This is one of the people I call my best friend.

Genevieve: dude i have such a bad stomachache. I accidentally put in one of those packets that come in new purses/shoes that say "do not eat"...in my coffee

Me: HAHAHAH

Genevieve: Cause it was in my new bag with all my sugar packets!!

Me: Omg. How can one person be so dumb??

Genevieve: I think I'm dying!

Me: You should def call poison control!!

Genevieve: Dude that shit is poison! OMG, I'm sitting in class, I don't feel so good. I drank at least 1/3 of the coffee...no like 1/4...and I put the packets back in my bag because i was sitting in class and i just looked at them cause i was wondering why it tasted wierd

DO YOU THINK I'M GOING TO DIE????

Me: Hmm...yes.
Genevieve: I'm going to go make myself throw up. Be right back.
Me: Oh Jesus.

Yes, this really happened.

The sound of African drums fills my head.

Ba dum. Ba dum.

I am on an African safari with my BFF Chelsy Davy and the man I am embroiled in affair with, HRH Prince Harry of Wales.

Drums fill the car, booming on the stereo.

They get louder.

BA DUM.

Louder.

BA DUM, BA DUM.

My eyes flash open.

The safari slips from my mind.

We were going to get married.

I hit snooze.

An hour passes. I get up. Dress myself. Halfheartedly slap some makeup on my face. Grimace into the mirror. Brush only the teeth visible to the world.

I sigh the heaviest of sighs and begin the arduous walk to the F train.

I dodge hipsters and taxi cabs. Today I am yelled at in Pakistani.

I am not popular around these parts.

I get to work. Unload my stuff. Begin to bitch.

I sit down.

I realize I feel different.

Things are...comfortable.

New chair? I check. No.

New sweater? Ah, yes. That must be it. Oh it is so nice, this new sweater. The material is soft. I cannot believe it was only eleven dollars at H and ---

Oh.

OH MY GOD.

I'm not.

I'm not wearing a bra.

I am not wearing a bra to work and...yes, I have seven meetings today.

HOW COULD I FORGET A BRA?

I'm no Olsen twin. Bras are essential to my...look.

Oh god.

No bra.

Seven meetings.

One life (that is taking entirely too long.)

Scenes From A Hangover

“It’s bad,” she said to herself.

She woke up, fully clothed. Sitting upright, feeling wrong.

She felt around for her phone.

Her eyes ceased to open.

“Where am I?”, she asked an empty room.

She forced her eyes open.

She looked around. Home. Her apartment.

She looked to the left. Empty.

She sighed, relieved. She looked out the window. Twenty inches of snow blanketed the street.

“Oh, snow, I forgot about you.” she said, dramatic. “How I wish my life was this street, muffled and soundless. Covered with something new, fresh, clean. OH, UNKNOWABLE SNOW.”

She ran to the bathroom and threw up.

She felt better. She made SuperPretzel Bites and drank a Coca-Cola on the couch.

It was nine a.m. Her head throbbed.

“Death! How I yearn for the sweet release of timeless death. That master of what is not known, that awesome relief. Death by hangover! It has happened, I daresay it will happen again. How I long to be it’s next companion, DEATH DEATH DEATH!”

She finished the pretzels.

“I think I’m still drunk”, she said to no one.

“I hope I don’t have to go to brunch.”

twenty four

i spent this past weekend in vermont with my friends and sister. we made the drive up on friday and for the next few days, we sat in the hot tub and drank until our faces were red from heat and our jaws ached from laughter. we played punch for punch, built fires and recorded songs on matt’s flipcam. some of us skied black diamond trails while others watched random Olympic sports on the television. we snuggled on the pull-out couch and in each others beds and arms. we took three hundred silly pictures, three hundred inside jokes.

we came home last night and today i turned twenty four.

my coworkers bought me lunch and flowers. my boss got me a book that i had mentioned i wanted to read weeks ago. my friends and family texted and called and wrote on my facebook wall. they remembered.

my parents called me and told me how much they loved me, how important i was to them. 8:34 on a sunday night, they said. that’s when our lives changed.

after work, my friends took me out to dinner. we laughed and drank sangria and talked about the weekend.

as i walked home, i remembered that just a week ago, i was in such pain that i didn’t know how much longer i could keep my head above water. i was losing my strength—both physical and emotional— in a way that scared me.

but the past seven days have been the answer to a prayer i don’t remember asking for.

they—you—have brought me back.

as i blew out my candles on saturday night, i looked around, my face flushed with happiness. i realized that this year, for the first time, i forgot to wish for anything. i forgot to ask to be better. i forgot to wish for the ease i so often covet .

i am twenty four years old now and i am still learning to cope, how to stop wishing to be healthy and normal and fine. if i have to be sick forever but have this life, then that is okay. every healthy minute is remembered, bookmarked and stuck in my pocket. every sick one is made better by knowing what surrounds me.

i am loved and i love.

i do not need to ask for more than that.

i have what i need here.

warmth.

comfort.

love.

peace.

Upload new pic? YES, PLEASE.

