Got an interview at the Stanford University Howard Hughes Medical Institute!
And got the spot after five months to shadow an anesthesiologist, Dr. Herhusky, during his surgeries. Why does everything seem to be going so well, but I still feel like hanging my heavy body halfway out the tub while the water runs over? Either my stomach’s been operating at the wrong pH for weeks or I’ve become more and more frightened of every possible good.
My boyfriend got angry at me the other day. I don’t remember what it was about. All I remember was the heat of his rage, pounding my small frame in waves and being terrified of the look in his eyes. He looked me straight on and said, “You’re so fucking beautiful and you’re such a fucking idiot, because you don’t even see it. You think you’re this shitty little person who doesn’t deserve anything, but you’re the best. The best. And you’re an idiot.”
I saw a post on tumblr, one of those iPhone text bubble posts. It said the same thing. I couldn’t help but piteously laugh at the tragically disparate undertones. One, a sweet remark in awe of another’s beauty. The other, a cynically roused epithet of resentment. Human relationships are not so simple as a script. The words can be there, but they hold more than letters and fonts and emphasis. They contain entire worlds of arguments past, the sound of zippers, laughter muffled by skin, the soft silk of lips in the early morning, fists that push, doors that slam, and arms that hold so tight, the blood stops. My heart rocks back in forth in my chest, and I feel it’s home getting raw underneath my bones. My arms ache from holding you, placating you, promising you things I know I’ll never keep. It’s okay; you won’t notice.
It was then, when my arms seemed too heavy to lift, as if the gravity of our relationship sank into my very marrow, that I walked away. I promised myself no more torture, no more violent tornados of hate supposedly masking love, no more destruction. I very literally stood up, and praised my calves for straightening my wavering body. The first step was lingering, as if I hoped you’d plead for me to stay. The second was powerfully intentional, and filled with a desperate determination. What happened next, was unexpected. You grabbed my ankle in motion, and pulled my thigh close. I looked down at your ruffled hair, and saw what looked like a child. You looked like a child on the verge of tears, lip quivering, asking his mother to stay, please, stay, don’t go. You looked terrified. Suddenly, you straightened the anchored legs beneath you and stood beside me. Our hands intertwined, and your grip hardened. “Let’s go,” you breathlessly whispered into my ear, and with a kiss on the cheek, we left.
On Things Other Than Love.
I feel like lately that I can’t articulate anything other than my twisted emotions in love and relationships. It’s as if I’ve conditioned myself to be so hardy academically and professionally, that any issue I take with them I internalize. It’s as if I’m so ashamed that I’m teetering on the precipice of failure when all I need is to move my feet in the opposite direction, that I simply close my eyes and feel my body waving in the wind.
So my client has severe Down’s. He’s 35, can’t speak a single word and can’t eat anything that’s not blended or he’ll choke to death.
He has one of the most overwhelming disabilities I’ve ever seen. Today, I got that boy a Jamba Juice and I’ve never seen anyone so purely happy. That fucker gave me a reason to live.
My job is unspeakably rewarding.
Out of the past 27 hours, I’ve worked 21 hours.
This weekend, I came like a wild animal upon release, kicked the clearest blue ocean water in all of California at my lover, broke a few laws pertaining to public indecency, and used my first booze pass at costco.
Tonight I’m going home, stripping off my clothes, climbing into Chris’s tee and a pair of black lacies, pounding four Stellas andpassing the fuck out.
On Moving In Together
I curl my legs behind one another and slip a palm under a deflated pillow as I stare into the onyx abyss that is the back of your chair. I lazily wave away your work and question my ability to even fathom the beginnings of a life with you. What about me might destroy you? What about my mannerisms might annoy you? What about my body might disgust you? You fell in love with me on a whim and you’ll fall out of love with me on a whim. I know; I’ve been you.
I am a strong force of femininity and pro-sociality, dominating any room with bedroom eyes and a taste for a good hefeweizen. You float from room to room laughing with bright eyes, but once we find a second of solitude, you crumble. You are time-lapse photography of Rome. What was once great and beautiful decays in seconds into a fervid mess of contempt and indignity. Your neuroses morph into a perverse creature and wraps its slender claws into your shoulders. It spins golden web from its fingertips. I watch as a sticky trail of silk springs from the threads of your carefully knitted sweater. The figure mechanically twists and bobs its nails; your arms follow through. They push me farther away from you and violently fold across your heaving chest. A deep bellowing laughter emanates from the Stygian mass suspended above you, and you don’t seem to notice. In these moments, devastated by your demons, you never notice much of anything at all except for your pleading loneliness. It is cavernous and all-consuming. You concede to their power, and reluctantly revel in their triumph. Their victorious howls are your only familiar comfort now. You settle into this dark corner, and begin to call it home.
This is where I really start to worry. There’s an old adage that goes something along the lines of, “You can’t save people from themselves.” I can’t rescue you from the void, but I can wait patiently for you on the other side. I can sit, just as I do when I watch you stumble over numbers at the desk from your bed, and tell you I’m giving you a place to share. Is that enough? Will you come to meet me? Will you really move your heart at all? You’re comfortable where you are, and I get that, but to be blunt, don’t ask me to move in when you’re already settled with someone else.
