middle name first street

Chapter Ten - 20,536 Words

Lookin’ into the clouds thinkin’ out loud

“I’m in love with two women, who is it gonna be now?”

- Wycleff Jean

All I’ve got, all I’ve got

All I’ve got are these photographs

All I’ve got, all I’ve got

Is nothing without you, you, you

Got nothing without you, you, you

Got nothing without you

- Rihanna 

I know I am still in love with Dan. Im starting to worry that I will always be in love with Dan - which isn’t going to be fun for anyone. But, now, there’s Eric. I think I might be obsessed with Eric too. 

The kid with the cool high-tops turns out to be a fashion mogul named Sammy.  He also appears to be one of the coolest people in the universe. He is warm and cool and kind. He owns this amazing penthouse apartment in the Lower East Side because he’s built a small empire in the fashion design world. He is a total whiz kid. Sammy dates supermodels - like actual models, not like some of the douches who have girlfriends that say they “model” - but he is surprisingly not at all a dick. This is particularly relevant because when I arrive at the party, there was not an Eric to be found. And even though I don’t exactly remember who Eric is, I was counting on at least having a mutual friend there or for him to know who I was. But no such luck. 

Sammy had just gone through a massive renovation on his apartment and this was the unofficial housewarming party. I had, really, about zero business being there to begin with, but it ended up being okay. Everyone got liquored up and some famous people showed up. I found this last bit hysterical, as I am so easily starstruck. I was trying so hard to blend into the background because all I wanted to do was stare at the stars with my mouth open. I was fronting so hard to look like I wasn’t fronting. The funny thing was most people seemed to act “cooler” when the famous people showed up. And there I was trying so hard to go unnoticed. I hadn’t had a lot of interaction with famous people. Although Whoopie Goldburg once kicked me out of a bar in Gloucester, Massachusetts. You can’t make this shit up. She was helping one of her friends get promotion for his new bar. The bar closed and Whoopie told me to go home. Then she took a glass out of my hand. The whole time I stood there thinking of something - anything - to say. Eventually she walked away to usher out other patrons. Eventually I muttered, sincerely, “I loved you in Ghost.” Funny thing is, I didn’t even like her in Ghost. I don’t really give a damn about her in general. Although Sister Act was kind of amazing. I probably should have said I loved her in that.

I guess famous people have to go to someone’s house warming party and be friends with someone who owns a bar, right? Somewhere, as I am sitting in my tiny apartment working on the business or debating part time jobs, famous people are creeping all over the city, going just barley unnoticed by most of us. I guess, eventually, if you live long enough in a city or spend a lot of time in hotels or airports, you’ll find yourself in the bathroom with J-Lo or at a party with that girl from Amelie. We’re all just people, but i didn’t realize that before because I am such a square. Maybe thats why they say some people are larger than life. Maybe that’s why people used to mob the Beatles. I don’t know, but I do know that was Sammy was nice to me. And that I have the butterflies over Eric, even though he never showed up at that party. And I am still obsessed with Dan, even though he wants nothing to do with me.

I probably should have started this whole thing saying that even though Dan was shady and I broke up with him, I spent about four months trying to win him back. I missed him. I still miss him, even though we weren’t a great match. Me win back the guy who treated me badly and didn’t try to win me back. I know, I get it - it’s fucked, but it’s real life. I mean, for the sake of my own pride, I could spare you details on how I dove up to Boston and stood on his doorstep and told him I wanted to be with him and that I thought we could make it work. That I would do anything I could to make it work. I cried and pleaded. And I knew better up in my mind, but couldn’t give up because of how I felt. Emotion does not give a fuck about what logic says. Emotion is like logic’s big brother. Sometimes logic wins a quiet fleeting moment, but most of the time emotion kicks the crap out of it.

Dan stood at the top of his stoop - he was nice about telling me that he didn’t want to get back together. As nice as someone can be when they are crushing your soul into two. I was crying so hard I couldn’t breath. I must have looked pathetic. I parked a little farther back from his door. I wanted to be able to pace a little before I rang the bell. It’s weird when you go back to place that you used to be so familiar with. You know the smells of the neighborhood and the way the sidewalks break in certain places, or the kids standing around playing. Do they look older to me? Maybe they do, or maybe I am just being overly sentimental. They are definitely older now. I don’t have to go back to know that. 

I stood there on the wooden steps for a while before I had the courage to ring the buzzer. Dan lived in an old brownstone in a quiet part of Boston. I helped him and his roommate move into that place, actually. That is the true sign of love - helping someone move. It is probably one of the most tortuous aspects of life. And a certainty: death, taxes and moving. If a friend helps you move, you’ve got to know that they love you. Moving is about as horrible a task as they come. Mya helped me move twice, that spitfire. The second time was a couple of years ago when I moved out of my old place with Tigg. That’s love - shouldering a broken girl and her possessions.

Dan’s street was quiet. I made my way to the steps and stood there. I was mostly  trying to etch the moment into my head. Choosing to remember the moment forever. I tried to remember what the wind felt like. Where the paint was chipping subtly on the door. The exact color of the old mail box slot. I didn’t want to start moving - to ring the bell - because I knew it was going to end. I swore I would remember this moment because I knew it was an important moment. It’s funny, actually, that we remember some moments and don’t remember others. I don’t mean the big moments like births and deaths and first New Kids On The Block concerts, I mean how we remember some of the random moments. The moments that stay with you even though they serve no purpose. I figured that there must be a way to consciously remember a moment, if you are really aware of it. I was doing that now. 

Wind, paint, mailbox, quiet. doorbell.  

Wind, paint, mailbox, quiet. doorbell, scared. 

Wind, paint, mailbox, quiet. doorbell, scared.

Wind, paint, mailbox, quiet. doorbell. 

I listened to see if i could hear him in there. Hear his laugh - which, for the record, I actually despised. I wanted to hear that terrible laugh. I wanted him to meet me at the door and tell me that he loved me too and that he’d do anything to  get me back and that he was sorry. I wanted to come inside and lay down in his bed and smell the familiar sheets and turn on the familiar lamp. Click click. I wanted to put on his teeshirt after I had slept next to him and he had already left for work. I wanted to lie in the crook of his arm, right between his neck and his shoulder. I wanted him to wrap his big arms around me. I wanted him to kiss the top of my head. Just like it used to be, but better.

I was foolish though. I should have known he didn’t want me back. I guess I probably did know that but just couldn’t admit it. I still can’t accept the fact that he doesn’t love me anymore. I moved to a different city to be with him and he doesnt want anything to do with me. I check his blog, Facebook and Twitter pages every day, just in case he is trying to send me some secret message that he is afraid to call me and tell me because he’s afraid I won’t take him back after all we’ve been through. But of course, this isn’t true. I’m crazy for thinking that way. A million percent loco. There aren’t any secret messages. He’s just has forgotten about me and moved on to another girl. I’ve seen pictures of her. She’s cute. And she’s young. She’s got a nice body, but she’s not perfect. Thankfully she’s kinda trashy and thankfully she has bad teeth. That’s the best I can do. She really is sorta cute. And she looks like she’s a nice girl. I’m just being bitter because I’m not her. and he wants her, not me. I wonder if she likes his laugh or his asshole roommate? I wonder if he makes time for her. I wonder if he loves her. I wonder if she’ll be the one he marries. Will he be the father to her children? Self-emotional water-boarding. Fucking pathetic and heartbreaking. And yet, sometimes there doesn’t seem to be room for much more. The hope that maybe he still loves me somewhere is enough to make me daydream through painfully impossible situations and scenarios. I’m so broken. 

I know Dan felt badly telling me we were done. He’s not a bad guy. he really isn’t. You can’t change how people feel, try as we might wish. That’s the tough thing about loving someone - you cant persist your way into someone’s heart. I’m jealous of that girl who has what I don’t have and what I can’t get. I did the non-pussy thing. I went and fought for what I wanted and I lost. I keep this flame alive and look for signals, but they will never come. I get it. I even respect it. There are guys I’ve broken up with that I know I will never get back together with. These are the breaks, the heartbreaks. I get it. And it makes no sense. 

Sammy told me that Eric was supposed to be around later, but that he hadn’t seen him yet. Eric never showed at the party, but I drank my way into a place of comfort. I had a nice guy take a shine to me, so I spent most of the night talking to him. I explained to him that I had a boyfriend, but he either a) didn’t seem to care or b) didn’t believe my lie. I didn’t care one way or the other. Especially after I drank my body weight in iced Maker’s. Things got a little shitty when I tried to leave. It was after 3 in the morning and I was ready to call it a night. I came, I saw some famous people, I conquered some awkwardness and now it was time to bid these cool kids adieu. The kid who had been chatting me up insisted that I stay over because I was too drunk to drive. And he was right - I was too drunk to drive. And if I owned a car and planned on driving it home, this may have been relevant, but I think I was sober enough to take the subway home. Eventually, I had to step step step my way to the door. I said goodnight to super cool, super nice, super rich Sammy and slipped out.

I ended up waiting for an hour to get home. Fucking Bed-Stuy. Fucking G train. Fucking hood. At 4 am I should have been worried that I would absolutely be “getting rolled” by a hood-rat, but I was all liquored up and feeling 1/2 invincible and 1/2 incoherent. Or at least thats how I think I must have been feeling. I clomp clomp clomped my way down Flushing Ave and rounded the corner to my door. I looked behind me as if I was some sort of (bombed) PI breaking into a top secret data center. No one was there, of course. No one cares when you are ready for them to care. 

I found the correct key and in I went. The elevator is always waiting at the bottom of the building. In my mind this is a Hassidic Jew thing. Like on Saturdays, since they can’t do any work (because it’s the sabbath), they need the elevator at the bottom. And pushing the button would classify as work. So they asked the landlord to program the elevator to stay on the basement level on Saturdays, but he couldn’t program it for one day, so it’s like that for every day. This is the story I tell myself, thanking the Jews when i am coming into my apartment and cursing them when I am waiting for the elevator to come from the basement. I’m kind of a jerk, I know. But for now, for tonight, there is victory and celebration as the doors open automatically and take me to my floor. And then open. 

There’s a guy sleeping on his duffle-bag. In my hallway. Passed out in front of Gregoir’s doors. Who is this slumbering hobo? And how did he get inside? Clomp clomp clomp stare. God I must have been pretty bombed because I hovered over him pretty hard to get a better look. He’s was wearing a blue knit sweater with jeans and shoes that were a little too euro for my liking. Not like sneakers euro, like leather shoes euro. Maybe they are okay. He looks kinda hunky I think, but I can’t really see his face, because his big arm is laying over it. He is sleeping, which I think is part hysterical and part creepy. But I realize he is, at least not dead. I am so bombed I cannot resist the urge to find out who this potentially hot hobo is.

“Err, excuse me? Sir?” I say, almost drunkenly tipping over my heeled boots. 

“Umm, hello?” I say with a little tap on arm. 

His arm is definitely hunky. Like, manly hunky. Not boy hunky. This is not a tiny skater boy. This is not a hipster. This is like, a man.

“Oh hi, Maggie” he says as his hand drops to his side, revealing a very handsome face indeed.

Chapter Nine - 17,960 Words

New York is an amazing place. You truly never know where the night will take you and the city is crawling with options, usually all ending up at the same place: pizza at 4am and singing in the streets. I mean, isn’t this what life is really about? I wonder a lot about that. Typical existential crisis shit I know, but I cant help it. Sometimes I have these grains of clarity where I see it all so clearly - true joy or excitement. True beauty or pain. Sacrifice or success. Having hope and realizing the disappointment when hope disappears. I like the new experiences. Last night’s party was something new. Maybe because I was so out of place at first, or maybe because I remembered, for the first time in a while, the endless possibilities of existing here for a while. 

