Push Tug Shove Dive

Push, Push, Shove.


I’ve had breakfast like this before…quiet and convoluted with tension. The room is erupting with concerns and fears.

“why am I sitting at this table?”, I know those are the words he’s internalizing. For now, I know I cant make anyone happy at this table, including myself. I can tell his opinion of me has changed. I am a weird piece of furniture within his life and he doesn’t know where to place me. I can tell he’s afraid of me.


Falling Backwards. Time is dragging me through trenches of memories.

“You bes cute”    Sent Text

A check mark supersedes my electronic affection, making me aware that my cellular device has done what I pay $10.99 a month for: unlimited grammatically incorrect text messages peppered with flirtation to whoever I see suitable.

Tug Tug

1 New Message

“You bes cute too.”

I smile and shove my phone into my purse and proceed to walk towards my next class. My hand is still in pain from accidentally pouring hot coffee onto it. I was nervous…when we first met to have coffee, so it was only a matter of time before I tripped or accidentally spilled a hot beverage onto you or myself.

Nose Dive.

“So that’s it?”


I take my favorite position alone once more; indian style on a hard wood floor. A fortress of cardboard embellishes my little apartment. This is a common theme within my life; I am constantly packing and unpacking.

Sometimes I don’t know what to pack so I pack everything all away. These belongings are mine and mine alone to deal with so who cares if I pack every little thing. Other times I do not know how to unpack things appropriately. I stall or become overwhelmed by the idea of starting anew and leaving some things behind. What if I didn’t pack everything I needed? What if I packed too little? What if I unknowingly disregarded something very important?

I guess one can never really know.

What I do know is that whoever resides in my mirror is a fucking bitch.


1) I don’t know her, so she really has no business lounging around.

2) She’s a little pathetic. I mean seriously, do your fucking hair woman. Put some mascara on….anything. If you’re going to stare back at me at least look nice.

3) She’s a constant reminder of things unchanged and perpetually static.

Backward Forward Push Shove Push Shove


Customer Service…Just a Moment.

How wonderful would it be if a kiosk for life existed?

This imaginary kiosk would resemble what seven year old children call BASE! in a game of tag. It’s your free ticket out of a horrendous game of tag. Once you reach base your heart stops chasing you.

It’s 2:10am and the world seems unfair.

My television is on but nothing is being watched, just heard. The sound of white noise. After all that’s what my life has been reduced to; white noise. Usually the site of powder blue around this time of year would excite any woman. It’s the color of Tiffany boxes that retain expensive jewelry; it means someone cares.

I spent 6 hours with this infamous shade of blue, and there was no jewelry to be found. Just a crisis worker, a sitter, and a psychiatric screener.

I suppose it meant that someone cared, but that’s past tense.

The seclusion room was my company for the evening. She’s as cold as her name, however, we are a feather from the same flock; No one ever stays too long and we let those that hurt inside of us.

I think I have one up on seclusion. The door to this room doesn’t have a lock and just anyone can swing in and out without much care. I, on the other hand, have recently installed only the finest deadbolt. Merry Christmas to me.

I’ll never let another person in for a very long time.



Hello Neighbor

I wrote this several months ago and I’ve decided to share it now. I’m not completely sure why I did not post this, but sharing is caring, after all.

Every morning I wake up to hungry cats and a stuffy bedroom. Cat hair usually cover my sheets, as well as my body. The floor is partially covered with dirty clothes, but I don’t mind because I’m somewhat of a mess myself. As I tip toe around the garments and make my way through the living room and into my kitchen I find my neighbor awaiting my company; my ex boyfriend. Everyday is like re-enacting a break up.

I will call him Mister Man for the sake of privacy. I dated Mister Man for four years. A week before my 18th birthday I packed all my belongings into a collapsible hamper and into the trunk of my ’97 Monte Carlo to live with Mister Man. My parents spent a large portion of my college savings on a cement hole. Such a hole is usually known as a pool, but to me it was a poor excuse to exhibit upper middle class wealth. Once turmoil ensued within my household, I decided it’d be best to move in with Mister Man after only a short period of dating. I will not trace back our entire relationship, but I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.

Fast forward.