Prologue:

This is a post about how I spend way too much time stalking people online (and sometimes in real life) and how I have to write 500 words about the different kinds of pictures people use as their Facebook defaults so that I can kill time between fits of puking at 3 am. (Yay new medicines, not booze this time!)

1) "The Looking Hot Pic": This particular type of picture is for when you want your friends/coworkers/exes to see how smokin' hot you look nowadays. This is the kind of picture where, upon first glance, you are like DAYUM, NEW FACEBOOK PIC, NO DOUBT. This is the kind of picture that you pray for every time you hear that click of the shutter. This the hope, the dream, the reason you race over to your friend, grab the digital camera out of their hands and look at the little LCD screen. BOOM, new profile pic, YES.

2) "The Athletic Pic": Almost every Facebook user (i.e. me) spends an inordinate time on the site, looking at pictures of their friend's ugly baby and their ex boyfriend's new gf. We spend hours a day on the Internet, stalking and talking and g chatting until our eyes ache from the computer screen. We rarely admit to this though and that is why this type of profile picture is so handy. This picture, whether we are skiing, playing company softball or Ultimate Frisbee, shows that sometimes we go outside and exercise. That we do more than surf the Internet and watch Christian the Lion. That we exist outside the Internet. This pic says see you on the green, motherfucker. I'll be the one with the Frisbee.

3) "The Travel Pic": Have you been to Acapulco? Switzerland? Bombay? Well I haven't, but I've been to St. Maarten, LA and Other Places recently and you can tell by clicking through my profile pictures. I travel, I'm smart, I CARRY ON BAGS, and NOW YOU KNOW.

4) "The I'm Kooky and You Love Me Pic": So you've established that you're good-looking, atheltic and a world traveler. Now it's time to show your friends how lovable and adorable you are. This is what the "kooky" pic is for. Have you kissed a statue? Made out with a bottle of Cool Whip? Danced with a mannequin? Well make sure you get that shit on JPEG, because you are going to want a kooky pic sometime in your facebook career. Kooky pics say "I'm fun and not crippled by depression!" They say "Hey, look guys! I'm off the Lexapro!" They urge your friends to remember how fun you are, or how fun you used to be.

---

Epilogue:

Ha, funny story. I was going to write about how people always have stupid pictures of their cute/ugly kids and husbands and boyfriends and then I looked through my Facebook pictures for my own examples and realized I had none of those things and probably never would. And then I got hit with a crippling depression and took a Xanax.

The End.

Kelly Bergin, Age 11

So basically when I was eleven I was a really precocious and special child. I exhibited extraordinary literary prowess and was pretty much an asshole. Seriously. I was bad. I threatened suicide when my parents told me I couldn't watch a PG-13 movie. I'd like to think it's because I'm an artist (stop laughing) and my young, innocent psyche was damaged from taking in the cruel world of elementary school politics.

Also my brother Greg, who was 6 at the time, was a real pain in the ass.

My dad emailed me this yesterday. It's a gem of a letter I wrote to my parents after an unfortunate hole in the wall incident. I was totally provoked by Greg. That little bastard got away with murder.

It reads as follows (the parenthetical remarks are my father's.)

Dear Mom, 3/26/97

I am very sorry for what I have done. I had a bad day and when Gregory screamed at me I got very mad. I touched his back, I didn't hit him, punch him or kick him. (lie) He may proclaim that, but it is not true. When you told me to get away from him, I said that I can never have a peaceful meal without him yelling at me. You told me that I always have to have the last word. My feelings towards that are not pleasant. I got so mad that I kicked the ground and by accident kicked the wall which formed a hole. (lie) I will pay for the wall, although Dad will not get a birthday present. (surprise,surprise) You can take away my so called allowance. I only have about $20.00.

I hope that you will forgive me. The results of my bad day were I got a C on my math test. I was very upset all day and tonight wasn't exactly the high point of my day.

All I am trying to explain here is that I'm very sorry and I hope you will forgive me for all the trouble I have caused tonight. I love you and will try harder in the future to cool down.

Love always,

Kelly

An Ode To Arlene N., Duane Reade Pharmacy Technician

Oh Arlene N.,

you look so mean,

With that menacing face

and unfortunate ‘stache

You always seem to mishandle my cash.

Fumbling coins and miscounting my change,

Your pronouncement of money due is never in range.

I hate to remind you but you never remember all my pills,

With you, Arlene N., it’s a battle of wills.

All I was is my synthroid,

But you deprive me, you feeling-less droid.

Please just give me my pills, each and every med;

I need them to move, I get cranky in bed.

And don’t you look at me with those beady eyes,

Your failure to fill is no surprise.

I’m tired of coming back, nearly every day,

staring at your female mustache in dismay.

Oh Arlene N., technician of Avenue B,

Did you know they sell wax here, on aisle 3?

You can use your discount to wax off that face,

And then perhaps you’ll be in a much better place.

Happier to fill my drugs and smile as I express gratitude,

Hopefully, next time I see you, we’ll both be in better moods.