The good parts and the horrible parts, that must be living. I feel like I’m living sometimes. The other times I am just lying in bed. Or just shopping online. Or staring at the parts of myself I just don’t like. Sometimes I am just passing the time doing nothing good or exciting or alive - even though I know one day it run out. It’s depressing as fuck to think about, but I think that’s the challenge: realize it’s a time trial and do something about it. 

I used to waste a lot of time being envious of other people, but I figured that one out. I realized at some point that being jealous is totally lame. There is no excuse for it. I mean, don’t get me wrong - I want the same perfect boyfriend, bronzed arms and house on the Cape as the next girl, but there is no point in wishing your life away. I realized I can either do something about the things that I want or admit that I don’t want it bad enough to make it happen. Plain and simple.

It’s like we’ve got all these “reasons” for why something can’t happen. “I can’t because…” “This wouldn’t work because…” “That would be too hard because …” And yet, all of these reasons are, of course, complete horseshit. It’s the talk of pussies and losers. I don’t mean to get all fired up here, but it makes me want to puke when I hear people talk about what they want so badly and then see them piss their chances away. I mean, my life kind of blows right now but I feel like overall I’ll get where I want to be. I’ll chose to sacrifice some things - the non-dream pieces, the pieces that are known and comfortable - yet soul-deadening - for things that will help me achieve my dreams. I’ll trade some of these things for the struggle. Not because I want to struggle, but because I refuse to make excuses for not getting what I want. But the struggle totally blows and you have to do it with the faith that it will be worth it in the end. Or the comfort of knowing that trying hard enough will be worth it even if you fail. 

I made this commitment to non-pussiness a while ago and sometimes I fail horribly trying to hit the long ball. Sometimes I am a complete pussy, despite my efforts. It’s tough. Comfort is the known bit, but it’s also stagnant. And I bet most people who live a consistent life aren’t happy. Security is not fulfillment last time I checked. Consistency isn’t growth and growth is what makes you feel like you’re living. But whatever. Fuck the dumb shit. Who am I to say this? I’m not an old soul and I don’t pretend to be. I don’t have it figured out. I am half alive and half dead. I try for acceptance of it all. Sometimes I fight the good fight and sometimes I lie down in the emotional mud to die. Most of the time my life is set to the depression remix track - more of the same mistakes on repeat. But I try. I try to win.

And God, it really does suck the hope out of you sometimes. I mean, I hate my fucking neighborhood. Fucking Bed-Stuy. I live right in the middle of two sides of an ethnic super highway: Flushing Avenue. Flushing Ave is the dividing line between the Marcy Projects and the Hassidic Jews of Williamsburg. This, in and of itself, is not what’s troubling. There’s, actually, very little trouble so far as I can tell. Everyone keeps to their sides. No one looks at each other. The Hassids won’t even look the non-Hassids in the eye. I wish they would so that I could at least wish them “good morning”. Isn’t that where pretty much friendliness begins at “good morning”? The phrase opens the door to discussions about the weather and complements on clothing or whatever. Without “good morning” it’s hard to break those barriers. It gets a little soul crushing after a while, not being seen. Cue the remix. 

I used to live in a great part of Brooklyn. A neighborhood filled with hip restaurants and hip people. Where the grocery store was close and the produce was fresh. I used to be able to stroll and window shop in the neighborhood stores, glancing through the clean windows to see all the fun paper products, plastic furniture shops and hipster havens. My apartment was the nicest place I’d ever lived and the nicest place I ever will live. It was a divorce rebound rental and it was ridiculously pimp. Floor to ceiling windows, an amazing kitchen - not that I ever cook - and a couple of sick roof decks. It was baller. And at the time, I was kind of baller. When I moved to Boston for the whole I’m-in-love-with-Dan thing, I subletted this sweet place to a nice couple from Florida. And by nice couple I mean two potheads.  And after the whole Maggie / Dan WW3 thing went down, I found myself back in New York a few months earlier than expected and didn’t feel like kicking out Mr and Mrs Weedhat. I think a part of me didn’t want to go back to that place with all the old Dan memories. So I accepted that I had no where to live for a while.

I spent the first few weeks strolling around Midtown and crashing at Eli’s. She had a huge apartment in an awesome building right in the center of all the action. But the funny thing was, I didn’t want to do anything. At all. I had loads of free time, loads of money, I would work on the business at night and spend my days wandering around the city. But that’s all I really did for weeks. I didn’t shop or play or go out. Sometimes I would go into a store and try on a bunch of pretty things and decide that even though I liked the dress or jeans or whatever, I didn’t want them. I didn’t want anything. What was the point of dressing up and looking cute if the one person I wanted to see wasn’t there? I didn’t want to dress up for me. And I didn’t want to dress up for anyone else. I just wanted to be sad. 

To be sad and to drink diet beverages with lots of ice. That was the only other thing I wanted to do. Fountain beverages. Frosty and delicious diet sodas. I would walk up and down the blocks looking for places that have the self-serve soda machines. I preferred dispensing my own so that I could control the ice ratio and also put a splash of whatever into my diet whatever. So, like, a splash of Orange Crush into my Diet Coke for example. That was the only bright spot in an otherwise brutally hot summer.  

Somehow, the city seems even smaller in the summer. Like there are even more people crawling her streets. And all the people in their work gear are forced to wear too many clothes for the summer. I’m sure that inside they have their work AC units on full blast, but when they come out for lunch or coffee or whatever, they just look so damn uncomfortable. I couldn’t help but feel bad for them. The pavement doesn’t stay underneath you in the summer, it has a way of creeping up toward you. Even in a light dress and sandals the heat was almost too much for me. It’s not the good kind of heat - and no, I am not referring to “dry” heat versus “non-dry” heat, or whatever the hell people mean when they say that. I just mean the heat isn’t nice when it’s all pavement and buildings and subways and high heels. These fountain drinks were my personal oasis realized in the city desert. I wouldn’t have made it without them. 

But I did make it. One day at a time, the whole Dan heartbreak got a little easier, even though - as we’ve clearly established - I’m still not over it. Eventually I became reacquainted with the city and done with my obsession for fountain drinks. I knew I had to move back into my own place and get out of Eli’s hair. I knew that my time in Midtown Manhattan was over. I decided it was time to move back into a place of my own. And it was time to make my ideas – this company – a reality. I had to stop being a pussy. And, as lovely as that may sound, what it meant was that I was going to have to sacrifice my beautiful pothead apartment for browner pastures. I’d have to move to the hood.

When I found this place in Bed-Stuy I though Tigg was going to have stroke. Tigg didn’t care that I was planning to live with people who wouldn’t say “good morning” to me. He wasn’t worried about my soul being crushed by the lack of interaction. He was worried about my body being crushed by gang violence. He didn’t like the idea of me living across the street from where Jay-Z spent his life trying to escape. Tigg, actually, being the hacker that he is, went as far as to create an online fact sheet detailing the shootings in the neighborhood. 

I know, I know - the fact that there are shootings at all should have worried me, but I remember thinking: how bad could it really be? It’s a part of the struggle and the journey, right? I’m tough, right? Okay, well, I wasn’t tough - the first few weeks I was paranoid about everything. I saw a big black dude in a big black coat and I was CONVINCED I was about to “get rolled”. I have since learned that term now that I live in a neighborhood where people actually do get rolled or mugged or robbed, etc. Of course, nothings ever happened, but I used to get so freaked out. I started to walk farther away from the projects and closer into the Jewish quarter. I’d cut through the side streets to get the subway. I’d speed-walk my way down the block if I couldn’t avoid the border of the low income houses. I was afraid for no reason and had no reason to be afraid. The funny thing was, at first I thought I’d be safer among the families and children of the Hassids. They’re super conservative, have about a million kids each and only wear black. I mean, that seems pretty safe to me. Even Tigg agreed at first. He dropped by to visit one right after I moved in.

“Oh I feel much better now that I’ve seen your neighborhood. You live with the Hassidic Jews. And they don’t let shit go down. And your place is actually pretty nice.”

My place is actually pretty nice. The sun shines bright in the morning and the shower has 4 different settings - including rain and champagne. I guess if you are willing to live in a place that has shootings from time to time, then our neighborhood is a good deal. I mean, I don’t feel unsafe, despite what the stats say. The floors are wooden and the ceilings are fairly high. It even has a nice little secondhand washer and dryer. And though having this luxury means I don’t have a closet, it could certainly be a lot worse. But, christ, the people are depressing. And not just the Hassids who wont say hello. The other neighbors too. They mostly appear to be hispanic or mexican – for sure they are Spanish speaking, that’s about as much as I can tell. I keep the blinds shut to block out the morning commuters, but I don’t sleep that much these days and sometimes I take a peek to make sure the world’s still spinning. I cant stand looking down at the bus stop - a woman on the corner selling churros in a push cart, a cooler filled with what I assume is hot coffee. She’s been out there since six. She’s there in the early morning cold and she’ll be there until the cart is empty and the bus comes to take her home. The others are huddled under the clear fake glass bus stop, some sitting on the cold metal bench. The bench sits four and there’s a half dozen standing, pacing. I wonder where they’re all going. Where do they work? What do they do? It’s kind of amazing when you think about it. They’re right outside my window and I have no idea who they are. Same for the Hassids and their silent walking. Always walking about - rarely talking to each other. Just walking. And waiting for the kids to get on the school bus, the mothers wearing their turbans to cover their shaved heads that are not yet covered by their fancy wigs.

From the inside of this little apartment you would never know that beyond the door and windows, an alternate 1950’s Russia-like universe exists to one side and a group of low income workers on the other. It’s easy to tell the two groups apart - the Hassids wear all black. The women dress alike in long black skirts and bad shoes. Their purses are black, their stockings are a disturbing shade of beige. The women in their chin lengths wigs and the men in long coats or white shirts under black vests. Their shoes are also black, simple and homely. The men and boys wear curls past their chins, just in front of their ears. The young girls often wear headbands over their delicate locks. 

The neighborhood, regardless of what side of Flushing Ave you’re on, greets her residents with dusty plastic bags in the trees and trash on the sidewalks. The city makes a lame effort to clean the streets, but there are just so many damn people in such a small proximity. The apartments in the projects are stacked high and tight and the Jewish tenements line street after street – broken up only by the caged windows peeking out of the endless facade. Sometimes the little kids sit outside in those steel boxes like they’re some kind of eastern block balconies. It worries the hell out of me – those cages with their steel slots. Kids should not be in cages in the first place, let alone cages with slots. I’m sure they’re safe and I bet the view is probably pretty nice, but I can’t help but think about puppies in the pet shop. They’re on display. And they look sad. Maybe they’re not though. Maybe there is a certain comfort in knowing what is expected of you. Maybe it’s nice not to have to worry about your outfit or pop-culture. I mean, the thought of it makes me want to kill myself, but then again, lots of things that I deal with in my choice-filled life do. 

On the other side of the street, there’s a nice little corner store not far from my place. Well, it’s not actually nice, but the people who work there are cheery enough, and, in spite of the language barrier, I know we like each other. 

