how yoga is kind of making me want to kill myself

This, dear friends, is my yoga teacher. She's oh, a professional model who doesn't drink and likely eats lettuce for dessert. She's also extremely nice and caring, and her perfect night probably doesn't involve a couple Blue Moons and mozzarella sticks. She also probably didn't wake up last Sunday and yell at her parents for not getting bagels and then, in a huff of frustration, decide to make a bag of popcorn and eat it for breakfast instead.

I've never actually met her. See, back in May, I was offered a free yoga fellowship by Yoga Bear, an organization that gives free yoga classes to former cancer patients.

Since May, I've spent about 15 days in the hospital, and then contracted MRSA and had a tooth removed and oh, kicked a glass door, and oh yeah, nearly broke my foot when I was drunk. It's been an eventful few months, health-wise. Add to this my extreme laziness and you get the sad truth that although I could be going to yoga every night for free, I have yet to attend one class.

I know. It's bad. And now, every week, I get an email that asks how I'm feeling and when I think I can come in.

The guilt is getting to me. Especially after I read what she wrote here. Kind of like reading my life story.

But you know what? I'm going to make a change! I'm starting with the woman in the mirror and I'm asking her to change her ways! MJ and Tara have inspired me and I swear it, right here! In print! Next week or the week after that or in a few months, I am going to walk into that yoga class and the new Kelly will begin.

As long as I can have the occasional chicken finger.

What Not To Do: The Kelly Bergin Saga Continues

I'm back with more advice, people!

I know you've missed it. You've probably made so many bad decisions and been like "this is totally because Kelly hasn't posted one of her famous advice columns lately".

Well, I'm back.

Here goes another round of What Not To Do!

1) Do NOT kick a glass door to get someone's attention during a fight. Massive blood loss and tears will follow. You will then develop an oozing wound that will attract the attention of all who look at your foot, causing many of them to turn away in disgust and one unfortunate subway rider to gag.

2) Do NOT tell coworkers that you hurt aforementioned foot in a "surfing accident". People at the office will begin to ask about your great surfing skills and ask your advice about the sport. Note to all: responding "Well I kind of suck and just stand there" is NOT proper surfing advice.

3) Do NOT walk outside in your boxers and ripped tank top and flag down the Mr. Softee truck. The Mr. Softee truck is not a cab and cannot be treated as one. Onlookers will gawk at you and you will feel ashamed as you devour your ice cream.

4) Do NOT walk into a room of full of law students and mutter (too loudly) that "it looks like the UN up in hizz-ere". You will be taken the wrong way and your "I was drunk and trying to be irreverent and hilarious to gain attention to make people love me!" excuse will not fly.

5) Do NOT give your number to the bouncer at the R Bar on Bowery. His name is Clifford Napoleon and he will call and stalk you until you have to text him that he has the wrong number and "the shorty with blonde hair" is no longer interested.

6) Do NOT Twitter while drunk. Drunk Twitter-ing is a dangerous and lethal sport that can lead to loss of friendship and dignity. Avoid it at all costs, dear friends. At all costs.

7) Do NOT let it spill that you may find Jon Gosselin somewhat attractive, despite his double pierced ears, Bluetooth clip and Ed Hardy shirts (he was cute in high school!). Blank stares and gasps of disbelief will follow and you will return to your computer, embarrassed as you click through a gallery of Jon's pictures from high school (TMZ.com, for all you interested parties).

8) Do NOT attempt to cover up the infection on your face by wearing sunglasses indoors, as your coworker will call you out on your decidedly odd behavior and then everyone will notice Little Mount Versuvius on your face. Your boss will then ask if you got hit in the face or hurt in another surfing accident. And you will turn bright red and stammer and wish you were dead.

My life is a farce.

The Waiting Room (Excerpt)

The things they wore, they faces they carried: these things varied greatly by experience and injury. Sara Fernandez wore her Hannah Montana shirt and blue denim shorts. Her face was tear-stained as she held her clearly broken arm against Miley Cyrus’ face, the fabric wet and crumpled.

Bob was in his work clothes; construction pants from Carhart were ripped to reveal the huge gaping hole in his leg, steadily pouring red. A TV blared but he did not look up. His name was called first, rushed into the ER as his skin paled and his balance wobbled.