I sign a lease, move in and proceed to purchase books and other items couples fill their love nest with..rice cookers, desk, bed(s), wall art. Now here’s where it gets fun. We break up, I know right? I probably fucked up more than he did, but don’t worry he managed to make me equally miserable.

Once, he became upset over pancakes. Yes, pancakes…the breakfast food. He had made pancakes one Sunday morning and after consuming a few bites I told him that his pancakes were amazing and that these particular pancakes were probably the best he has ever made. Mister Man’s face quickly turned sour and horrendously disgruntled, as though I told him I fed the cats bleach. “These are instant pancakes”, he retorts.


Shortly after his response he begins to tell me that I am simply uncultured and that I do not possess a refined tongue. Because as we all know the pancake is a delicatessen of only the finest individuals, such morsels never touch the tongues of simpleton. What the fuck was I thinking?

I am painting a rather negative portrait of him. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done my fair share of erratic and unexplainable behavior. I’ve thrown lamps to the floor, locked him out of the apartment, thrown shit out of the window, and destroyed the remote control. I am just as bad if not worse.

So how exactly does this particular living situation work? It doesn’t.

But, what exactly do you do when you’ve built an entire life around one person? Everything you’ve ever done was for one person. The furniture you purchased, the meals you attempted to cook, and the phone calls you made to inform him of your whereabouts. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. How to make all the pieces fit again with one missing piece, and if that missing piece is at all vital or one that can be done without and look just fine matted and framed.



It was in his bed that I forgot who I was

My arms extended into the air as I unconsciously shouted a name that is as familiar to me as the insomnia that favors my bedside and the trauma that visits unexpectedly, yet always anticipated.


Recanting my arm back to my side. I slide them across my body so that someone may hold me, if not the person I had chosen to endow me with meaning. I know this is wrong, but you wouldn’t understand. Hysterical neurosis is daunting when faced alone.

I thrust my hips into his elongated figure, hoping for a response and begging for approval…that I’m okay and that I have not succumbed to the darkness. I slip my fingers into his joints, like a coin into a fortune teller. Awaiting for an affirmative prediction to be relayed. The mechanism begins to move, the smoke begins to rise but the fortune remains untold.

Limbs go still..and I’m given nothing.

The darkness swallows you whole and I’m left with a void.

The self-centered appease me, maybe because it gives me meaning. Deep down         I      know maybe I’ll always fall victim to a dark quiet room..left alone to hear nothing but my own breathing.

My fingers trace your torso, I’m somewhat in denial about your existence.

I trace the wood wall paneling in the same manner. It’s as cold as you, but at least I know what to expect when I place my finger tips upon the rigid surface. You would think this would upset me, but it doesn’t. It sends me into a cathartic frenzy of sorts. Securing the very truths I’ve always known.

In actuality you have no idea that I’ve done all this, or that I’ve grappled with feeling undesired into the late night.

You were fast asleep.


I love watching people.

In watching them I become them. I become the quiet light-haired girl sitting across from me in this cafe. Ironically enough she is solving math equations on an 11 inch netbook that she rented from the campus library. Her notebooks are piled up next to her, they each have a manga character etched onto the cardboard back. These are also my notebooks because within moments I will become her. I will anticipate the following math equation with great zeal and claim possession of those manga drawings.

I am the amputee sitting next to me speaking with her German friend in a slavic tongue. She eats her early dinner and texts on her phone all while her friend becomes increasingly nervous about an upcoming assignment or someone potentially stealing his coffee off the table. I am slowly becoming her as I stare at this screen and wonder what it would be like to never feel keys beneath my finger tips. She looks happy, happier than most.

I transform into all three girls to my left. They each have pocket books that are jewel encrusted or sequenced. All they can think about is the work they don’t want to do but have to do and how lovely their bags look in contrast to the ugly gray jersey sky line this evening. They have caught me staring and becoming and if looks could kill I would die instantaneously.

I am slipping into the bodies of over-achieving grad students, sipping coffee and utilizing excel. Everything seems in tact for them. They have coffee mugs and satchels filled with mircron pens. They’re all much older than I..possibly married but not to a person just their work and excel spreadsheets. I would love to be in a holy union with perfectly ink filled pens and microsoft software…things would make a lot more sense.

