Rosana dropped me off at my apartment after work.

She’s nice..I work with her at the local toy store up town. Ostensibly, she has her shit together and I admire that, she also speaks two languages so there is underlying envy; not malicious envy but admirable envy.

I clumsily waddle to the vestibule of my apartment complex and shove the key into the door of the front entrance. I shuffle down the hallway quietly because I secretly believe that my neighbors are watching me through their peep holes. So, naturally I keep my head hung down so no one can really see me.

I make it to my door. Apartment number 6.

I flick the light and drop my belongings within the narrow hallway. Who cares? I live alone.

I turn on my lamp that sits on my art desk and take a deep breath in.

So…this is it. I find myself saying that a lot. I should be more enthusiastic and announce some positive mantra, but that’s not me.

I sit on my stool and stare at the wall. This sounds depressing, but it’s not, it’s perfect. It’s quiet and I’m in my own company. I look down at my desk and I realize I have more toys than any woman my age should own. I scatter them around a little so it doesn’t seem like a six year old actively plays at my desk when I’m not home.

There. Better.

My drawing pad seems lonely, so I run my finger tips across it. Hello, old friend. I skim through the pages and notice that the last thing I drew were depictions of the human body…all incomplete of course.

I take out my anatomy book and start to draw once more the physique of a structural perfect male. Suddenly, anxiety creeps up on me and I can barely keep my 4b pencil still.

How can drawing make me this anxious? Then I realize it’s not the act of drawing that is upsetting me but the man I’m drawing; he reminds me of Mark. Now, I am livid and I want to break something. How could I let someone have this much control over my emotions?

I try drawing a woman, but I cannot help but think of Mark. I don’t miss him, I don’t want him, and I certainly don’t want to spend time with him. I still feel hurt, and neglected. The way everything ended was horrendous and now as I draw the limbs of a man I’ve never met and I am reminded of a man that tore my theoretical emotive limbs apart.

I slam my drawing pad shut.

I fall onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. I think of the Russian homework I’ve yet to do and how long before my rent is due. I haven’t purchased cable or internet so my thoughts are left to amuse me. To my right hand side, my tin ballerina sits on the window sill. I get up and reach for her. I place her on the floor and kneel down to play with her.


I pull her tin pin and she begins to twirl and spin.

Everything is going to be okay.


Come more shot..I can take it.

I find myself constantly grappling with the universe and what I put into it. I’ve gotten over the feeling that I am taking up space. After all everyone is here for a reason, right? An existentialist would disagree, but luckily I am not one.

In addition to grappling with the universe, I’ve also mingled with death and found myself begrudging God. Sometimes I think the universe and God are an unforgiving tag team. Then I remember that I am not alone and, that everyone promenades with this omnipotent duo and soon after one usually tries to dismantle its divinity by pretending they’ve never even met to begin with; Atheism and nihilism are your new counterparts.

I miss my grandmother so much. Every part of my body aches knowing I’ll never be able to touch her hand again. She always told me that if anyone hit me, to hit them back twice as hard…I’m trying my best to knock the shit out of life. When I knelt down beside her casket I promised that I’d speak to her every day and that I would write her life story, like I had promised months earlier. As cliché as it may sound time really is commensurable to sand. There’s no hour-glass to flip back over once time is up.

So now what happens?

I move forward, the way I always have.

I’ve been through it all, I’ve slept on park benches, worked grave yard shifts at the local grocery store, ate rice and beans for literally a year, threw all my shit into a hamper at the age of seventeen only to work three jobs during my senior year of high school, and I major in two subjects most women my age would not fathom to study. I’m tough…just like my grandmother.

So here I am taking another shot, throwing another punch.

Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us. -Rainer Maria Rilke 


“I’m selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.”
— Marilyn Monroe