“Oh shit, Bianca! This isn’t a road,” I laughed, crunching through the snow towards the passenger window with an icy chunk of grass and soil in my hands. “This is someone’s yard!”
“What the fuck, Amanda?” She started laughing.
“I don’t fucking know!” My abs began to hurt. “But we have to get out of here before they see us and call the cops.” I ran to the back wheels of my car and continued to dig vigorously.
The two of us, as was common, had an impossible time determining if we were hungover, still drunk from the night before, or dreaming.
After nearly giving into the consequences of feeling eternally fucked up (i.e. calling for help), I managed to pull my car out of the trailer park lawn, and we continued on our mission.
Before I had decided driving through a snow covered trailer park would serve as a scenic shortcut, Bianca and I spent half an hour or so raking around Tabasco-drenched rubbery eggs with our forks, having inappropriately loud conversations about the party before, and complaining about how awful Denny’s truly is.
“You know what we should do?” Bianca looked at me with hooded eyelids. “We should buy mustaches. We should wear mustaches today.”
“I love mustaches,” I said, knowing exactly where to find a twelve pack of adhesive mustaches for a dollar.
“We should buy mustaches, and,” she paused. Her brain paused, and she stared into space for a few seconds. “And heads of lettuce. And we should walk around, eating heads of lettuce and wearing mustaches.”
“Fuck, Bianca. I swear you always have the best ideas.”
“I am a child of God, and He has sent me here,” the two of us sang rigorously and off-key in the back of a chapel of an LDS church. “Has given me an earthly home with parents kind and dear,” our voices cracked first from the lining of ash in our throats we had collected the night before and again with blasphemous laughter.
We had entered the church wearing last night’s skirts and shirts, once again unable to decipher whether we were drunk or hungover, but smelling drunk all the same.
We had joked about going back to church for weeks, solely for the hymns and the irony, but never worked up the courage and disrespect until that day.
I was driving Bianca home from a Saturday night party. Neither of us wanted to face our Mormon families who had no need to question what we had done or where we had done it, but would anyway.
We made a quick stop at an Albertsons for giant hangover-curing water bottles and a bag of salad mix. “Alright. Let’s go home. I’ll cook you some food,” Bianca said, half-awake.
I drove with no sense of direction. Bianca’s home was located in middle-of-nowhere, Utah County, and neither of us could figure out how to get to her house from the Albertsons. I set towards the freeway to get my bearings, but I couldn’t find the freeway either. I drove aimlessly for miles until we were lost in middle-of-somewhere, Utah County. “I’m kidnapping you, Bianca! You’re never going home!”
We cruised the quiet streets of a seemingly hidden, wealthy neighborhood, perfectly content for the loss of direction. “A kitten!” I slowed down. “Two—no three—kittens, Bianca! Three kittens and a pond! Are those quail?”
“Look at those trees, Amanda!”
“We have to stop. We found it. We found the Celestial Kingdom!” I pulled over, and the two of us sat under the trees by the side of the road, baffled that we’d stumbled into such an immaculate place. We dug our ash tray fingers into the sticky bag of salad mix and watched the neighborhood’s pristine families walk their dogs. Towards the end of the bag, however, we heard a helicopter overhead. “Do you know what that is? That is Jesus, Bianca. He’s mad that we found our way here and is trying to kick us out. ‘What are those cunts doing here?’” I mimicked the booming voice heard on church videos about God. “Oh, he’s pissed, Bianca. Good thing we’re under these trees.”
“That’s it, Amanda. We have to go to church today. It’s a sign.”
I met Bianca at my senior prom in 2006. She was one of six girls in our group of seven, but my boyfriend and I were too infatuated with each other and too triumphant with the knowledge that we no longer had to put up with the bullshit academic requirements of high school to get to know her as anything more than “Mallory’s Spanish Fork friend.”
I didn’t see her again until New Year’s Eve, the first day I ever allowed myself more than three drinks. The two of us drunk danced into a dizzy oblivion, falling over with laughter and helping each other up again, occasionally unsuccessfully, which resulted in us toppling onto one another. “How cute,” our friends said sarcastically. “The two drunkest girls here are helping each other out.”
“Oh my god. I fucking love you, Bianca,” I spewed out my drunk pull-string catchphrase, but for once it resonated. It endured.
“Bianca,” I said, taking a drag of my cigarette. We had just finished crying together. “You are my best friend. I know I tell Joe that he’s my best friend all the time, but we don’t have what you and I have. We don’t cry like this. I don’t trust him as much as I trust you.”
“I know.” Then Bianca whispered, “Don’t tell Mallory this, but you’re my best friend too. I can’t tell her everything I tell you anymore. She’s supposed to be my best friend, and we have the history, but it’s not the same anymore, you know?”
