Radiohead; Detroit.


The highways are like a claustrophobic blur of beige concrete and white headlights whizzing past me, despite my already-illegal speed.

“After years of waiting

/ nothing came.”

I’m distracted by driving in this foreign land, but all I want is to be back in the overcrowded, overheated room, entranced by the green and white glimmering lights. My brain strains to pack away the memories of booming, soothing sounds and fluid movement, and the weight of the man next to me, and the stoic face of the girl to the left of me. I want to be back in the overwhelming mythology of it–the expectation had been nill, forgotten really, but the results had been too spectacular for my mind to comprehend in the moment.

It feels like I’m driving on the highway forever. The GPS on my phone tells me I have eight more miles until the exit for 11 Mile Road. Maybe it feels like it’s taking so long because the other cars are flying past at top speed, and I’m in the far right carefully navigating a new stretch of earth.

I’m restless when I return; my body begs for rest, but my mind is overactive near the point of hallucination. I need to eat, I need water, I need a cigarette. Susanna and I drive to the nearby grocery store, well, knock-off Walmart, and my vision drinks up the stark white interior and brightly colored boxes and bags, and the memory of the night’s glory are already sinking away.


Hire me.

I don’t even know where or how to look for a new job anymore. I always knew my city was known for its medical and technological advancements and employment, but hitting the job market after finally getting my four-year degree is unnerving. Even the writing jobs are within medical or technological fields. Not something I can really jump into.

Publishing? Editing? Coming up empty-handed. I guess I could look more into tutoring and teaching. I gave up on one teaching application because it was so goddamn long, and also, I really don’t have any solid references.

LinkedIn has become so depressing. My pool of connections is a wading pool at best. Meanwhile one of my college pals got a job that is entirely writing based, at a reputable business that I’m fond of.

I’m happy for him. I am. But also, we both graduated in May.

What the fuck.

All I know is, if I have to stand for eight hours at a time for much longer, I might just bust both my knees, and if I can’t work on my lower body strength, I have no reason to go on.

Fourth of July.

I think I fucked up cooking the spaghetti balls. I really only had to throw them in a pan with some oil, but they taste weird, so I guess vegetable oil was the wrong move. I can’t cook. Also, Bennett left red Gatorade in my fridge and I don’t know why she chose that flavor. Red. The red flavor.

“Sixteen Saltines” by Jack White is playing on a loop in my head. Black hat, white shoes, & I’m red all over. My nails are longer than they’ve been in years–somehow I haven’t bitten them off, and let’s not pretend I’m fucking any women.

“You should still try.”

The other night Susanna and I got way, way too drunk. I will shamefully admit that I used to sort of enjoy being casually passed around from friend to friend for innocent sexual experimentation, but now I feel like a piece of meat–you have fun with me for like five minutes but don’t even make a commitment beyond that, then when you sober up you all go back to your boyfriends. Literally. But part of me is still thinking, Make a fucking move, because I haven’t kissed anyone in two years, let alone had sex with anyone.

Oh boy, I’m really winning here.

So Susanna had her hand on my inner thigh about two inches from my crotch all night, her other arm around my waist, leaning onto me. She gleefully bit the side of my neck at one point. And I get wasted too, but I still have low self-esteem when I’m drunk, so I don’t make a move. Also, I have no intentions of ruining a good friendship.

Although I may have done that with a male friend of mine. I forget how infatuated I am with him and how badly I want to fuck him until I see him, which is seldom, and the last time, I was plastered. And way too handsy. Because I get handsy when I’m really drunk. I didn’t grope him or anything, but it was probably pushing the boundary of, “She’s just being drunkenly affectionate.” Nah, I wanted to fuck.

Who’s jealous of who?

97 degrees.

It’s only the third day of July (by the way, happy birthday, dad) and I’m already torn down, oppressed by my own dwindling mental health, and unsure of what to do with myself. I’m supposed to be at work in nine minutes and although I carefully crafted my face to be suitable for the day, I’m still in the clothes I slept in last night and I’m looking for other jobs; although I’ve been doing that for a little while now.

