until she was that girl crying. everybody saw.</span></b></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eeeeee;">Ominous words, missing wit, lost smile. Epic fail.</span></span></span>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-2942043862966405422010-03-06T02:43:00.000-05:002010-03-06T02:43:35.168-05:00JUST F-ING READ THIS #1: Why I'm Single, A Man's Perspective<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_qg4gYhGN5Yq0mTnl_5BSqKblgpjjVIgkIUxl7UmWXFiBb7yoCsN8CrD5b3GyjYg2MdkfTBqmnoCCv2oEWaAU7OTktOv0y1Zu3Ygefwlxm9mV01aYN2B9HsxFTKx_Sx5uO6XmyJDsbiA/s1600-h/fuckingread.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_qg4gYhGN5Yq0mTnl_5BSqKblgpjjVIgkIUxl7UmWXFiBb7yoCsN8CrD5b3GyjYg2MdkfTBqmnoCCv2oEWaAU7OTktOv0y1Zu3Ygefwlxm9mV01aYN2B9HsxFTKx_Sx5uO6XmyJDsbiA/s400/fuckingread.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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Sometimes you come across a blog post so fucktastic you want to distribute it to other geeky e-readers like a warm Xerox copy of a first grade worksheet. (PS: Remember those worksheets? I recently got my hands on some and need to stress to you how mindlessly, validatingly, "I've been lobotomized and I'm loving every minute of it" awesome they are. I'm being serious. What was once a colorful-pencil-with-a-nifty-craft-fair-eraser-on-the-top-that-you-know-you-chewed-on-at-least-once-because-EVERYBODY-did accented nightmare has become outright fun now that our brains are exposed so frequently to shitty work memos which do not have exciting cartoon barnyard animals at the bottom. Get a stack of grades 1-3 literature or math tests and keep them at home as party games or destressers. You won't regret it. "<i>Fill in the blank_________." Really? That's all? AWESOME.</i>)<br />
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ANYWAY, point is, my first JUST F-ING READ THIS is by Nick at Wade the Tides, a blogger who is also a heavily tattooed rocket scientist (no, I am not making that up. Yes, he is awesome. And he can play obscure Bigwig songs on guitar, which is unique for rocket scientists). Nick<b> </b><a href="http://wadethetides.blogspot.com/2010/03/reasons-im-undateable.html"><b>breaks down why he's "undateable", with charts</b>,</a> and it is brilliant.<br />
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Enjoy.Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-4318658821273180072010-02-28T22:41:00.003-05:002010-03-02T01:32:16.958-05:00Father Knows Best: Reason My Dad F*CKING ROCKS #147<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEnE-zQ2_HOhjKHDX0xPyChYWNS0WnWdprYiOCRA59ZTLoqayYMtx9wYfRR4HoMggrq2DURrB-AyEiocXN0-Z2BbBEnYIhyLA7SxpGJXRIHCXxLhXh2cU9QVhfn1l8mkIsdA-j7Jn4xIY/s1600-h/father+knows+best.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEnE-zQ2_HOhjKHDX0xPyChYWNS0WnWdprYiOCRA59ZTLoqayYMtx9wYfRR4HoMggrq2DURrB-AyEiocXN0-Z2BbBEnYIhyLA7SxpGJXRIHCXxLhXh2cU9QVhfn1l8mkIsdA-j7Jn4xIY/s320/father+knows+best.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As Margaret More Roper once said of her father, Sir Thomas More: "My dad fucking rocks." (Actually, I think the exact quote was, "Excuse me, sir, can I buy my old man's head back? Our fam's in a real pickle." </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And if you don't know why that joke is <i>effing hilarious</i>, you <i>really</i> need to catch up on your 16th century Reformation-era history. But I digress...) </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The point: Like Sir Thom, my father rocks. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A few examples:</span><br />
<div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">#76: He slow-braises beef short ribs for hours in savory demi-glaze, spoons them over homemade garlic mashed potatoes, freezes them, then sends divine meat-packages into the city so my friends and I can have home-cooked meals even when we can't come home.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">#15: He prefers weed to alcohol and, at 56, can still roll the most immaculate joint you've ever seen in under two minutes.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">#112: He's 6'2", 240 lbs. and weeps openly <i>every time </i>he sees a father walk his little girl down the aisle at a wedding.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;">#147: The card I'm about to detail for you in this po</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;">st.</span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A quick primer: </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Having successfully survived the part of raising girls which includes living under the same (small) roof with two hormonal teenaged time-bombs, a perimenopausal wife and a deaf female rat-terrier with OCD, Dad's paternal instincts are as immaculately honed as Charlie Sheen's coke insufflation technique. With his nest now empty, he keeps his skills sharp in a variety of ways, including (but not limited to) playing surrogate father to the myriad vagabond bohemians I call friends. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A few weeks ago, said ring of vagabond bohemians continued its decade-long tradition of inbreeding when one male member and one female member started hooking up on the regular. (This happens frequently. Though I'm assuming it'll be happening less, since we're running out of members who haven't, at minimum, gone down on one another...but again I digress.) The male then did something even <i>he </i>openly admits was stupid and hurtful, wounding the female badly enough that she told him to go fuck himself. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When Dad called a few days later he asked after his surrogate children. I gently explained the falling out of Male and Female (both of whom he loves and will love no matter what stupid thing they do) and mentioned Female was feeling jaded by the whole encounter. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Shortly thereafter, Female received a handwritten note from my father in the mail. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The front of the card has a picture of a dog hanging out a car window with the Madame de Stael quote "The more I see of man, the more I like dogs" underneath. The inside reads thusly:</span><br />
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<blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Dearest Ms. [Female's Name Withheld Because Blogging is Bad for Incestuous Social Circles],</span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I'm sure you get the sentiment of this card...especially when you are dealing with "young boys"...they oft think like "young children."</span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Sometimes I wish I could have redone some of the things I did when I thought like a young manboy...and, of course, [insert name of Male who wounded Female here] is incapable of being as perfect as I was in my youth. But that's still no excuse for him being a dumb ass.</span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It's okay...be mad...be pissed...think revenge...then move on.</span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">You have so much to give...so much personality to be able to handle this...so much that makes you the catch you will be for the right person when you are ready...and so much life to go. Don't fret--know you are loved by family and friends...when you are sad so are we, so move on to a better place...and better guy.</span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">With love,</span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Papa and Mama Syllabick</span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">PS: "Love" doesn't mean a six pack stomach and rippling tushy muscles...if that were true, then why has Mama stayed with me so long? It's more important to feel love in your heart and mind.</span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></span></b></blockquote><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And if that fails, go for the money. </span></span></b></blockquote><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That, gentlemen, is how you raise daughters.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That, ladies, is a piece of text we should all be reading like scripture. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And that, <i>everyone</i>, is reason #147 my dad fucking rocks. </span></div><div> </div></div>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-29148853381998118332010-02-19T13:25:00.002-05:002010-02-19T13:28:19.830-05:00EPIC (DETOX) FAIL: Purple Haze<div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcrsk2QpI65ofnNeDbmmqIMd6G3jtn3QXCe5acS85onLnrXTRqba_DYUoqNvGLbvOrGwGpiWkWxRpZ9XubMC3FMYJN5ng4Z07lQRSfvCf9xEyXmH7K791M205YDOnEQKwf63UKu7Xngok/s1600-h/purplehaze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcrsk2QpI65ofnNeDbmmqIMd6G3jtn3QXCe5acS85onLnrXTRqba_DYUoqNvGLbvOrGwGpiWkWxRpZ9XubMC3FMYJN5ng4Z07lQRSfvCf9xEyXmH7K791M205YDOnEQKwf63UKu7Xngok/s320/purplehaze.jpg" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My dumbass, red-purple "edgy girl bob" dyed the freaking sheets violet. Both pillowcases, plus the portion of the sheets </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">under</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> the pillows that makes contact with my head when I start rolling like an alligator in a death-spin after the insomnia frustration sets in.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Remember that part where I was going to slip out like a ghost in the night, leaving no trace behind? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm as stealthy and untraceable as a ninja....you know, if ninjas wore suits made from bubble wrap and cowbells and carried Chinese sparklers as weapons. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Also, that would be SO cool.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fuck my life. Wild Oxiclean session commencing immediately. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And for the record: This is not Manic Panic--this is a very professionally executed and (embarrassingly) expensive red-purple-black dye job. So I feel the least the salon could have mentioned was, "Hey don't squat at any dudes' places, your bougie hair could potentially leave a berry-colored trail pointing directly to how retarded you are if you sleep on white sheets."</span></div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div></div></div>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-49765729789432455412010-02-18T03:46:00.002-05:002010-02-18T08:39:34.982-05:00Musing over Muses, or, Detox-Driven Girl-Blogger on Girl-Blogger Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zXdOu5k8MtOmZLHXhyPy4zoJq1-C8OaBI5UZXzpuz4D3CFlHzEMa-1eAAwfc8U5vkn2A4XjfQ8uH1Gt3CNDcM_uPd0LkGYN-zZ76oX7ldz_DooZ6POoCFxUlkKeHlLgR6U4M2YFtBkg/s1600-h/BOOBIES.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zXdOu5k8MtOmZLHXhyPy4zoJq1-C8OaBI5UZXzpuz4D3CFlHzEMa-1eAAwfc8U5vkn2A4XjfQ8uH1Gt3CNDcM_uPd0LkGYN-zZ76oX7ldz_DooZ6POoCFxUlkKeHlLgR6U4M2YFtBkg/s320/BOOBIES.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It's day eight in </span><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2010/02/unintentional-list-item-one-where-i.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">detox</span></b></span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. And I think it's working. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The first two days were predictably awful--me moping around in dumpy t-shirts with no make-up on through twitchy bouts of dopamine withdrawal, voluntarily isolated in an empty space that felt weirdly wired with a thousand eyes sardonically watching each pathetic example of my LAMENESS.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> It probably looked a bit like "check in" day on the shit show that is HBO's </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Celebrity Rehab, </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">only no one confiscated the stash of klonopin I stuffed in a balloon and hid in my anal cavity and Dr. Drew was no where to be found, which is sad, because if he </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">had</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> been around I would have screwed that sexy, sensible, silver-haired poindexter until he took to </span><a href="http://twitter.com/Drdrew"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">his Twitter account</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and sent out a 140-character mayday for help.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fortunately, around day four a few landmark things happened, one of those events being a relentless night of insomnia which would not be beaten into submission by anything, including two of the previously mentioned anally-stashed klonopin. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, like all sleep experts recommend, I stayed up until dawn going through the archives of my favorite bloggers. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By sunrise I was delirious, overwhelmed with words and wit and bad puns and really fucking great bad puns and poetry that doesn't suck and pictures of assless leggings and months and months of the banal shit we occupy ourselves with on a daily basis that, in the hands of lesser personalities, would probably make me want to eat an entire balloon stuffed with butt-benzodiazapines</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">...but doesn't, because when filtered through the prism of certain people it all becomes twisted, fascinating, relatable, and sometimes outright funny. And the best of it was written by women. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sleep-deprived and barely lucid, laying in someone's empty bed with dawn lapping at my face, my brain spun a wild, tongue-in-cheek Sapphic monologue, a talent-crush fantasy strewn with hyperlinks:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"I need an escape from my self-absorbed prison, where I let male guards piss in my cell and then ask why the floors are so sticky. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Maybe I'll take off to Texas and have a torrid affair with </span><b><a href="http://hipstercrite.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">the Hipstercrite</span></span></a></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, plying her with PBR until she blacks out and I can steal from her closet. But only after her cool Austin buds bail us out of jail, because if she (and </span><a href="http://hipstercrite.blogspot.com/2010/02/hipster-valentine-gift-guide-pt-1.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">this brain</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">) and I meet and alcohol is involved we will inevitably get ourselves arrested...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">...or maybe it's about staying local and fucking </span><a href="http://www.hannahmiet.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My Soul is a Butterfly</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">'s Hannah Miet like a palindrome, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><a href="http://www.hannahmiet.com/2009/02/fuck-me-like-lustrous-lingering.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">which is fine because she likes shit like that that</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. </span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And when I'm through I'll loll naked and tangled in her sheets, praying she'll read a stanza of the poetry that flows through her as naturally as blood so I know what real poetry sounds like out loud... </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">...I could marry </span><a href="http://volcanicensemble.