There isn’t a whole hell of a lot that you’d really want to buy there. The shelves are lined with laundry detergent and household items all covered with a thin layer of dust and the food is mostly ethnic brands that I’ve never heard of. So no Doritos, just fake Doritos. No Lays potato chips, no diet soda. There is a shady deli counter and I actually see people buying and eating sandwiches there. The glass isn’t clean and it reminds me of the Fratellis restaurant in the Goonies, but less mob like and more just dirty and looking like the place should be closed. There are a lot of Hostess-like cupcakes and a lot of lottery tickets. Sweet treats and dreams of a different sort - maybe you’ll win the lotto. Someones got to, why can’t it be you? It depresses the hell out of me.

There’s a little bell that rings when you open the door and a sign that says “Beware! You’re on camera” but the floors are dirty and all the candy is behind the counter, or, actually in the counter, which is made of see-though plastic. I assume this is because people steal candy. I mean, I used to steal candy when I was a kid. It must be pretty bad I guess. Funny though, the beer is easy to get to, along the wall in fridges, but the candy is on lockdown. Anthropological studies aside, this fact really breaks my balls, so to speak. I really don’t like having to ask for candy. I would rather discretely grab my Twix bar and check out without having to admit I am the fat kid. Same thing with tampons - I don’t want to have to ask the 50-something guy for them. I just want to find a box on the shelf and checkout, pretending that it’s just a box of something non-girl related so we don’t all need to know I have my period. And seriously, bro, it’s one thing to steal candy, but let a damn girl steal some pons if she really can’t afford them. Or if she really doesn’t want to have to talk to you about it. But they are behind the glass and therefore I feel awkward and immature. I’m 32, but it’s the truth of the matter.

And the reality is a lot of people do shop here for real. And once I did manage to buy a box of Cheerios which were surprisingly not expired. I buy milk there too. But no diet sodas. Apparently this part of Brooklyn isn’t interested in calorie free beverages. I feel like it’s almost cliché that potato chips run the wall and the cooler is stocked with soda and beer. Not fancy beer, of course, cases of crappy beer and 40s. I’m not judging here. We make do with what we have. I get it. But it depresses the hell out of me. The struggle. Sacrifice to make something bigger. 

The corner store closes early by bodega standards - around 7:00pm. The neighborhood can get bad at night being so close to the Projects. I know they’re closed when I look around the corner and see all the metal shutters pulled down. It’s quite a fortress for such a shabby place. The plastic bags rolling around in the wind. A bunch of scratch tickets that weren’t winners cast to the sidewalk. And somewhere behind all the metal is the little bell. Beware, you’re on camera! The store is closed. Another cage. 

Chapter Eight - 14,638 Words

Poor choices indeed. This morning I am greeted with “the fear” -  the feeling you get when you’re not only hungover and feeling like physical hell, you’re feeling like emotional trash too. I wake up and all my problems are right where i left them. And it all still needs to be done. The guilt of taking a day off is additionally stressful. I am probably too hard on myself, but that’s just the way it is. 

I noticed something last night: as soon as I entered the party I was automatically looking for potential soul mates / fuck buddies. This is MO. I realized I am a classic leap-frogger. It is my natural tendency to go from one relationship to the next, using the new boy to distract and comfort me from the loss of breaking up with the other boy. Like an idiot, I just realize this now. And I swear I’m not going to do this anymore. That’s why I’ve been single for the past couple of months, right? But honestly, when I think about it, its pretty much taken everything I have not to go to some coffee shop with my makeup done, looking interesting and maybe somewhat intelligent and pick up some cute cafe goer to take home. As much fun as this, I realize that it’s not really good for me. It’s kinda like cheating my way through a bunch of relationships. I mean, it’s fun in the meantime, but then it’s as if all the other ended relationships come piling down on you when ever one ends. Those feelings don’t really ever go away unless you do something with them. There is no mind vice that can crush away the things that make us feel like shit. I used to drink my way through the feelings. That really makes things wonderful, let me tell you. I remember morning like this. They blow. 

Playing leapfrog is really about jumping from one problem to the next, especially because I have a tendency to date douche bags. I mean, truthfully, it’s not like Dan was a full-blown douche bag, it was more like he had characteristics that should have had me running for the hills two months into the relationship. It’s not that these characteristics were bad, per se, but they didn’t suit me at all. Like he would freak out when we got into an argument and throw himself on the floor. I mean you can’t make this shit up. Or, heaven forbid, if we were in a car and got into an argument while he was driving, he either had to pull over the car to freak out, or he would stomp his feet on the bottom of the floorboards. Kinda insane, but in hindsight, kind of funny to think about. Not that I am any angel, don’t get me wrong. In high-school I tried, unsuccessfully, to kick out the windshield of my boyfriend’s Ford Aerostar. I was, like, 17 and had asshole parents to blame for my craziness. Dan was, like, 28 and kinda a little old for that. But whatever. I chose to stay in that broken relationship for too long, which you think I would be too old for. I’m a glutton for punishment. Or maybe just a hopeless romantic. Or maybe just a masochist. I guess there is a part of me that believes if someone loves you enough you can make anything work. And if you can’t get them to love you that much, then you’re a failure. So obviously what this means is that I am seriously fucked up. I mean that can’t possibly be right. Some people just don’t work out. 

So I figure there is a big part of me that knows being alone is good for me. I know that I really need to take some time to understand why it is I’m so heartbroken over something that should have been less significant, especially after having spent months without this person.

I mean, I suppose it could just be a straight up dependency thing. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know what to do with myself. The hobbies I have are kind of lame and I don’t really feel passionate about anything these days. There are no movies I want to see, there no places I want to go and there’s no one I really want to hang out with. I guess it’s kind of easier to be with someone and be a part of their life, as opposed to having to make my own life, especially when I don’t feel like doing a damn thing. That’s actually pretty sad when you think about it.

But whatever. I’m figuring it out. And while I am busy fighting the temptation to seduce coffee shop boys, I’m also trying to avoid, really, the one thing I’m always passionate about: traveling. God, I hate how fucking cliché that sounds. I feel all Eat, Pray, Lame in confessing, but it’s true. The funny thing is, I’m not going out into the world to find myself. I go traveling to lose myself. It’s not even traveling - it’s running away. Christ, I feel cliche about saying that too. I feel more at home being on the road. I feel more at home not having to worry about what home is supposed to be. Or who is supposed to be your home. Or why nothing truly feels like home, no matter where I am. When you’re traveling it’s understood that you don’t have a home in the city or country you’re visiting. It’s understood that you don’t have have a set of friends or a set of activities where people are expecting you because you’re transient, you’re traveling. The pressures of “home” fade away, as does the sense of loneliness that comes when you can’t meet those pressures. Or when you don’t even have pressures to begin with. 

People tell me that they think I am so brave and courageous for traveling through Europe and Asia with just a backpack and a laptop. It’s not at all about bravery. It’s not at all about courage. If anything, it shows how cowardly I am. I’m comforted by my anonymity. I comforted feeling like no one knows exactly where I am, with the only breadcrumbs being a 3 day old blog post or a 3 week old postcard. By the time you get this message, I will have moved on. I’ll be in a different city, with a different hostel and different pubs, looking at different monuments and sitting in different cafes.  A new city with no obligations and only a few things to worry about. There are no expectations to be had when I’m away. It is understood, by my fellow travelers and hosts, that I’m just passing through. Home is a place people return to charge their batteries and to feel comfort and safety. But I really dont feel like that. I kinda hate coming home. And I hate hate going home home. Like, to my parents house and my home town. Fucking kill me. 

Some people love this sort of thing. Some people love their families. Some people love their siblings. They want to sit around the fireplace or the table and talk about world affairs and fiances. I mean, I’d kinda like to do that too, but maybe with someone else’s family. My parents didn’t beat me or lock me in the basement or anything. In fact, they gave us kids a lot of stuff. But I fucking hated my childhood. Some kids would kill for what I had, I get it. My folks worked hard to give me a leg up in society. They paid for college. They bought me a car. By all accounts they were good people. And they are. I mean, they’re not bad people. But I got all fucked up just like Cameron Fry.

Kids need to feel like the world’s okay. Even when you skid out on your bike and your leg is a bloody mess, you need someone to give you a hug and a bandaid. You need to hear that it’s okay to fuck up. It sounds lame, but it’s true. I spent so much time trying to do things that would make my folks tell me it was okay. That the world was okay. That I was okay. They just aren’t those types of people. You know they love you somewhere, in their own detached way, but they weren’t huggers. They weren’t congratulaters. They never said good job - even when I graduated first in my class, it was greeted with neutrality, or a tame nod. Nothing was ever good enough to warrant being told I was good enough. For years, I’d keep climbing bigger mountains waiting to hear that I made them proud. That I was good enough. That the world was okay. It doesn’t work that way. 

So maybe this is why my perception in life is fucked now - I’m trying to win over people and gain their affection. Maybe that is just what I’ve learned to do. Everything else is a failure - I even failed winning over my own parents. This isn’t a new concept for me to think about. I have been in therapy so long it should crystal clear. Sometimes wish I could send my parents a bill for my therapy session especially now that I’m broke. The funny thing is, they get really uncomfortable and kinda pissed when I talk about going to therapy. My mom says she cant believe I would talk to anyone about our family. It’s funny too because my brother and sister love small town living. They are also both dumb as a box of rocks. And my brother is a total meat head douche. God, they would bully the shit out of me when I was kid. So I guess it’s not rocket science to guess that I was the only one to leave. I would have done anything to get out. I would rather take a six foot under dirt nap than have to go back to that town. 

My family doesn’t seem to understand that they all live there together in their little world with their little drama and their little lives and I can respect that. I mean I sometimes wish it were that simple for me. But it’s not and it never has been.

I’ve even been putting off listening to a voicemail from my sister. Here goes:

“You have one message.” 

“Hi sissy. I wanted to let you know that I went shopping with mom today and she picked out a Christmas gift. I paid for it and you can pay me back when you get a chance. You’re third is $80. Hope you’re doing well. Bye.”

My sister is out of her fucking mind. I don’t have $80 bucks to buy my mom another lux coat from god knows where. My folks have more money than god. What the fuck? Just another thing to hang in her walk-in closet. I’m bitter. I can taste it. They don’t pay attention to me out here - and most of the time i prefer it that way, but i am human after all.  Honestly how do they rationalize in this request? I’m broke. I told them flat out that I’m in trouble and I’m looking for their help. And saying that was like swallowing my pride covered in scorpion stingers and hot sauce. Maybe it’s too scary for them to realize that someone might be bottomed out while they’re still doing a-okay. If anything, it appears they just ignore the reality. The harsh parts. The parts where my dad is callus and controlling. The parts where my grandparents are losing their wonderful minds. The parts where my mom has an eating disorder and is powerless in her own household, where my brother suffers through manic depression and smokes a ton of weed, pretending to be one thing while filling the closet with his skeletons. He, apparently, also has a walk-in. Maybe we should buy him a coat too. God he is such a fucker. I’ll never forgive him for what he did. I’ll be okay. Even if I fail, I’ll make it work. I’ll grind it out. And, hell, I’ve got a lot to be thankful for. I got out, after all.

Fuck them tho. 

Chapter 7: 12,559 Words

Poor choices. Last night I had every intention of staying home and hatching a master plan to solve my business and personal woes. I was in the middle of doing an incredibly mediocre job of this when my phone rang. In the past few weeks I had been actively trying to expand my network of friends in New York. I had no other choice really. Eli was always with Peter and, depending upon who Tigg was dating, he was around sporadically at best. See the issue is I don’t like having to socialize. I don’t like having to dress up and smile for people who I may or may not even like. It’s exhausting. And it’s boring. But, then again, so is hanging out by yourself all the time. Especially when you’re a depressed pile, as I have been of late. So, despite my discomfort, I did some reaching out. Made some “I’m back in NY, would love to see you” calls, texts emails. And, lucky for us mostly anti-social, there are also the overly-social who will invite just about anyone to anything. It’s just a matter of opting in when the rare social spirt moves you.