“Yeah, and all the adventures we’ve had Bianca,” I paused as she passed me the Yellowtail. “No one has adventures like us! Who the fuck else ends up at a poker party with the Denny’s staff? And remember when we took a bath with Cory? He had to boil pots of water to fill his parents’ bathtub cause the water cooled off too quickly. We just sat around drinking fucking whiskey, wearing Cory’s shorts and t-shirts.”
“He thought he was such a pimp,” she laughed, taking a swig. “Do you remember when we met those old Palestinian guys at Coffee Break?”
“Oh my god, yes. And they wanted to take us to fucking Nevada right then! To Windover,” I slurred. “One of them taught me how to say ‘fart’ in Farsi!”
“And remember that time we went to my graduation party shitfaced? And you insisted on lighting a cigarette in the pavilion.”
“And they called the cops on us!” I laughed. “Do you,” I continued, “remember when you tried to order all our food for us at Denny’s? ‘And she’ll have—what do you want again?’ The night fucking Dakota kept calling you Tootsie Pop.”
“Dakota! Damn it. I miss getting wasted at Coffee Break.”
“I know. My trunk was a god damned alcohol cabinet!”
“Oh my god,” she laughed. “Do you remember our two day binge at Joe’s while he was out of town? And the Lego penis cart I made?”
“Yes! We woke up, and I was too fucked up to want to drive you home on icy roads. You called in sick, and we hit the box around eight in the morning.”
“Do you remember when you ordered two Slamburgers?” she laughed.
“Oh god. I don’t know how I did it.”
“The waiter was like, ‘Are you sure she can handle it?’ And I told him, ‘Oh. Don’t even worry about it. I’ve seen this girl eat.’”
“Jesus. And I took a bike ride once we got home to work it off and ended up passing out on my porch. My mom found me passed the fuck out in a lawn chair in the morning, while you were sleeping in my basement.” I laughed and continued our endless drunk rant, “Do you remember when I DJ’ed your and Ben’s make out session, and I kept rewinding that Devendra Banhart song so that ‘Bianca’ repeated like eight fucking times?”
“Yes! That was the best! Do you remember Man Man and Grizzly Bear, and the time I made that band sign my glasses case?”
“Of course! And I kept accusing you of not knowing the band, ‘You didn’t even watch them!’ But you kept insisting, ‘I could hear them from the outside!’”
“Hey, I could fucking hear them. They were good, god damn it,” she laughed.
“Bianca, let’s elope together.”
“Okay.”
I made it out of Utah’s vortex. I eloped without her. But the distance has yet to constitute a notion of expendability, a notion I’m accustomed to feeling after any change. There are only two things I miss about Utah enough to occasionally feel desperate to return: the mountains and Bianca.
20081106
Japanese Beetle
How does one become a hermit in the third largest city in America? How? Impossible, preposterous. Half past midnight, and I can scarcely breathe, yet my heart seems to think my body needs enough blood to send me to the moon. My hands are shaking, purple, corpselike.
The clutter in my room has suddenly become too personal, as though it’s mocking the disorganization of my mind. The lights are dim but somehow overbearing. I grasp my cigarette case, fumble for my lighter, and hurry down an endless hallway. I swear it extended while no one was watching, extended just to hinder my escape.
My legs are trembling, and I have to steady myself against the wall as I step into the elevator. I hear every grating elevator noise with the precision of a kitten avoiding a sadistic child—the grinding, the beeping, the humming, the bashing down a technology-reliant shaft. The tall, metal walls are more present than they’ve ever been before; they’ve transformed the elevator into an urbanite tomb.
Right as I’m about to sink into the corner, positive that I’ll faint at any moment, the heavy doors slide open. With my cigarette tin and lighter clutched next to my heavy chest, I hurry outside, anticipating relief. Only two puffs in, I realize how mistaken I am. My heart is still racing. My eyes scan for something lovely to focus on, but armies of boisterous Bears fans, shit-spitting students, and speeding cars blend together and form an ominous whirlwind of seizure colors and smut. Exasperated, I look towards the ground for something plain, only to find spit stains, cigarette butts, and ash.
I close my eyes and try to envision the only thing I’m desperately homesick for and the only thing Chicago doesn’t have to offer: mountains. My eyes are shut so tight that my brain begins to pound at the front of my skull, the backside of my brow. It’s useless. The serenity and wisdom of the Rockies and Andes can scarcely be felt through nostalgia alone. The distance between me and those dear elusive landforms of my memories sends tremors through my entire torso. My body is no longer human; I’m a piece of subconscious floating out of a whimsical cadaver. The notion is terrifying, to say the least.
My sanity is retreating to spare my cardiovascular system. And though it’s not uncommon for my dreams and realities to mesh to a psychedelic extent, they’ve never been so beautifully blended as they are in this moment, and suddenly jumping off my building’s neighboring skyscraper seems like a reasonable idea. I’m thrilled about finally actualizing my dreams of human flight and apathetic about the aftermath.
