SPARED SOME CHANGE

It's been a while - a couple years, in fact - since I last wrote anything here. The lapses in time between entries have not been without life-changing events.

I got married to my long-time partner in a national park, hours away from where we are living now. Our close friend went through the hasty process of being ordained so that he could officiate the ceremony. I was just in the first couple of months of my Ph.D. program, having already gone through a couple of meltdowns, as we tried to pack our things and prepare for the long drive on-site at the entrance of the park. I remember the dead silence, the red backdrop, and the warm September air wavering through the valley of the Arches as our friend unraveled his leatherbound book, looked at the both of us, and told us to start whenever we were ready. That was it? I wasn't prepared for it. Our hired photographers stood a distance away and I heard the occasional shutter of their cameras. Other than that, nothing else in the background. A few hikers smiled and walked past us, immediately understanding and mouthing us their wishes of congratulations. George and I unfolded our vows, each neatly typed out and written quite differently. I tried to keep it together as I read through everything. Our friend patiently waited as we struggled through tears to finish our words of promise. We held each other and did our best to look alright for the photos. I stood on an incline so I could see George a little closer, eye-to-eye. I'm pretty sure that I was sweating through my dress, with the bottom trim already dusted with the red dirt from the park. (I decided later to keep that part from being cleaned. It was a great memory for me.) We later finished our night in a surprisingly nic(er) hotel room than anticipated. I was gifted a tablet, which I will later use to create art pieces for our wedding reception in the following year and to read all my research publications as I study for my comprehensives. I remember dry heaving from exhaustion and dehydration - it had been a big day, after all. He walked over to the restaurant where we had reservations and pleaded with the staff to allow us to order to-go instead. They were surprised, but luckily accommodated, packing up what was far fancier food than expected. The kitchen staff apologized to him for not having plastic cutlery - after all, they weren't a takeout restaurant. We were okay with this. By the time George got back to the room, I was refreshed and feeling a lot better. We filled one of the biggest bowled garden tubs we have ever seen for a nice, warm bath after dinner. I don't remember what was on the TV, but it was on. The next day, we spent the afternoon paddling down the Colorado River with our friends, nearing exhaustion from the lack of progress one would make on a paddleboard compared to our friends' accompanying kayaks. We nibbled on snacks I brought from Trader Joe's and laid out to let the sun work its magic.

We finally celebrated our marriage at a wedding reception. That event in itself was altogether brilliant and traumatizing at the same time. They say you find out who your real friends are in major life events like weddings. We learned that lesson well. On the day of the reception, I woke up after a couple of hours of sleep. Looking like trash, I limited my conversation with George, who was busy dashing over to the nearest FedEx to get some things printed. A couple of our friends made their way over to our room, some bearing requested food to pick at as we all got ready. Ron was limping around from having hurt his ankle at a - get this - kid's trampoline park. Sal slinked in and out of the room with drinks after also coercing and forcing his way into the staff area to grab some silverware. The hotel we were staying at could have done better. I remember Lin steaming various pieces of clothing as Jorge sat at the dining table, either watching TV or eating some of the Porto's bites we ordered. Daniel sat alongside him, chatting with everyone as the clamor grew more chaotic over time. I wasn't feeling the most comfortable that day - maybe a little too tired, too stressed, and wishing that I had entirely delegated planning over to someone else. The hair and makeup people came. That was all I will say about that. We did photos with some key friends and family before heading over to the reception area. George and I never got to see most of the guests during cocktail hour, since it was set up on the deck by the water. We heard the muffled play of our playlist and some familiar voices booming through the walls of the venue. For a brief moment in time, we were able to get some photos and conversations in with our coordinator. This...was it? I was immediately regretting everything. Why couldn't we have done a small backyard get-together? This whole thing wasn't me. So many things could go wrong. I suspected that George felt the same way, as we both sat in the neighboring reception hall and tried our best to fit as much cocktail hour food into our stomachs without ruining our attires. Next to us were a few empty tables, each housing extra decor we had brought over for our coordinator to put up. It was weird seeing things that were ours being handled by other people. Someone must have herded our guests down to the reception area, as we heard the conversations grow louder and louder as everyone we knew and loved passed by the closed doors from where we were waiting. Our coordinator asked our guests to wave around their cloth napkins to welcome us in as part of a quick game to find the groom immediately after our entrance. Good call. When the doors opened and our entrance song blared, I nervously grabbed George's hand and told him to not go too quickly. My heels and lack of grace couldn't take it. He understood and we walked out into a sea of waving napkins. I saw everyone smiling at us and could barely believe my eyes. They showed up! They came out for us. It was beyond surreal. I finally understood the wave of emotions that couples experience at a time like this. I don't know if it was our lack of trust or esteems, but we both couldn't wrap our heads around the turnout and good energy in the air. That whole night was a blur, and with a little more alcohol consumed than we should have really taken in. I was grateful that my mother started handling the wedding gifts, that our coordinator was in the background overseeing the minor details, and that things just magically popped up when it was time to happen, all according to plan. I was happy that we had a great first dance. George couldn't keep it together. I don't know if it was the song or the overwhelming feelings with everything going on, but it meant a lot to see him expressing himself in that room in the middle of it all.