I don’t answer the phone, even though I have nothing better to do. I screen the call. And then I wait for the message. I figure, if you leave one - marvelous! I can determine the nature and urgency of your call and return it, hopefully, with a text. And if you don’t leave a message, I rationalize that no response is warranted. Now, as a point of clarification, this all goes out the window in the event the caller is a dreamy boy that I want to make-out with. If that is the case, well thats a whole ‘nother story. I’d ditch a customer service call at 48 minutes with an estimated wait time of 50. 

The call’s from my neighbor Gregoir. Though he technically lives across the hall, he’s never home. He’s doing the whole late 30’s midlife crisis thing - running around South America and such. He smokes a lot of weed and I get his mail sometimes, but that’s about it. He’s chill. Good fences make good neighbors, as they say, but it would actually be nice to have a friend in the building. God, it gets so fucking lonely here.   

“Yo Maggs. Hope you’re good. Just a heads up. I’m staying a bit longer than I planned. My buddy Eric might be crashing at my place. You met him last summer when the AC was all jacked. Costa is crazy! Be good, girly! Hasta!”

I have no idea what Gregoir is talking about. I mean, I remember when the fucking AC was busted for a week and it was a million degrees, but I don’t remember an Eric. 

My train of thought is broken by the chime of a text, another message from my virtual neighbor, “Forgot. Those guys r meeting up 2 watch some fight on TV. U should go. Gunna be some cool peeps there.” 

Hrum, again no clue who he’s talking about, but my interested is piqued. 

“Hey G. Sounds good. All’s good here. Who’s going? Where’s the place?”

“Maggggs! What up in BK! Eric n some musician guys, LES my old place. Prob b some fashion girls there 2. 118 E 11th. 

I was so sick of being home and working that I actually thought about the offer. Was it one of those “oh you should totally come by if you want” offers? The kind that probably mean “I feel like I should invite you and I sort of assume you aren’t going to come, but if you do, you’re on your own, bro” offers? Nah, Gregoir doesn’t care. Maybe I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll go. 

I let the hot water pummel my head in shower. I stand there letting it hear my temples. for a while. I’ve really become such a stress case. A reclusive, hater of all things, single stress case. Wonderful! Live the dream! So it’s settled. I have to leave the fucking house. I’ll go to the Lower East Side to hang out with Gregoir’s unmemorable friend. If even for an hour, it will be good for me.  

My closet is filled with jeans and party dresses. And not much else. If there are going to be fashionistas and musicians then it seems like I should go for something more chill and avoid the party dresses. And here is the challenge: what can I fashion out of my mostly lame clothes? I end up throwing on some black leggings and boots and a layer a purple sweater over a longer tee. Cute. It will do. I will go. I will go be social. I will go be a person who lives in NY, not a person who lives in her studio apartment like a modern day Golem. 

I clomp my way over from the L and find the building off of 3rd Ave. The rest is left to the fates. I walked into the building thinking nothing much of the foyer, getting off of the elevator that opened into a worn hallway with drab carpets and ringing the bell. I felt awkward, but then again, I kind of always feel awkward. The bell was one of those old school circle buttons that you really had to push to make sound. The ding on the way in, but no automatic dong. When you took your finger off the button, then the chime would sound. If I had been more ballsey I would have gone for the dramatic DING … (wait for it) … DONG. But I didn’t. Dingdong. Fuck, I am awkward. 

A young guy, maybe in his mid-20’s, appears at the door. He had crazy dark curly hair that falls to his ears and a tiny hipster build. The type of guy who looks amazing in jeans - tiny, but loose - worn bunched into a pair of spotless high-tops. His jeans are a dark blue and his shoes are awash in neon colors and laces. He’s wearing a blue flannel and a kind grin. This is not Eric. I would have remembered if Eric was this cool. This guy is young and fresh.  

“Hey. Come on in!” He greeted me as if we were old buddies. I guess this was partly comforting and partly unsettling. I assumed he was another party-goer just passing by the door as I rang. Why else would he be so nonchalant? Mr Hightops moved aside revealing the an enormous duplex loft. The walls were lined with with a some type of beautiful wood. There was a massive staircase running up to the second floor. Huge windows overlooking the city. What had I gotten myself into? This is a serious pad. Oh fuck. I am so not cool enough for this.  

Chapter Six: 11517 Words

“Tigg it’s 8 o’clock in the morning – how is it possible you are up and running? Isn’t this a little early for a night owl?”

Tigg sighs into the phone, in an overly dramatic fashion, which means he is in a good mood. He never plays, if you can call sighing playing, unless things are good.

“Maggggggggggie May. Guess who’s website is ready to launch!?”

“No way, Tigg! Are we all systems go, or whatever you tech-kids say!?”

“Well, sorta. Mostly ready to go.”

“Uggg, what. Lay it on me.”

“No no, it’s fine, it’s just that I underestimated the time this would all take and we’ve, well, I guess, I have managed to burn through the rest of the budget.”

I paused to evaluate the severity of this situation. And couldn’t.

“Wait so, is the site done?”

“Yes.”

“So someone can go and click the buttons and buy something and the magic of the internet will make the sweet quan appear in my banking account?”

“Yes … but you’re out of money”

“Wait, why should I care if I am out of money? We’re done. Im happy! Let’s open shop!”

I was standing there alone in my pj’s, cellphone pressed to my head, coffee cup up in celebration and all I could hear on the other end was the faint tap of a pencil hitting Tigg’s desk, the lingering mark of a boy who used to play drums in a high-school band.

“Maggie. Your site is up and running, but no one knows about it. It’s done, but it came at the cost of what you originally set aside for your PR funding.”

Oh. I see where he is going with this.

“Okay. So maybe we just start with some online adword things. You know, the ones that charge per click or something?”

“No, Maggie. You don’t get it. To meet this deadline I brought on two more tech kids from Stardust and they burned the midnight oil, and then charged us for it. I actually not only blew your budget, but ended up dipping into my own cash to cover the charges. You know I would never charge you for my own time, but I have to eventually pay Gutmon something. He put in at least 30 hours.”

Fuck. James Gutmon is another computer whizkid. Tigg is a big part of the NY tech scene and started a consulting group with James, a close friend of ours, after one of their startup ideas went bust. James and Tigg were as tight as they came and both Tigg and I knew that James and his wife, Iva, were pregnant with their first child. Said differently, we all had bills to pay. And some of them were more important than others.

“Tigg don’t worry. I’ll find the money and we’ll get James and Iva taken care of first. Ugh. Why is this start-up scene always feast or famine!?”

“It’s not really famine for us, Mag” Tigg seemed to say with a touch of pity, but more with genuine sympathy.

“But we do need to get James cash at some point. I want those guys to feel prepared for babytown and you, now we, owe him.”

“Okay. Got it. I will get to thinking. Let me process all this and I will call you back.”

I jumped up on the kitchen counter and sat indian style, pulling my laptop over my legs. I loaded the website address and there it was: a fully functional ecommerce store. It looked great. I could see why they had to spend the extra hours – the video animation for the “how it works” portion of the website was recreated to look polished and crisp. Some of the styling had been changed and the cart and checkout interface looked friendly, accessible and, well, worked! How exciting! I wanted to celebrate and jump up and down, but how could I? I finally have this complete product ready for sale, but no one knows about it. No one knows about it because we haven’t paid anyone to tell them about it.

I’m overwhelmed with excitement and worry, at the same time. I put my laptop next to the sink (Tigg would not approve!) and rest my head in my hands. I start to run through potential scenarios and daydream of epic success and bitter failure. Failure - the realization that this might not work and that I might have wasted my life savings on a foolish dream. More foolish dreams with sad endings. I’m hit with a wave pain, blindsided with the feeling of missing Dan. I instantly feel my heart break and all I can do is hold my head, alone with my decisions and my feelings. I wonder where he is and what is he up to. I wonder if he’s happy and how his job’s been. I wonder if he remembers that this time last year we were living in Boston together. I wonder if I ever told him I wanted to marry him. And I wonder if I ever actually wanted to or if maybe I still do. I wonder if he has a new girlfriend and find myself hoping that she will be ugly. No no. I want him to be happy with whatever life is putting before him. Yes, I need to want the best for him and to try to be the bigger person. But I fail, sort of. I hope he’s happy, but I hope she’s butt.

My bedroom in Boston appears in my thoughts. I really liked that apartment and especially liked that bedroom. The corner window with its white, sheer curtains on the third floor of an old two family home. I bought curtains for all the bright windows. They were cheap in both price and quality and became a stringy mess within the first few days, but they used to blow beautifully in the breeze, in that tiny room at the top of that big house overlooking the river. I remember that I had taken one wall and lined it with vertical light blue stripes using removable painters tape. It was such a cheery room. Cozy, romantic and comfortable.

Dan and I didn’t live together, but he came over to my place every day after work. He lived just down the road with another guy, Sam. Sam was, deep down, a good person, but he had a tough childhood and struggled a lot growing up. I should say that this made him a volatile guy, but what I really want to say is that it made him a complete dick. I mean, talk about roommate baggage. I couldn’t deal living with Sam, but I gave Dan a lot of credit for being there for his friend.

Dan had a lot of lovable qualities. He was hard working and smart. He was tall and handsome. He was extremely hunky and adventurous. And he was fun too, for the most part. We went on a couple of vacations together and explored new tropical places. While he was obsessed with eating local food representative of the culture, I spent the days looking for a Starbucks and soaking up the sun. We got along pretty well and for a while, I thought we were happy. I guess, looking back, we weren’t so happy. I mean we broke up after all. It would be easy for me to just blame Dan for everything, but I suppose there was a part of me that never really got comfortable in the relationship. On the one hand I completely and utterly adored his every fiber. And on the other hand, there were things that I totally and utterly hated about our relationship. Looking back, I wonder is such a dichotomy even possible? Or do I just hate these things now that we are no longer together? Did I think he had a horrible laugh when we were dating, or do I just feel that way about it now that we are apart? And some of Dan’s friends alone should have been deal breakers. Well, really just Sam. Sam should have been a deal breaker. He was the only dirt pile. Dan’s other friends were actually really funny and sweet. But we were broken. We must have been for it to have ended. And we must have been really broken for it to have ended the way it did.

The day after Dan and I broke up I called Mya and told her what happened. Mya was feisty, smart and brilliantly funny, sharp as a tack and instantly worshiped by anyone she met. She graduated top of her class from Harvard with a finance degree and was made a Senior Vice President at 26. She is fiercely loyal and generous beyond belief. I trusted that she would give me her honest opinion and not sugar coat it to make me feel better. I valued that she would tell me when I messed up, but knew she would be the first to celebrate my successes and support me along the way.

“My, I had a major blowout with Dan”, I found myself sniffling into the phone, finally breaking down and allowing myself to be sad and hurt, the anger having passed.

“Okay. Please tell me who the fffffffffuck I have to kill. What happened!?”

I tell Mya the gist of the story, starting with my suspicion and ending with my computer being thrown into the wall.

“Well, Maggs, it’s not like you found him naked with this chick wearing your underpants on her head. But sadly, most of the time when intuition tells you something is wrong and you sense your guy is up to no good, you’re right.”

