Gender Inclusive Dorms & Abstinence

I filled out the housing application for my next university. Am I smoker? Yes. Would I be alright with a smoker roommate? Hell yes. Send them to me. I need someone to take cigarette breaks with me in the “designated areas” (most likely my car, like in the good old days of community college). Gender inclusive? Sure, why not, I don’t care what gender anyone is. Boys are less likely to use my makeup, anyway. Am I interested in a single suite? Absolutely, despite the extra cost and the wait list. I think I missed the deadline for the townhouses, but I don’t really care about those anyway. Next I should figure out the meal plan. I’m honestly looking forward to the possibility of losing at least a little weight when I first get there, since I can’t eat in crowds/in front of strangers/alone in a strange place.

I need to get sheets. And pillows. I realized I can’t bring what I have now, since I’ll be returning home and will need my bedspread available to me. Do I need a microwave or something? Fuck it. A mini-fridge? That sounds expensive, but I will need to hoard booze. You’re not allowed to have alcohol in the dorms, but I am a human and I need to abuse drugs.

Really though, how the hell am I going to masturbate? Is that in the forefront of anyone else’s mind when moving into a dorm? Because it’s at the forefront of mine. How much makeup should I bring? I need enough to cycle around and have variety, but I’m also worried about my future roommate stealing it. Yes, I am worried about someone stealing my makeup. It happens. Also, what books should I bring? What clothes should I bring? How will I even transport everything from point A to point B? I need to open a new credit card or something because my credit union is local and I won’t be able to get to one out there. Jesus. I also really need to cancel my damn gym membership but I don’t feel like driving out there just to have them tell me I’m doing it wrong, or whatever.

I imagine only the worst scenarios. Approaching the door to my room, seeing a sock on the handle (do people actually do that?), turning around and walking outside and climbing into my car, lying down in the backseat with a cigarette, calling my best friend (who probably wouldn’t answer) and crying and bitching about how my roommate is getting fucked and I can’t even get into my room. I don’t know. I don’t know what “real” college is like.

I feel like I’m floundering around and missing important information, losing money, and I am worried.

– Z



They never notice the shift when I, yes, consciously, having made my decision, say your name. They don’t notice the ripple that runs through my core or the quiet regret that creeps up the back of my neck and licks my brain, the silence evaporating like dust.

Just because I knew your star sign (Virgo) and the color of your eyes and the name of your dog and your smell and could trace the outline of your silhouette blindly doesn’t mean I knew you. I know this, I’ve always known this. Superficial facts, useless tidbits of information that didn’t bring me closer to any sort of discovery, only closer to that plastic infatuation I’ve grown so accustomed to.

The only affection I know leaves a saccharine taste in my mouth.

I don’t know your birthday anymore or your middle name or what kind of shoes you wear and I deleted everything I ever wrote about you so why can’t you just leave?

I still think of you and wonder how it is I’ve gotten away with not seeing you, trailing a chainlink fence downtown or shoving through a crowd, but I know someday I will see you and even that is like an arrow in my chest. The fact that you exist, you continue to breathe, is a threat.

I somehow manage to construct you from the faces of strangers – I halt, my heart stops momentarily as if I’m seeing a phantom. Maybe that means you’re painfully ordinary or maybe it means I am just desperately clawing away, still hunting, molding your features from muddy clay.

I say your name in passing conversation, in a cloud of thought that turns into a tornado in milliseconds, and the letters dance across my eyelids and choke my tongue, smirking endlessly, until I’m tossing and turning in bed and the vague image of your face is burning the front of my skull. You might as well carve it in there – I don’t think it will ever leave.

Carved (A Braided Essay)


Michelangelo, David, detail

I wrote a poem titled “Carved” and for my nonfiction class, haphazardly molded it with bits and pieces of my own narrative. Hope you enjoy.

Old blood seeps out of the gash

and I think about what Michelangelo would say

if he were here with me.

Everyone hates their body.

He wouldn’t want to paint me, number one,

because I’m not a man, and number two,

because I’m not defined, rippled, taut.

Everyone hates themselves, to some degree.

As my cat purrs and kneads the folds

of my skin I know he doesn’t mind my soft parts,

the extra pillows.

I hate those parts. The physical parts. The parts that should mean the least but end up meaning the most.

Michelangelo would hammer me to bits

and carve me out of new marble, form my arms

into thick tree branches that refuse to sway

I want to destroy myself. The leftovers aren’t there for nothing. My body is not a temple, it’s an empty alleyway to piss in, a cheap house desecrated by flames and vandalism.

in even the heaviest winds.

He would chip away the excess, chisel a delicate

nose and round pupils.

My organs are useless. My skin is too beaten up. My teeth are falling out of my skull as I speak.

The calves would be sturdy, the stomach,

smooth, and he would ignore the fact that I am

a cousin of the apes.

Things are easier when someone else molds you. I’m not a sculptor. I shouldn’t have been given the job of creating myself.

Memorial Day

Well, I successfully spent nearly the entire day in bed.

I certainly don’t feel good about it, quite the opposite actually, but I just felt so exhausted and depressed and that’s my solution. Bed. Not even sleeping, just lying there, listening to those depressing songs I love so much, occasionally grabbing for my phone and checking Instagram or something stupid. I didn’t come down for dinner, whatever my family was doing for Memorial Day, that is.

I really abhor when I feel this way because I don’t know what I can do to feel better. I’m tired, groggy, irritated, depressed, and desperately don’t want to be conscious. What can I do? Nothing, and that’s the worst part. Just wait until I actually fall asleep for the night and wake up and repeat.