We tried for a baby and got pregnant. After some back and forth, we figured out a good window of time during my program that would work around raising a child. The plan was for George to defend, graduate, and start working in the industry as we prepared for a baby. In November of that year, only a couple of months after our reception, we started trying for a baby with very little hope and expectations for the outcome. We were both in our thirties, a bit older than the average starting parent, though lately our generation has either opted for later family planning or none at all. This made it easier for us as a couple. There was less pressure from our parents since his parents were already grandparents to five, and my mother was scarred by having children altogether and would never want to push that on us. Most in our social circle were childfree by choice, which lessened the frequency of unsolicited advice and comparisons between their experiences and ours. We didn't think it would happen. I told George it would be fine to try until January - giving us only a couple of months to seal the deal - before we stopped and swore off having children for good. It was already December, on the last day of my fall semester, as I laid out on the couch and scrolled through my phone before landing on a video on why we shouldn't have kids. I immediately popped up from the couch remembering that we were actively trying. I dusted off the last pregnancy test I had in my inventory, did my thing, and left it there on the counter for a few minutes. I wasn't expecting anything different than what I was used to seeing - a single pink line to reassure me that my life was always going to be the same. Pink parallel lines, clear as day. My heart began to pound and my brain began to process it. I let out a loud, "Oh god, oh god, oh god..." and woke George from his (always) deep slumber. I showed him the test and he looked at me in all my wide-eyed panic. "Well, are you okay with this? You're pro-choice...so you can let me know what you're feeling." My demeanor changed once again. "I KNOW!" I barked at him. "But we're trying and if we weren't sure, we wouldn't have been trying." He held his hands up and said he knew, he knew. He was only responding to my frantic reaction. I spent the entire duration of my winter break exhausted and fatigued, napping through the day, grimacing at the smell of Kirkland chicken and baked salmon. Even the Gatorade gave me a queasy feeling. My breasts were tender with every step I took; I remembered grabbing them as I walked a couple of times a night to the bathroom. It wasn't real to me, not even at my 8-week check-up when one of the midwives at the clinic spotted the heartbeat in me. Just a shape with a flickering heartbeat. She was rather hasty and in a rush. I opted for a few other midwives before settling with one I liked for my remaining visits to date. I think it became slightly more real during our 20-week visit when the sonogram tech showed us the baby's developing brain, heart, limbs, and profile. George gaped at the image and pointed like a kid as he blurted out, "Are those the baby's ribs??" She laughed and nodded. We briefly heard the heartbeat, got an anatomy check through everything to ensure that I was carrying a healthy fetus, and got the baby's measurements for roughly a 50th percentile head size. From then on, I began to feel flutters in my belly, which gradually evolved into actual kicks and bumps in more localized areas of my stomach. Nowadays I see little pokes and prods peek through the surface of my belly. Baby has been a good sport through it all - our travels back and forth to friends' weddings, showers, and George's commencement.

