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Epilogue
I’m genuinely happy for you. On the one hand, you left me to go to New York, and I’m not a fan of being left. But on the other, I’m happy that you left. When you told me for the hundredth time, as we packed your Volvo with your entire life, that this could be the kick in your career’s ass that you’d spent 4 years searching for, I knew in my heart that you were right. Actually, I knew that we were going to go in different directions a week before that. We walked silently to your apartment from some place that doesn’t matter, your hair blowing in the wind. We got to the stoop, and just stood there for a while, regarding each other with a mournful resignation. We each clearly had words that yearned to hitch a ride on the cool wind off into the night. I could feel from your gaze that you were holding the sort of secret that could yield tears of joy or pain or even both. But I had one too. A secret so intense that the tears welling up in your soft, brown eyes stopped me from breaking my news in that moment. As we strode up that familiar path to 3B, I realized that it wasn’t sympathy for the obviously ominous news that you had for me, that stopped me from laying some truth on you right then and there. I was afraid. Afraid, honestly, that you’d hate me. Not that it mattered, seeing as almost as soon as the door on your place shut you started crying and telling me about the residency and how you were really sorry and that you knew that I couldn’t just pack my shit and start over in a new town and that you wouldn’t ask me to go with you. I remember being relieved first, and shocked second. And now, 2 Tuesdays later, I’ve moved on. But since you shared yours, here’s mine: I never loved you, and I wanted to take a break. I guess I kinda got what I wanted, huh?
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Rest in Peace, Bedtime.
Some of you remember that certain joy when your parents stopped enforcing a bedtime. When how long you slept or when you put your head to the pillow and turned the light off was in your hands and not a forever nagging mother or a disgruntled father.
It was perhaps your first moment of delicious independence or a sort of rite of passage into young adulthood.
You no longer had to type very quietly or hold a flash-light (or cell-phone, I guess) under your covers to read. You did not have to tiptoe around your room. You did not memorize the creaks in your floor or the quietest way to open your door. That wasn’t a necessity any longer.
But with responsibility came a new sense of guilt. There exists for everyone out there, a certain time at night in which they know that they should be asleep but aren’t This may fluctuate for students, who become nocturnal in summer. But for me, it is around the 3am mark when I begin to think that day-light is near and my day will begin soon. I try and bargain - if I want eight hours of sleep, I could go to bed now and wake up at 11:15am. 11:15am?! The day seems already over at that point.
You have a strange sense of obligation, to your body, to those dreams that must be dreamt but more importantly - to yourself in the morning, who you know will likely curse last nights hedonistic decision. You will secretly, very secretly, wish someone had been there to force you off the laptop, close the book and shove you off to bed.
But alas, the blame lies solely with you and your droopy eyelids.
Farewell, bedtime, you treated me better than I treat myself.
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The Personal Space I Lost While Returning Home From The Pride Parade On The Red Line.
It is my fault as much as yours.
I made a choice, and I’m sorry. I knew; the throngs of people, the singing drunks, the angry murmurs rising from the platform and the stairs. But I thought; foolishly I see now, that I could keep you with me, that we would make it through together. I was wrong. So, so, incredibly wrong. I could feel you slipping away from me, inch by inch, and the girls in hot pants and pasties pressed closer, but I forged ahead. “Let’s wait for the next train, it’ll get better.” Stupid, it doesn’t get better. As the train drew closer, barely louder than the mob packed into the station, I still thought imagined that once inside, once through the doors and sitting (sitting, the arrogance, I thought we would sit), it would be fine. I would recline and you would wrap around me, and together we would travel south.
And then the train stopped, straining at the seams, hands and noses pressed against windows, and with a the first press of a stranger’s hand against my shoulder’s, without a word, you left.
When I was a young girl, I once had a bookmark that read “If you love something let it go. If it was meant to be it will return to you.” And you did return to me eventually. But those moments when you were gone, those moments when I needed you more than anything, more than air (for I indeed could not breathe without you), that is when I mourned. Mourned and mourned, face pressed against necks of people I didn’t know, clutching onto a metal pole, a shoulder, nothing. The rank odour of people who had spent all day in the sun and were standing too close to each other filled the car, and I gagged and mourned. Do you know how it feels to be thrown against another body, inches away from yours, again and again? No, of course you don’t. You weren’t there.
But you came back to me, stop by stop, as the doors opened and waves of hot air swept in and bodies trickled out, till there we were, almost home and together.
I do not resent your departure, and I will forgive you. But I will never forget.
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![thedailywhat:
Punctuation Rule of the Day: Who gives a f*ck about an Oxford comma? Not Oxford University’s branding style guide, which instructs its readers thus:
As a general rule, do not use the serial/Oxford comma: so write ‘a, b and c’ not ‘a, b, and c’.