I think my recent relapse into this deep depression is mostly situational – I no longer have classes to attend, which serve as a major distraction as well as something active to do, I no longer interact with the people I once interacted with, I have nowhere to go or to be so there is literally no point in getting up in the morning, I have no job to go to, no obligations. I am a creature of habit and when these habits are broken I am lost. I wish the Lithium was helping more. Maybe my recent increase of the dosage will help, but I have my doubts. I know how these things go.

I have no motivation to exercise, which I should do for both mental and physical health reasons. I have no motivation to paint. I hardly have any motivation to write. What I have written has been minimal and what I started working on, I have begun to hate. I don’t know what to do with my time. I feel stuck, lethargic, and disgusting.

Anyway. Carry on.

– Z

General Update #3 / Sporadic Thoughts

  • If you haven’t listened to Brandon Flowers’ new album, The Desired Effect, yet, you need to right now. Go. Do it. Now.
  • I chose which university I’m going to and paid my $250 tuition/room+board deposit.
  • I just started taking 415mg of Lithium tonight and I’m pretty nervous about the inevitable terrible side effects that will come along with that.
  • My allergies are so horrific right now. Drowsy, always sneezing, my throat hurts constantly. I’ve been taking like, 2 generic antihistamines a day.
  • I’ve only been out of class for 9 days and I already feel like I’m wasting the summer.
  • I’m really tired of getting drunk by myself.
  • I’m really tired of mixed drinks but I’m too much of a pussy to drink any hard liquor straight, except shots.
  • Speaking of, as I took a shot last night of berry-flavored Three Olives, while in pain from the excruciating taste, I thought to myself, God bless America.
  • I smoke way too much
  • Why can’t I sell my blood? Why is it only donate?
  • Speaking of that, there are like, no jobs out there. Maybe that’s mostly due to the fact that I hate everything and am qualified for nothing.
  • My caffeine addiction has peaked and it no longer affects me, so, damn it.
  • I really need to cancel my gym membership but I know it will be a massive hassle. All I’ve found out is that I have to write them a letter. What?
  • My anxiety is at an all-time high and I’m not okay with it.

– Z


It’s a beautiful day outside and here I am, sitting in my room, panicking.

I’m trying to decide which university to go to for my BA and MA. I applied and got accepted into three, narrowed it down to two, and now I cannot decide. Both are good schools (one is considered a bit more “prestigious” than the other, but not by much, I don’t think). Both are about an equal distance from my current home. Both have my major, except for one, I have to apply and submit writing samples to get accepted into said major, while with the other, I can jump straight it. Both cost about the same. Both have roughly the same acceptance rate, graduation rate, number of students, etc.

Why am I stressing so much about this? Well, one of the schools gave me a deposit deadline of TOMORROW. I also have not visited either one of these schools yet, which is a huge determining factor, I know, but I’m essentially out of time.

I’m trying to listen to my gut instinct but my gut instinct doesn’t even know.

I just feel really panicked and scared and stressed and I wish someone could make the decision for me. There’s not really one thing that makes me say, OH, I’d rather go here. Nope. I can’t tell if I want to be unconscious, dead, or drunk, but I know I do not want to be in my current state of my mind. I have the desire to scream and cry and punch the wall or maybe drive myself off a cliff or into high-speed traffic.

– Z

Fat People Are Still People

I’ve been binge-watching New Girl on Netflix (don’t judge me too harshly – I know it’s a terrible show, I’m just in a bad state of mind and want something stupid to kill time) and in the last episode I watched, there was a flashback scene to one of the male roommates, the currently-cut, working, sleeping-with-a-model Jewish frat boy, when he was fat. He was on the couch, making out with a girl, also fat. Of course, this scene was intended to be funny. Fat people are funny, right?

As someone who’s basically always been overweight, this portrayal of “fat people” on TV and in movies is quite aggravating. Rebel Wilson, Melissa McCarthy, even “Fat Monica” from Friends…the list of “fat characters” and “fat actresses” (and actors, but in particular, actresses, let’s be real) goes and on and on and there is one common factor: all of the characters are meant to be, pun intended, big fat jokes.

Fat people portrayed in the media are not portrayed like “thin” people or rather, “normal” people. “Normal” people and characters are allowed to have romantic and sexual feelings, have good and “normal” sex with other “normal” people, go on dates, have good jobs, and are treated fairly in the world, generally speaking. Fat people and characters, on the other hand, are not allowed to have romantic or sexual feelings – that would humanize them too much. A “normal” man going on a date with a “fat” girl? That’s a joke. Literally. It’s okay for the guy to fall in love with the nerdy girl, but never the fat girl. It’s okay for the girl to fall in love with the nerdy “nice” guy, but never the fat guy.

I know people have discussed this on the internet time and time again, but I actually never felt personally affected by it until today. Because I am insecure. And I am “fat”. And seeing these sad, inaccurate, hurtful portrayals of “fat” people in the media only fuels my own personal thinking that I AM NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE ROMANTIC OR SEXUAL FEELINGS. And that’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. But it seriously just makes my own argument stronger in my twisted, emotionally damaged, fat mind – why should someone ever take me seriously or love me or want to be with me and how dare I want someone or want to be loved or want to be taken seriously when I am fat?

Fat people are still people. We do have feelings. We do fall in love. We do want to be loved back, also. And I, among others, really need to learn that that is okay.

– Z