Im not sure if the computer took the brunt of my anger or if the cracked wall did. What I do know is I saw the chat conversation in black and white on that little screen and then I saw red. I had been in New York the weekend he talked to her for two hours. I know, it wasn’t underpants on her head. I know it wasn’t blowjobs in the ally, but it was talk of getting together, lying in bed, handsome this and flirting that. And he had lied about her from the start. When he had no reason to. She was always reaching out to him, which seemed strange to me, but when Dan casted her as some “lame” friend of a friend, I had no reason to doubt him. He hadn’t given me any reason to think he was anything but stand up.

But over that past month or so I was gradually becoming more suspicious of the the girls in Dan’s circle. Everyone seemed suspect for some reason. I remember trying to talk myself out of it. I kept telling myself that I was being a crazy acting like a jealous 8th grade girl, and even in 8^th grade, I was never like that. I guess, somehow, I had known what was happening behind my back, if even it did take me a few weeks to find out for sure.

I have to say, up until that point I have never had an issue with fidelity or cheating - the guys I’ve dated have always been standup gents. Sure, it didn’t mean they were perfect, but as far as I ever knew (though I guess who can ever really know) they were loyal and loving and caring. Yea, some of them were emo and awful and others were lame and terrible, but trustworthy nonetheless. Maybe Dan just made a bad decision. Maybe he just messed up. Or maybe he was looking for an out? Maybe he just wasn’t that into me. Those things I don’t know and probably never will, but what I do know for sure is that I went COMPLETELY PHYSCO when I found out he was exchanging sweet nothings with an ex-fuck buddy, whom he had been masquerading around as some lame girl from who-knows-where.

“I saw that what’s-her-face wrote on your wall”

“Yea”

“What’s up with that? Why does she keep reaching out to you if you keep ignoring her?”

After the computer hit the wall and I threw him out of the apartment, I immediately started to pack. I wrapped my clothes on hangers in garbage bags. I pulled out my huge Ikea bags and filled them with dishes and jackets and toiletries and paper and shoes. Kitchen supplies and towels and books and hangers.

The table and chairs that we built together – left behind. We wouldn’t be sitting there any longer. There no longer was a we. And those thin, flowing, tattered curtains. Those I left for someone else. I trimmed all the stray ends, tied them over to the side of the window with a cream ribbon and walked out the door. The very same door that I had moved into some four months earlier with the thought that maybe he would move in later. Maybe I would work in Boston. Maybe we would have a future. I passed over the overpriced, but beautiful doormat, a splurge made four months ago to make the entryway welcoming. It seemed sad and wasteful as I left it behind, outside the door.

Funny though, there must have been some hope left in me still, as sad as I was. Maybe not hope for Dan and I, but hope for someone else. Maybe they would be young, budding college students or a family having just moved up from Providence. Maybe they’d be seemingly tough fratboys who felt lonely at night. Or a cool lesbian couple and their dog. I guess I didn’t really know, but I guess I hoped that someone would like these subtle artifacts of once happy, loving times.

I cried when I left Boston. But I always cry when I leave an apartment. Tigg used to think it was endearing. I’m sentimental, I know and I cant help but see in that very tiny moment the end of something. When you close out a place and turn the key for the last time, you know that will be the last time. The last time you cross over your doormat or threshold. The last time you take a shower in your tan tiled bathroom. The last time you wonder about the sink drip. The last time you swiffer the floor, and its not even for you but for someone to come. It’s definitive. There is a beautiful and sad finality in that. It’s one of the only times – aside from life’s other big guns: death, birth, marriage – that you have a certain, nearly tangible moment of something ending. You will, in the future, refer back to things that happened as “That was when I lived on Myrtle Street” or “That’s when we first moved to Porter Square.” It’s the way of counting time once school is over and you can no longer count by grade or year. We almost ease into it.

“That was the year after graduation”

“That was, like, a year and a half after graduation”

Then suddenly it becomes the year itself, for a while, before they blend all together.

“I guess that was, what, 2004?”

And then by event, as the dates become harder to pinpoint.

“I don’t know for sure. That was when Tigg and I were still married, so, maybe like 2006?”

Or, more specifically, 

“That was when I moved to Boston to be with the man I was in love with. That was when I was a regular at the coffee shop and bookstore down at the end of my road. That was the time we played street hockey and ate at that deli with the mean management, but free chips in in their baskets. That was when I found out I had been lied to and that my trust was broken. That was when I realized this relationship was over. That was when I pulled down the candy colored paper in stripes and pieces. That was when I crossed that doormat for the last time. Locked the door and placed the keys in the mailbox. That was when I stood outside staring at the bars on the porch and said goodbye. That was when I cried and walked away.”

The countertop was cold and I wondered how long I had spaced out thinking about Boston. I am fascinated and horrified by my obsession with this part of my past. How dare I think about these things when I real, bigger problems to solve. I hated myself for being such a typical girl, still not over her shitty boyfriend. I felt lame. Dan wasn’t being faithful to me, so I dumped him. I need to get over this.

Chapter Five: 8684 Words

I threw on my new cocktail dress and swept my hair into a simple bun. My bangs are getting too long and I’m not sure what to do with them so I clip them to the side. It’s funny, I remember cutting them short when I found out Dan liked girls with bangs. Now I cant help but think: do I even like girls with bangs? Or, more specifically, do I like me with bangs? God, I feel stupid for cutting my hair for a boy. Talk about love making you do foolish things! I guess they look okay though, highlighted by silver strands slipped here and there among my otherwise boring black hair. Nature’s highlights. Silverfox. Just getting old. I finish my makeup and step into some fancy heels, black – of course – with bowes at the ankles. At first glance, I look polished, nice and shiny. At second glance, I am convinced I look like a tranny. My face looks so pale against my dark eyes and shinny lips. I accept myself looking like a hemale and stuff a clutch with the essentials - keys, cellphone, lipgloss and wallet - check for my subway card and I’m off. Bring on the champagne and mini-snacks!

Or not. It takes me just over an hour to get to Midtown. Ridiculous. I wait an excruciating 20 minutes for the terrible “G” train which will take me up to the “L” so I can ride into the city. I count the subway tiles, check my reflection on the back of my cellphone (still look like a tranny), pace up and down the platform, but no train. I’ve already looked at all the posters advertising things in the subway. A road race for cancer. A new T-Mobile store. A couple ads for Johnny Walker, which are actually kind of funny. Of course, few of these posters are intact or in their intended form. The majority have been restyled by fellow subway patrons. Most choose the Sharpie as their medium, adding some crass or funny text to, say, the mouth of a super model posing with a new lipstick. Others cut away parts of the posters, revealing a new image. Today someone has taken a Sharpie to a set of Greek soldiers adorning each with a Wu-Tang mask. Or that’s at least what I think they were going for. Another artist has cut out the eyes of each cast member from Mad Men, leaving the gray of a previous poster, a couple layers down, advertising what appears to be Nike “performance clothing”. There is a certain brilliance in how they’ve done this. The eyes look really scary, but really well done. Eff Mad Men. Eff Nike performance wear. Viva le street art, or whatever.

Eventually the trains arrive, stop, switch and leave me at my destination. As I emerge from the underground, I quickly realize that it has started to rain and that I don’t have an umbrella. If this were a movie, I would elegantly run to the venue with my hair and coat floating behind me, making for the perfect image. In reality, I can feel my bun coming loose and my toes getting wet.

I arrive a bit frizzy and a lot flustered. I check my coat and peer though the ballroom. It is filled with chic people chatting as they hold their glasses in a dainty manner. The lights are glowing and warm, not too bright or too dim. They remind me of white christmas lights you buy at CVS for three dollars. They might be a fire hazard, but they shine the best kind of glow. I see Eli and Peter and make my way over to them, realizing for the first time that I feel awkward, unemployed and out of my league. I pray that no one asks me what I do for a living. What am I? A corporate dropout? An entrepreneur? Head of a small startup? May they not ask, dear god. 

When the other partners formally announced Eli making partner, men clad in white tuxedo jackets rushed out of side doors with delicate flutes filled to the brim with fizzy champagne. At that point we were, of course, already tipsy. Events of this nature seem to bring out the drinker in most of us. Eli looked demure and coy with Peter at her side. I tried to hang back and fade into the crowd with the rest of the guests, but Peter was keeping a watchful eye on me. No doubt Eli was worried that I wouldn’t have a good time and put him on duty.

“Maggs, I know you don’t exactly love these corporate events” Peter said, with a half grin, clearly making the understatement of the year.

“Don’t tease me, Peter! I’ve always had low tolerance for authority. It’s not my fault!”

Glasses clink and toasts are made. I suddenly noticed that Peter has left my side and was crossing the room towards the adjoining cocktail lounge. He seemed to be making a beeline for someone or something. I looked over to Eli, but she was doing her duty, conversing with an older attorney and friend of the firm. She looked appropriately poised and engaged, but I knew her well enough to know she was secretly bored to death and dying to have a regular beer at a regular pub.

“Hey there. This is some party, huh?”

I turn around to see Peter standing with a man I have never seen before.

“Maggie, this is Dr. Sanders. I went to school with his son, Kevin, at Duke. Dr Sanders is a vet over at the Greenwich Village Medical Hospital.”

At first glance, Dr. Sanders looked more like Santa Clause than he did a veterinarian. He was short and round, with a little white beard and tiny metal rimmed glasses. He was wearing neat, but causal slacks and a nylon rain jacket. Among the attorneys and their guests, he looked quite different, though had an air about him that somehow prevented him from looking out of place.

“Hello Maggie. Nice to meet you. I contracted hemophilia when I was a child but don’t worry, its not contagious and don’t worry I wont bleed out if I get a paper cut. I like to let everyone know.”

I couldn’t help but laughing. He was completely disarming with his direct, yet disturbing candor. Im not sure why, but I felt as if we were kindred spirits.

“Thank you for letting me know, Dr. Sanders. I am not a Doctor. In fact, I don’t really have a job. I would have a job if I could get my online website to launch, but because I am not a web developer I cant even do that.”

Dr Sanders nodded with what seemed like complete and deep understanding. And thats when it happened, I turned into weirdo Maggie. The bubbles must have gone to my head.

“You know what I am quite good at tho?” I said with a tip of the head, “Customizing Chinese delivery food.”

I said it as if it were an up and coming career choice college students were flocking to. Dr. Sanders seemed neither confused nor put off by this proclamation, so I continued. Bubbles, bubbles, I tell you!

“I call in for Chinese delivery at least once a week. I like to get a huge quart of chicken and broccoli with spicy garlic sauce and a big quart of just steamed broccoli and carrots. And then I like to dump the chicken and broccoli with all the sauce into a big bowl – or sometimes I just use a big sauce pan. Then I go through each piece of chicken and make sure it doesn’t look suspect – you know, no pieces that look like they could be more cat than cock. No dark meat, nothing that looks like it could be chewy. Just kinda preform an overall Q&A test on the meat portion. Once the meat has passed inspection, with the suspect pieces tossed, I go for the broccoli. It’s not that I am looking for suspect broccoli, as most of usually looks pretty good from a freshness standpoint, remarkably. But I don’t like the stalks. I’m not into the trunk of the broccoli. So I get my kitchen scissors and I cut off the top of the broccoli trees. They hold most of the delicious garlic sauce anyway and they taste the best. A good broccoli pruning always makes me feel like I am doing the best for my Chinese food.”

Dr. Sanders is still, miraculously, fully engaged and, dare I say, perhaps even considering this technique for his own uses.