I defended my second-year project. Though it was on Zoom in light of the pandemic and other concerns, I was able to meet with my entire committee - all very laid back LDS white faculty who were handpicked carefully by me on the basis of being laid back (ha). My research project was a replication study based on two prior articles that published conflicting outcomes. We explored the potential of recognition memory being driven by true vs perceived oldness or whether it was driven by subjective experience altogether. The project partially replicated the past work, not with a triple dissociation, but I would say that this has heavy implications for the field on the importance of replication in science in general. I was sweating through my shirt but read through my slides carefully, hoping for easy questions and light discussions. I got both and passed with flying colors.

George defended, graduated, and secured the job. This is more of his story, so I'll keep it short and sweet. He defended in March, shortly before we had to take a drive out to southern California for his friend’s wedding at the French Estate. His commencement happened in May, out in the warm and humid Vanderbilt campus grounds soon before he took his family on a brief tour of Nashville with the works - the must-have barbecue, the crazy hectic nightlife of Broadway, art exhibits in Cheekwood, casual southern dining in the Loveless Cafe, an eclectic take on Chinese food, and maybe some other things in between. He is now working a hybrid job based in Salt Lake City for a successful startup as a data engineer with hopes to ramp up in the next few years.

I sorely miscalculated the arrival of the baby. So needless to say, I'll be working through the summer on revisions for a submitted publication and studying for comps that are happening around the time the baby is due. We've decided to stay in our 2-bedroom apartment, knowing it will save us a ton of money and trouble moving during the summer as I am fast approaching my due date. It will be cramped for a couple of years, but I'm happy to have a home with my little family - cats and baby included. This will be my third year in the Ph.D. program, and from here I hope to start working on my dissertation and defending it by the end of my academic career. Maybe get a solid work-from-home opportunity in the industry that will allow me the work/life balance I need to be sane and not sucked into the standard 40-hour workweek. One can only hope.

That being said, the pandemic has slowly devolved into an endemic state, with COVID being integrated into our lives as a "new normal" equivalent to the flu. I'm resigned at how our national politics has taken a sharp turn for the worse, with the potential overturning of Roe v Wade and the growing frequency of mass shootings because our geriatric and profit-welding leadership disguises their lack of gun control enforcement as a retainment of "rights" to appeal to the middle- and lower-classes. I've talked to George numerous times about possibly relocating to another country, what with remote work being flexible and all, and perhaps that might be a thing in the next handful of years. Who knows. For now, here I am.

IT STAYS WITH ME

I am so numb.

I can barely move or feel.

Slowly, it gets darker.

I can hear the night wake outside.

He's inside with the light on.

I am a million miles away -

or want to be.

If I were alone in the world,

I could dance and cry and scream and shout.

But until then,

it stays with me.

No matter where I go,

I am alone.

It stays with me.

RESTLESS SOUL

Draft from March 4, 2016:

God, I need to pee. So, so badly. But my time here in this library is limited so I tap tap tap away on the Mac keyboard, smudged with countless finger tips.

Five feet in front of me, a European college student talks over the noise cancellation of his Puma headphones at a friend on the other end of his video phone call. A couple feet away, a young woman moans despairingly at her computer screen over taxes. Six feet under us are the memories of people who were once as annoying as these aforementioned patrons.

I shrug it off and plug my earbuds as my phone lights up with a text from an unnamed someone who is quite unhappy with me. I haven't been spending any time in his company, nor have I expressed any desire to. I turn back to my computer and keep tap tap tapping away. I'll strive up a conversation some day when I'm in the mood for constant sexual harassment. But for now, it's motivation enough to not start a dialogue with a man who doesn't listen.

INNER TURMOIL

Draft from October 5, 2014:

Despite the stability in my life, I've been feeling pretty alone lately. And the thing I hate about this is that someone out there is reading this and understanding me. But nobody stops me in real life to tell me that hey, they get it. The pain we share is the same, but we all do what we can to pretend we're not affected by it. Apparently, it's a weakness. It takes one's suffering to remind us that we at least have something they don't have to keep our heads up and to walk on like we're better than that one person.