Annie knew where she was going (17^th floor, general medicine), so she had the necessities. Her big bag, complete with computer and cell phone charger and change of underwear. Books, DVDS, insulin packs. A notebook detailed her latest symptoms; she hadn’t eaten since Tuesday and she could hardly speak. Her words on the page spoke for her, though she knew they’d ask again and again. Her palms were engraved with nail marks; she had screamed silently for days.

Cameron sat at the edge of the waiting room; there was nothing to notice but the look on his face. His eyes squinted together and he was literally doubled over; all you could see was his face and his knees, becoming one.. There was a magazine he did not read. All he really had, all you really need to know was the rupturing appendix and the way his mix of his tears and spit synchronized their descent to the hard linoleum floor.

A shirt soaked with vomit, that’s what Jamie wore. Too many times he had said yes, yes, I’ll have another and now his BAL flew off the charts. Annie and Bob and Cameron and Sara stared, slack-jawed, wide-eyed. Right before he was thrown into triage, he left a reminder of his youth on the floor.

But Brian James, with his haggard clothing and weary face, knew what he was carrying. There was no pain to distract him.  He looked around the ER and memorized the faces. He wrote them down in a reporter’s notebook; long forgotten for another job, another place. He gripped his hand, checked for his shirt pocket for cigarettes and walked outside.

to luke, my nephew (fiction)

To Luke, My Nephew

Luke—

At five, you said to me,

Holding up a hand to show

That finally! Finally you

Were at an age that took up an entire hand.

And today, you take up two.

Ten years old!

Ten years ago,

I sat in a college bar, my shirt stained with

Wing sauce and whiskey,

And took a call from your mother,

She told me that you had just arrived.

You weighed ten pounds, like the sack of potatoes

That we’d buy and peel and put on the grill—

All those summer nights you visited me,

Nights like the Sunday in June you were born.

You had black hair and blue eyes, right from the start;

I looked at the pictures she emailed, all the way from Brooklyn to San Francisco,

And I gasped,

As the connection dialed up and your face finally came into view:

“What a prince we have! “

Ten years, Luke and what of it?

Ten years and three broken bones

No small feat, considering we watched you like a hawk

Watched you tumble off the steps,

Watched you fall hard in your basketball game

That skinny wrist of yours snapped so easily!

And your foot: that I remember well.

Four years old and you picked up my paper weight globe-

I gave it to you later as a gift-

Dropped it right on your foot.

Boy, the shriek that hatched in your throat!

I heard the scream and came running,

lifted you up,

To the ER—I said, and we pretended we were on an adventure,

Two pirates on a ship to the hospital.

Your eyes, shiny with tears crinkled with a smile

When I looked at you in the rearview mirror and

Said “Arrrr matey, arrrrr you ready for adventure?”

Luke, I hope you know

You are my favorite boy,

My king of Kings County

My clutzy little man,

Growing out of trousers and swim trunks and

Passing me in height,

Shoe size,

Your hands, sudenly bigger than mine.

Luke-

I love you ,

So please-

Indulge your favorite aunt,

And stay small,

Just another year more.

The Fallout

Oh, Bonnaroo.

I love you, but you're letting me down.

I thought we had something good going. I fed you with my money and spirit; I danced in your muddy streets. All I asked in return was some good music, expensive beer, and some damn good fried food.

And you provided, oh so willingly. You gave me Bruce Springsteen and Bon Iver and the best curly cheese fries I ever had.

But now, eight days after my return, I have a bone to pick with 'roo.

You and your delicious microbrews and your loud campers and your late night shows have landed me in the hospital! I look back at pictures of my adventure and want to scream at my former, healthy self. "Sleep another hour! Put down the acid and crack! (kidding!) Step away from the Natty Light!"

But perhaps I shouldn't really blame Bonnaroo for my current situation. I mean, everyone else is healthy.

I could blame this disease. Or maybe the other.

Whatever the cause may be, I'm stuck here for at least another night. I've been here since Thursday after my throat started to feel like I was getting strangled by Benjamin Linus. I put off coming in because strangulation? No big deal. But when I lost the ability to speak, I knew it was an emergent situation indeed.