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Sassy Curmudgeon</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, especially after this brilliant piece of </span><a href="http://volcanicensemble.blogspot.com/2009/12/y2k-to-wtf-ten-years-of-twenties.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">insightful comedic foreplay</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, but someone beat me to it and she blogs about him frequently, and he really looks better with facial hair than I and I couldn't deal with the competition...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">...I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">would</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> fall for Ashley of </span><a href="http://lesbifriends.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">lesbifriends</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, but it would never work out since her lesbian pals would find my bisexuality suspect and tear us apart like Tony and Maria (Toni and Maria?). So I'll just read </span><a href="http://lesbifriends.blogspot.com/2010/02/lumps-of-fat-we-love.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">posts like this</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> on a fire escape "somewhere" (ha, get it? Oh man. Musical theater jokes. You hit the jackpot today guys...) and love her from afar...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">...Meg of </span><a href="http://blackberriestoapples.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Blackberries to Apples</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> is a good Southern girl who'd never tolerate my crass Northern bullshit, not even if I toned it down to write her name in the snow in romantic calligraphy like a proper suitor, but I can still watch her writing </span><a href="http://blackberriestoapples.blogspot.com/2010/02/sometimes-i-really-just-want-to-be.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">climb upwards like ivy</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> and say that I knew her when she was a seedling...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">...I've known Jenny of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><a href="http://jennyandersonphotography.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At a Loss for Words</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eeeeee;">long enough to know she'd never biflingual, but I can certainly lay here and pray to</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eeeeee;"> </span></span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://jennyandersonphotography.blogspot.com/2010/01/home-for-holidays.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;">see the world through her eyes</span></span></a></span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"> </span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;">someday, since I'd be beautiful enough to take pictures of (inside and out) if I could learn to quiet the sharpest words in my head...</span></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">...and the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">first</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> thing I'll do when I remember this ramble is thank the </span><a href="http://20-nothings.blogspot.com/2010/01/theres-difference-between-wanting.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">logical</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, unstoppable phenom that is Jessie at </span><a href="http://20-nothings.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">20-Nothings</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, because she told me and taught me to write a blog, and opened a world beyond my old journal, and helped me find minds that make me feel crazy moments are okay, as long as you can make other people laugh at them."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I finally fell asleep. I think.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So far the time in detox has done several things, some I don't totally understand. But I do understand it's made me want to spend more time in the company of minds like the ones listed above and fewer hours sequestered away obsessing like some far-off Rapunzel with an Aeon Flux bob and binoculars, as tends to happen when you get distracted by things without boobs. </span>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-32610961343173828072010-02-10T23:03:00.008-05:002010-10-02T12:37:45.206-04:00NUMBERLESS HITCH LIST ITEM: Emotional Detox, or, Semi-Illegally Squatting in an Ex's Apartment (with a non-stalker purpose)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivZhZrifmT099UcCtgL52ztpJ92j8FrSdTPOIWOeQL_hteSGcYibvZoc4-AM0oOEYvv-XnZEpJW7r4gbSJDba09zzz2sKhMnELz4-EnYIAzGl0hoMQZJhCrbWYJB_KyIhM_6ey1h6i2dQ/s1600-h/HOBO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivZhZrifmT099UcCtgL52ztpJ92j8FrSdTPOIWOeQL_hteSGcYibvZoc4-AM0oOEYvv-XnZEpJW7r4gbSJDba09zzz2sKhMnELz4-EnYIAzGl0hoMQZJhCrbWYJB_KyIhM_6ey1h6i2dQ/s320/HOBO.jpg" width="282" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm squatting in an ex-lover's apartment.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Okay, well, not entirely. According to the <a href="http://www.riskmanagementinsight.com/media/images/weblog/Lemmings.jpg"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;">unquestionably reliable pillar of knowledge that is Wikipedia</span></span></b></a>, "squatting" is classically defined as "occupying an abandoned or unoccupied space or building, usually residential, that the squatter does not own, rent or otherwise have permission to use."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The whatever-he-was <i>knows</i> I have his keys, because he gave them to me. And, before our tenuous pseudo-romance pseudo-ended with all the flaccid fanfare of a cigarette sizzling out in a rain storm, he asked me if I'd mind picking up his mail while he was away on a trip I was not invited along on. (An exclusion that led to the conversation which finally revealed, to me at least, the Munchian portrait of how much he was "just not that into me." Hence the weird psuedo-ending.) So he knows I'm <i>around </i>his unoccupied residential space that I do not own, rent, but otherwise have semi-permission to use. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What he does <i>not</i> know, entirely, is that I brought a suitcase, three different pairs of black suede boots of varying styles and heel size, a blow-dryer, a flat-iron and my laptop, and have set up for an all out affection-detox scheduled to last from <b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">this</span></b> very moment until the day before he returns, whereupon I will slink back to Brooklyn with, ideally, some sort of immunity to him--a resistance to the pieces of him that have, somehow, taken root in the usually un-farmable topsoil that is my emotional commitment to anyone. I figure that if I cannot exorcise the demon of feelings after several days of living among the items of a life he has, almost expertly, built to exclude anyone like me, then the matter is out of my hands and I can go cry to old Joy Division albums without shame. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm fully aware that this sounds insane.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Walk with me a moment, will you?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First, lets make this clear: this is not an obsessive camp-out. He is a good man, a post-Alex rebound I knew better than to catch feelings for. <i>I</i> was a rebound <i>he</i> had no intention of ever feeling anything for. And so I am not wandering his halls swathed in a burka constructed from used bed sheets while tearily keening to Vic Chesnutt records. I have no delusions that he will suddenly burst through the door, drop his suitcase on to the floor with a careless clatter and scoop my pixyish form into his arms, pressing my tiny head to his chest while confessing the time apart has made him realize all we could be. His journal, left in plain sight, remains and WILL remain untouched. I've even started to return things he's given me over the length of our purgatorial courtship--the skully I borrowed during an icy, mid-December meet-up; the vintage men's nightshirt he gave me because it made me feel like I was on <i>Mad Men;</i> the palm-sized copy of a book of microfiction passed along with a "you <i>have </i>to read this"--to their original homes. In his actual home. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The thing is, when it comes to the end of affairs, I have chosen the "Out of Sight, Out of Mind" method of healing hurt (with a little sprinting from my emotions tossed in for good measure) for about...oh, 26 years. OSOM is easy, familiar, methodic: box up all photos, ticket stubs, items left behind, gifts given, etc., and discard or hide them. Pull all bands/songs shared as a pair from the iTunes playlist. Carefully remove "we, he, us" and their formal name from the daily vocabulary. And then, as stoically as possible, move forward (punctuating the journey with occasional emotional meltdowns, complete with Nancy Kerrigan-style wails of <i>"WHYYY,"</i> that are usually triggered by the door closing on a now tomb-like bedroom). </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But this tactic obviously doesn't work for me. Seven years after the first major split of my life, I <i>still </i>can't listen past the first chord of Des'Ree's "Kissing You" without exploding into snot and tears like a cheap tissue. I obsess. I dissect. I blame myself for everything while running as far in the opposite direction of my own bloodstains as possible. And, once the over-analysis and self-flagellating passes, I find myself thinking about the death-blow and executioner constantly, like some ghost haunting her own tomb, seeing only the specter of the fantasy "us" and not the reality of the situation. Burying my head in the sand burns the imprint of loss inside my skull. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, a new tactic; an experiment of emotional kinetics. Staying still, rather than running. And attempting those fledging steps of detachment while surrounding myself with things I've become attached to. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Toilet paper. Shampoo. His coffee. That couch. I'm injecting these little pieces of infection into my body purposely, until my emotional defenses are armed effectively enough to exorcise them. Call it practical applications of vaccination theology.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I cannot run from feelings anymore. So I'm just going to sit here with them until they run from him...until the fever breaks and I go numb.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Also, his place is 3 subway stops from my office, one block from Whole Foods, has heat and there's a motherfucking blizzard outside. If faced with the same option, I hope he'd make the same decision.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am a mad, mad, mad, mad scientist. With keys. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></span>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-57350256515873636992010-02-03T01:57:00.006-05:002010-02-04T15:18:10.622-05:00Resolutions Everyone With a Penis Should Make<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaEvEPjeGbXZSM1FeCv9ncwi-ozjaBeFmBmvzAHsimeHMLVbMDGPV0w377L44EM1Hw1aQxchTYweElDQ9CaJhDN331T6m8GE1bv1SyESBL66mFKXOdQ5EhJj1e2XsAHAhLB2HLExc4pkE/s1600-h/dicks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaEvEPjeGbXZSM1FeCv9ncwi-ozjaBeFmBmvzAHsimeHMLVbMDGPV0w377L44EM1Hw1aQxchTYweElDQ9CaJhDN331T6m8GE1bv1SyESBL66mFKXOdQ5EhJj1e2XsAHAhLB2HLExc4pkE/s320/dicks.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In <a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2010/01/new-years-resolutions-everyone-with.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><b>the predecessor to this post</b></span></a>, I used some basic research and general "do as I say, not as I do" logic to get on women (yeah, go ahead, picture it) about the bullshit moves women as a gender need to axe in order to make the world a better place. Having called out vaginae across the globe, it's time to shift focus to the other end of the spectrum. Today, we're talking to you, peni.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Men, I get it: women are confusing. We've got hair triggers wired to bombs scrapped together from ovaries, tear ducts and emotions you don’t understand. We say one thing, mean another, pursue an unspoken third and expect you to navigate all three without a single fuck-up, lest the ovary-bomb detonate in your face (sometimes literally). We will, like clockwork, spoil your post-orgasm haze with excruciating over-analysis of "feelings" or some off-hand comment you delivered three weeks ago and don't even remember saying. And, when not clinging to you like koalas on eucalyptus branches, we will sometimes abandon you entirely...especially if you've developed feelings. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, scrotum toters, you're no cakewalk either.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In order to help pave the divide between the sexes, I interviewed a group of 20 men and 15 women, gay and straight, single or dating, ranging in age from 22 to 56, to get a rough idea what behavioral changes would make 2010 a better year for ALL of us. Here, in no particular order, are the top five changes which could better the lives of the menfolk and the partners they love (or used to love) if implemented en masse, recognizing they're applicable to both genders:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;">RESOLUTIONS FOR EVERY PENIS:</span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;">1. IF YOU'RE JUST NOT THAT INTO HER, DON'T ACT LIKE YOU ARE</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;">.</span> This one is the root of 90% of all female insanity.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mixed signals have been a plague on humankind ever since Eve told Adam she was “totally happy” (direct quote), then took off to get happier with a fucking serpent and his quince (PS: that snake was totally gay. A <i>quince</i>? <i>Really??</i>). They’ve gotten no easier to deal with or interpret, and the reality you’ve been misled by someone you thought cared for you stings no less than being ejected from Eden. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">While both genders struggle with this, the thrill of the hunt and validation of someone’s affection is something which seems to scramble the empathy chip in men faster than women. I sat over drinks with a male friend recently, watching as he rolled his eyes while his phone lit up with texts from a girl he’s been seeing several weeks without much fanfare. “She just can’t take a hint,” he groaned while nevertheless texting her back something with a cute emoticon at the end...before casually dropping how amazing sex had been with her the night before. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Wait, so, you <i>don’t</i> really like her?”</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She’s cool, but not my type.”