I'm sick of feeling this way! I want to distance myself from everything and everyone around me. I want to do something different and enjoy it all by myself. I'm sick of waiting on other people, taking their time, not thinking of others, and telling me why I have to wait on them because it's the nice thing to do. I don't move as slowly as you! I want to get there at my speed and on my terms. Because I'm sick of it.

SUNDAY MORNING

I sat alone on my little balcony, atop all that is the second floor of my apartment complex. Views as far as the eye can see. And frankly, all I see is the pool and courtyard enclosed within the rectangular layout of the buildings. The morning is slightly crisp, but tolerable in one's pajamas and flip flops, with the burly help of my boyfriend's heavy winter jacket. Still, my feet are freezing and lacking blood flow. It's been a thing.

After distractedly glancing through a few pages of my book, I sheepishly placed my bookmark between pages 10 and 11 and stared at the bird shit on the cement floor of my small outdoor oasis. My mother would be pleased. It was common superstition among the Chinese culture that bird droppings are a sign of wealth and fortune to come. Being raised with superstitions is a form of brainwashing. No matter how much I deny its function and validity in my world, I always seem to live by them. My unit number doesn't add up to 4. The kitchen sink and stove don't face each other, as to have you swiveling back and forth when cooking. Our unit isn't at the end of a hallway and our front door doesn't face west. Despite the recent trends of adorning a bedroom wall with a large mirror, we've left that out altogether as to avoid having a mirror face our bed. And of course, thanks to my upbringing, clouded by the dos and don'ts of questionable things, I find myself slightly optimistic when I come across bird shit on my car windshield or, in this case, my balcony floor.

The whoosh of traffic from the 65 highway is nonstop, but distant enough to qualify itself as unofficial white noise. I don't mind it. I say "highway" nowadays instead of "freeway", hoping to open myself up to the idea of making Nashville more of a home now that I'm no longer in Southern California. But secretly, like any woman adjusting to a new relationship, I cannot help but compare.

Nashville's residential bubble bursted recently, shortly after I moved here less than a year ago. At its peak, the poor small town city took in roughly 125 transplants a day. Gentrification and Instagram-ready culture took to the streets. Fast food franchises have no room to live downtown. In with tapas dining, breweries with Facebook events, and whatever it is that white people do with food belonging to other cultures. Occasionally, one might stumble across an authentic gem sandwiched between hair salons and tax businesses. Everyone is new in town, starry-eyed and hopeful to make friends, find love, and do something with their lives. I came here reluctantly.

I slip my feet out from the flip flops and tuck them under me in my chair. It was sprinkling. I didn't notice at first because it came so timidly - soft, tiny droplets all perfectly spaced apart and melting into the ground upon impact. Great timing. Just as I thought I was being too much of a basic bitch curled up on a Sunday morning. Eventually, the big honchos follow the light rain to announce their arrival. I am thunder, hear me roar.

My phone lights up. "I heard there was a shooting at the Waffle House in Tennessee. Hope you're not near there and everything's okay." I take a moment to appreciate my friend before replying.

PRIVATE CONVERSATIONS IN PUBLIC PLACES

My life is a dirty rug. An insurmountable collection of miscellaneous riffraff suspended by its fiber prison walls. The individual fibers are stained with careless drips and drops of cheap red wine and black cherry hair dye.

Mara derailed my train of thought. Suddenly, the buzzing chatter of the bistro resumed. Glasses clanged and laughter rang a little too loud for my taste. Oohs and aahs echoed from the other side of restaurant as a large party admired the birthday girl unwrapping her gift. The maître d' glided past me, lightly fanning some air to my face.

"I'm sorry--what?" I snapped my attention back to her. She was growing weary and impatient with me. I could tell.

She looked down at her bowl and began to trace swirls through the bisque. "Nothing."

I'm here. I'm present. Stay focused. "Please tell m--"

"I--I'm in love with you!" Mara blurted out. "Okay? I love you." She slowly sunk back into her seat and calmed her breathing. She was waiting for me to react.