“Of course, I repeat this process with the steamed broccoli, toss the rest of the steamed carrots and beheaded broccoli trees into the original vat of saucy, broccoli heads and non-suspect chicken pieces and toss, equally distributing the garlic sauce over all the veggie and chicken friends. It really makes for a far better eating experience if you ask me.”

By the time I have gotten to the end of this instructional play by play, I notice that Peter and Eli are assessing me with an air of embarrassed amazement. But before I can jump to my own defense, my head starts to feel a little too light. Damn those bubbles!

Dr. Sanders extends his hand to Eli, “Shelly, it’s so wonderful to see you again. I was delighted to hear that you have made partner at the firm! It’s nice to know that at least one company has their act together. I hope they know how lucky they are to have such a fantastic attorney representing their brand. Bravo!”  

The rest is a blur, but I know Peter put me in a cab. Apparently I wouldn’t stop saying, “Eff the G train”. 

Chapter Four: 7018 Words

I’ve got to call Tigg back. He has been working like a madman helping me finish this website and I feel like a bad friend / ex-wife. He’s been home pounding the keys while I been strolling aorund the Upper East Side. He really is a good friend to me now, even though most of the time he drives me nuts. God, I cant believe we were ever married. That all seems like so long ago. I can’t even remember how it used to be, funny as that may sound. And I cant help but think of how lovely Eli’s relationship is with Peter. She seems almost afraid to admit how in love with each other they are, even after 2 years of serious dating. And I cant help but think about how Tigg and I started out just as happy. And then things crumbled. I mean, a marriage doesn’t really just crumble in one day. Maybe those fissures, rifts and issues were there all along, but we just dealt with them differently. Or maybe it’s just too hard to stay with someone when the individual growth spurts for both people are so significant.

When Tigg and I first met, we were fresh out of college, determined to find fancy corporate jobs that would build our bank accounts, resumes and connections. I remember sitting next to him in a orientation class at Brooks Brothers corporate. Tigg was so skinny back then, but in a charming tech-indie way. He wore thick framed glasses and well tailored slacks. His shoes were a cross between Vans and topsiders, his hair not long, not short, piled in a messy but intentional way, swept over almost to his eyes. He was hired to work on their upcoming website overhaul – one of 8 guys recruited straight from undergrad. I had graduated a year earlier and was working as a Human Resources consultant for my Aunt’s company. I applied online and somehow worked my way through the interview process and eventually into a new role as a junior HR associate. Of all the places to sit in that orientation we sat next to one another. We immediately hit it off. Tigg was – and still is, I suppose – so handsome and smart.

We were married three years later and separated two years after that. I used to think that there was nothing worse than getting a divorce. Before I got married I thought this, while I was married I thought this and as my marriage was turning into a divorce I thought this. But that was a silly way to look at things. I was too fucking worried about everyone else. And what everyone would think. And what everyone would say. It’s funny – and by funny I mean quite sad – that some of these very same reasons are the reasons that I felt the need to get married in the first place. I was 24, Tigg and I had lived together for a couple of years. We shared plates and pillows, went to sunny islands together, talked about getting a dog. We were, for the most, happy. We took care of one another. We were both good people. We trusted each other. We depended upon each other. We became our own family of two. My structure for living and interacting with the world was directly related to Tigg’s. Neither of us had much in way of friends or family to lean on, so we leaned on each other. Maybe thats why, even at such a young age, I had never felt older. I wanted to be a young mom, whatever that means. I wanted to buy a house and settle down, whatever that means. And I never thought I was settling. I never thought I was rushing into things. But how can you ever really know any of that at the time.

The short story is I came to wear on Tiggs nerves. He needed more quiet. I needed more loud. Work stressed him out and he needed alone time to decompress. Work stressed me out and I needed him to comfort me. As our savings accounts grew, our day to day interaction shrank. I became too messy, too loud. He became too rigid, too meek.

He never really understood I couldn’t take his shushing. He never really understood that I was so unhappy. It started with my threatening to leave and my hoping he would tell me to stay. I wanted so badly for things to be different. I tried to be a quiet version of myself. I tried to please him. But nothing worked. I pleaded with Tigg to work with me. I told him how unhappy I was.

Then I told him I was going to leave. I told him I was looking for apartments. I told him I had found a place. I told him I was moving. And then I did. By the time we started couples counseling it was too late for us. It was already over.

No one seemed to understand what had happened to us. Everyone seemed so shocked. The friends and coworkers we did have could only talk about how “happy” we seemed. Friends asked me if Tigg was cheating on me. I was horrified that they could think that he would. Or if I had cheated on him?

“Well, why else would you two get divorced?”

“Have you really tried to make it work?”

“Is there another man?”

“Marriages are hard, you know. Are you just throwing in the towel?”

I couldn’t believe their disbelief. I blamed myself for sending picture perfect picture photo cards for Christmas. I blamed myself for the well edited vacation albums, showing our perfect smiles in perfect places. I blamed our lovely little apartment and my beautiful wedding ring. I blamed my determination to make things work and never admit that things weren’t working. And most of all I blamed myself for not knowing any of this would happen, for not knowing what to do now that it was happening and for not being able to prevent it or stop it from happening.

It’s painful and sad. And it’s beautiful, all at the same time. There is something to be said for walking into Ikea, alone and heartbroken, only to realize that not only do you no longer have a bed or a partner to share it with, but also you no longer have as a partner to help you self-serve your new bed onto a cart. You cant do it alone no matter how hard you try. And the dresser too is too heavy. Your old shower had a glass door, but now you need to pick out a shower curtain and you cant even remember what the new bathroom in your new place looks like. It’s a weekday and luckily there aren’t many people in the store, but you cant help but see a few young couples, a few shopping in the kids department. Sure, it’s not cancer. Sure, it’s not death. Sure, it’s not the end of the world. But all things being relative, it’s pretty fucking depressing.

I should be thankful that we are still friends and I suppose I am. Sometimes though, with that much history, I think it would be a lot easier if we weren’t.

“The cellular subscriber is not available. Please leave a message.”

“Hey Tiger. It’s me. I just wanted to thank you again for all your help and support. I know this project has been in a pain the ass and I want you to know that I don’t take it for granted. Hope you’re having a good day. Love you. Bye”

Chapter Three: 5730 Words

“Wait what are you wearing? Do you see me? Im the one looking like a homeless person.”

“I’m in my beige trench from Banana and a pencil skirt”

“Jesus, Eli, so is every other girl in these parts. Do you see me? I’m standing in front of Bergdorff’s, on the North side of the street. I’m wearing I blown-out pink tank top and horrible jean shorts. Someone should honestly deport me back to some horrible suburb.”

“Wait, where are you? Are you wearing a hat? Wait, that’s no you. Pink. Pink. Pink – Oh I see you. That’s not a tank top, that’s a sleeveless blouse. I thought you …”

I hang up on Eli because I can see her crossing the street – dressed casually and perfectly for a Saturday shopping date with her depressed friend. I cant help but smile when I see her. She’s one of those girls that always has her act together, even though she would be the last person in the world to believe that about herself. She is a lovely person and such a good friend.

In a mocking aggravated tone, she scolded, “Margret, you snot. You hung up on me!”

“Shells, it’s not hanging up on someone when you can continue talking to them in real life because they are within earshot.”

Eli gives me a half hug and adjusts a Louis Vuitton, one that I have never seen her carry, higher on her shoulder.

“Wait wait wait! Back the eff up, Eli! What is that?” I said pointing her beautiful new accessory.

I see her blush and try to dodge the direct hit of LV identification.

“I know. I know. I think it’s too much. Peter brought it back for me from Japan. I just don’t …”

“You little slut! It’s gorgeous! That man knows you better than you even know yourself! Im glad he treated you to a little treat. Ah, young lovers!”

Eli blushes again and then, clearly marking this conversation done, links my elbow in hers and drags me inside the store.

I don’t quite have the heart to tell her how crushed I am about Dan. I somehow feel that my missing him isn’t justified, even though I know she wants to hear how I am doing with things. I don’t want to talk about it. I want to talk about her success at work and this party in her honor and how I think Peter is bound to propose to her any day now. I don’t want to talk about how I miss the way my pillows smell or the coffee shop that I had grown so fond of while I was getting acquainted with a new city. Or how I hated the one deli Dan and I would go to because I read an online review that said the manager was a jerk. Dan liked their sandwiches so we went there all the time. I missed that place. I missed bickering about whether or not the owner even existed and if so, whether or not he really was a jerk. I was heartbroken. But I couldn’t explain these things. It was too painful. It wasn’t painful like the brace I wore on my wrist for 2 weeks or the money I lost when I gave away all the furniture I bought with the hope of it becoming not mine in boston, but ours, in Boston. It was way worse than that type of pain.

“Now Maggs. Let’s find ourselves some party dresses!”

“I don’t know Eli. I can’t really afford another new outfit. Maybe I’ll just wear one of my other dresses.”

God knows I have a million cocktail dresses from the days of old when I actually had parties to go to and people to impress. And new or old, everything I own is pretty much the same – black, the standard for New York, short and cute. What’s good for Coco Chanel is good for me and you really can’t go wrong with a little black something. Tigg used to say all my clothes looked the same and he was right. I’m pretty “classic” when it comes to my take on style. And by “classic” I mean boring.

“Absolutely unacceptable!” Eli scolded. “We are getting you something fun and gorgeous. This is my night so humor me and allow me to treat! Plus, I already told you, one of my ridiculously generous – not to mention wealthy - clients gave me a gift card and we are using it! I want to check out some new shoes too! After all, boot season is upon us.”

When walking through the revolving doors of one of Manhattan’s most impressive shopping Mecca’s, it’s hard not to be swept away by the size and grandeur. The ceilings soar for 5 levels and hanging from the middle, cascading down over many levels are little paper cutouts of birds, all in white. They seem to twinkle. Maybe they’re made of glass and not paper? And I guess they must be doves, but I don’t really know. The floors buzz with festive energy and elegance and if the aim is to get you in the mood for luxury items this holiday season, then in my opinion they have succeeded. I find myself being pulled into the thought of going back to work for a huge company so that I can return to making a huge salary, at any cost to my actual happiness. We pass a display filled with handbags and clutches, each one with a subtle adornment – maybe a brass buckle or a braided strap. I suddenly feel envious, remembering how my old bank account would be automatically supplied every two weeks with boatloads of quan. Soul killing blood money, perhaps, but money all the same.

Eli and I take the escalator up two flights and walk out into an array of sparkling dresses and gowns. Eli picks out a couple of dresses for herself – some with floral detail, others with beautiful texture and cuts. I try to get into the spirt of shopping, but struggle and end up grabbing a few random choices to take into the fitting room. By the time I get inside and latch the door all I really want to do is go back home and crawl into bed. I don’t want to get dressed up. I don’t want to have to do my make up. Who cares? The only person I want to show off to is some 300 miles away having already moved onto greener pastures. God, why am I so obsessed with that douche?

“Okay Magg’s. I think this one in my favorite! Come have a look.”

I pull on a short purple dress with thick modern straps and a bow on one shoulder. I look fine, pretty even, but still could care less. I don’t want to have to step out of the dressing room and pretend to be happy, though I feel as though I should. I open the door and see Shells in her latest outfit. She’s right, this one is the best. It’s an elegant strapless number that’s a perfect fit. She looks awesome, as if the dress was custom made for her.

“Eli you look beautiful!”