I know this was horribly written, even for horrible old scientist-definitely-not-writer me, but I just really needed to vent. My feelings (not emotions, let’s be clear here) are all twisted up inside my head.
On The Boys That I Date & How They Love PBR
Texts of Today:
"I realize you’re human, but all I want is to make you happy. So happy that I’ll be everything you want and you’ll never want anything more. Cause I’ll do everything for you. I promise always try and make you happy."
"Good! Please love everything about me. That’s exactly what I want. I never want you to leave me and I never want you to think that anything would be better without me. I love you and we are fucking awesome together. Everyone has told me that today except Natalie and I knew that before they did. Wanna know the truth? The honest drunken no holding back truth? I want to move in with you. I want to be with you every night and I want to fuck you all the time but still take you on dates all the time because I don’t want sex to be the corner stone of our relationship and I love hanging out with you in general. I’m so attracted to you and you’re my world. I only have eyes for you and I wish that I could see you everyday."
Edited for drunk sex talk.
I feel like all day on tumblr everyone’s always talking about this kind of relationship and how unattainable and desirable it is. Am I seriously the only female here who thinks most of this is bullshit? It’s nice to hear if there’s blood pouring out of my pussy, sure, but I just wanna get drunk and get laid with someone I enjoy. All the extraneous shit doesn’t matter; I got a job and an education and real ass stuff to do. It doesn’t need to be Disney princess central, man.
On Letting It Go.
You are a complex man built of silence and self-hatred. I hate to admit it, but I share your soul. I spent half my paycheck and a week’s worth of planning trying to show you the world, but it’s still not good enough. You slam your lighter to the ground and it bursts into a fiery array of silver and dark plastic. There is nothing more tedious than a ferociously jealous twenty-something throwing a tantrum outside of a college party. I finger the door latch on my car and estimate how long it’ll take to get you in it. I bet myself $5 that in ten minutes there’ll be four lanky bearded boys clutching a Coors Lite, watching the action unfold as they take drags off their Turkish Golds. I am both $5 richer and $5 poorer. As you raise your voice, I know soon the girls will begin to filter outside and things will really start to go down the shitter. They’ll pull us apart and form a barrier between you and I, with their backs to me. Then they’ll turn to me and ask me if I’m okay, attaching terms of endearment to every question.
In my apartment, you hold your head in your hands. My twin spirit is all too familiar with your mannerisms. I could write a ten-page script for all the questions tearing you apart. They all begin with “why” and end with blind self-hatred. Instead, I peel off my clothes and wrap myself in a red blanket from our bed. Kneeling next to you, I fold my legs to my side and drape my arms around your shaking shoulders. I spend eternity saying all the things I wish someone had said to me, but every word is met with rebuttals and tangential accusations. I knew it was coming as equally as well as I knew that anything is better than silence. In the dripping, dark pit of desolation, a voice you reject is better than no voice at all. When surrounded by your own complete destruction and a mountain of shame, any sound to hang your hat will do. I let my voice drown in the darkness as I stroke the back of your neck and think of my own mirrored heart.
Despite the disapproval, the judgment, the one-sided fighting, the spiteful remarks, I like having you near. Taking such vigilant care of you forces me to forget about myself. I have no time to spend thinking you’re lying about loving me when you’re crumpled on the floor moaning something about how I left you to play a round of beer pong with someone else and how could I leave you alone and what was I doing then. I have no time to waste threatening break ups when you leave the bed in the middle of the night to twist and torment yourself with some innocuous comment from the night previous. I have no time to waste sabotaging this relationship with my insecurities if you’re already destroying it with yours. I’m fucked up, but you’re more fucked up, and your fucked-up-edness takes definite precedence over mine. It’s deep-rooted and conditioned from birth in a series of unfortunate genetic catastrophes. My days will be spent with fistfuls of invisible band-aids and empty hours sitting next to your cold body.
The strangest part is although you and I both have mercurial souls and a fierce taste for destruction we are still very much a slow burn. I don’t need the psychotic ups and downs to confuse me into believing that it’s love. In fact, I haven’t fought you one step of the way. You told me late the other night that I scared you because I never have anything bad to say about you. I hope this never changes. I think it marks the beginning of a new phase in my life. I will be stable; I will be your rock. Sometimes we run out of things to say, and sometimes I’m just glad to have a pair of arms wrapped tightly around me in the morning. I know our relationship isn’t a “roller coaster ride that derails in a shower of sparks,” but I’m heartbroken when you’re gone, and I crave the silence that falls between us. I love the way you play ukulele for me, and I don’t know how to function without your awkward walk. I beam with pride knowing I’m the only one who can get you to sleep naked, and the only one who tells you you’re beautiful, and sweet, and kind, and smart, and funny. We are a definite slow burn, but I can feel the heat rising.
Off jellyfish spotting, otter petting, champagne drinking, sushi eating, ukelele playing, kiss stealing, forest raving, and warmly sleeping all weekend long with Chris..
I have no morals,
I have motherfucking dignity.
Showing your tits on the internet for attention isn’t “wrong,” nor is staying clothed “right.” It’s a trade off of self worth and public gratification. I wouldn’t, but that’s my choice.