</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“And you’re not interested in pursuing anything serious with her?” </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No. And I told her that.” </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“But you were <i>inside</i> her less than 12 hours ago and are now texting her cute messages with little smiley faces?”</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yes.” </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It took everything not to reach across the table and slap him. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After a little more probing, it became clear that my friend is not a heartless cretin--just stupid. To him, the words “I’m not interested in anything serious” were in no way a contradiction to his actions. Hey, he’s warned her, right? When I explained that the combination of sex, daily texts and taking her to meet all his friends (which he did) could be interpreted as “boyfriend behavior” and would turn her into what all men fear most--a clingy, crazy woman--if he didn’t STOP, he seemed baffled. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Purposefully cultivating the affection of someone you do not have feelings for out of practice, sport, boredom or loneliness isn’t just childish--it literally breeds the sort of trust issues, game playing and maddening neuroses that can cripple the next relationship you really <i>do</i> want. No decent human wants to be the bad guy...but I guarantee you <em>will</em> be if reconciling your signals with your intentions is not a priority. If you really need the attention that badly? Get a dog.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;">2. STOP USING INFATUATION AS A BAND-AID</span>.</b> Again, both genders are guilty of this one, but men, largely because of the societal pressure to “man up and get over it,” are expert abusers.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Infatuation is one of the easiest and most effective remedies on the shelf. I know the set-up well: a partner breaks your heart; a major tragedy shakes you to your foundation; a difficult life change opens wounds you didn’t know you were nursing. The pain, anxiety and isolation that follows any of these events is almost too much to bear. When a distraction (particularly one with a pulse that can validate you with their attention) finally comes along, it feels like divine intervention. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Throw in a little sex and things get even better. Different from love-making, infatuated sex causes a potent cocktail of drugs to be released by the brain and into your depressed body, specifically oxytocin (a natural painkiller), vasopressin (a chemical which causes bonding between individuals) and endogenous opioids (your body’s own homegrown heroin)...basically, everything you need in that moment to feel not just human again, but <i>superhuman</i>. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You are not superhuman. You’re a junkie, masking the real issue with an intoxicant that makes absinthe look like O’Douls. And, like any junkie, the only way to keep the high rolling is to find the next fix. Since infatuation inevitably fades (our brains are wired to move to the next thing), a cycle begins: enter blissful plaything after plaything, each holding a fresh hit of distraction in their outstretched palm. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But infatuation is a poor dressing for wounds. It heals nothing and delays re-growth, allowing major trauma to fester for years before the smell of your damage finally alerts someone--if you’re lucky, you--that gangrene has set in. At best, you don’t lose any limbs and recover. At worst, your untended issues become your undoing...or become the kind of scars someone who <i>would</i> treat you the way you’ve always wanted won’t be willing to deal with.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A little post-break-up booty never hurt anyone. I’ve even practiced this ritual as a religion at times. But ignoring the heart of the matter (your own) entirely is an excellent strategy for longterm misery, and no amount of band-aids will fix a sucking chest wound.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;">3. STOP LYING--YOU'RE BAD AT IT. </span></b></span><b></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Men are fantastic fibbers, especially when it comes to the basics. "Where are you? Who's with you? Are you drunk? What happened?"</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: black; color: #eeeeee;">I've both witnessed and received completely fabricated answers to all those questions and seen them delivered with remarkable flair. But then, anywhere from a week to six months later, it comes: the inevitable fuck-up.</span><span style="background-color: black;"> </span></span></span></b></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The fuck-up is a two-pronged inevitability. First comes the predictable atrophying of the Male Lie. Like an overweight caribu falling behind the herd, one flubbed "fact"--a Facebook photo which contradicts the intel you gave your interrogator, a wingman's public admiration of what you had assured your woman was anything BUT bad behavior, a slip of the tongue that reveals one of your partner's rivals really WAS present on the night in question (after you said he/she was not), anything--loosens itself from your airtight story, compromising the stability of an otherwise solid untruth. This misstep then awakens an entity that has mystified and ultimately destroyed men for millenia: the Female Memory. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A Venus flytrap brimming with seemingly benign details, the Female Memory violently unwinds thousands of hidden tentacles once provoked, each demon-limb thorned with tiny details (from ex-girlfriend names to subway routes) you, the man, have long since let slip away. In a bloody scene that could have made the final cut of Clash of the Titans, these flailing appendages wind themselves around the petrified form of your flubbed factoid, slam it into the hard surface of reality until the spine shatters, then use the broken body like a hammer to break apart your lie until nothing but bare, raw truth lays naked on the ground.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">More vicious than when this brutalizing happens openly (spurring a fight, an apology and, if you're lucky, make-up sex), however, is when the Female Memory rips something apart--and the woman says nothing. Sometimes we're waiting for more proof, even though the tidal wave of bad feelings is already headed toward the shore. Sometimes we've made the decision not to start a fight over something small...or to save a big one for another time. Sometimes we honestly don't know what to do with the truth. Regardless, once exposed to the Female Memory, the Male Lie becomes a landmine the man in question could set off at any time.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m not saying women don’t lie. (On the contrary, we are the only gender that can utter the phrase “I’m pregnant” when it’s not true, and we’ve all watched <i>Maury </i>enough to know how that story ends.) Lying and the erosion of trust is a major issue on both sides of the fence. What I’m saying is, simply: Women are better at lying than men are, which means we know when you’re full of shit. So, in the presence of the masters, don’t complete...don’t challenge...</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">...take notes.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;">4. KNOW WHAT YOU WANT.</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I discussed this one in detail on <a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2010/01/new-years-resolutions-everyone-with.html"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;">the women’s list</span></b></a> already, so I'll just summarize here. As mentioned originally, the most emotionally raw people I interviewed all commented that they'd been hurt by the same two things: A) pursuing lives which didn't make them happy, and/or B) being misled by someone who said they wanted one thing but really wanted the complete opposite. This basically means people spend as much time lying to themselves as they do to other people, if not more.</span></b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The good news is that while self-ignorance is harmful to you and everyone you care about, it's remedied fairly easily. So go hit a retreat in Utah, meditate at an ashram in Bali, or simply grab a six-pack and go sit in the corner until you’ve figured out what you want from life...and us. Knowing thyself is the new yoga.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;">5. GO DOWNTOWN.</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I don’t know how else to put this, so I’m just going to say it: You. Have. To. Eat. The. Pussy.</span></b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">During my many years nestled in monogamous (oral-filled) bliss, I heard grumblings from girls about non-reciprocating oral sexers. These weren’t isolated incidents retold by wildebeests you wouldn’t expect ANYONE to go down on. These were tales of dissatisfaction from women at the top of the sexual food chain, hot, discerning and Brazilian-waxed lovers that lavished oral attention on their partners willingly and without complaint...up until the point when the menfolk bypassed<i> their</i> turn and went plunging into the tunnel without paying the freaking toll.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’d encountered one of these tongueless gremlins in college, but figured he was an anomaly--a charismatic alcoholic whose unfortunately tiny penis was frequently downed like a windsock on a still day by cocaine, his clitoral ineptitude seemed just another part of his complete, sexually retarded package.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He was not an anomaly. Since college (which was half a decade ago) I’ve crossed paths with his ilk once myself, consoled two friends and three different acquaintances from other social circles who've gone un-licked, and spent five years verbally berating wingman Red for actually dating one of these lazy S.O.B.’s for such an unreasonably long period of time (yeah, he was a vegan, but that’s no excuse). </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So I ask: What is it, Vagaphobes? You don’t like the mess? Just stay north of the canal, it’s drier up there! Don’t know what you’re doing? It’s the internet age--you can Google it! Can’t stand all the time and effort? Cool...we’ll be happy to watch <i>Project Runway</i> while your handle yourself tonight. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Men, this denial of service is particularly unacceptable if your partner gives fantastic head. I’m not talking run of the mill, vanilla soft-serve tonguing; I understand you can find that anywhere. But if your woman seems to have been divinely assembled in a Dyson laboratory, DO NOT SCREW IT UP. For every guy out there who won’t give head there are three women who give totally average head...and life is too short for average oral. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh, and while we’re in the area: shave it or trim for Chrissakes. This isn’t Europe and the waxing we do for you doesn’t tickle, so man up and fucking groom. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And thus ends the penis-oriented installment of this series. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">May all genders and orientations remember that, regardless of gripes, we love each other. We've just got some work to do.</span></span></span></span>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-8557950108960681602010-01-12T00:53:00.003-05:002010-01-12T10:56:12.431-05:00Vagina Resolutions: What the Men Had to Say<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpu1-duEMBvhrHE24peRyeC7hJ7axcIqiQaRNpR5wRMazdeT7lwhqFqCUDsO_MqERuSo0wJePHK7jpnpapm9hPB6YKYzpXolMivedOYm1-HhAD1L1IOfo5tyfn4_Y4i17NgnOwDxdZRTc/s1600-h/NineOldMen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpu1-duEMBvhrHE24peRyeC7hJ7axcIqiQaRNpR5wRMazdeT7lwhqFqCUDsO_MqERuSo0wJePHK7jpnpapm9hPB6YKYzpXolMivedOYm1-HhAD1L1IOfo5tyfn4_Y4i17NgnOwDxdZRTc/s320/NineOldMen.jpg" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">n </span><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2010/01/new-years-resolutions-everyone-with.html"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">the last post</span></b></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, I laid out the five most immediately helpful New Year's resolutions anyone with a vagina (or immediately pre-op) could adopt to help make life, and specifically relationships, a little easier on everyone of any gender. I didn't just pull them out of thin air (or plagiarize them from a combination of Dr. Phil's column in</span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> O</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> and back issues of </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The L </span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">magazine...that would be wrong). I actually </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">talked</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> to a total of 35 functional or near-functional adults, all of whom had strong opinions on the subject of what we need to do differently to make relationships more ecstasy and less agony in the future.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Before I launch into Resolutions Everyone With a Penis Should make (and that list is a-commin', don't you worry...), I wanted to share a few highlights from the men-folk themselves, as they almost all stem from the same issue: men and women still don't know how to talk to one another. While there's nothing groundbreaking about that news, the research is still fun to read when it's laid out in front of you.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The gentleman interview subjects, all hetero and between the ages of 22-49, were asked this question: </span><b><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What is the ONE thing women, as a gender, should resolve to do to make us all, as a species, happier?</span></i></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Below are some verbatim highlights and insights from their occasionally impassioned responses (and my totally glib, entirely unserious first reaction to each while transcribing the interviews). All names have been changed:</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">Greg, 28: "Learn how to play video games. Trust me, that will help a lot."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">Because all arguments should be settled via a winner-takes-all death-match down Mariokart's Rainbow Road.</span></b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">David, 30: "No comment. I need some time alone in the shower to think about this. I'll call you back."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">Odds he used shower time to masturbate: 3 to 1. </span></span></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">Joe, 27: "It's shallow, I know, but keep dressing sexy? I love the woman I'm with no matter what she's in. But when the girl you love comes out in something sexy as Hell it's like Christmas. And when it's like Christmas, I'm like Santa."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">Hoe, hoe...hoe?</span></span></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">Zack, 38: "Please remember men are from another planet and we really have no idea what language you're speaking. Like, we understand the words. They sound like words we know. Just not the way you say them. We don't know what you <i>mean</i>."