I like when things don’t make too much sense. It’s when people stumble on their own words and swear by publications like the New Yorker that bring me joy. Not because this person has pronounced macabre oddly or they hide behind the words of others, it’s because I see myself in them. I too quote the Times and pronounce radiator in a terrible thick New York accent.





There is something I love about terrible love songs. This adoration cannot be described in words. As I am writing this I am listening to The Cranberries_Linger…yeah, but I love it. I feel like I am thirteen years old and the owner of an MP3 player. I’ll continue browsing my computer for love songs that cast me under the spell of nostalgia. Sometimes in the midst of this nostalgia I will recreate my old bedrooms.

When I was five I had a pink room complete with a pink canopy over my bed with pink plush animals guarding my pillows. When I was twelve I had a purple room with floral bedding that my mother insisted I make my bed with; it meant a lady resided in this room. It was the same room I lost my virginity in and cried when I realized boys don’t really like you and they wont love you tomorrow.

Onto Patsy Cline…I fall to pieces.

Patsy Cline was my soul sister at the tender age of fourteen. Of course I only secretly listened to her because in central jersey that would be social suicide. I must have seared impressions onto that CD. I completely skipped the sad emo girl routine and pleasantly acquainted myself with the love songs of decades past. Besides Patsy sang it better than anyone: she’s got you, crazy, sweet dreams. She nailed it. I also think I am going to marry every person I date but that’s another entry for another day. Chet Atkins was another man who preoccupied my time, but we did not meet until I was sixteen.

Of course Paul Simon’s 50 ways to leave your lover is in that mix; don’t be silly. I was lucky enough to hear that song during my time as a cashier at A&P; same CD for 6 months.

but where does my heart beat now?

Celine was onto something.

it beats in the representation of letters within this keyboard, it reverberates during cold autumn nights spent in rustic recliners (that’s what I call my shit furniture now), it skips a beat over lanky men with dark eyes, and drops when I realize I let my imagination fill in the blanks, it pulsates when someone appreciates a line or two of my entries, and explodes entirely when I realize I’m lucky in more ways than one.

ja’i ton amour

Side B

The wheel slipped between my fingers as I completed a left turn and so did everything else. It’s in those moments that you navigate the air waves for those low tempo songs. It’s when you discover side B of a Cd.

As I was making my exit from the mall (yes and?) I failed to hold the door for three…well I don’t even know if you can call them people. Two girls were treading behind some degenerate in a wife beater, except they were too busy fiddling with their blackberries to pay any attention to my ill manners. My lack of attentiveness did not slip past the wife beater. “Hey Bri? Ya know only girls without bellys’ are supposed to wear belly shirts.” Bri has decided this observation is quite obvious, ” Yeah, so? I don’t get it?”. The imbecile whispers, “Herrrrr”. (I wasn’t wearing one, just a form fitting shirt)

Now, I am not one to get overly upset about comments such as these. I can honestly say that I am okay with my body. Tonight was an exception; I’m pregnant. Once I had finally shut the door of my once white now taupe 2003 Hundai, I completely broke down and cried. I should have yelled, “I’m pregnant dirt bag!”, but I didn’t I just froze. I cried the entire drive home. I couldn’t stop thinking about every event that led up to this one. I have never wanted to hold my father so badly until tonight.

I will not discuss my decision concerning the pregnancy. The fact that I am sharing this is remarkable even to myself. This is life; things like this happen or at least that’s what you’re told when you urinate on a stick and the results are not what you expected.

Almost instinctively I desperately turned the nobs of my car radio, trying to reach out to anything that I might be able to feel connected with; I failed. In the midst of hysterically crying I shuffled through the three or four cds I had in my car. I found the black keys. The music still sounded foreign to me. When that feeling of total worthlessness overcomes you, all you can think about is who else feels this way? Where can I find them? Do they exist? Of course they do but you’re too hysterical to fathom anyone else’s suffering.

I did not have an epiphany and god did not speak to me via radio transmitter. In fact I just parked my car and stumbled into my apartment wondering if that man had a mother. I felt like side B of a cd as I climbed into my chair and held my stomach.

“I beg you…to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without ever noticing it, live your way into the answer…”- Rainer Maria Rilke