Category Archives: Coronary

Matters of the heart, etc.


alone in bed, heavy sleep-soaked breaths, his knee raised up in the sheet like his body is about to set sail. a bed is just a frame for blankets. he is all things we come home for. there are no reasons, no answers flickering along under his rapid eye moves. he is my togetherness, simmering like a stew.


My boyfriend is drunk.

“Who are you? Where did you come from? I feel like you were put on this planet to fall in love with me. I wake up and see you every morning, and I think, who the hell are you? Why are you in my face? And if you’re in my face, how and why are you in my face? Furthermore … no. I’m not going to finish that. I love you. I love you.”

The charlatan of the neighborhood.

If I had to describe him in one word it would be lucky. I wouldn’t think twice about it. He wasn’t strikingly handsome, but he resembled a celebrity who was handsome. That was lucky. He was the son of an American car company executive. He was the middle child, browbeaten by lovelier children, protected in private palm tree enclaves. Statues were erected in his father’s name. He was shipped off to university. His roommate fell out of the window. It was the sort of secret he kept to himself until he felt close enough to someone to need to win them over. He told too many people. It was a badge of sensitivity. It was an excuse to drink too much, to dramatize relationships. He wasn’t even close to his roommate, he admitted, seven years later. He was drunk and fell out and he was gone. He told me like that as a perfectly good reason to sleep with him. He was used to getting lucky. Big, blue eyes and subscription to a political magazine. A mild, unimposing voice. He thought he was completely fucked up. He thought he was a writer. The laundry room in his house smelled like lavender. The bedroom smelled like pewter. Photos of palm trees on a near-empty bookcase. He was the charlatan of the neighborhood. He was lucky boy of Brooklyn.

Fundamental problems with the future tense.

“I guess I have always been deeply terrified to really be someone’s wife since I know from life one cannot love another, ever, really.”

Marilyn Monroe

You Shouldn’t Always Get What You Want

The archetype of the ungettable man emerged in pop culture as the smoldering, cigarette-smoking Bad Boy on a bike who broke as many hymens as he did hearts. Eventually, he evolved into an emotionally unavailable man-child with the looks of Brad Pitt but the integrity of Adam Sandler. Most romantic comedies leave women with two options: tame the Bad Boy, or realize that the Nice Guy was there all along. The studios continue to make these movies because women continue to watch them. And women watch them because they are—in a small, over-romanticized way—fairly accurate depictions of desire.

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]

Calendar Girls

“I have an idea,” he said, motioning for me to follow him into the bedroom. I sat next to him in front of the computer. “See, I can set it up so you can see my Google Calendar.”

I squinted at the screen. “Why would you want to show me your calendar?”

“Because, this way you’ll always know if I’m busy. And if you share with me, I’ll know if you were planning on making dinner. This way you won’t wait for me and I won’t upset you if I have other plans.”

I shook my head. This was all happening so fast.

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]

10 Reasons Cohabitating Sucks

The thing is, when you move in with your boyfriend, you’re not just lovers: you’re roommates. Which means everything that ever bugged you about living with someone—the dishes, the electric bill, the volume of the TV in the living room when you’re trying to sleep—nips at the heels of your relationship.

Here are ten (real) reasons cohabitating sucks…

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]