Tag Archives: writing

The 12 Phases of Relationship Lies

The first date: You can tell him about your suspicions about your roommate’s alcoholism. Better to say this before you knock back your fourth or fifth cocktail. Of course you have a high tolerance — you’ve been living with a drunk for the last two years! Why else would your apartment look so messy? It’s not you! It’s the intoxicated train wreck in the back bedroom! God. Don’t you wish someone could just take you away from all that?

The third date: You can admit you lied on your profile and no, you never read Infinite Jest— but you did read half of that lobster essay and that was really, really life-changing. What’s that? Oh, yeah. You still eat lobster. It’s delicious. Please.

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]


It would be stupid.

A day shy of our three month anniversary, my boyfriend asked me to move in with him.

That’s why I haven’t been writing. I’ve had so much to say but I’ve been so busy. And when I’m not busy, I’m with him. And he doesn’t know about us. You and me. My readers. Well, he knows. He knows I have a blog and I write about him. But, the devil that he is, he knows he shouldn’t read it. So he doesn’t. Good for him. Bad for you.

It would be stupid to move in with him, right? Right?

If it’s mental, it’s mental.

If I drink one more cup of tea my eyes, I swear, will sweat with it. Black tea, chamomile, honeyed tea, peppermint. I’ve been sick for almost a week and in total denial. I wake up, throw clothes on, and cough myself back under the covers like a tape in reverse. I try to work from home and end up falling asleep in odd positions. Let’s just say I have keyboard burn on my neck. Let’s just say that I’ve been in bed all week and I can’t write a single fucking word that sounds anything like I like to sound like. See—even that sounds bad. If it’s mental, it’s mental. But right now it’s bronchitis and I need to make more tea.

I am trying to “feel” November, yours and mine.

“I am trying to ‘feel’ November, yours and mine. I’ll make an imaginary diorama, like something from grade school, an attempt to win a secret science fair of the heart.”

–Jonathan Lethem, “Lostronaut

lostronautOh, Jonathan Lethem. When are you going to grow up and write something perfect already? Your literary immaturity discourages the lowly, unpublished masses yearning for an agent. Once again, you’ve squandered your talent on a half-assed story that barely makes any effort to scrape at success. The beginning is brilliant, sure, but you lose control, and the story quickly spins out of your grasp like a severed foot floating into the ether. So I am only going to post the beginning, the extension of this quote. And if anyone wants more of “Lostronaut“, feel free to click through. It’s not really worth it. But it should be. Get it, JL? Continue reading

Happiness is a Warm Blog

After a somewhat pathetic look at my current love life, I received this comment:

Sounds like life really sucks for you, I’m sorry.

No, I’m sorry. I just read back a few week’s worth of writing, and most of it wreaked of lonely desperation. And, you know this about writing already, it’s a solitary affair, especially when you’re up, often after a night of drinking.

But contrary to what comes through on this blog, I’m actually pretty fucking happy. When I’m not stressed out and complaining, I love my job. The perks are amazing and the work is always enjoyable. I love my new apartment, and have a hard time tearing myself away from it. Even today the sun is glowing through my window and I’m basking in my bed instead of basking outside. I love my friends, the good ones and the not-so-good ones and even the odd encounters I have with strangers on the subway. I am busy and excited and take pleasure in so much.

I don’t write this. Read it, it sounds like crap. There isn’t much to say about happiness. It’s a given, it’s boring. Gushing about the job perks that come with my position is a perfectly good waste of web space. Carrying on about how happy the new Kings of Leon makes me, or why I love Woody Allen, well, I don’t have much to say. I can gush, sure. But my writing is usually gushy. It’s late-night. It’s introspective. It’s often drunk.

So please, don’t apologize to me. My life doesn’t suck. My life is beautiful. La Dolce Vita. Anti-suck.


Sometimes I don’t want to. It’s a blog. It’s not my diary. It’s lazy shit writing strewn together in subtle impersonal mysteries.

Sometimes I’ve taken way too many drugs and drank too, too much and feel so hungover and resolute about staying in bed or stretched out on the lawn or trapped on a never-ending subway journey to Brooklyn and I can’t be obligated to do this.

I had a friend who used to be tied to his blog. He told me he stopped it because it became this near-obsession, like a child that he constantly needed to feed. It was a chore. It was messy and complicated, like a bad marriage.

There is no reason for this to dissolve into that.

But I love posting poetry. And music!

You all love poetry and music, don’t you? No? You just say you do, but you prefer watching E! True Hollywood Stories? Here’s the door. I’m going to roast outside and go to Shake Shack and throw french fries at pigeons.

Friends of Distinction

Have I mentioned how bored I am? I am so bored I cleaned my apartment. I took a two hour bath just because I could. I watched a crappy pirated copy of the Sex and the City movie to be hip. The rumors are true. It’s a shitty movie.

I’d be less bored if my roommate was around, but Michelle is in DC with her family. Which means I’ve been all alone, wandering back and fourth between the couch to my bed to my desk to the kitchen to the bath tub. At least if Michelle was here I’d have someone to test my jokes on. And someone to watch these bad movies with. And someone to stop me from eating an entire box of chocolate Teddy Grahams.

Two months ago, I would have rejoiced. My former roommate and I were not exactly friends, and when you live with someone who passive aggressively hates you for two years, you begin to loathe being home. I began to hole up in my six by seven square foot room, with just enough space for a full bed and a narrow bedside table. I rarely came home after work. I went out of my way to go to happy hours, movie screenings, dinners, and open bars. I hated being in that tiny apartment. I hated being in the common space, even though the kitchen and living room were relatively spacious and airy.

But now that I live with Michelle, I’m actually paying a lot more for rent and saving money. How? Well, I actually enjoy being home. I cook meals now. I can have a few drinks on the couch with my best friend. It is pretty awesome. I forgot how relaxing it is to live with someone who doesn’t make your jaw clench when they walk into the room.

Michelle and I went to college together and vaguely knew of one another, I suppose, by senior year. We were not friends. She was a tall blond sorority sister who studied psych and often began her sentences by saying secretly in her thick Chicago accent. Such as, “Secretly, I think 95% of the student body is hideous.” I was a short red head who studied writing and often began my sentences by prefacing how high I was. Such as, “You guys, I’m so high right now I think I can see God in the quad, and he knows I don’t believe in him, and he looks pissed.”

So we weren’t friends. We weren’t enemies, like some of the freaky girls in her sorority who hated me because their boyfriends thought I was hot. Doesn’t that have the makings for a bad pop song? But, you know, we didn’t really know each other and could really care less.  And then last spring, Michelle moved to New York and came with her friend Sam to meet me for brunch. Eventually, Sam, who is from England, moved to Germany, and Michelle and I remained friends. The rest is New York City roommate history.

Our friends worried when we began apartment hunting. Michelle and I have never really had a fight, or even a disagreement, yet people began to get nervous. Joanna was blunt. “I think you two are going to eat each other alive.” Ah, right to the point. When we signed the lease on our suburban place in Stuyvesant Town, Jacob laughed. “You guys are going to kill each other!” he squealed, only half joking.

It’s been a month, and it’s great. We still need to hang some art in the living room, and maybe get a new coffee table. Oh, and once we disagreed on how much ice we should make for a party. I said more. Michelle said what we had was just right. But it’s amazing how much potential tension has been alleviated by a dish washer. It’s amazing how we enjoy watch the same crappy shows on TBS. And, it is amazing that she actually reads books I suggest to her.

Secretly, I am relieved to be living with Michelle. Not so secretly, I have eaten an entire box of chocolate Teddy Graham’s in under three hours.