After all, I’ve always been curious as to what awaits after death. Will I be translated to another spiritual plane? Will I have the ability to lurk in my friends’ closets, communicating through energy? Will I be reincarnated into a bird? Or is death permanent sleep, permanent dreams? Any of the above sound so fabulously appealing, until—“Hey!” my sanity becomes the wet blanket of the evening, “What about your mother!”
The clutter in my room has suddenly become too personal, as though it’s mocking the disorganization of my mind. The lights are dim but somehow overbearing. I grasp my cigarette case, fumble for my lighter, and hurry down an endless hallway. I swear it extended while no one was watching, extended just to hinder my escape.
My legs are trembling, and I have to steady myself against the wall as I step into the elevator. I hear every grating elevator noise with the precision of a kitten avoiding a sadistic child—the grinding, the beeping, the humming, the bashing down a technology-reliant shaft. The tall, metal walls are more present than they’ve ever been before; they’ve transformed the elevator into an urbanite tomb.
Right as I’m about to sink into the corner, positive that I’ll faint at any moment, the heavy doors slide open. With my cigarette tin and lighter clutched next to my heavy chest, I hurry outside, anticipating relief. Only two puffs in, I realize how mistaken I am. My heart is still racing. My eyes scan for something lovely to focus on, but armies of boisterous Bears fans, shit-spitting students, and speeding cars blend together and form an ominous whirlwind of seizure colors and smut. Exasperated, I look towards the ground for something plain, only to find spit stains, cigarette butts, and ash.
I close my eyes and try to envision the only thing I’m desperately homesick for and the only thing Chicago doesn’t have to offer: mountains. My eyes are shut so tight that my brain begins to pound at the front of my skull, the backside of my brow. It’s useless. The serenity and wisdom of the Rockies and Andes can scarcely be felt through nostalgia alone. The distance between me and those dear elusive landforms of my memories sends tremors through my entire torso. My body is no longer human; I’m a piece of subconscious floating out of a whimsical cadaver. The notion is terrifying, to say the least.
My sanity is retreating to spare my cardiovascular system. And though it’s not uncommon for my dreams and realities to mesh to a psychedelic extent, they’ve never been so beautifully blended as they are in this moment, and suddenly jumping off my building’s neighboring skyscraper seems like a reasonable idea. I’m thrilled about finally actualizing my dreams of human flight and apathetic about the aftermath.
After all, I’ve always been curious as to what awaits after death. Will I be translated to another spiritual plane? Will I have the ability to lurk in my friends’ closets, communicating through energy? Will I be reincarnated into a bird? Or is death permanent sleep, permanent dreams? Any of the above sound so fabulously appealing, until—“Hey!” my sanity becomes the wet blanket of the evening, “What about your mother!”
"Self Portrait"
Dear _____,
I’m trying to make up for being silent at our first and last date via pathetic letter.
The night I let you read my journal was very intense. I saw a different side of you--a very serious, broody side. It made me uncomfortable, because as you learned, I'm initially very reserved about sharing my feelings and thoughts.
My journal is my outlet, the way I organize my nutty, obsessive head. I'm constantly changing my mind about everything, because, you were right--I'm a bit of a pushover. I'm really susceptible to influences because since I dropped religion, I've sort of kept myself open to new ideas--too open. The only thing I really guard is my self-honesty, which I keep tight in my journal. To allow someone to read my journal, someone I'm completely infatuated with, put me in a very vulnerable position. Smoking out your kitchen window, knowing you were reading every dirty, delusional thought I'd had in the past month and hearing boisterous laughter from the next room was really painful for me.
I thought it was a mistake until I came back to your room, and you told me the way I saw things was "cute." I guess I should have realized that "cute" was a code word. But I was cozy in bed with you, realizing that you then knew exactly how crazy I am, and not only did you not kick me out, you kissed me! And it wasn’t like the other kisses, the ones that followed when you’d throw me into your bed or shove me against your wall. It felt tender and intimate; there was no violence.
The next day, however, I said goodbye to you, and you didn't get up. You didn't even take your eyes off your computer screen. So, like the previous two weeks, I went home, completely neurotic and out of my mind. Shaking, actually. When we went to dinner, I found it half charming, half disconcerting that you spent a long three minutes trying to find the right table.
But when you told me that you didn't want to continue on with our bizarre, undefined relationship, I was a little relieved. The thing is I really am too immature for a serious relationship. I'm too busy trying to figure myself out. On top of that, I habitually build people up to an intangible fantasy. I don't know how to stop because I get such a serge of emotion from doing so, and I'm an emotion fiend. And it's not as though I always build them up into a perfect fantasy--the fantasies include flaws, but charming flaws.
I think you were right when you said you'd kept me intrigued in a romantic sense by acting mostly disinterested. I'm generally masochistic, in case you hadn't noticed.
