a word on how i live (because you asked haha just kidding you didn't)

There are many moments that I feel that I have lost because they were not spent living.

They were suspended between my feet on the ground and the air outside. They were not here with me but I was in them anyway, and they floated. They happened, they are over, more will come.

These times are not a judgment on the rest of my life.

But maybe they are and that’s what everyone remembers when they look at me and I’m not laughing.

When I am okay and at work or in the streets or at the bar, I am trying to move around those moments. I am refusing to let them be the words on the paper but instead scratches in the margins. Because I cannot predict when I will be in bed next, I choose to make the times I am awake realized.

I need to feel my way through the days without thinking about what will happen next.

So—I say one life and drink and mess around and make stupid decisions and then I go home and I write and I feel good and happy and manic.

I am trying to live while knowing it can stop. I live for the Tuesdays I get out of bed and go to work but I remember last week when it took an hour to move my leg outside the covers.

I live for what I can know and what I do not.

One life.


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
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
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.




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 ---



I'm not.

I'm not wearing a bra.

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


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.)