I couldn't. I sat there frozen. Instead, I began to replay everything over in my head.

Back when we first met working together at that crappy cinema in the mall. We took turns toying with Jeremy G. at the concession stand. Poor Jeremy. I never knew his last name. The movie theater rarely printed full last names on our tags. Talking shop there always seemed like a high school gab fest. Allison W. had it out for Sandy M. because Marcus K. was taking his sweet time with her when they serviced a theater after showtimes. And so on and so forth.

Then there were those times when Mara and I would get early shifts. On those days, we left our uniforms at the cinema and changed into street clothes. Mara rocked the boho chic. Beautiful, flowing maxis. Loose, off-the-shoulder crop tops with high-waisted ripped shorts. Floppy hats with braided ties. Meanwhile, I dawned what I called the "lazy Old Navy". Solids. Occasional plaids. Cardigans and ballet flats galore. Skinny jeans in fifty shades of same. Next to Mara, I felt like the designated ugly friend.

But she never once made me feel that way.

We often shared dressing rooms, snapping photos of one another so we could compare our mirror selves to our camera selves. They are not the same, you know.

My thoughts spun faster and faster, becoming a flip book of signs I've ignored during our long, intimate friendship. It explained a lot.

Fuck, it explained everything.

"You're kind of leaving me hanging here," Mara sighed, but forgiving me for it. "I know it's a lot to take in." Her voice cracked. "I'm sorry."

"No, no. Don't be sorry." I shook my head. The gears slowly started turning, trimming off the excess rust that had built up over the years. "Mara, I just don't know what to say."

"So now you can safely assume that I'm a lesbian," she leaned back and folded her arms. She was still Mara.

I played along. "Or you're bisexual."

"Indecisions, indecisions." Mara smiled, then broke into a fit of giggles. "I want to tell you more about it. But maybe later? I know you're still processing it in your head."

"I'm sorry--what?" I pretended to space out.

She rolled her eyes at me and rediscovered her bisque. I sipped wine and watched her. How do I feel? What's it like sustaining a relationship with a woman? When the fuck is the waiter coming with our salads? I need something to pick at.

Mara tucked her sandy hair behind her ear away from her face, still fixated on clearing her bowl. At 5'6" with long legs and a slender build, she was unstoppable. I used to lie on her floor and have her pull me from my ankles to stretch my body so we could match. That was all for fun, of course, and more often than not it was inspired by drug-induced conversations. Laid back, carefree, with no strings attached. Men often twisted their necks for a second look and risked the scowling aftermath from their wives and girlfriends. She barely noticed, but I would.

"I need to drink a whole bottle of wine tonight." She rested her chin on her hands and stared at me.

"Oh, Mara..."

"To reward myself for coming out and telling you!"

I watched her for hints of how she truly felt but couldn't gauge. "Fucking waiter forgot our salads."

She looked around the bistro. "Maybe we can take this as a sign and just get the bill. I'm serious about the wine."

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Fiction

STRIPFEED

My newsfeed is like a Vegas strip sidewalk, littered with quick, indulgent ways to get a heart attack and neon click bait articles screaming "Click Me!" Controversy lurks at every corner beckoning poor, pathetic passersby as they try to keep their heads low and stay out of trouble. And as fun as a night out on the strip would be as my thumbs scroll through more opinions than facts, I hope this place isn't like the rest of the world. Because if it is, you'll find me tucked away in a hotel admiring the view out my window. How beautiful chaos can be when you're watching from a distance.

DYLAN / DYLLAN / DILLON

"Hi, come on in." The voice came from inside the conference room.

The office assistant held the tall glass door open for me. I scurried through, trying to make eye contact to thank him, but failed miserably. Instead, I kept my head down and smiled at the warm, grey wood floors.

Ah, my signature "A-for-effort" approach. It's like pretending to pick up the pace at a pedestrian crosswalk to show the driver I'm at least trying. Sure, the driver has to wait for me anyway, but we both feel a little better about the inconvenience and carry on with the day. I safely cross the street, he goes home to his empty apartment and ignores text messages from his ex-wife about being a bad father. We all win.