After dinner, as soon as you walked me across the street and away from that homeless man and his rant about the “god damn man and the god damn tree,” I was overwhelmed with clarity. The little knots in my stomach were gone. My head wasn't fogged with unfortunate obsession. I'm really glad you told me how you felt when you did and with such a direct and honest approach. Two and a half weeks could have dragged into months of self-medicated stress, until at last my lungs and liver and mind deteriorated to that of the bitter homeless man.
I guess that’s all. Sorry I couldn’t say this at the time.
Sincerely,
______
I’m trying to make up for being silent at our first and last date via pathetic letter.
The night I let you read my journal was very intense. I saw a different side of you--a very serious, broody side. It made me uncomfortable, because as you learned, I'm initially very reserved about sharing my feelings and thoughts.
My journal is my outlet, the way I organize my nutty, obsessive head. I'm constantly changing my mind about everything, because, you were right--I'm a bit of a pushover. I'm really susceptible to influences because since I dropped religion, I've sort of kept myself open to new ideas--too open. The only thing I really guard is my self-honesty, which I keep tight in my journal. To allow someone to read my journal, someone I'm completely infatuated with, put me in a very vulnerable position. Smoking out your kitchen window, knowing you were reading every dirty, delusional thought I'd had in the past month and hearing boisterous laughter from the next room was really painful for me.
I thought it was a mistake until I came back to your room, and you told me the way I saw things was "cute." I guess I should have realized that "cute" was a code word. But I was cozy in bed with you, realizing that you then knew exactly how crazy I am, and not only did you not kick me out, you kissed me! And it wasn’t like the other kisses, the ones that followed when you’d throw me into your bed or shove me against your wall. It felt tender and intimate; there was no violence.
The next day, however, I said goodbye to you, and you didn't get up. You didn't even take your eyes off your computer screen. So, like the previous two weeks, I went home, completely neurotic and out of my mind. Shaking, actually. When we went to dinner, I found it half charming, half disconcerting that you spent a long three minutes trying to find the right table.
But when you told me that you didn't want to continue on with our bizarre, undefined relationship, I was a little relieved. The thing is I really am too immature for a serious relationship. I'm too busy trying to figure myself out. On top of that, I habitually build people up to an intangible fantasy. I don't know how to stop because I get such a serge of emotion from doing so, and I'm an emotion fiend. And it's not as though I always build them up into a perfect fantasy--the fantasies include flaws, but charming flaws.
I think you were right when you said you'd kept me intrigued in a romantic sense by acting mostly disinterested. I'm generally masochistic, in case you hadn't noticed.
After dinner, as soon as you walked me across the street and away from that homeless man and his rant about the “god damn man and the god damn tree,” I was overwhelmed with clarity. The little knots in my stomach were gone. My head wasn't fogged with unfortunate obsession. I'm really glad you told me how you felt when you did and with such a direct and honest approach. Two and a half weeks could have dragged into months of self-medicated stress, until at last my lungs and liver and mind deteriorated to that of the bitter homeless man.
I guess that’s all. Sorry I couldn’t say this at the time.
Sincerely,
______
20081105
Capnolagnia
A slimy film of mucus and ash line my throat, which occasionally alters my speech into an incoherent gargling noise. The distinct inability to breath through my nose while asleep leaves my pillow coated with saliva. My clothes smell like Nevada casinos, and my teeth are slowly transforming into bits of Southwestern corncob artifacts. I’ve replaced a balanced diet with Dollar Daze Cup of Noodle to adjust to the expenses. But god damn it, I love cigarettes. I love them when I’m stressed, when I’m relaxed, when I’m walking, when I’m driving, when I’m bored, when I’m social, when I’m antisocial, after a spicy meal, after any meal, at any time of day, at any time of night.
I’m a cigarette connoisseur. I’ve tried everything from dirty Bugler tobacco to immaculate Davidoff cigarettes, and I can tell you exactly how they all feel and taste. Smoking Winstons, for example, tastes and feels similar to sucking on a semi’s exhaust pipe, while Djarum cloves taste like Christmas and feel like the Fourth of July. Back in Utah, my decaying Neon is overflowing with old coconut and marshmallow rolling papers, tobacco crumbs and empty boxes of American Spirits, Parliaments, Lucky Strikes, and Kamel Reds.
Three days in Chicago before move in day with my zealous Mormon mother and without a cigarette, jealously watching others light up and desperately trying to breath in their secondhand smoke, was a feat that deserved three cigarettes in a row--cigarettes I was convinced I’d be smoking on my own for at least the next month and a half before I found new friends in this city. But I couldn’t have been more wrong; vices always come with friends. By the end of my first pack—about two days into student residency life—I’d already met a grip of fiends. Ask any chain smoking transfer student at Van Buren how they’ve met any of their new friends or how they find out about parties, and you’ll get the same response every time: “All you have to do is sit outside and smoke.” It’s a black mark, unacceptable and dirty, that ties us addicts together.