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">So dealing with women is essentially like dealing with a stroke patient? Interesting...</span></span></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">Philip, 23: "Stop lying. Little white lies especially. Like what? Like compliments you hear a woman give to the same woman she bashes 15 minutes later, or a lie about why she broke a date...picking and choosing what days she's into me, that's a lie too, either on the day she likes me or the day she doesn't. The point is lies are disingenuous and unpleasant and confuse the Hell out of us."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">Omigod</span></i><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">, I love your bracelet...no, no, no jokes, he's right. The sentiment is totally valid. So we'll stop lying...as soon as men do. Riiiiiight, that's what I thought. The Mexican standoff con</span><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">tinues.</span></span></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">Jacob, 31: "Stop beating around the bush. If you're into me, grab an ass cheek or pull in for the kiss."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><b><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">Kissing is for pussies. Next time, I'll grab the scrotum. </span></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">James, 27: "Stop expecting us to know what you want. You can't spend 5 minutes telling us what you'd <i>really</i> like to do, but you <i>can</i> spend the next day AND night bitching about how we 'should have known' what you wanted--NO I SHOULDN'T BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T TELL ME. And lemme set this straight too: It's not that we're not capable of deciphering women's covert signals, it's just that we're not programmed to. That takes time."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">You should come preprogrammed to know that The Olive Garden was a shit choice for our annivers</span><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">ary</span></span></b><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">.</span> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">Tim, 26: "Please don't date until you've <i>completed</i> rehab/therapy/work-release, etc. I'm begging you." </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">Sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of this bong rip.</span></span></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">Sam, 23: "Give all guys a chance. Yeah, there's a lot of dicks out there. But if you start ruling out everyone in one category entirely because of a couple of dicks, you might miss that <i>one</i> worth having."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">I'm trying not to be cynical. But the urge to pinch his cheeks and go, "Oh, Jesus, you are just so young and SO pretty that that really does make sense to you still, doesn't it?" was overwhelming. Then I got all distracted and starting thinking about dick...</span></span></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">Paul, 25: "Honestly? Short of tying a red ribbon around the neck of every mixed-up, insane chick I've dated in Williamsburg, I'm at a total loss about how to stop the bullshit that gets tossed at me. The mixed signals are too much. I like you, I don't, I'm into this, I'm not, etc. I'm starting to think it boils down to chicks lying to themselves about what they want. The differences from one night to the next make it seem like you don't even know yourself, let alone what you want from me."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">My first reaction was to get all pissy. My second was to remind him that's what he gets for dating in Williamsburg. My third was to check my neck for a red ribbon. My fourth was to deduce he's right. </span></span></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">Chris, 49: "Stop leaving anything you should talk about face to face in a note."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><b><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><i>*crumples up paper, furtively tosses behind back. backs away slowly*</i></span></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">Kevin, 23: "Start wearing signs with adjectives or phrases explaining you/your damage on them."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">Okay, fine: jaded; suspicious; flakey crust conceals deceptively sweet, stubborn, smart-ass filling. 115 calories per serving. Helpful, Kevin?</span></span></b><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">Shawn, 39: "Stop playing the game. It's making me tired."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">You're just pissed I own Boardwalk <i>and</i> Park Place. Now pay up.. </span></span></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">and my personal favorite:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;">Frank, 32: "Stop asking us to turn the lights off. We're too excited about getting laid to notice your 'fat day,' break-out, saggy boob, or whatever you think is wrong. We're really not that observant."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><b><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">And thank God for that.</span></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Much love and thanks to all the male participants, listed or unlisted. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Please discuss or add to this list as needed.</span></span></span><br />
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</span></span>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-90700806750464457652010-01-04T01:48:00.024-05:002010-01-12T21:24:23.691-05:00New Year's Resolutions Everyone with a Vagina Should Make<div><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">Ah, the obligatory resolutions post.</span><span style="color: #999999;"> <span style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">Generally, I</span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;"> don't do public declarations of behaviors I will abandon the third time the Devil tempts me. However, I DO support making New Year's resolutions as a practice--it's one of those rare annual traditions which seems logical to adopt, particularly as a unified society. (Also, it's seasonal and these blog posts are chronological, so the subject was an easy out. I've got writer's block. Sue me.)</span></span></span></span></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">But expanding in a blog post on my own New Year's need to eat more leafy greens and stop dropping the word "motherfucker" during business meetings seemed ridiculous. So instead I interviewed a group of 20 men and 15 women, gay and straight, single or dating, ranging in age from 22 to 56, about what resolutions would make 2010 </span></span><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">a better year for all of us</span><span style="color: #999999;">.</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;"> While there were a lot of overlapping answers, as well as some additional highlights which I'll post in the future, five in particular stood out as changes which could immediately improve the daily functionings of my fellow womenfolk and the men we love (or used to love) if we all made them simultaneously. In no particular order:</span></span><br />
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</div><div><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS FOR EVERY VAGINA:</span></span></b><br />
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</div><div><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">1. KNOW WHAT YOU WANT.</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"> </span><span style="color: #999999;">No, seriously: </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">know what you want</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">. Sit down and think about it. Grab a beverage, it might take a while.</span></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">Do you want to make babies? Climb the career ladder? Date by the book with intent to marry? Blow blindly like seeds until rooting wherever the soil looks nice? </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">Do your fantasies include a stable partner with a square jaw, a brooding artist who'll keep you infuriatingly titillated or a German Shepherd trained to keep all humans 100 yards away from your bunker? Would you rather settle down or whore around Babylon? (NOTE: I'm not knocking whoring in Babylon. In fact, if you haven't already, might I recommend taking your next conquest to the hanging gardens? They're exquisite.) There is no wrong answer.</span></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">The reason I ask is because the most emotionally raw people I interviewed all mentioned they'd been hurt by A) pursuing lives which didn't make them happy, or B) being misled by someone who said they wanted one thing but really wanted the complete opposite. Take it away, </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">Cool Hand Luke: </span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #999999;">"WHAT WE HAVE HERE IS A FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE."</span></span></span></i><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">No more fooling ourselves, and no more testing out lifestyles on other people. Harm is done to innocent bystanders as much as the person in the mirror when we're misrepresenting ourselves, and most of us aren't pathological liars--we're just self-ignorant. So it stands to reason even a single dose of KNOW THYSELF could make a difference in 2010.</span></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">Yes, desire is a fickle and many of us don't know what we want. But you can't revise a plan that hasn't been drafted.</span></span><br />
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</div><div><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">2. GROW (A LIFE) ORGANICALLY.</span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">This could be read as a partial contradiction to #1, but it's meant more as an addendum.</span></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">Knowing what we want is a double-edged sword. "Knowing" can lead to desiring; desiring can lead to impatience; impatience can lead to going bat-shit-estrogen-insane and demanding a new lover immediately label the relationship at 3AM in the morning, post-coitus, because we </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">really need to know "what this is" RIGHT NOW. <span style="font-style: normal;">See? </span><span style="font-style: normal;">Scary.</span></span></span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">Point is, knowing what we want and <i>cultivating</i> what we want are two totally different things, and the latter frequently relies on a nightmare variable: patience. The number of relationships I've seen die early deaths because one of the parties involved was trying to hydroponically rapid-grow a union like Silver Haze buds before a Phish reunion concert (and not letting nature wisely run its course) is unsettling. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">Remember: Engaging in control freakiness doesn't mean you'll actually control freakiness (it just makes you a freak). Let's all take a deep breath and try, just this once, seeing what happens when we're not trying to drag a happy ending into the picture by its hair. And don't worry. If this tactic fails, we'll go back to clubbing potential mates and pulling them back to the lair, caveman-style, in 2011.</span></span><br />
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</div><div><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">3. </span><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">REJECT ANYONE WHO WILL NOT GIVE AS MUCH AS YOU DO</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">.</span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> This applies to friends, roommates, colleagues, </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">anyone...</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">but particularly those welcomed into hearts and beds.</span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chronic non-reciprocators are an epidemic. I know it's a cliche, but women </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">are</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> wired for nurturing and empathy (and justifying others' bad behavior so we can nurture and empathize with their poor, tortured souls), so we do end up sucking the fuzzy end of the non-reciprocating lollicock more (and for longer stretches) than, say, most men.</span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">With that point made, I have to admit watching plenty of otherwise admirable femmes taking and taking and taking lately...girls, this is unacceptable. It doesn't matter how pretty (or witty) you are. "Gimme gimme" behavior is the sort of shit that propagates the myth of women as merciless succubi. Please knock it the fuck off, you're screwing up all the good mates and making life difficult for the rest of us.</span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And for those of us giving 100% while the people in our lives give </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">just enough</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> to keep us from killing them in their sleep? Time to cut the deadweights loose. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yes, it's hard parting ways without winning the validation a non-reciprocator's disinterest makes us crave (and stick around trying to get), but having a circle filled entirely with people who match our enthusiasm is worth the awkward housecleaning.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4. DISCONTINUE "DEATH BY SILENCE."</span></b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> We've all been Death by Silenced at least once; if you haven't been, you're probably a Silencer. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about at all, please send me a postcard from Narnia, I've heard it's lovely there around Christmas.)</span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For those Narnians unfamiliar with the scenario: You've been dating, or psuedo-dating, or intimately trekking through relationship purgatory, or enthusiastically sending flirty text messages. Maybe you've even crossed over into love-making and discussing the familial benefits of birthing two children instead of three. Regardless of the exact situation, it's blush-inducing bliss. Then, momentously...nothing. Tumbleweeds on a deserted plain. The phone goes silent. The text messages and Facebook "like" thumbs disappear. Your shared late night conversations evaporate into awkward, anxiety-ridden monologues...delivered by you to your lover's voicemail.</span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The person you've been entwined with literally up and fades away, as if you've hallucinated the whole thing, and you're left with so little closure you can't help but wonder if you <i>did</i> hallucinate the whole thing.</span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In many ways, Death by Silence is the single most callous and disgusting thing one person can do to another because of how efficiently it invalidates anything you shared as a pair. I understand from both sides that this isn't always intentional. On paper, exiting without a word can seem less cruel than saying, "You lay there like a piece of raw veal cutlet during sex and I just can't take it anymore." But it's not. It's heinous. It's cowardly. It puts the person you've been dallying with in a state of stress and worry and self-loathing and loss so awful that all other end-of-relationship alternatives seem like a vacation by comparison.</span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A favorite of the aforementioned Non-Reciprocators, Death by Silence is its own epidemic. It's gotten to the point where all of us, at one point or another, have been spiraled into a neurotic panic if one of our flirty texts to a new partner goes unanswered for more than 12 hours. "</span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He/she always texts me back. Did I say something wrong? </span></i><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">OH GOD, I'M NEVER GOING TO HEAR FROM THEM AGAIN!" <span style="font-style: normal;">This is hardly healthy behavior. So, for the sake of our idealism, sanity and the future of unjaded human interaction, I'm proposing we all remove this one from our list of behavioral options and STOP DOING IT.</span></span></i><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I venture that the effort invested in </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ending</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> a relationship should match--and, in some cases, exceed--the effort invested in </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">starting</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> it. Karmically, this is just good practice...and you'll likely agree with me if you're ever silenced against your will.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We'll all be (marginally) less neurotic if Death by Silence dies.</span><br />