The hollowed impact of my black suede heels against the floor broke the dead silence as the panel waited for me with warm smiles. All three sides of the meeting room were covered from ceiling to floor in thick high-rise glass, letting in that glorious natural light. Glorious! I kept my cool and rapidly scanned the room as I made my way to the table.

Across a long table sat the reviewers, two men and a woman. I placed my shoulder bag and notebook on the table and scooted it over to the right. In an effort to gracefully sit, I plopped. The chair was lower than I thought. Fucking fuck! In midst of my struggles, one of the reviewers greeted me.

"Hope you found the place alright. Was the traffic bad?"

Traffic's always fucking bad in LA, I thought to myself. Just a little less than half an hour ago, I was screaming at the GPS on my phone because no, I didn't want to take side streets. And of course, I promptly stopped all screaming and dropped the phone onto my lap as a police cruiser whizzed past me. "No, not at all. I was pretty lucky this morning."

"Good--great! I'm Dylan." Guy on the left, Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon. Okay. How does he spell it? D-I-L-L-O-N? I imagined a slew of misspelled name tags on gifts from acquaintances while shaking the second guy's hand, or at least tried to. The table was so long, we could barely reach over to meet halfway. I couldn't hear his name over the clamor of my thoughts.

"--and this is Laurie." I took the woman's hand in a firm grip like I had with the other two. Her skin was soft, her grip was gentle, and Jesus, I needed better hand lotion.

"So nice to meet all of you." I flashed my toothy smile and squinted my eyes to really sell it.

"Would you like some water or coffee? We've also got Pellegrino, Vitamin Water, green juice..."

The view behind them was absolutely breathtaking. I could almost see across the street into the other high-rise, where one corporate employee sat staring at his computer screen in an office suite. My eyes darted back over to the panel as they adjusted into their seats and shuffled their paperwork.

"Water would be great, thank you."

Within seconds, Guy #2 magically produced a miniature Fiji water bottle and slid it across the table. It stopped barely within my grasp, so I bent my torso across the table's surface to quickly snag it, accidentally flashing a small bit of my otherwise-concealed cleavage to him. Like a pro, his gaze shifted back over to his colleagues as he pulled out his tablet.

"So, we called you over here today because we really like your samples." Laurie sifted through what I could only assume to be my written work. "Despite them not being formal pieces or anything, I found some of the concepts you developed quite fascinating. And I think we can all agree on that."

Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon and Guy #2 nodded in agreement. In the back of my mind, reggae music started up to the rhythm of their bobbing heads.

"Thank you."

"Right," Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon cleared his throat and leaned far back into his chair, crossing his right foot over his left leg. "I know we talked over email about you possibly compiling a list of pitches we can either translate into a TV show, or web series. Maybe even a short film, since we recently signed on another director who specializes in shorts."

"And maybe we can see this first meeting as a test run," Laurie added. "If the pitches are solid, we'd like to possibly meet with you on a more regular basis. We'll have you sign a few contracts, a non-disclosure agreement, all that fun stuff."

I was half-listening and still smiling. Threw in the occasional nod to acknowledge their thoughts. "That sounds great. I'd love to become involved."

"Excellent," Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon clapped his hands together and leaned forward. "What do you have for us?"

"Yes..." I grabbed my notebook and opened it to the first page. On it is a neatly, handwritten list of pitches translated from last night's scribbles on eco-friendly napkins and the stationary paper I got on my doorstep from my local real estate agent.

"Okay, well..." I cleared my throat and did my best to not sound like I rehearsed. But I totally rehearsed. "With the release of the seventh installment of Star Wars a couple of months ago, there was a huge following and growing fanbase with Kylo Ren..."

I looked up. No objections yet. The three of them sat waiting and nodding.

"...One of the things that popularized him is his depth as a character. He's got so many unknowns, but there's still an existing potential for change and redemp--"

"Wait," Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon held up a hand. "What genre were you thinking for this one?"