It should be noted that an exception has been made for sentences where an Oxford comma would “assist in the meaning of the sentence or helps to resolve ambiguity,” such as when “one of the items in the list is already joined by ‘and’.”
FWIW, The Oxford Style Manual continues to promote the usage of an Oxford comma in all cases.
[mefi / kottke / image: someecards.]
Rest, In, Peace?
I’ll love you until the end.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lnkjfjhTAS1qzpwi0o1_500.png)
Punctuation Rule of the Day: Who gives a f*ck about an Oxford comma? Not Oxford University’s branding style guide, which instructs its readers thus:
As a general rule, do not use the serial/Oxford comma: so write ‘a, b and c’ not ‘a, b, and c’.
It should be noted that an exception has been made for sentences where an Oxford comma would “assist in the meaning of the sentence or helps to resolve ambiguity,” such as when “one of the items in the list is already joined by ‘and’.”
FWIW, The Oxford Style Manual continues to promote the usage of an Oxford comma in all cases.
[mefi / kottke / image: someecards.]
Rest, In, Peace?
I’ll love you until the end.
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MIDDLE SCHOOL SLEEPOVERS
Some deaths are not sudden but fade away. We are unaware that the moments are tick tick ticking away. Eighth grade served as a deadline before tumultuous high school, an end to the awkward middle school years of pre, during and post pubescence. I happily left the unpleasant time in my life behind, not realizing what I I would lose: the sleepover.
The innocence of middle-school is trampled. What our 12 year-old selves considered as devious, cruel and fascinating were quite the opposte.
The sleepover is different in high school - it becomes not about boys but about sex, not about watching movies but about real gossip, spin the bottle involves tongue and not kisses on the cheek, someone sneaks in pot or vodka from their parents secret cabinet.
Farewell, middle school sleepover, when our pajamas were still covered in cartoons and our minds more concerned with whether or not he’d pick you at the dance rather than if you should give him a blowjob after only one date.
Farewell, dance parties on the bed, fashion shows with hideous feather boas and makeovers with palettes bought from Walgreens or CVS.
Farewell, angry parents rushing into the bedroom at 11pm and hushing you for the giggle fits you somehow can’t control.
Farewell, ice cream splurges at 9pm that illicit no guilt.
Farewell, pillow fights with no pornographic undertones.
Farewell, choreographed dances to The Spice Girls and B*Witched.
Farewell, late night runs to Blockbuster or the local movie rental place to pick out six movies, of which only one (and maybe two) will get watched. Constantly paused to get more popcorn, tell a rumor you just remembered, ask a digressionary question.
Farewell, desperately trying to stay awake past 2am and never quite making it.
You may argue, fair reader, that these elements are still a part of your life, a part of your friendships. Perhaps this is true, perhaps. But your sense of irony, your desire to reclaim your childhood does not make it authentic. The time is over. Cling rather to nostalgia than defending the sequels to Grease and Miss Congeniality.
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Rest in peace, Summer Vacation.
There is a cruel aspect to college which many do not share with you. They tell you of the tremendous workload, the tedious assignments, the anxiety of leaving home for the first time but they do not tell you to prepare to lose summer vacation forever.
It still exists, in theory, that periods from June to August in which you shall likely not attend a class, nay, even carry a pencil or pen in your bag. You will have no facts to memorize, no theses to create, no scantrons to scribble on! You will not, as you perhaps did in high school, sleep in late, spend countless hours rewatching TV shows or reading books for pleasure as you had imagined. That vacation your family takes to the Cape will not be for you, my friend.
You will be expected, for no discernible reason, to put together a resume of all your accomplishments. Which, given your young age, is not many. You will twist and turn words, exaggerating how many children you tutored, your background in economics and you will send out these packet of overemphasized responsibilities to dozens fo companies. Hoping, praying, you will be offered an interview and a shot at the title of “intern.”
Oh intern! Interning! A concept that seems grown-up and so full of possibilities. But you forget what comes at the cost - your summer vacation. Your late nights which could have previously been combatted by late mornings become days of blurred, caffeinated sleep-deprivation. Your ass begins to make an imprint on the chair you are given. Your fingers learn to read the copy-reader like braille. Your voice is perpetually an octave higher and so chipper, you sometimes feel nauseated. You will work a 9-5 in a blazer which you will only too late realize is ill-fitting.
Your younger friends, your siblings or cousins or irresponsible classmates, will waste their time in ways you cannot even dream of, because that would be inefficient. The weekends will be even more sacred than they were during the semester.
You will begin to fantasize about the inevitably days of unemployment that will follow your graduation. Hoping you, then, will be able to do all the things you put on hold for internships.
For the sake of bolstering that piece of paper, that pdf, that cacophony of cover letter bullshit, you lose the thing that all students hold the most dire. The guiding light, the life-support of generations: summer.