My two days of kicking it like Keller were the worst days of my life. You might as well have taken away my ability to breathe! I saw so many opportunities for my wit to be vocalized, but they just drifted away, like bubbles on the verge of bursting. I even heard my coworkers discussing the latest celebrity news. They had so many important details wrong (Brangelina's children's names! Whether TomKat was married!) and it was painful to hear them, unable to jump in and contribute about Sarah Jessica Parker's surrogate twins or John Travolta's hidden homosexuality.

Celebrity gossip aside, it was also quite difficult to do actual work at the office. When coworkers addressed me, I grunted and would try to speak, but usually ended up spitting on myself and mumbling. I sounded like the Sloth from Goonies.

I knew that I looked like a freak but I insisted on hiding my illness. I had just returned from vacation and oh yeah, had recently missed a bunch of days for my fallen appendix. I didn't think it would look good that I was sick again.

Eventually I couldn't take my own silence anymore, so I popped into the ER, hoping for a quick tune up. That was five days ago and evidently, I'm still here. It's gotten past toleration at this point. This is mostly due to my roommate, who makes very questionable noises. All. Night. Long. She kind of sounds like Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally". I think you all know what scene I'm talking about.

Awkward.

Fortunately my unlimited supply of morphine puts me to sleep so I can tune her out. I don't want to sound like a junkie but that drug = happiness.

And since I've been locked up in The Hospital That Is Not Bellevue, I've had a fair amount of visitors come to help lessen the pain. Meghan came tonight bearing some great gifts--ginger ale, powdered donuts, Chace Crawford. Sure, he was on the cover of People, but pictures of Chace are probably more interesting than the actual Chace. Derek brought me the same magazine, which I find reassuring for two reasons: 1--that he knows me so well and 2--that he supports my love of Gossip Girl. His sister also dropped by with OK! magazine. I guess my love of celebrity gossip really is known by everyone. (If only I was known for my love of James Joyce).

My family has also been here multiple times, giving me an excuse to unleash the crankiness that I typically hide from nurses, doctors and friends. They're family, so they can't really get mad when I scream at them to buy me a very specific brand of popcorn and then get angry when they take an hour to find it.

Genevieve also stopped by to fill my "weird gift" quotient. This time around, she brought me a stuffed flower that said "It's a boy!" and these really weird glasses that can be used as a straw.


Anyway, I'm hoping to be sprung tomorrow. I'm getting so bored and delusional that I actually emailed my boss for work to do from my bed. I was also so anxious for activity that I bit the cultural bullet that is Stephenie Meyer and rented Twilight. (Advice to you all: do not mention to me that you like the movie Twilight. I will fearlessly mock you until you are a shell of the person you once were.)

So if you have anything for me to do/look at/ read, send it my way.

Until then, I'll be here.

Lovingly yours,

Kelly 'The Fungus Is Among Us' Bergin

Good times

Lately, my health has been like the New York Mets: beat.

It's been so up and down the past two or three months that friends, coworkers and family are constantly asking me the same question: How are you feeling?

I can't really say that I know how to answer. Though I've been fielding this question for over 23 years (DRAMATIC!), the answer has always eluded me.

"Fine, thanks" is the usual reply.

Of course, this is usually a lie. But I don't want to bum people out. I mean, what's the alternative?

"Well, actually, I'm bleeding out my ears. My toenails have turned green and I'm emitting a stank worthy of Fresh Kills. I've lost my eyesight and can't read Braille because my fingers are teeny-tiny! But my attitude's great!"

Usually, I give a succinct answer. But sometimes, sometimes--I over share. In a big way.
I've talked about this here. And since this little episode, I've tried to stop. But sometimes I open my mouth and cannot shut it. (Okay, fine, I can never actually shut my mouth.)

This is mostly because the question makes me uncomfortable. I'm not sure how much people want to know when they ask "How are you feeling?". Do they want a simple, quick response so that they can feel like they were polite without having to be grossed out? (Believe me, when I tell you how I have a pus coming out of my face like lava out of volcano, people DO get grossed out.) Or do they genuinely want to know the gritty details, the flesh and bones of the situation, the "real" answer?

I don't think I'll ever be able to tell.

And it's just another frustrating part of this life.

The Adventures and Misadventures of One Trip to Bonnaroo: Not Censored At All. I swear.

Here's a story.

About four city girls who got in a truck and headed down to Manchester, TN.