I just can’t do it today. I really can’t. And I’ve never not called in. I’ve never just failed to show up. But I can’t bear to dial the number, hear the profound disappointment and frustration in my manager’s voice. It’ll just be strike one, anyway, and the guilt of letting down my coworkers will eat me up more than any threat of punishment.

Dealing with customers, assholes, has started to just absolutely crush me. The most infuriating part of my job is not being able to stand up for myself–someone dumps on you but you just have to continue to be polite to them, because for some fucked up reason, they have the power and you don’t.

Looking outside right now, I love this world. But my god, people have got to learn some basic decorum. Actually, people over the age of 40. Middle-aged people and the elderly have such an unwarranted sense of self-entitlement. Damn millennials abiding by the company policies of the places they work for.

I can’t quite determine if I’m actually about to take a nosedive into a depressive episode or if this is purely circumstantial depression, but I hope it’s the latter. I’ve been pretty stable for a while (except for that final semester of school, but even then I was managing better than I had in the past) and the constant fear of losing that is exhausting. I’m lonely, I’m drained by my job, I have little money, and all the hopes I ever had for any sort of future seem so unattainable, even in the smallest sense. I mean, I don’t even know what else to look for in terms of finding a different job, a job that pertains to my actual skills and my actual degrees. I live in a city that is fueled by hospitals, rapidly growing technology, and anything related to the hard sciences. I have a two-year degree in psychology and a four-year degree in English. Which seem like decent degrees, but around here, it’s certainly proving not to be the case.

A posting for an internship at one of the local news stations required “previous internship experience.” Goddamn.


Loneliness Stole My Orgasm, Damn It.

Once, maybe a year or two ago, my dad emailed me something about introverts. Even at the time, I ignored it. For the majority of my life I’ve seemed like an introvert, and may have been one for many years, but I’m really not one now. Also, I’m not super fond of slapping words onto my identity just for the sake of social congruence.

Throughout my early twenties–I’m not quite at mid-twenties yet, but it is coming–I’ve learned that I really am a social person. Am I the most skilled when it comes to social situations? No, but I’m far better than I was even a few years ago. I can attempt to mingle at a party, on the off chance I’m invited to one, and I have no problem introducing myself to new coworkers, acquaintances, or peers. But what is most revealing, I think, is how blatantly “extroverted” and, well, joyful when I’m with people I truly love.

For two straight weeks I didn’t speak to one of my very best friends–we had an argument, she wanted some space, and so I gave it to her, which is something I really struggle with. Admittedly, it is sort of greedy. It’s not that I have any emotional issue with giving someone space if they want it, it’s just that I crave companionship, entertainment, and conversation, and I have very few people to provide me with those things. That makes my loneliness dig into me even deeper–not speaking to her for two weeks was incredibly isolating. There were so many moments I wanted to share with her that I couldn’t, and so many times I just wanted someone to sit outside with me and talk, but I couldn’t ask her. I’m so used to seeing her pretty much every day that her absence weighed on me.

I’m lonely. I’ve been lonely for a long time, but it’s become increasingly more severe. My entire being aches for consistent companionship; emotional connections; the freedom of vulnerability; laughter. The thought of making new friends as someone who has severed ties with higher education, finally, and has a social outreach of about the length of a baby’s arm, it seems so improbable. I don’t even want new friends, really–I know I’ll never be able to have a bond with anyone else the way I have a bond with the three greatest loves of my life–but I know I need new friends. I just don’t even know where to begin.

I’ve read that loneliness comes from not feeling understood, but for me, right now, it really just feels like loneliness because I’m alone. And god, I can’t tell you how tired I am of erupting into a sudden burst of momentary tears every time I have an orgasm. Masturbation was the one thing in life that I had by the balls, and now that’s gone too.