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</div><div><b><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">5. STOP READING WOMENS' MAGAZINES</span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">.</span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Sometimes you </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">can </span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">judge a book by its cover. So ask yourself this: whatthefuck does reading a book with an airbrushed photo of Leighton Meester on the friggin' cover say about you??</span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Want to feel like you're too fat, too short, too blemished, inept with make-up, don't own enough stuff, are painfully unstylish, don't have enough hot shoes, live in an embarrassingly ugly home or need to max out your life savings for a beautiful but shallow wedding? Would you like to absorb dangerous blanket statements delivered by an "expert" who may have gotten their degree via the internet, or read incomplete summarizations of actual medical studies? Pick up a chick mag! They're glossy.</span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A wise man recently told me he dies inside when watching beautiful young women reading </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cosmo</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> or </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Elle</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, because he knows they're being fed plates of sterilized bullshit. I think he's right. Womens' mags are the Soilent Green of the publishing industry, processed from the grey, decaying bodies of other insecure women. Want to learn about real women? Talk to them. Want dress better? Talk to a gay. Want to learn about yourself? See #1...or hire a shrink. You'll also save a ton of money.</span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thus ends the vagina-oriented installment of this seasonally appropriate blog post.</span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And don't think the men-folk got off easy. They're next.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">[</span><span style="color: #cccccc;">** NOTE: Before closing, let me squeak out a "thanks" to the witty, compassionate people who showed support following my</span> </span></span><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/12/confession-hiding-in-plain-sight.html"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">sulking Sartre-dry-hump post.</span></span></b></a><span style="color: #eeeeee;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <span style="color: #cccccc;">Your words were downright comforting, like a sweet, vanilla-scented grandmother smearing Vick's Vapor Rub under my clogged nose.</span></span></span><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">I don't do New Year's resolutions, but after those heartfelt emails and encouraging messages (cue saccharine Capra-esque music swell), I've resolved to keep writing here. I'm still finding my footing (and figuring how much real life can currently be documented on this newfangled interweb without people getting hurt), so cut me a hot slice of slack if the next few posts, uh, blow. But I </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">am</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"> soldiering on, and thank you]</span></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Happy New Year.</span><br />
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</div>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-58355573376828431862009-12-31T01:49:00.002-05:002010-01-01T11:05:44.674-05:00Confession: Hiding in Plain Sight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXBO0X1xIi3UgD6ZussG4bKLjt1ZYfqDxh0Bk78I4v-kFaPIuoBstUW9Z7wyx3Z3hf2XwapNk42ZukyEFmY2C13BuxhcYmMJEj0UhKXk0P1nayDnFuh3rkLWWmtzo4jOKs9LM9cOhooW8/s1600-h/confession.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXBO0X1xIi3UgD6ZussG4bKLjt1ZYfqDxh0Bk78I4v-kFaPIuoBstUW9Z7wyx3Z3hf2XwapNk42ZukyEFmY2C13BuxhcYmMJEj0UhKXk0P1nayDnFuh3rkLWWmtzo4jOKs9LM9cOhooW8/s320/confession.gif" width="320" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One of my best friends and most objective critics--Ariel, clearly--looked at me last night and asked where my blog was.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I told her I've been busy. With, you know, like, work, which slowly drains my words away over the course of a 10-hour stretch in a fluorescent-lit cube. And those oh-so-busy bustling holidays. And, um, my pro-antidisestablishmentarianism activism work in that commune in Johannesburg. Or somesuch. Ahem.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She called shenanigans on all excuses. (For the record, the draining death-cube part is true, but it's never stopped me from writing before, so...yeah. Erroneous.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"You're afraid to tell the truth." </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bitch. Acting like she knows me... </span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">...she does know me. I can't not write the truth. But I don't want to write it, because then it's documented, so it's real. So it must be dealt with. </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dammit.</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The partial truth is I get home at night, at whatever time, drained or undrained, and lift the screen. I put my spritely little hands on the keys, stare at an empty page--and immediately begin to panic.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Not because I've got nothing to write. I've go so much to write my life is bingeing and purging Post-It notes. I could sleep under them, like a bag lady under newspaper. I found one stuck to the back of my cell phone the other day. All it said was: "awkward hyena laugh." There could have been an interesting post in that phrase, but I've forgotten what I meant when I wrote it. There's also the two different totable notebooks filled with scrawl, handwriting spilling into the margins, frantic little arrows pointing to connecting thoughts disjointed by separate pages. </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"LOOK! More! There's more!" </span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Plus </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">two</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> new moleskines received as gifts recently, already front-heavy with notes and dog-eared pages and----I know, I'm sorry----poetry. Lots of it. Point is, I've got stuff to write.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The partial truth is I've morphed into an anxiety-ridden, talentless bullshit artist being dry-humped to death by her own pathetic existential funk. </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Excuse me, Mr. Sartre? Could you get off please, I'm starting to chaff...</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">...and it's all rooted </span><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/06/going-off-with-hitch-intentionally.html"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">right back where this blog started</span></b></a><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">.</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The whole truth is that around the time of </span><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/09/second-first-date-can-you-go-home-again.html"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The 2nd First Date</span></b></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, Alex and I not-so-secretly went on a 2nd Second Date. And then a 2nd Third Date. And then a fourth, and so on, until we were not-so-secretly seconding right back into an intimate, albeit unlabeled, </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">something</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> that was obvious to everyone but us. And it was wonderful. I slept in his nook again. He looked at me with eyes that know every single thing about me. We walked our dog, together. We even not-so-secretly celebrated our six-year anniversary, as if we'd never split in the first place (even though the term "boyfriend/girlfriend" was blacked out of the syllabus entirely), and dropped the "m" word (m-a-r-r-i-a-g-e) again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And then, lightning-fast, the brakes. Me, slamming on them. Again. Alex getting whiplash. Again. Me resting my head on the dashboard in shame and frustration. All the people who'd been predicting our inevitable marriage since we were 20 and wringing their hands gleefully over our romantic re-coupling watching the hubcaps rolls down the street.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The prediction most people made when I posted on this blog about he and I testing a reunion was that we'd get back together and the same problems would still be there. What </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">actually</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> happened was that the old problems were essentially gone, but an entirely new garden of ragweed was springing up in its place, with one gigantic, choking vine in the middle, namely that--through listing, through life, through god-knows-what--I've become someone very different than the girl who grew up with her hand in his. He is still very much the same wonderful man. I do not know if he and this foreigner fit together.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It's been a revelation shocking to no one but me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm trying to think of something to liken it to. This is one of the only things in my limited range of experience that fits:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I was 17, the punk band I'd been playing in for two years blew up. A meandering impersonation of something we all aspired to be hit a streak of luck and local acclaim, climbed to modest (pre-iTunes/pre-MySpace) and centralized esteem, and set out on a half-cocked tour of the East Coast. Five guys, one girl, a U-Haul of equipment and a van. Eight exhilarating, sweaty, wild, debauched days in, we were cruising down the interstate at the Florida border at about 90 miles-per-hour, all six of us stomping out our own (assuredly heinous) double-bass beat to a Poison the Well cassette jammed in the tapedeck. It was glorious. And at THAT exact, blind, blissful moment, the hood of the van popped up, caught in the wind and slammed against the windshield, starring out the glass in a spiderweb of cracks and blocking the road entirely from view, causing the entire band to let out a sustained unison scream than would have shamed Macaulay Culkin. We swerved off the road and into a small ditch.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sitting in the side of a drainage shoulder in Florida, broken down and broke and drenched in sweat, our bass player calling his </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">mom </span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">for help on a brick-sized cell-phone, reality burned itself into our skin: we were not rock stars. We were </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">kids.</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> And we had no idea what we were doing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That's what this is like--the sort of utterly unexpected, blink of an eye disaster that stops everything in its tracks...and was, in many ways, totally foreseeable to any of the more mature people around you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Until very recently I felt like there was a direction. Forward. To Alex? To something. If not to the happy ending, then to a major footnote with illustrations and a bookmark. Now, no direction. I'm an awkward, domesticated house-cat, released back into the wild...again...and confused as fuck about where the Fancy Feast is.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The first time I left, and Hitch Listed, and settled all smug down in Brooklyn to write my gimmicky blog about rediscovering independence, I did it with one hand still holding on to some piece of my old life across the Hudson River. It was being held back in return. I checked items off the list and started to mutate into whatever I am now with the confidence that comes from knowing that, even if you fail miserably, someone loves you and will take you back if you show up on their doorstep and say, "I'm a mess. Please love me anyway." I confess the one hand is still partially there---however, the fingers are being severed. Have been? Are being. There's still an index finger and a thumb wrapped around the doorknob.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now, I'm settled, not-at-all smug, in Brooklyn, wondering if my gimmicky blog is even read and what the point of it is if I can't write it with </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">some </span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">modicum of knowing authority, some end-point in sight. I know the blogs I like best are honest, well-written and exciting because there is no end-point...everyone's along for the ride. But I </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">always need</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">to like the narrator</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. And I know that I, personally, don't really like the floundering, confused, frightened me---or at least not her rambling monologue relentlessly being broadcast inside my skull.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So I've been hiding.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There's one question I keep getting from friends and family about slamming on the brakes again. "Why?" Okay, fine:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I want too much. He doesn't seem to want enough. And there we both somehow went.