I’d be lying, however, if I said it was (aside from the cancer/emphysema/heart disease/tooth decay/snoring/yellow teeth and fingers/lethargy/ashtray kisses) all wonderful. Chicago has presented my habit with previously unheard of consequences. The homeless, the wanderers, the men who creep down the streets with a humble appearance and an intimidating attitude--they are entitled to one of your ten-dollars-a-pack cigarettes, whether you think so or not, and they won’t hesitate to let you know. Most of the bums have no qualms with blocking smokers’ paths, staring them down, demanding a cigarette, and yelling insults or threatening them when they refuse to give a handout. It’s just like a child’s tale of bullies’ unreasonable demands for lunch money, sort of comical. Just recently, I had to stifle laughter after a man outside my building responded to my head shake with, “Nah. I didn’t think so. I didn’t think you would. You look too stupid!” and hobbled off with his dusty quilt draped across his back.
Still, demanding hobos are no match for my sick infatuation. It’s about ten-thirty and time to run into my fiend friends. I have to work on my subconscious desire to be on the next big Truth ad, right up there with the robotic cowboy.
I’m a cigarette connoisseur. I’ve tried everything from dirty Bugler tobacco to immaculate Davidoff cigarettes, and I can tell you exactly how they all feel and taste. Smoking Winstons, for example, tastes and feels similar to sucking on a semi’s exhaust pipe, while Djarum cloves taste like Christmas and feel like the Fourth of July. Back in Utah, my decaying Neon is overflowing with old coconut and marshmallow rolling papers, tobacco crumbs and empty boxes of American Spirits, Parliaments, Lucky Strikes, and Kamel Reds.
Three days in Chicago before move in day with my zealous Mormon mother and without a cigarette, jealously watching others light up and desperately trying to breath in their secondhand smoke, was a feat that deserved three cigarettes in a row--cigarettes I was convinced I’d be smoking on my own for at least the next month and a half before I found new friends in this city. But I couldn’t have been more wrong; vices always come with friends. By the end of my first pack—about two days into student residency life—I’d already met a grip of fiends. Ask any chain smoking transfer student at Van Buren how they’ve met any of their new friends or how they find out about parties, and you’ll get the same response every time: “All you have to do is sit outside and smoke.” It’s a black mark, unacceptable and dirty, that ties us addicts together.
I’d be lying, however, if I said it was (aside from the cancer/emphysema/heart disease/tooth decay/snoring/yellow teeth and fingers/lethargy/ashtray kisses) all wonderful. Chicago has presented my habit with previously unheard of consequences. The homeless, the wanderers, the men who creep down the streets with a humble appearance and an intimidating attitude--they are entitled to one of your ten-dollars-a-pack cigarettes, whether you think so or not, and they won’t hesitate to let you know. Most of the bums have no qualms with blocking smokers’ paths, staring them down, demanding a cigarette, and yelling insults or threatening them when they refuse to give a handout. It’s just like a child’s tale of bullies’ unreasonable demands for lunch money, sort of comical. Just recently, I had to stifle laughter after a man outside my building responded to my head shake with, “Nah. I didn’t think so. I didn’t think you would. You look too stupid!” and hobbled off with his dusty quilt draped across his back.
Still, demanding hobos are no match for my sick infatuation. It’s about ten-thirty and time to run into my fiend friends. I have to work on my subconscious desire to be on the next big Truth ad, right up there with the robotic cowboy.
860 East to Van Buren Street
Friday morning, 5:00 am, Orem, Utah.
Cocooned in a quilt that feels like an elementary school sick day (the days I’d lie awake watching “Price Is Right” in my mother’s soft arms, a woman, who at that moment, only cared to check my temperature and feed me popsicles), I wade in and out of lucid dreams, dreams of flight and other super human powers, dreams of politicians buying me drinks. The only noise in a one block radius is the crisp mountain wind brushing trees against my home and my warm cat breathing deeply, resting against the backs of my knees.
Friday morning, 5:00 am, Chicago, Illinois.
Immersed in a stench of vulgarity—cigarettes, cheap liquor and faceless, prurient men—I run my fists aimlessly through my bag, grasping at anything that feels like my key card, until I find it, stumble through my door on the 13th floor, and creep into my bedroom, unsuccessfully trying to be mindful of my sleeping roommate. I click, click, click the keyboard until every histrionic thought of mine has been recorded and then slip into my bed, wearing what I’ve been wearing for the past 24 hours.
Friday afternoon, 3:00 pm, Orem, Utah.
I clock in at Five Buck Pizza and spend the afternoon, sipping ice water and driving pizzas to pristine Mormon families of eight that occasionally invite me into their Jesus-encrusted, candle-scented homes as they write out a flower decor check. The only thing I fear is their inability to give me a tip, which they always apologized for with the eerie charisma and manners of the cast of Pleasantville.
Friday afternoon, 3:00 pm, Chicago, Illinois.