“Oh Maggs – I love yours too! And purple – the color isn’t exactly a huge change from your normal black uniform, but it’s super pretty! Do you like it?”

I glance in the mirror and see us both there in our designer dresses. We look so refined and so grown up. Even despite my gloomy outlook, I cant help but appreciate the visual. How is it that we have come to be where we are? I’m about to turn 31 and Eli just had her 30^th birthday. We used to be 14 year old tomboys with crushes on kids who listened to Nirvana and the Grateful Dead and now we’re standing in one of the fanciest stores in world wearing a couple of g’s worth of fabric. It’s really crazy where life takes you. It really is.

“Yea, I like it. It’s nice. And I don’t look like a million pounds in it either.”

“Shut up. You’re tiny.”

“Whatever… So are we sold on these?”

“I think we are! Mission accomplished!”

We spend the next few hours looking at shoes and wandering around the home goods section. All of the holiday plates and ornaments are out. I think of how empty my apartment is and how I’ll have to cover the windows in that shrink wrap stuff just like we used to do in college. Winter will be here soon which means I will have even less of a reason to venture out into the world and probably slip even further into this depression. God, alone, lonely freezing and poor. It’s going to be a really good time! Most people don’t break up in the winter, they wait for the Spring. Dan used to say that’s because everyone needs a warm body to lie next to in the winter, regardless of how annoying they are. I think he’s made a fair point. Also, as expected, we broke up when the air was still warm and filled with butterflies. Fucking kill me. Note to self: find a rich, not-too-annoying warm body for the winter.

Chapter Two: 3034 Words

“Tigg, I know you can do the job, but can you do the job? I mean —”

“Really? Really, Maggie!? How many fucking times have we fucking been through this? I do this for a living you know!”

“Yea, I know, but last I checked you didn’t have a job. Need I being up “StarSnow” and “The Russian Empire”?

“Whatever, Maggs. Don’t break my balls. You know those projects were way more tougher than building your dame e-commerce website.”

He’s right. And he’s wrong. I actually have no idea how hard making things on the internet is relative to making other things on the the internet. It all seems pretty hard to me.

“Okay, Tiggs. Relax. Im sorry. You know this is a touchy spot for me. Don’t forget. We never have had a great working relationship. Remember I even fired you from planning our wedding?”

“Yea, ‘cause you’re a psycho”

“Um, more like you are the worst employee on the face of America.”

Tigg tipped his head, slowly rolling his eyes to the ceiling as if to say, “fine Ms. Perfect, maybe the “worst employee in America” will leave you in www.nohelp.com/america.”

“Hey, Bro. Listen, Tiger. Im sorry. I know we look at things differently. This is my baby. I need your help. But I also need you to know that I cant wake up tomorrow to find that you have covered my site design with your post-modern-i-dont-even-know-what-your-estetic-is esthetic. If you are going to help me rebuild this thing, then it has to look like the way Missing-Web-Guy and I designed it.”

“That webtard is an asshat.”

“Yes. True story. But, I like the way that Asshat makes websites. Pleeeeese just help me?”

“Of course you know I’ll help you Maggie. You’re my best friend. Even if you don’t have a good taste in design”

“I hate you.”

“Okay. Hate you too. Love you, byeeeeeee.”

Thank god for Tiggs. He is really saving my ass here. If I had to find another guy to rebuild this site on short notice, with next to no money left in the budget, I’d get raped. Or more likely, I’d willingly give up my body to get the job done at a fair price. And he was right when he said we are best friends. He’s my best friend without a doubt – even though I am constantly reminded why our marriage didn’t work, we’re still bros to the core. And let me just say that this friendship does WONDERS for my present day boyfriends. Nothing like having to compete with a best friend / brilliant ex-husband. Walk in the park, let me tell you. As if being divorced wasn’t bad enough itself. Whatever. Those boys can suck it. I love Tiger to death (and till death do us part, technically) but I wouldn’t make out with him if you paid me. Sometimes love changes in that way, but, of course, no one ever likes that fact. Whatever. That is so three years ago and we so didn’t work out.

Tigg’s a really great guy – funny, bright and thoughtful, but he’s not exactly the most emotionally tuned in human. I mean he is a computer whiz, after all It’s practically cliché, but it’s totally true. Even now that we’re split, I still have to deal with his take on tact. I especially love the conversations we have when he casually mentions that his new girlfriend is a millionaire supermodel and even as my face changes from post-divorce buddy bliss to suicide self-comparison, he doesn’t seem to notice that I start to gasp for self worth infused air. Tigg just goes on, mentioning that they have been seeing each other for whoever long. She’s really cool. She speaks Mandarin. She has a pug and listens to indie music. You know, the epitome of cool. By this point in his (might as well be) soliloquy, I am slumped down, practically under the table, frown out in full “please-stop-you-are-crushing-my-soul” effect. This all goes unnoticed. This is why we got divorced. That and the fact that he thought I was too loud, never wanted to leave the house, hated delicious and crunchy food and thought it was gross that I left my toothbrush on the side of the sink not in the cabinet. This is what happens when you get married too early and when you think it is your job in life to put up with bullshit. But being best friends happens when you spend 10 years of your life together and you’ve been though hell and back together. We pretty much grew up together. I mean not in the same hood or through puberty, but as in “when shit gets real and you find out what you’re made of ” grew up together. you’ve lost your parents in that same time. After a point we became more than man and wife. You become family. Tiger really the only one I have in this big wide world. Well, Eli. I have Eli too.

“NELLS! Are you SURE you want to come to Midtown for this party? I don’t want you to feel like you have to. Really. I know you are stressed with the business. So no pressure. Seriously. Maggs, just let me know. I don’t even want to go. Ugh. I think I am going to start smoking again. It’s been 8 days. I don’t think I can make it. Up to a pack a day – of Nicorette! I swear this shit isn’t strong enough for me. Call me. Love you! Bye!”

I love Eli. She’s been my best friend since 7^th grade and she is as rock solid as they come. In 3 days she’s being officially promoted to partner at her law firm in New York. The law firm in New York: Gadge, Marks & Associates. Or should I say Gadge, Marks, Eliason & Associates. Talk about having your act together. Eli is the total package: pretty, smart, ridiculously dependable and about as selfless as they come. She is nothing like the old dumped out people I used to work with. In fact, every time I see her she looks like she stepped out of Corporate Sophistication Magazine. Even her nylons are awesome. But appropriately so. They’re awesome in a highbrow european way, not in a trashbomb Urban Outfitters way. If I wore nylons, you can guess which camp mine would resemble. Fuck. I don’t ever know if I own nylons anymore. I do wear legwarmers tho. Tigg actually gave me them to me years ago. They are all ripped to shreds, but I think they are still cool looking. Im sure his new supermodel gf has legwarmers with matching hot euro-nylons. Whatever. I divorced him after all. I need to remind myself of that.

Which also reminds me – I need to figure out what I am going to wear to Eli’s party. I haven’t been in much of mood to celebrate lately. First the douche nozzle web guy goes missing which means I’m going to miss my launch date and now I have Tigg on the job – with fingers crossed that he’ll come through for me. I trust him with my life, and yet somehow I know I know better than to hire him for the job. He’s almost too smart for it. I just want him to build the site and make it go. He wants to build the site, style every pixel and then make it fly on the wings of a prehistoric centaur. But Tigg’s my best bet at this point. And we know each other better than anyone … which means I will be able to go crazy insane psycho on him without him totally hating me and he will be able to blow my deadline by a week and I wont have to fire him. Ah, such a weird web thats woven when we wed.

And frankly, I still miss Dan. That complete douche. I don’t understand how it is that I can have a guy cheat on me and I am the one missing him. It doest seem to make sense. I guess, technically, he didn’t cheat on me, cheat on me, but he might as well have. God, I was so in love with him and he smashed my heart into a thousand broken record pieces. I can still feel a creak in my wrist when I think about the day I found out.

“Maggs, I didn’t lie to you. I just didn’t tell you.”

“Wait, but I don’t understand. I asked you before why this girl kept calling you and you said she was a friend of Max’s. And that you thought she was annoying”

“Well, it’s true. I do think she is annoying”

“But she’s just not just a friend of Max’s. She’s your old girlfriend!”

“No maggie. She was never my girlfriend.”

“Okay. Im sorry. I must be confused. Maybe you can help me break this down. Did you and this girl hangout.”

“Yes, Maggie. You know we did”

“Okay. And by hangout, I think we both know you mean fucked a couple of times?”

I can remember so clearly him just sitting there slumped over in bed, his hair a mess and his eyes shifting at me pleadingly. But this train could not be stopped.

“Okay. So not your old girlfriend. Your old fuck buddy. Honestly, you make me sick. You intentionally tried to keep her a secret from me, but why if it’s all in the past? And why is she still calling you if you “think she is so lame” and you guys aren’t friends?”

At 6’2 Dan had a special skill that allowed him to suddenly turn from a ridiculously sexy 24 year old, to a dumpy overgrown baby with ill fitting clothing.

“Maggs I—”

“When was the last time you saw her, Dan?!?”

I could feel myself becoming filled with anger, running through a million potential scenarios of them running off into the sunset behind my back.

“I don’t know Maggie. Before you and I started dating. It’s been forever.”

“So she is just calling you out of the blue, asking you to hang out ENDLESSLY because she just misses all the times that you hung out, boned down, and bailed?…. when was the last time you spoke to her, Dan?”

“I dunno. You mean on the phone?”

“I mean however! Are you fucking kidding me? Phone, text, email, chat, Facebook, twitter, snailmail? WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU SPOKE WIITH THIS NON-FRIEND ANNOYING PERSON THAT YOU COULDNT STAND!?”

I couldn’t have been more mad. My brain hurt. My intuition was on full blast, lockdown, army whatever task force insane town. I was fit to be tied. I was so pissed my closed hands were now full blown fists, clenched so tightly that I could feel nail marks being etched in my palms.

He just sat there, becoming ever more slumpy, dumpy and lame. He said was nothing. Sitting there. In my bed. In the apartment I rented in his home town. To be closer to him for the summer. Because we wanted to try to make our long distance relationship a non-LDR. I moved to fucking Boston for this. I moved to Boston for Dan. Oh god. I am so in love with this complete asshole …

“We chatted online when you were in New York last weekend”.

It kills me to even think about what happened next. How he somehow managed to pull up their chat conversation to show me that it was all innocent. How I read about him lying in bed and being so tired and wondering when she would see him next. How he teased her that she had to invite him over if she wanted to see him. How the conversation lasted over 2 hours. How it all happened while I was away in New York, checking in on all the things I had left behind so that I could be in Boston for the summer. With him. Or how before I realized what I was doing, I had smashed the laptop closed with one million PPI and threw it not at the wall, but into the wall, hard enough to make a dent in the shitty old horsehair, some 4 inches deep. I was beyond upset. There were no tears to be had at that time. No heartbreak to be found. No woe is me. No how could you. There was only rage based action. My tiny frame up against his huge body – with a passion previously used only for sex, adoration and lust – now fully concentrated at twice the power to pull him onto his huge feet and shove him towards the door.

“Get the FUCK out of my apartment”

My voice was filled with a tone of white trash I didn’t even know was possible. Fueled, perhaps, with the voices of zillions of other wronged women and their broken hearts.

“Get the fuck out!”

I was shoving him backwards towards the door. I was pushing him so hard and with such determination and wild eyed hysteria, that his socks couldn’t manage to hold their ground. He wasn’t resisting me. He wasn’t a violent guy. Or a forceful guy. As he slide closer to the door, he started to plead,

“Let’s talk. Maggie. Please. Nothing happened. Margret. Stop. Stop, Maggs. Please.”