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That's the whole truth.</span>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-29746723591753225612009-12-09T23:10:00.005-05:002009-12-13T16:05:24.202-05:00The Wingman Chronicles, Part V: Messy Midnight Oysters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNPlQWj1RSrZrLE7HnPhumjcwvhA_ScVn7HUCooj7GI8qW7MVQtnOo_A0mFGwptUD6sjpEWaOYq570l8dijTjX1FGX3VqPhMbVOrecw_-sBZ0PTOQ0LtYkVPDB05PngnSsaxggMLQjSvc/s1600-h/walrus-&-oysters-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNPlQWj1RSrZrLE7HnPhumjcwvhA_ScVn7HUCooj7GI8qW7MVQtnOo_A0mFGwptUD6sjpEWaOYq570l8dijTjX1FGX3VqPhMbVOrecw_-sBZ0PTOQ0LtYkVPDB05PngnSsaxggMLQjSvc/s320/walrus-&-oysters-web.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Okay, I'm sorry. I know. I went MIA. But, wait baby, don't go--I'm back. And, even after that inexcusable absence, </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Wingman Chronicles</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> is back with me, returning for its final installment (for now)</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. Reliable future posting, and an explanation of my disappearance, to follow.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thus far <a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/09/19-wingman-chronicles-begin.html"><b>The Wingman Chronicles</b></a> have delivered us <a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/09/19-wingman-chronicles-part-1-taking.html"><b>blues-singer sex</b></a><b>, </b><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/10/20-wingman-chronicles-part-ii-playing.html"><b>Ivy Leaguers on balconies</b></a><b>, </b><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/10/11-wingman-chronicles-part-iii-lap.html"><b>a free strip club romp</b></a> and <a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/10/epic-fail-wingman-chronicles-part-iiii.html"><b>a shameful home invasion perpetrated against an award-winning actor</b></a><b>.</b> There's only one way to trump all that for this, the final part of the chronicles: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bivalve Mollusks. </span><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Night of the Midnight Oysters crossed over into new territory, requiring one maneuver I'd never tried in flight school. I'd heard legend of the controversial move, a socially dangerous combination of laziness and perfectly calibrated match-making, but never dared try it: A Double Wingmanning? Mythic, beyond me, like the Five-Point Exploding Heart Technique or a public health care option. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ariel was, of course, the ideal partner for the last piece of my official reintroduction to the wild, a "low key" night she declared would be run, casually, on her terms. (RED FLAG: Ariel metabolizes gin the way normal people do Vitamin C. So unless you're Keith Richards or Liza Minnelli, "low key" may be misleading...)</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Due to a </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">random</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> work commitment, Ariel, two gay pals and myself were forced to begin our evening in what is the New York social equivalent of Dante's hell: an 80s prom re-creation/dance party set in the upper level of a bridge-and-tunnel cesspool on the LES. Bitter but motivated, we (the only attendees not dressed in stretch fabrics) did what any dedicated band of Saturday night revelers (who make under $40K annually) can do in such situations--roll in with flasks and an hour's tolerance for drunk bachelorettes dueting Bon Jovi covers with actors crammed in a fake varsity jackets. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The night thankfully took a turn for the better at midnight (after we escaped the club, stealing a bounty of Ring Pops in the process), when Ariel decided New York City had but one jewel worth seeking, one orgasmic drug to be ingested: raw seafood.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Oysters?" I half-protested as she grabbed my wrist, leading us down a side street. Her chin was tilted slightly upwards, a gesture midway between militant defiance and a hungry pit bull sniffing the air. This was followed by an even more skeptical "<i>the</i> </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Meatpacking District??" </span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">when she Pied Pipered me (the gays dropped out at the first suggestion of oysters, heading off in search of a very different kind of briny valve...) onto Gansevoort Street. "We're going to spend our night in the fucking <i>Meatpacking</i> District?"</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"No," Ariel called calmly, ignoring my distain as I stumbled (literally...WHY are the streets cobblestone in a stretch of city <i>that</i> heavily trafficked by stilettos??) behind her. "We are going to spend our 'fucking' night with </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">really </span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">good oysters."</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Just then, my phone rang. James was on the line.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">James is a blue-eyed, dark-haired professional modern dancer who happens to be my sister's ex-boyfriend. Having amicably parted from sis several years ago (actually she broke up with him in a not so savvy way--I told her she was crazy, then made it clear I was still hanging out with him whether she liked it or not), and having carefully sculpted himself a body ready for the pages of </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Why Wear Clothes At All?</span></i><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <span style="font-style: normal;">magazine</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, this laid-back Adonis was recently snatched up by a high-profile celebrity trainer. He now travels the globe shaping the bodies of blockbuster action heroes and willowy indie-ingenues, occasionally landing in NYC (though not nearly enough).</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">[Fun Fact: James drinks a gallon of whole milk every 1-3 days. He needs an extra-large refridgerator to support his crippling dairy addiction, which I find hilarious since his clients usually end up on strict "no sugar, no dairy" diets. Meanwhile, their Personal Jane Fonda's secretly got a cow's udder running teat-juice intravenously into his heart-stoppingly chiseled biceps. I digress...]</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">James got into NYC that night just in time to inform me that A) he was looking for a good time, B) it was his BIRTHDAY and C) he was hoping I was free, because his birthdays "always suck" and he needed a wingman. After emphasizing to Ariel his epic existential sulk about a shit string of birthdays, she agreed to make our duo a trio. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"He's <i>pretty</i>," she also commented, off-handedly, when he met us shortly thereafter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"And a <i>giver</i>, according to my sister."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"I didn't mean it like that," Ariel, ever-stoic and emotionless, said. "Too young. Too pretty." A pregnant pause. "Oysters."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Not to get all Proustian and shit...but Proust wrote, upon tasting his first madeline: ..."a shudder rain through me, and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that had happened to me. An exquisite pleasure invaded my sense, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That's what that first oyster was like.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Before Ariel paraded us into that French brasserie, I'd never had an oyster. Despite growing up on the shore, and maybe <em>because of</em> the year I once spent shucking be-shelled tongue-surfers for a clientele of frat boys and local businessmen at a local Hooters, I'd managed to go 26 years without tasting one. I know...not a big deal. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But for some reason--be it the company, the three carafes of red wine consumed, the gentle reminder I've seen and experienced so little that even nights begun at a faux-80s prom can be righted--when that first salty, squirming nubbin of satin protein swam down my throat in a flourish of brine and lemon, an unjaded piece of me stirred. It was like </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Awakening (</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">only instead of walking into the ocean like a suicidal bitch at the end I sucked down bougie shellfish...but you get the point). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The combination of oysters and wine slammed into my brain like a bag of Columbian narcotics.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Dancing!" I declared. "We must dance! We must drink! We must </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">drink</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> from the </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">cup</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> of </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">life</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">!"</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"You <i>must</i> stop <i>talking</i> like that," Ariel said, wearily, from across a mound of empty shells. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"No, she's right. We should dance," James chimed in, eyeing Ariel. "It's my birthday." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Having blown a week's worth of responsibly budgeted cash on bivalves and wine, we had to do continue the night on the cheap...which meant hiking across the city to the one bar where we could dance, and drink, for free because Ariel knows the bartender. A schizophrenic half lounge/half sports bar boozehole in Murray Hill isn't really our scene, but if you want to shake your hips with a strong drink in hand for free at 2:30am, anyplace will do.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Especially if you roll in with a gorgeous professional dancer on your arm, one who commandingly twirled, spun, lifted, arched and salsa-ed (alternately and, more impressively, simultaneously) with Ariel and I while pounding back birthday beverages. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Until three large, bejeweled, slightly terrifying hoodrats interrupted us. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Hey, yo, my man," the leader, a 6' thug with a flat-brimmed BROOKLYN cap and a Puerto Rican flag jersey on, said to James. He was rubbing one hand suggestively around his chest, that creepy motion which signals heartburn more than sexual prowess if you're anyone but LL Cool J circa "Doin' It." "You bein' </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">greedy</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, my man. You can't keep both these beautiful girls to yourself. Bro's gotta share." His wingmen nodded in agreement.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Well, </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">bro</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, it actually looks like I can?" James answered without hesitation, drawing both Ariel and myself into his hips. "Because you're the guys with no one to dance with."</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I fell mildly in love with him at that moment. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But I also saw the exit strategy, the move that left me capably in my element--manipulating social retards--while Wingman One and Wingman Two, intoxicated and by now flirting </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>shamelessly</em> despite Ariel's "too young, too pretty" mantra</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, were left as a pair. <em>You're takin' one for the team, so your friend can live the dre-ee-eam....</em></span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Papi," I said to Alpha Male Interloper, extending my elbow and leading him away from the pack. "I like your hat. See, I need a little Brooklyn help? I just moved into the 'hood and am pretty sure my white ass is going to get shot..."</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Half an hour later, my new friend "JoJo" had called his dogs off James and Ariel, bought me a drink, taught me how to properly haggle with empanada vendors in Bushwick (3 for $5 is standard) and given me the number of his weed dealer. (Uh, thanks Jojo.) More importantly, </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">my </span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">wingmen had been dancing. With their hips </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">very </span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">close. Without Ariel coming over once to tap out. I eventually thanked Jojo, gave him a kiss on the cheek, took <i>his </i>number (deleted it the next day) and headed to the dance floor to approach my duo.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Guys, I'm sooooooo drunk," I (half) lied. "We have to get out of here."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"'kay, you'll shtay with me, right?" Ariel slurred, subtly, to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Only if you help me convince Birthday Boy to come back with us." </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Her eyes narrowed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"I know what yerrr doing," Ariel hissed in my ear as we started staggering out of the bar, James a few steps behind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Doing? What do you mean?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"He's too young. And </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">pretty</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. I don't do young and pretty," she protested. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Right. Cuz chiseled virile reciprocating oral-sexers are <em>such</em> a bad idea. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"I know." I hailed a cab.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"No, but for <i>really</i>. Heeees sleeping on the futon with you," Ariel declared.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Sure. Hey, Birthday Boy! Get your ass in this cab..."</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It took precisely seven minutes for both of them to disappear into her bedroom when we arrived in Queens. It doesn't matter who shut the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I myself pulled out the futon, my Queensian home away from home, poured myself a trough of water and turned on the television, peeling off my tights and dress while </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>Planet Earth </em>annointed the Midngith Oysters with a</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> vibrant array of sea creatures (including an octopus that could run on two of its eight legs, which is fucking awesome). All the while I was smugly thinking: I wingmanned my wingman my wingman. Mission, even if done so lazily, accomplished. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next day, back in Brooklyn, vowing to lay off the expensive socializing until I jump into the next tax bracket, I mused on The Chronicles. What, exactly, had been the point? Originally it had been to re-socialize myself after five years of sequestered nesting in suburbia, but...honestly, on some level I knew it was all shallow, booze-soaked behavior that meant nothing in the scope of the universe. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then, later that day, two texts came in: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #d9d2e9;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">JAMES: Best. Birthday. Ever. Missed you. Miss you.</span></span></span></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ARIEL: Well played, Wingman. Welcome back.</span></span></span></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Ah, there it was.</span></span></span></b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">The point.</span></span></span></b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Good to be back. </span></span></span></b></span><br />