I’m drenched in sweat and grimy oil, last night’s mascara embedding itself under my eyes. My stomach is in familiar hangover knots, the L is booming past my building every five minutes, and I’m experiencing lucid nightmares for the first time. Ugly faces, filthy places, and I can’t fly away this time. I attempt to wake myself; my disfigured roommate says, “Good morning,” but I fall through the floors, crashing into past heinous experiences, which have somehow transfigured into a symbolic code of fake-tit porn stars offering cunnigulus with injected lips and religious leaders attempting to throw me into mental institutions. I’m realizing, once again, that I’m still dreaming, when I try to wake but find my friendly, but still disfigured roommate replaced with darkness, ambulance sirens, and the pushy voices of paramedics. The cycle repeats four times, until at last I’m awoken by painful thirst. I turn to my roommate with relief; she isn’t disfigured.
Friday evening, 8:00 pm, Orem, Utah.
With my pizza delivery tips, I have my 22 year old friend pick up a five-liter box of Koolaid flavored wine. For the hundredth time, I thank him for his service and hop into a car with my equally underage friends. We leave the reverent Happy Valley and start our tri-weekly, 45 minute drive to Salt Lake City, anticipating yet another blasphemous, but “Cheers”-esque party with our solid group of formally religious friends. My friend is pulled over for speeding, and in the typical Utah Nazi fashion, the cops ask us when the last time we smoked weed was. Never. That wasn’t the question, they say. When was the last time you smoked weed? They pull us out of the car, along with our wine, and we’re left with yet another unaffordable alcohol ticket.
Friday evening, 8:00 pm, Chicago, Illinois.
Haggard and dry, I force my heavy body downstairs for a cigarette, where, as usual, I run into my fellow alcoholics. There isn’t a 21 year old in sight, but this doesn’t prose a problem. I enter the 7-11, and with the worst feigned confidence, tell them my birthday is September 22, 1998. I mean 88. What I meant was 86, but the manager doesn’t mind. He hands me the bottles with a sexual grin, and I’m the savior of my band of acquaintances for five minutes of the night.
Saturday at midnight, Salt Lake City, Utah.
Shaken up by the ticket and the harsh way in which we received it, we’re even more determined to drink until our faces are numb. We coax another 21 year old into going to the store before beer o’clock, and we’re not short for the evening. Suddenly, we’ve forgotten about morally strict cops and involve ourselves in a typical Rothschild vodka, PBR, and electro-fueled dance party. We dance carelessly and awkwardly, flailing and making Joseph Smith jokes, when suddenly, we view cop lights flashing through the dusty blinds, like Jesus Christ on the Day of Reckoning. We hide in the bathrooms and closets together, holding hands like scared children. Once again, we dodged a visit to the Telestial Kingdom—Mormon hell—and raise our red plastic cups to our collective invincibility.
Saturday at midnight, Chicago, Illinois.
We’ve killed the liquor but have been offered more by a fresh set of acquaintances, which we drink outside, obvious, and fearless of everything but the armies of bitter homeless that seem to loom in every one of Chicago’s crevices. We’re pissing in parking lots and throwing our cigarette butts where we please. The only thing on my mind is finding the most sexually appealing kid around. Without much effort or sophistication, I find him, and after a brief shallow compliment or two, we kiss sloppily in an alley. He and his friend offer to take me to a bar up North. I follow them several blocks away from the party, all the way to an anonymous train stop. They pause, turn to me, and change their minds, “They will probably card. You should go home.” Without a recollection of their faces or the location of the party, I walk towards the Sears Tower, drunk meandering down an unknown street and laughing by myself at the horror, pleasantly convinced that this is the night I’ve finally lost my invincibility.
Cocooned in a quilt that feels like an elementary school sick day (the days I’d lie awake watching “Price Is Right” in my mother’s soft arms, a woman, who at that moment, only cared to check my temperature and feed me popsicles), I wade in and out of lucid dreams, dreams of flight and other super human powers, dreams of politicians buying me drinks. The only noise in a one block radius is the crisp mountain wind brushing trees against my home and my warm cat breathing deeply, resting against the backs of my knees.
Friday morning, 5:00 am, Chicago, Illinois.
Immersed in a stench of vulgarity—cigarettes, cheap liquor and faceless, prurient men—I run my fists aimlessly through my bag, grasping at anything that feels like my key card, until I find it, stumble through my door on the 13th floor, and creep into my bedroom, unsuccessfully trying to be mindful of my sleeping roommate. I click, click, click the keyboard until every histrionic thought of mine has been recorded and then slip into my bed, wearing what I’ve been wearing for the past 24 hours.
Friday afternoon, 3:00 pm, Orem, Utah.
I clock in at Five Buck Pizza and spend the afternoon, sipping ice water and driving pizzas to pristine Mormon families of eight that occasionally invite me into their Jesus-encrusted, candle-scented homes as they write out a flower decor check. The only thing I fear is their inability to give me a tip, which they always apologized for with the eerie charisma and manners of the cast of Pleasantville.