And I shoved. And I yelled as I shoved. And when we got to the door I flipped the inside bolt open and shoved and shoved again. He was mostly through the doorway when he tried to hold the door open, when he tried to keep me from slamming shut our once budding life. But I pushed. And I pounded and banged on that door. I pounded so hard with my little hands that they started to ache. When he grabbed my wrist I twisted out of his big grip like I was practicing in some 8^th grade self defense gym class.

He sat outside for a while. At one point he lightly knocked on the door and asked for his keys and his stuff – a book-bag, his shoes, maybe his hat. I cant remember. I tossed them out. We were done fighting. We were, in fact, just done. It was only a subletted apartment in the suburbs of Boston. I lived there by myself. I remember when I moved in trying to make it a little home. I was “nesting” I guess, as gay as that sounds. I was so filled with hope. And excitement. I was so in love with this guy. I think I thought I would be there forever. Or be in that situation forever. I bought a couple of couches for what was officially only supposed to be 3 months of summer living. I went to Ikea and bought a table and chairs. And curtains. Nothing too fancy, but all things I could have done without. All things, in hindsight, I never would have wanted if I didn’t somewhere in my mind think we would be together for a long time, maybe for a forever time.

The walls were a different story - I didn’t have a lot of money so I had, over a couple of months, covered the walls in collages – outlined in artists tape in the form of large murals. I filled the inside with pictures cut out from magazines. It was spring. And I was inspired by the happiness of the pastels and the cute sentiments of bunnies, colored eggs and whatever else those Martha Stewart magazines were pushing that year. Man they make those things look so cheery. So light. So happy. So lovely. That’s how I felt when I got there. Why I couldn’t have just left them bare, I don’t know. No one ever really even saw them except for him. And I’m not sure he ever really noticed.

Later that day I would tear down each and every one of those murals. Six in total. One spanning a huge hallway wall. Goodbye white cakes with pearl adornments. Goodbye spring flowers and brightly colored stationary sets. Goodbye, silly catch phrases and cute animals. Goodbye Boston. I was packed by morning, but I had no where to go. Eli had been on assignment in India that spring but hadn’t rented out her and Peter’s place. We had both left New York for new adventures, tho she left behind her amazing 2 bedroom condo, white gloved doorman, parking including duplex while I subletted my small one bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. I couldn’t exactly kick out the subletting stoner tenants that were at my place 2 months early, so I ended up swallowing my pride and asking Eli if I could crash at her pad. Going through the post-break-up motions are so heartbreaking.

“Of COURSE Nells! God, I will send you money or clothes or anything! What do you need?”

“Thanks Eli. I don’t need anything – just somewhere to get away to.”

I remember her worried voice through the crackle of her Calcutta based mobile.

“Maggie. Are you sure? Are you sure you don’t need anything? Does Tigg know?”

“Tigg knows. You know he never really liked Dan.”

“Well, honestly Maggs, I’m not sure anyone knew what you liked about him, only that you seemed to like him with “great abandon”!

Eli was intentionally trying to sound dramatic to lighten the mood. I was intentionally pretending that I didn’t notice.

“I know. I get it. You guys think I am an idiot for ditching BK for Boston … I guess I am…”

I guess I was an idiot. Fuck. How could I love him with such “great abandon”? Sometimes nothing seems to make sense … but that was last Spring. A lot can change in a couple of seasons. Thank god for that.

Chapter One: 1115 Words

This is going to shit. I don’t know who I am or what I believe in. I turned off my internet because I cant deal with the distractions. I was supposed to be launching this great online company today. Well, no. Actually that’s not quite true. It was supposed to launch on Monday. I blew that deadline. That’s the second time i’ve blown this deadline. I was supposed to launch weeks ago. But I don’t know what I’m doing. The funny thing is I hired people to do these things for me, because I knew going into it that I didn’t know what I was doing. I don’t know how to write code. I don’t know how to “render” things, or even what “rendering things” even means. I had the idea. And I knew what I wanted it to all look like. But fucked if I knew how to make it all go. How to make the magic happen? No clue. So now I find myself one Colanipan in, a delivery pizza on it’s way and my internet turned off. God, I’m so sick of the distractions that are supposed to be helpful. Most of our distractions are supposed to not be distractions. They’re supposed to be helpful. That’s a funny trick, as they say Nigeria. Or as I read they say that in Nigeria.

A couple of days ago, I lost my webguy. Literally. I have no idea where he is. Normally I wouldn’t really care about some contractor living on the west coast paying pocket pool, except he holds the “keys to the kingdom” as they say. They probably say that because computer nerds are highly aligned with the wizard kind of nerds, eg, the LARPERs: Live Action Role Players. You know the type right? Dress up as ferries and unicorns and fight with styrofoam swords for “real” power in a “real” (totally fake insane) world. Anyway, my webguy has the keys to the princess kingdom which is actually a very real, very expensive business that is messing up my Real Life Live Action Payroll. What they don’t say is that without those keys, these 600 boxes taking up my tiny studio apartment in the Brooklyn Jewish Ghetto aren’t worth a damn. Well, that’s not true. Actually they are worth a damn. If by damn you mean my entire savings. I’m feel pretty fucked. And if one more person tells me it’s going to get better without accompanying some rent money to that statement, I might say thank you and then got promptly kill myself. Whatever. That’s not even true. I am way to much of a pussy to do that.

I probably should have gone back to work when I lost my job. See, here’s the thing: I fucking hate Corporate America and the fat, old retards who always seem to outrank the young, quick hungry retards. That’s me. Im in that second category. I hate dumpy executives who have a million billowy button down dress shirts that all look exactly the same, accompanied only by horrible khaki dress pants 2 sizes too small that are tucked around their dress shirt uniform, connected with some terrible, far too thin dress belt. You’re gonna like the way you look. Eff that. That’s the slogan from Men’s Warehouse. I wonder if they really do like the way they look. Maybe looking like bombed out and depleted shit is in this year? The old, fat women of corporate america are even worse. Their shoes alone are enough to make you spiral into a black hole depression. And the fact that somewhere, just barely hidden, in their terrible office drawers are a whole heap of bad shoes. Dumpy, square toed, TJ Maxx bargain basement special. I guess that’s a variety one of the bad shoed ladies of Corporate town. The second, equally horrible version, are the women who try to wear 74832748723847 inch tranny stilettos in the workplace. I wonder if they knew that look like chickens when they walk? More specifically, like chickens getting ready to peck at invisible corn nuggets of the office berber.

I wasn’t sad to go, but I was really surprised. They said I was laid off. Eugene, my horrible, fat, retarded boss said that they were upgrading the talent of my team. Funny thing is my team was fucking brilliant. I had this one girl who was sharp as a tack and no more than 25 years old. She was one of those whiz kids who’s nails were always perfectly painted in a nice neural pink but you could just barely see her fingers typing away at approximately 3748273498 words a second. She could crunch the numbers, write uplifting copy, organize whatever shit show I had been working on, making it infinitely better, all the while making friends with everyone and their mother. And she was cute as a button! She was pretty much one of the best employees I have ever worked with. She was about 9000000x better and smarter than me, which is precisely why I liked to have her around. Oh and also because she was fucking hysterical. Mya was especially skilled at whiteboard recreations of other more retarded coworkers. A+.

And then there was our shy, baby bird like intern. He didn’t say much, but you could hand him any task and he would not only complete it perfectly, he would have added data/columns/whatever to make the task itself actually worth a shit. He was awesome. Good people. We ruled things pretty hard for a while. And then, we got sent to the Death Star. I could bore you with the details of how a corrupt the whole deal was. Or how our sackless wonder of a Director got sent out to pasture leaving us to clean up after his poor decisions. I could relay more stories of how fat, disgusting and idiotic this Eugene was. Or how his english came straight from the Beverly Hillbillies teleprompter:

“Guys, now guys, irregardless, we need to do it”

“Wuddinit, don’t it see guys, now guys, see, guys, now guys,”

Did I mention he was, like, 55? He also seemed to take a shine to our intern and asked repeatedly if he could take him for a ride in his 19something whatever douche-bag recreated penis car … but, I wont bore you. Maybe I should have returned to that world. I seem to remember it so fondly.

But anyway. I didn’t go back. Good bye six figures. Goodbye free coffee. Goodbye health insurance. Hello missing webguy. Hello credit card debt. Hello living the dream! You’re going to like the way you look.

time to finish my book

i no longer sleep so i think it is time to write a book. many of you guys have heard of national novel writing month. for those of you who haven’t, the idea is you write a book - defined at 50,000 words - in 30 days during the month of november. i’ve gotten about 11,600 words down so far, which means that for nov 13, i am ~10,000 words behind schedule. soooo i think i am going to post my work on here so that i can hold myself accountable. 

FAIR WARNING: I have no plot in mind and I have no novel writing experience. 

FAIR WARNING TRANSLATION: This book will probably be shitty, at best. 

Back To The Hood & Hassids

Hi bros! Here’s the 8 month 411. I know I am overdue & I know AK and the ATX crew have been bothered by my mostly pics based posts. Never fear frens! Here is an update & emo-post for you!

Soooooooooooooo I moved to North Carolina in May. I subletted my BK apt to an amazing fashion designer, got my 1999 white plastic (Saturn) car from upstate NY, packed up my dog and my dishes and drove down south. I did it for a boy, of course & for the adventure, of course. This is just how I roll, of course. It’s now October which, in unrelated news, marks my THREE year anniversary of not (really) working. Well, you know, aside from the endless work I’ve been doing on my own companies: Bye bye savings! Bye bye nest egg! Bye bye stock options! thank you Corporate America! #iwasthe1%whenitwasstillcool #occupymysickapartmentwith2roofdecks

ANYWAY. The summer was pretty awesome. Lots of sun and fun and solid “god’s work” outside - fixing bikes, riding bikes, painting a deck, swabbing the decks. I got to surf, scuba dive and face my paralyzing fear of cockroaches. I also suffered through a breakup, a hurricane & small town living - complete with references to “praise bands” and horrible southern accents. I met some amazing people too. A sweet guy with crazy hair and a dog that’s even more of a fat guy than Nacky. One of the funniest and most remarkable women I have ever known, complete with a humongous heart, a little buddy and a handsome husband. And her parents who are exactly the same, only a little bit older and their buddy is a little bit smellier, but just as wonderful all the same.

But the summer is over. And here I sit, back in hood.

These past few weeks have been pretty epic.

SUMMARY
- I get completely rejected by a boy that I totally love (ouch!)
- I decide to move back to the city (even tho I seriously cannot make rent #wouldstripifiwerehotter)
- I order takeout and when it comes with a 2 liter bottle of Coke and not diet Coke drink it anyway #onewayticketofattown
- I show my webcomic at New York Comic Con and sell over 300 cards featuring my drawings
- I preview my product at a “girls night out” in Chelsea and even though the event blows, I still manage a great reception.
- I return to the Marcy Projects to find that my adorable sublettor and her adorable boyfriend have rearranged my apartment in a brilliant way that I never would have envisioned

And I … Well I don’t know. I guess I don’t know what else. Maybe I win back the boy down the road? Maybe I get a day job? Or a night job? Maybe I cash in my 401k and go for another spin around the world? Maybe I buy a pug puppy? Or maybe I just do nothing for a while? Tbd.

That’s the good word folks.
Full calorie Coke Liquid fat FTW!

Lissy out!