</div>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-9826963567775917072009-10-30T07:02:00.014-04:002010-02-04T15:29:56.526-05:00EPIC FAIL: The Wingman Chronicles Part IIII, or, EMMY AWARD Winning Loss of Dignity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBEl_OkLGk0pC-AtwNdUCLEau2_Dhdw_6g49UgXcQyLeSv2x6tZ0KHXUlWO2BO4S1MDL24aGarti28oPSxrA0NdaT8kiknL3Me0XuXK3vzyBB-F6C7dtWWhy1XKeuuZ251QaAafsm4Kg/s1600-h/Emmy-Award.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBEl_OkLGk0pC-AtwNdUCLEau2_Dhdw_6g49UgXcQyLeSv2x6tZ0KHXUlWO2BO4S1MDL24aGarti28oPSxrA0NdaT8kiknL3Me0XuXK3vzyBB-F6C7dtWWhy1XKeuuZ251QaAafsm4Kg/s320/Emmy-Award.gif" width="255" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Occasionally, even the best wingman missions go awry. Generally, this leads to public embarrassment and, sometimes, blue balls.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Or, it you're <a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/10/20-wingman-chronicles-part-ii-playing.html"><b>wingmanning with Ariel and I</b></a>, it can turn into a belligerent shit show that ends with a slightly immature scavenger hunt through an Emmy Award winning actor's apartment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A few Mondays ago, Ariel and I hit wingman turbulence. Short version: Ariel got blacked-out drunk in a midtown bar, told me she was going to the bathroom and disappeared. </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For an hour</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. Midway through her evaporation, I abandoned my drink and went tearing through the craphole, three-level bar we'd landed in to find her, accidentally stumbling upon an authentic freak show (no, seriously...bearded lady, burlesque dancers, the works) getting ready for their 1am performance in the process. Taking the bearded lady as a bad omen, I called Ariel's roommate--who calmly informed me that Ariel was already HOME, slurring drunk, and wearing MY coat. In QUEENS. Ariel did not find anything odd about this.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Soon I was standing on the streets of Times Square, around 1:30am, drunk and without outerwear. Naturally, because life is a sitcom, it began to rain. I did not have enough money for a cab to Brooklyn, and my Metrocard was in the pocket of the jacket Ariel was curled fetally upon, like a tiny, drunk, Irish puppy in a whelping box. A whelping box in <strong><em>Queens.</em></strong> Then, my phone hummed a text:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">Mr. EMMY: Up to anything this rainy nig</span><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ht?</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mr. EMMY is an older, unreasonably friendly, single and exceptionally talented actor we've affectionately nicknamed for the honor bestowed up him during one of those televised awards shows. We all met through mutual friends, resulting in his randomly joining Ariel and I for a platonic concert and meal one night. Whenever we catch him on TV, or whenever he's not off being successful and is bored, we occasionally like to verbally spar via text-message, because I am a smart-ass and he went to Harvard and bizarrely finds gauche smart-assedness amusing.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: I am wet, cold, stranded. May whore myself for cab money to the Lil' Wayne wanna-be giving me the eye.</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">Mr. EMMY: Only worth it if he's ACTUALLY Lil' Wayne. Do you need to crash </span><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">here?</span></span></b></div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Which is how I woke up in Mr. EMMY's freaking beautiful apartment because Ariel went all fucking kamikaze on me. NO, there was no illicit behavior between Mr. EMMY and I. (This isn't <i>US Magazine</i>.) We kept conversation to the basics (Him: "I just finished shooting with Salma Hayek." Me: "I farted next to Howard Stern once. Everyone thought it was him.") until I eventually sobered up enough to sprawl on his couch. (It's a really nice couch.)</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The following is a true-life transcript of the string of texts that were exchanged between Ariel and I after I woke up, alone, in said apartment. Mr. EMMY had left at some earlier time to do whatever it is successful actors do after 9AM, leaving me his spare keys to let myself out whenever I was not quite so pathetic again:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">**ARIEL'S PRELUDE:</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> "</span></span><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif, 'Arial Unicode MS'; font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I think this text log is funnier when you include YOUR belligerent texting of </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">me</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> before you made it to Mr. EMMY's, you Hot Mess." </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif, 'Arial Unicode MS'; font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She's right, so I'm including it. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif, 'Arial Unicode MS'; font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Also, on THE VERY OFF CHANCE "Mr. Emmy" ever read this himself, I hope he'd understand we love and adore his hospitality, and him, and hold his privacy in high regard (and have hence changed many details in this post to protect his identity)--but when broke and 26 just don't have the maturity NOT to be fascinated by things like Emmy Awards and really nice apartments in mainland Manhattan**</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif, 'Arial Unicode MS'; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY (12:45am): Where are you??? We are looking.</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY(1:30am): I blame you.</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY(4:55am): Goddamn you Ariel. Let's play Polly Ended Up ___________________.</span></b></span></span></span><br />
<span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif, 'Arial Unicode MS'; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY(4:57am): And do you really have my jacket, or is that lost forever in some scum hole in Midtown?</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="im"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></div><div class="im"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><i>DAY BREAKS.</i><br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">(Polly wakes, hungover. Polly DID NOT have sex with the owner of said apartment, but is in his pajamas anyway. Her phone lights up.)</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: Based on these drunken musings......Shit! You're at MR. EMMY's, aren't you?</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: And I really do have your jacket.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: You're totally spooning next to THE EMMY right now....... Amaaaaaahhhhhhzing.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b><br />
<span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">(Polly finally acknowledges phone. Is thrown into blind, stubborn, but bemused rage by Ariel's texts, which are coming from Ariel's desk in corporate America.)</span></span></span><br />
<span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif, 'Arial Unicode MS'; font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: Oh, fuck you. You don't know me!</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: He took you in his big drama major arms........</span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><wbr></wbr>Bwahahahahahahahahaha.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: I. Hate.You. I do. I. Hate. you.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: Sooooooooo not true.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: But points for punctuation on what must be a rough-like-mcduff morning.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: Also, big, beautiful picture of Mr. EMMY and [show he's famed for] in the foyer....</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: He has a foyer..... I hate him. </span></span></b></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: You were sooooooo not supposed to take my jacket, withOUT me in it, back to Astoria. Wtf am I doing in Flatiron??</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: Making out with an EMMY.... duh.</span></span></b></span></span><br />
<span style="border-collapse: collapse;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b></span><br />
<span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif, 'Arial Unicode MS'; font-size: 12px;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><span style="font-size: small;">POLLY: WEDIDNOTSHUTUP.</span> </span></span></b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="im"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">(Polly sees she's alone in the apt. Begins exploring apartment while holding phone</span></span><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">.)</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: Oh my God. He left me a towel, a wash cloth, and a spare set of keys stacked in the bathroom. </span></span></b></span><br />
<strong><span style="color: #b4a7d6; font-family: Arial;"></span></strong><strong><br />
</strong><div class="im"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: KEYS! Danger Will Robinson. Tread lightly. But make a latte first. He </span></span></b><i><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">so</span></span></b></i><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> has an espresso machine.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: OMG, HE DOES HAVE AN ESPRESSO MACHINE. </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: He has amazing skin products too, doesn't he? FML.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></div><div class="im"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span></div><div class="im"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">(Polly looks in bathroom.)</span></span></span><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: Holy shit. Full Origin's men's care line. Like, every product. Are you hiding in this apartment with me??</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b><br />
<span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">(Polly pauses, peeks back at the pile of towells and the keys. She begins to text her hungover idiot wingman again.)</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: Keys? Fuck. Keys..........................</span></b></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><wbr></wbr>...................Fuck. [Note: Keys are scary, because they must be returned. Which means you'll have to face the person you drunkenly appeared on the doorstep of. And admit to being a Hot Mess. In their home. And then apologize. Fun, right?] </span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: It's going to be okay......</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: I brought this tragicness upon myself.</span></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: Oh, it's so hard being 26 and pretty with a brain and sharp wit.</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span><br />
<span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">(Ariel gauges exactly how fucking hungover she is in the middle of corporate America and remembers she and Polly have to see a violent indie-film starring Willem Dafoe and Willem Dafoe's penis later that very same night.)</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: Also? Tell me we are rescheduling Willem Dafoe's screening? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease??</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: Oh we are so not even a little bit going to that fucking film.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b></div><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: Holla.........</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b><br />
<div class="im"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">(Polly passes by the bedroom. Looks around, then flops onto empty bed.)</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: Oh, these pillows of his though. Thread count is HIGH. So wonderful...so...*buries face in pillow*</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: **slams head on desk**</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">(Peels herself out of bed. Continues exploration.)</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: Hmm. Dipolma from HARVARD, huh?</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: Oh cool. He's crazy smart too...I feel smaller and more unimportant by the second.</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: Floor to ceiling vinyl. Complete Bob Dylan next to Gorillaz Demon Days next to Fleet Foxes. ALL VINYL.</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: Omg. I want to make out with him...</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: Do...do I...do I look for The EMMY?</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: FIND IT AND TAKE A PICTURE! Then text it to me immediately.</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span></div><div class="im"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span></div><div class="im"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">(Looks around at walls, shelves and desks. No luck.)</span></span></span><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: WHERE IS THE EMMY?!?!?</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">(After a few more moments of wandering, </span></span><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">amazed</span></em><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">,</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> through eclectic, Not-A-Rich-Douche apartment, Polly notices framed item on the wall. It's a picture, with a note hand written on it. She takes picture, sends it to Ariel</span></span><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: No EMMY. But this. The signature: "With awe, love always, STEVE." As in SPIELBERG.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: "With Awe"....Right, me too.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b><br />
<strong><span style="color: #b4a7d6; font-family: Arial;"></span></strong></div><div class="im"><strong><span style="color: #b4a7d6; font-family: Arial;"></span></strong><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><strong>POLLY: DELETE THAT NOW.</strong><br />