"Well, I originally didn't know that the pitches were limited to only television and web mediums. I thought Kylo's complexities could be expressed in a collection of beautiful poetry. You know, his inner conflicts...in the form of literary art..." I trailed off and waited for their reactions.

Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon tried to exchange a glance with Laurie but she was too busy jotting down notes. Guy #2 just sat there. I started to suspect that Guy #2 was there as a seat warmer. Either that or moral support.

A startling screech dragged across the glass window to the left of me. Outside, a window cleaner on a suspended scaffold pulled an oversized squeegee down over the soapy solution. The reviewers paid no attention to it, so I kept going.

"I mean, if this isn't something you think that would be of substance, that's fine. It's only one idea out of a handful more I've brough--"

"Sure, let's hear them!" Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon became interested once again.

"It's still a variation of the same Star Wars followup. Is that oka--"

"Yeah, go for it."

I panicked. I didn't have anything, or at least anything they seemed into. Without thinking, I opened my mouth and words just came out. "Kylo...Ren...ovations."

Both Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon and Laurie leaned forward. "Yes?"

"Well, just a depiction of him renovating his home outside of the film's plot. He's a temperamental guy. Dark, brooding and feels misunderstood. Quick to anger and react. You can use it as a basis for a short. It'll be funny. Focus on the mishaps...throw in his personality--"

"Love it. Great, okay. Wow. So, we're actually late to another meeting and we hate to rush you out, but we'll be in touch?" Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon stood up from his chair and stretched. The other two looked up in surprise, but slowly followed suit. Guy #2 put down his tablet to help Laurie pack up her notes.

Without saying anything to the three, I smiled, collected my things and walked out. This time, their conversational chatter masked the impact of my suede heels. I threw the notebook into my shoulder bag and dug around for the parking stub as I made my way to the front desk.

"Oooh, our office suite doesn't validate parking," the office assistant scrunched his face apologetically. "I'm sorry. I know it's expensive to park here, too. Dylan didn't tell you?"

"Really?" I paused in disbelief. "Fuck, man."

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Fuck, man." I pivoted and made a beeline to the elevator, holding my breath until the doors completely shut behind me. My phone vibrated with an email notification. The elevator glided down floors 15, 14, and 13 as I skimmed it.

Love the second idea - will use. Not sure about future involvement but we'll be in touch. - D

They're not going to pay me. They're not going to. I know it. It was a bullshit idea made on the spot and I ran with it. Weeks of researching use of literary rhetoric in poetry and composition all sitting uncomfortably in my bag with a parking stub worth a $35 fee.

I wanted to break down and cry. Not because this morning didn't turn out as expected, and not because Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon was an interrupting piece of shit dick. He had been signing off his emails with a D, and it's been killing me because I still don't know how he spelled his name. How else am I going to purposely misspell it when I send him a thank you response?

Floors 8, 7, 6. The silver lining in all of this was that I took a mental snapshot of Guy #2 and bookmarked it later for masturbatory purposes. Floors 3, 2, 1...the elevator calmly dinged and its doors parted. I walked out into the parking structure feeling better. A lot better. 

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Fic

UNFILTERED

Draft from February 26, 2016:

I don't really have a gut, but the band of my tightly cinched high-waisted jeans is making whatever it can out of me. There's something itching me right smack dab in the center of my sternum. I do my best to not scratch it. I uncross my legs and alternate to the other leg, blankly staring at the clock. Less than an hour before I have to head into a night lecture. My mind fast forwards through class and resumes playing the imaginary footage of my life when I'm on the road, haphazardly plugging my phone in to blast music through my blown-out speakers. Note to self: I need new car speakers.

My mood is at an all-time low. Maybe it's the aged sharp cheddar I tried to pair with my moscato wine Monday night, or the melatonin I've been night capping. Whatever it is, this week has been a rough relapse in my depression. Not even the cat collector app on my phone can save me. I fill their cyber food bowls and switch out their toys like a distracted, broken-hearted mother trying to function around her kids.