Friday afternoon, 3:00 pm, Chicago, Illinois.
I’m drenched in sweat and grimy oil, last night’s mascara embedding itself under my eyes. My stomach is in familiar hangover knots, the L is booming past my building every five minutes, and I’m experiencing lucid nightmares for the first time. Ugly faces, filthy places, and I can’t fly away this time. I attempt to wake myself; my disfigured roommate says, “Good morning,” but I fall through the floors, crashing into past heinous experiences, which have somehow transfigured into a symbolic code of fake-tit porn stars offering cunnigulus with injected lips and religious leaders attempting to throw me into mental institutions. I’m realizing, once again, that I’m still dreaming, when I try to wake but find my friendly, but still disfigured roommate replaced with darkness, ambulance sirens, and the pushy voices of paramedics. The cycle repeats four times, until at last I’m awoken by painful thirst. I turn to my roommate with relief; she isn’t disfigured.
Friday evening, 8:00 pm, Orem, Utah.
With my pizza delivery tips, I have my 22 year old friend pick up a five-liter box of Koolaid flavored wine. For the hundredth time, I thank him for his service and hop into a car with my equally underage friends. We leave the reverent Happy Valley and start our tri-weekly, 45 minute drive to Salt Lake City, anticipating yet another blasphemous, but “Cheers”-esque party with our solid group of formally religious friends. My friend is pulled over for speeding, and in the typical Utah Nazi fashion, the cops ask us when the last time we smoked weed was. Never. That wasn’t the question, they say. When was the last time you smoked weed? They pull us out of the car, along with our wine, and we’re left with yet another unaffordable alcohol ticket.
Friday evening, 8:00 pm, Chicago, Illinois.
Haggard and dry, I force my heavy body downstairs for a cigarette, where, as usual, I run into my fellow alcoholics. There isn’t a 21 year old in sight, but this doesn’t prose a problem. I enter the 7-11, and with the worst feigned confidence, tell them my birthday is September 22, 1998. I mean 88. What I meant was 86, but the manager doesn’t mind. He hands me the bottles with a sexual grin, and I’m the savior of my band of acquaintances for five minutes of the night.
Saturday at midnight, Salt Lake City, Utah.
Shaken up by the ticket and the harsh way in which we received it, we’re even more determined to drink until our faces are numb. We coax another 21 year old into going to the store before beer o’clock, and we’re not short for the evening. Suddenly, we’ve forgotten about morally strict cops and involve ourselves in a typical Rothschild vodka, PBR, and electro-fueled dance party. We dance carelessly and awkwardly, flailing and making Joseph Smith jokes, when suddenly, we view cop lights flashing through the dusty blinds, like Jesus Christ on the Day of Reckoning. We hide in the bathrooms and closets together, holding hands like scared children. Once again, we dodged a visit to the Telestial Kingdom—Mormon hell—and raise our red plastic cups to our collective invincibility.
Saturday at midnight, Chicago, Illinois.
We’ve killed the liquor but have been offered more by a fresh set of acquaintances, which we drink outside, obvious, and fearless of everything but the armies of bitter homeless that seem to loom in every one of Chicago’s crevices. We’re pissing in parking lots and throwing our cigarette butts where we please. The only thing on my mind is finding the most sexually appealing kid around. Without much effort or sophistication, I find him, and after a brief shallow compliment or two, we kiss sloppily in an alley. He and his friend offer to take me to a bar up North. I follow them several blocks away from the party, all the way to an anonymous train stop. They pause, turn to me, and change their minds, “They will probably card. You should go home.” Without a recollection of their faces or the location of the party, I walk towards the Sears Tower, drunk meandering down an unknown street and laughing by myself at the horror, pleasantly convinced that this is the night I’ve finally lost my invincibility.
"My own name must be lost in their litanies, too."