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<strong>ARIEL: Already done. Duh.</strong></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><strong> </strong></span></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><strong>POLLY: So many humidifiers here. And dehumidifiers. And other nifty---oh, look, a Fender guitar.</strong></span></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><strong> </strong></span></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><strong>ARIEL: I love that people let us stay alone in their homes...Fools.</strong></span></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><strong> </strong></span></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><strong>POLLY: Fuck. What am I going to wear to work?</strong></span></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><strong> </strong></span></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><strong>ARIEL: Right......no ideas. Buy something?</strong></span></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif, 'Arial Unicode MS'; font-weight: normal;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: Cool shirt of his?</span></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></strong></span></span></div><div class="im"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: Dammit. All he has is man hats. I cannot make yesterday's outfit, sans coat, sans make-up, work with an Indiana Jones hat...</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: Own it.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: I'm stealing his Harvard hoodie...............I mean borrowing.........</span></span></b></span></div><div class="im" style="color: #500050;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: What? I need a coat.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">ARIEL: Sorry about your coat. I have no idea what the thought process was on that. But there was one...somewhere.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: Ur cute.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">(Hot Mess Walk of Shame Polly leaves note for Mr. Emmy apologizing, explaining about the hoodie and confessing she went through his record collection. She begs forgiveness. She then emerges from apartment wearing last night's heels, jeans, a Harvard hoodie and smeared, black eye liner.)</span></span></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY (texting Bromeo, she and Ariel's gay, male wingman): Just stumbled into midtown morning in last night's clothes and MR. EMMY's Harvard hoodie. Um......right.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">BROMEO: Bwhahahahaahahhaahahahahha.</span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"> </span></span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">POLLY: I blame Ariel.</span></span></b></span></div><br />
<span style="color: #b4a7d6; font-family: Arial;"></span>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7721067163184497236.post-5210788217637699762009-10-20T00:30:00.000-04:002009-10-20T00:30:46.597-04:00#11: Wingman Chronicles Part III: Lap Dances and Emmy Award Nominated Accidental Wingmen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtNdPLkb4e6yUQSl7in9F79K7x7F8bNciVMikDXuAvDKbDFgf3YBrfnZWPpO3GMSG5o4isdHl3dhdcbPuPWLx42gSCdzPhQkRzSNX1jjSbm7O8OEB2itzMMCw7SqFwHb-Sa8WcvC8HJE/s1600-h/Peep+Show.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtNdPLkb4e6yUQSl7in9F79K7x7F8bNciVMikDXuAvDKbDFgf3YBrfnZWPpO3GMSG5o4isdHl3dhdcbPuPWLx42gSCdzPhQkRzSNX1jjSbm7O8OEB2itzMMCw7SqFwHb-Sa8WcvC8HJE/s320/Peep+Show.jpg" /></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oprah calls it secreting. Religious types call it praying. Psychologists call it delusional and put you on meds. I call it common sense: ask and ye shall receive.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Wingman Red, </span></span><a href="http://thehitchlist.blogspot.com/2009/09/19-wingman-chronicles-part-1-taking.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">she of blues-singing sexual dalliances</span></span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, casually mentioned a few months ago that she'd never been to a strip club and would like to go, unknowingly sending that request into the universe on an Oprah-shaped comet in the process. Fortunately, I was standing close enough when she did this it to be included in the return.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">A personal note on strip clubs:</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1.) I love 'em. I've never denied my significant other the right to go and ogle some boobies, with our without me there. Though I will say they have more fun when I'm there, because girls have more fun at strip clubs than guys. Period. Guys, if you don't believe me, bring your two most fun-loving, sexually secure wingwomen to the club next time and see how different the experience is. We're like a vagina-ed bridge between you and your fantasy, because no good female wingman will let her male counterpart be a creepy customer while she's around, and strippers know it. They will flock like sequined moths to an Alabamian bug-zapper in mid-July. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2.) I, personally, can't get behind the feminist argument that ALL strippers are being degraded. And I'm not getting into that argument here, so moving on...</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">3.) I may or may not have brought Alex to the strip club for his birthday several years ago and ended up onstage with a bottle of champagne giving him a special birthday dance with the help a stripper named Violet who I kind-of-sort-of-maybe-hooked-up with in the bathroom for half and hour while Alex swigged beer and watched. May. Or may not have. Done that. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alex may or may not have called it the best night of his life. This is all hypothetical.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4.) As a former Hooters girl, one who never felt degraded by her job (except the scrunchy-socks part of the uniform--any adornment that gives even the leggiest women cankles should be illegal), I'd be a hypocrite to turn and bash anyone whose sex appeal has contributed to a paycheck.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Personal note on strippers over</span>.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Red and I met up at an innocuous Irish pub for a low key evening--minimal primping, no expectations. Beer, girl-talk and bar banter. We were about two drinks deep when QB walked in.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now. What to say about QB? QB is a very well-known and lusted after TV actor. We call him QB because he's a chiseled hunk of Quarterback-looking manflesh grown in the woods of Maine, topped with a Ken-doll style head manufactured at The Hot Professional Athlete Manufacturing Firm of America (affectionately known as HPAMFA, which is coincidentally the sound many women make when QB walks into a room). At some point this tall, square-jawed piece of magazine-worthy Americana decided life as an athletic all-star didn't offer nearly enough immediate fawning gratification--so he switched to acting. Successfully. He is very pretty, very loaded and very unfortunately has a tattoo of a jungle cat on his shoulder.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He is also very much not my type, which is why we hit if off on a non-fuck-me level after working together on a freelance gig, settling instead into the kind of random dude-banter that tends to be my base form of communication with any guy I am not trying to bed. He is very fun to get drunk with, if you happen to run into him--which you will not, knowingly, because I'm not stupid enough to tell you what TV show he's on.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I gave him an appropriately obnoxious "Whatssup, playa playa!!" from our corner of the bar (yes, I'm a real lady), signaling he should come sit with us. QB smiled, then tripped over the two bridge-and-tunnel-bimbos who were already trying to suck his dick.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Soon our quartet (he had a wingman too) were having many brews while he sucked down many vodka-sodas. Red kept giving me the well-concealed but still entirely hilarious "OMG WE'RE GETTING DRUNK WITH _________ FROM THAT SHOW ________!" look. And I was shooting her "Don't get too excited" looks back, because QB is married.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">QB is wedded to one of those scorchingly hot antelope-women with three miles of leg and Sahara-flat torso, one that has no right being as legitimately talented as she is when she's already been given other assets for social leverage. (She's also a TV actress, because that's what you do when God makes you an antelope-woman with no visible pores.) To the best of my knowledge, they both have industry-standard marital vows, which means they occasionally cheat with their co-stars but genuinely love each other. And have really photogenic make-up sex.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">NO, this is not the post where I check "sleeping with a married man off my list," so untwist your panties and keep reading.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Anyway, we're all drinking. QB's wingman ducks out to go home to his wife, but QB is a "bachelor for the weekend," all by his lonesome while honeypie is out of town filming. So we all keep drinking. The conversation goes the only place it could foreseeably go: Canada.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Canada is known for its waterfalls, that song from the South Park movie, syrup...and strippers. Why strippers? I dunno. Probably because the native tundra-like temperatures mean the stripper's nipples are always more alert and appealing than that of their southern, American-grown counterparts.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As a connoisseur of strip clubs, I get off on a stripper tangent with QB ("I once sliced my cornea on a rogue piece of body glitter." "Yeah? Well I hooked up with the stripper at my ex-boyfriend's birthday." pause. "And he didn't marry you?" "Well, see...."). Finally, Red looks at QB with subtle but palpable feminine wiles armed.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"I've never been to a strip club. Ever," she says, casually stirring the foam on the pint glass rim with one finger.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">God I love this woman. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Really?" QB replies, hooked. "What, you're some kind of feminist?"</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"No, not at all. I'm a grad student. I can't afford a train ticket home, let alone a strip club," she laughs, Irish eyes smiling. Grinning even. I pick up the slack.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Yeah, it's true. She's never been. God, isn't it </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">so</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> sad this pale, pink, porcelain skin has never been baptized by the cleavage sweat of a Ukrainian undergrad in a pink thong," I sigh, placing my head against her bosom for effect.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Yeah. This is sad." QB's eyes are distant, thoughtful. And he is not pondering the economic implications of the proposed Obama health care plan. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Well, c'est la vie! Another round?" I ask, waiting to see if he'll take the bait.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"We should go," QB says, eyes on us again.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Go where?" Coy. Play coy.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"The strip club. We should go. Red, we should pop your cherry."</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"QB, you are a married man," I say, resisting. "You'll get in trouble."</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"I am a bachelor for the weekend, my wife is trashed in some bar in Houston with a bunch of production assistants trying to sleep with her and she loves strip clubs," he replies before swigging the last of his drink and placing the glass decisively on the bar. "We're going. Red, get your game face on."</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We plan a totally pointless, semi-elaborate ruse where Red and I pay and exit first, meeting QB a few minutes later at the side door of a conveniently located strip joint so no random photogs snag shots of QB leaving a bar (or entering a strip joint) with two random girls who are not his wife. The VIP bouncer, clearly fresh off his win from the Ving Rhames Look-a-Like Contest, ushers us in covertly, whisking past the red velvet rope and into the thumping, subterranean lair of sin and glass surfaces below.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We're led around the carpeted manse, eventually escorted to a dimly lit banquet near one of the stages, where a smiley blonde with black-light reactive white panties is showing everyone how firemen get from Point A to Point B when the elevators are down. Only she's doing it with her back arched like a Slinky down stairs, both hands free to wave at two drooling Neanderthals at the base of the stage.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After a brief visual sweep of the floor, which is littered with black leather lilypad-like risers topped with gyrating lap-dance blossoms, we pick our preliminary favorites and proceed to kick it classy:</span></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">12 bottles of Coors Light and $300 worth of lap dances.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What? I said he was from Maine. He was paying, so it was his choice.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Two hours, many, many slurred words, and the lifestory of a girl named Zora later (she, of course, took a shine to Red, bonding over their shared love of Chekov no doubt), it was time to go. We were crossing into that drunken no-mans-land where hormones and alcohol bring parties invloved dangerously close to sleeping with people they shouldn't. Though I was far more interested in leaving with Anya, the pixie-brunette who kept putting her strawberry lipgloss all over my neck, than I was with QB, just to set the record straight.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We thanked QB profusely, sprung for his next lapdance, and left him there with what I am convinced is a totally average boner. (Sorry, but God just doesn't give that much pretty a massive wang too. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Djimon Hounsou is the exception to this rule.)</span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"What just happened??" Red asked as we made it outside, sudden gust of wind blowing her mane of red hair around and making every guy, and even me, stop and stare. "I mean, like. WHAT. JUST. HAPPENED?" Her eyes were wide and incredulous and glazed with lust and cheap beer.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"You just had your virgin strip club experience, loved it, may marry Zora, and that guy from that show you love treated you to it." I lit her cigarette, and we started hand in hand down the Avenue, Brooklyn-bound. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"This stuff doesn't happen in real life," she said on the exhale.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"It does if you have the right wingman."</span></span>Polly Syllabickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02496267725745550586noreply@blogger.com14