LATE TWENTIES SYNDROME

Cane sugar, chamomile, honey. Maybe I shouldn't have had that tea. The tea with cane sugar listed as the first ingredient out of three. How could there possibly be more cane sugar than chamomile when it's chamomile tea? And still I drank many, many cups throughout the day.

It's always too late to go out when your makeup's all washed off. I've spent nights refusing to wash my face in hopes that I'll head off somewhere with a friend or two. Fast forward to tonight. I'm streaming the first Sex and the City movie and tucking myself in for a night nap. Eventually, I get distracted trying to skip through the whole thing.

A FEW THINGS

- I've been a recluse for the past week, and it feels great. My car hasn't moved since I got it washed on Monday. Showers are optional. What year is it? No-I'm-kidding-it's-amazing.

- Earlier today, I scribbled a quick legend to help me interpret my planner. Six colors, I counted them in disbelief. My life is turning into an American pie chart. I politely squeezed the planner into my shoulder bag and promised myself to not take it out again for the rest of the day. The OCD took over. I dumped the bag's contents and spent five minutes figuring out a better way to store the items.

- My boyfriend is leaving in a little more than a month. I bought my one-way ticket from Nashville to home.

BITS AND PIECES

You have no idea how many unfinished drafts I've got here.

Actually, let me correct myself. You have no idea how many unpublished drafts I've got here. I mean, they're all finished. But I've been afraid that the things I think and write have too many holes waiting for opportunis--I mean, trolls, to poke and prod at. I mentally beat myself over it, and here they sit, grayed out and abandoned.

I don't want to use this as an excuse to catch you up on what's been going on in my life since the last time I've written...which would be about July of last year. What am I, a television series? "Last time...on Julie..." A flashback ensues of vague happenings that indicate drama, controversy, and cliff hangers. The target audience rants and raves about it on Facebook. I hide their posts like I hide those stupid list video posts.

It's been about 3+ months at the new gig, and I truly enjoy it. My coworkers have often times commented on how quiet I am, and how they couldn't possibly imagine seeing me angry. I usually smile at my duo-monitors as I continued clicking away, letting them fill in the blanks without any word bank to reference. A couple months prior, I was taken aback by their astonishment when I flicked out a hunting knife in an attempt to help one of them pull out a splinter. I immediately retreated to my desk and meekly suggested a needle as an alternative.

In these past six months, I would say that I've worked more on myself than anything else. I don't regret it one bit. My mother, who has littered my lifetime with the stern advice to never have any kids, has reached the point where she thinks "just one" is fine. I don't think it's necessarily selfish of me to hold off, or have none at all. I like my sleep and sanity. Overpopulation is an ignored issue in America, or in any place where people feel like they need to fill a void created by their peers.

I've learned to appreciate myself a lot more than I have before. I thought so little of myself, mainly because the kids in elementary school and junior high school led me to feel this way, excluding me from whatever cool thing they were into. Writing notes about how short I am and folding it into faux-envelopes and wallets. I don't know. I think it was because I didn't have cable when MTV was in. It's a funny thing that these particular kids didn't really make anything of themselves, and an even better thing that MTV has lost its meaning. Not to mention its music.

There is no one else to blame but myself if I continue this phase of self-loathing, so I've been trying my hardest to get out of it. Sucking out the poison left a bitter taste in my mouth nonetheless. It's only human nature. I know I'm rambling, but who's reading and judging me? I'm just about as credible as some blogger who's sitting in a coffee shop telling you 15 Ways to Go Fuck Yourself. And not even as popular :)

Hi, Gary. I don't know if you're reading this, but I haven't even met you and we've known each other for years. For the rest of you who don't know, Gary is a fellow I met from Soul Pancake, a web forum created by Rainn Wilson to spark questions and discussions. He's never failed to tell me that I've got something - a voice - and that I should keep writing. Whether he's right or wrong, Gary never failed to encourage me in something I enjoy doing in my own time. I have him and all those friendless summers as a child to thank for my interest in writing. So many thanks to you.

I'll try to make this a regular thing. Not for anyone in particular, but more for myself.