Dearest summer, I have not seen you since my junior year of high school. I miss you terribly.
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For My Favorite T-Shirt.
I am selfish. I think mainly of myself; what I want, what I need, what people think of me.
If my bra is showing.
That is why I loved you, and that is why I miss you more than any other t-shirt I have ever had, Favorite T-Shirt. You see, you made me look good. you made me look hot, fly, sexy, but not too sexy, all while being extremely comfortable. You were flattering, but in the real way, not the way your Mom says that gross skirt “fits your figure.”
You did fit my figure, Favorite T-Shirt. I miss your v-neck, low but not too low, that showed off the best part of my collarbones. I miss your fluttery sleeves, feminine bu not girly. You were white, so you went with everything, but you magically resisted stains. You were slightly sheer, so I could choose to let my bra show or not, depending on the occasion. You were slightly ruched, but still flowy, and I miss the band of fabric on your hem that I could use to hid my stomach when I felt fat.
I never felt fat wearing you, T-Shirt. I don’t remember where we met, but from the black sharpie line through your tag, I can guess that you were purchased at a T.J. Maxx, although you were originally from American Eagle. We went through most of high school together and you were always there for me. At parties, for class, when I needed to look presentable but didn’t feel like wearing a button-down. We went to the mall, to church, to Germany and the grocery store together.
Do you remember our first college party? I wore you with my sexy black jeans and way too much eye shadow, and we looked HOTT. That boy tried to get between us but you, Favorite T-Shirt, and that weird elastic band that I loved, foiled his attempts, and kept us from making an incredibly poor decision.
I loved you too much. Over time your sheer cotton piled, and you started to look, not vintage, but old. You became, I hate to say it, dingy. Worn. I loved you too much and it showed. My mother began making comments every time we were together, and hinted that maybe, maybe it was time to find a new shirt.
I ignored her and continued to wear you proudly. But one day, one day Favorite T-Shirt, a day that fills me with sadness and regret. I glanced at myself in my mirror. And I did not like what I saw. You sagged. You slouched where you had once clung, and where you had draped, you gaped. You looked dirty and grimy, and my heart filled my throat because. Because we, I, no longer looked good. My soul was heavy as I realized it was time for us to part ways.
I loved you, Favorite T-shirt, and I will miss you forever. You will live in my heart, if not my closet, and I know I will never find another shirt as wonderful as you.
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Khal Drogo
We gather around this monitor today to honor the loss of a true TV hunk, Khal Drogo from HBO’s Game of Thrones. Spoilers aside (sorry kids), we truly are in a state of loss and mourning for this complex, perpetually shirtless, character.
We began the journey with a man we thought only to be violent and silent. An portrayed aggressor towards his wife, covered in scars and tattoos, he appealed to the bad boy that every girl wants.
HBO knows how to hook us, as men and animals were beheaded - his role evolved. We began to see him as fierce leader with an understanding of the balance between tradition and inevitably modernity. We got to see him having hot (consensual) sex with his equally hot wife. We saw him fall in love! Fight for honor! Fight for passion! Punish the cruel!
We melted when he said “Yer jalan atthirari anni” (You are the moon of my life). Well, we melted when we read the translation of what he said. We were continually exposed to an even softer side…his backside, that is. But mostly we saw his abs, a lot.
Like the cruel beast that is Lost, Game of Thrones seeks to kill off our most beloved characters, the men we become emotionally and physically invested in. His death is a tragedy to my libido.
RIP Khal Drogo, guyliner never looked so good.
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“His Conduct was Bitchin’: Letting A Man Go
Alex Chenney’s departure was abrupt but clearly the workings of someone or something hire up. A ladder we could not access, a level to which we could not climb to cry out at the injustice of this world. I am sure that Alex is now in a realm of newfound freedom, of better things, of personal exploration, where the individuals can learn to truly appreciate him.
I haven’t known Alex a long time but it seems appropriate, given our relationship, that I stand here before you to speak of him. If there was one thing I could say about him is that he conducted himself admirably at all times. In the face of adversity, of complete meltdown, you could not shake that man’s core. He stood for something – for all of us, I know. I look around and see the faces of friends who were touched by his stoicism, by his ability to never break character.
He was someone who always seemed to know where he was going but more importantly, who he was and who he represented. It was an honor to spend time with him, to watch how his mind worked, to admire his impeccably ironed pants and perfectly knotted tie and know that this man was on your side. I remember once at a picnic where we had an odd number of players and he graciously bowed out of the barefoot volleyball game, serving as the fairest referee the likes we will never see of again. It reminded me, it reminded all of us, as so many of us were at the picnic on the aforementioned day, that for as long as you needed him, that you had him at a phone call away, he would be there for you.
To conclude, I’m sorry to let you go, Alex but you understand. You always do.
(Source: fwarg)
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Place Holder!
This will be legit soon.