Four girls with no knowledge of the open road and no knowledge of mechanics. Four girls used to the luxury of showers and clean water. Four girls vastly unprepared for the dirt and hard work that lay ahead.

These four girls, though excited for the journey ahead, felt unsettled for a life without crowded city streets, hair straighteners, and, most importantly, delivery.com. (Where would one of the nameless girls get her pad thai from in Tennessee?!?)

But--it was a journey! A quest to visit the great untamed South and immerse themselves in the musical stylings of their favorite bands.

It was all about the music.

These girls faced criticism for their decision to partake upon this sure to be arduous venture, but they persisted. Even when the Most Beautiful One's appendix ruptured, they carried on. "Not to be defeated by an organ that weighs less than an ounce!" was their battle cry. So they soldiered on, dear readers, they soldiered on.

They left the great state of New Jersey on Wednesday night, bleary-eyed but excited. During the long 16 hour drive, three of the girls nearly formulated a plot to assassinate the Most Beautiful One for a host of reasons, but mostly for her insistence on singing "I Drove All Night To Get To 'Roo". Conflicts resolved, they crossed into Central Time and into Manchester County.

Upon their arrival to Bonnaroo's magnificent (re: wasteland) grounds, the girls hopped out of the car, excited and somewhat high off of the Red Bull and Six Hour Energy drinks that they had consumed to drive through the night.

But it wasn't before long that tragedy struck in the form of a tent too complicated to be assembled. One of the girls (we shall call her Friz. Please see the picture.) struck herself in the head with one of the poles.

The girls had only been there for five minutes, and one was already in tears!

But the girls persevered and relied on what they knew would help them in this situation: flirting and cold beer. So the girls moseyed on up to the boys next door from Texas and before you knew it- Poof! a tent was made.

They quickly made friends with these adorable men from Austin and soon enough, they were having a grand old time. Friz stopped crying about the bugs, Nervous Nance stopped worrying about the truck, Burned Out B just continued on being calm, and the Most Beautiful One...well, she just focused on having a good time.

Over the course of the next four days, the girls would face a litany of disasters. The mud pile that almost drowned them all; the rain that made their hair frizzy; the maze of tents that inevitably had all of them lost at one point (except for dear, logical Nance). The girls faced each of these problems with a smile and a wink (or a drink), always knowing that they could rely on each other to fix it.

And these girls, these city slickers, they triumphed! They even experienced all that Bonnaroo had to offer.

The Most Beautiful One took a percussion class and then showed off her newest talents to any bum with a drum. (Look out for her soon to be released compact disc entitled "Sounds I can make by drumming on my desk at work".)

They enjoyed the music to the fullest extent and even got used to the stench that permeated the grounds (a mix of B.O., poop, and hippie). They held each other up when they could no longer walk (very large grounds), tucked each other in when one had passed out (from all that time in the sun!), and even welcomed each others new "friends" to the tent! The pact that these girls had formed was awe-inspiring. When one girl (who shall remain nameless) fell into a Port-A-Potty, the other girl with her didn't even try to snap an embarrassing photo!

When the four days were up, the girls reluctantly began the trek north, where they realized that they had quickly assimilated into Southern culture--they were now huge fans of Sonic, Wal- Mart and hanging with barefoot babies at the gas station (just like Britney, y'all!).

These four girls had a splendid time and would do it again in a heartbeat--although next time, it may be in a hotel room.

Until then, we shall bid adieu to Bonnaroo!

But first, please allow this list to summarize some of the lessons that one or all of the girls learned while on their grand adventure:

1) Talking about Harry Potter and LOST while drinking is a swell time but not necessarily attractive to the girls' male counterparts. Quizzing each other on Ron Weasley's favorite Quidditch teams did not go unnoticed by the neighbors, who mocked them endlessly for their poor and juvenile taste.

2) One girl can attest to the fact that Port-A-Potties are very slippery! She would like to give the following advice: if you do happen to fall in one, don't hold on to the toilet bowl for leverage! Especially after it's been four days in the hot Tennessee sun, used by thousands of asses around the farm. She regrets this poor decision the most.
3) Southerners do not appreciate you imitating their accents. One of our enterprising girls may have learned this the hard way. This girl would also like to add that it's not advisable to brag about winning the Civil War to someone who has a Confederate flag sticker on their car.

See you next year, Tennessee!