1. Adderal girl
2. The Albatross
3. Army boy
4. Asian Jesus
5. Bob Dylan
6. BYU boy
7. BYU boy's girlfriend
8. Chauvinist
9. Closeted lesbian
10. Creepy cabby
11. Creepy Ukrainian
12. Cultural Studies major
13. Dane Cook lookalike
14. Djarum Lights
15. Dog reincarnated as human
16. E-tard
17. The Economist
18. Egocentric Eccentric
19. Egocentric Eccentric's roommate
20. Elijah Woods on drugs
21. Estella
22. Faceless quasi hipster
23. Fake tits
24. First Love
25. First Love, female version
26. 502
27. Florida kid
28. Forceful hippie
29. Girl in bikini
30. Goldschlagger breath
31. Goldschlagger's friend
32. Goldschlagger's other friend
33. Gypsy poet
34. Gypsy poet 2.0
35. Herpes carrier
36. Herpes carrier's roommate
37. "I hate you." boy
38. Incest cousin
39. Kandy Kid
40. Kandy Kid's girlfriend
41. Kansas babe
42. Lima club kid 1
43. Lima club kid 2
44. Lip-rapist
45. Lip-rapist's friend
46. Spaceship asshole
47. Mini Chilean
48. My best friend
49. My best friend's girlfriend
50. My best friend's little brother
51. My neighbor
52. Native American
53. Post-bro
54. Popped collar bro
55. Ranchero
56. 17 year old homosexual male
57. Sex kitten
58. Sloppy lesbian
59. Spiderman
60. Statutory peruana
61. Threesome girl
62. Tree house boy
63. Turkish Jedi
64. 24 year old 17 year old
65. 24 year old 27 year old
66. Twin
67. Utah County hipster king
68. Vegan punk
69. Weiner party woman
1; 4; 12; 14; 21; 27; 37-40; 49; 64; 66; 68.
Friendly kisses.
"Laney," I began a drunken confession, "kissing girls is kind of fun when you're drunk."
"Oh," she said nodding, "absolutely."
"Want to make out?"
"Okay." And in the back of the Avalon, in between heckling the band, we kissed for a sloppy minute, laughed, and continued our conversation.
2; 15; 26; 28; 35-36; 45; 47; 53.
Boring/appalling kisses.
"Oh my god. Alright. You have to leave," I said impatiently. "You're being too loud. Bianca is pissed."
"Sorry. I'll be quiet! I swear," he said sheepishly. But I was bored and disgusted by his lip ring.
"No. You need to go home now."
"I won't."
"You will," I said as I pushed him off the couch.
22; 29; 54; 61.
Mindless kisses.
"I like your jacket," he told me before we found an alley to kiss in. I don't remember what else he told me. I don't remember his face.
3; 20; 34; 46; 52; 55; 63; 67.
Twelve hour relationship kisses.
While chain smoking in the park, he took another swig of vodka and told me about his friend's fatal overdose. I held his hand, and we cried together like lovers. We made it to my mom's basement, made out and passed out. The next day I drove him home and never saw him again.
5; 8; 17; 33; 51.
Extended alcohol-induced relationship kisses.
"Do you want to be my 'significant other?'" the Poet slurred.
"Yes. I'd love to," I said, gazing at him with heavy eyelids.
We had met a few nights ago, under equally hazy circumstances. Our relationship lasted for a belligerent month.
6-7; 42-43; 56.
Intentionally debaucherous kisses.
There's a distinct pleasure that comes from partaking in debauchery with a boy who used to bless the sacrament every Sunday. "Alex," I laughed as he took off my shirt, "we went to Sunday school together!"
10-11; 44; 65.
Horrifying kisses.
We kissed. He unzipped his pants. Minutes later he told me to slip off my tights. I looked him in the eyes and realized that I was with a 26 year old Ukrainian man, next to a dumpster behind a bar. "I have to leave now," I said with horror.
"Can I have your number?"
"No," I didn't look back. "Bye."
16; 18-19; 23; 30-32; 48; 50; 58; 60; 62; 69.
Bizarre kisses.
"Buddy!" He woke his roommate up, as I threw my shirt off. "It's time to go." Estella, the Eccentric, and I passed each other around until the Eccentric's roommate realized why he'd been woken. I walked over to his bed after being phased out of the threesome, anticipating a foursome. But I soon realized that we had been paired off. Feeling gypped, I got dressed and left.
24; 59.
Lovely kisses.
"Wait," I said as I snuck him out my window. "You can't leave without kissing me!" It was brief and awkward.
25; 41; 57.
Sexy kisses.
"I really need to get home before my parents get angry," she said.
"Wait." We kissed in the middle of the street, incinerating every nerve on my body. She moaned.
"No, but I really have to leave."
"Wait," I persisted. We continued. A few minutes later, I walked to my car, completely lightheaded. In the morning I found a text message from her:
"Come back!"
2. The Albatross
3. Army boy
4. Asian Jesus
5. Bob Dylan
6. BYU boy
7. BYU boy's girlfriend
8. Chauvinist
9. Closeted lesbian
10. Creepy cabby
11. Creepy Ukrainian
12. Cultural Studies major
13. Dane Cook lookalike
14. Djarum Lights
15. Dog reincarnated as human
16. E-tard
17. The Economist
18. Egocentric Eccentric
19. Egocentric Eccentric's roommate
20. Elijah Woods on drugs
21. Estella
22. Faceless quasi hipster
23. Fake tits
24. First Love
25. First Love, female version
26. 502
27. Florida kid
28. Forceful hippie
29. Girl in bikini
30. Goldschlagger breath
31. Goldschlagger's friend
32. Goldschlagger's other friend
33. Gypsy poet
34. Gypsy poet 2.0
35. Herpes carrier
36. Herpes carrier's roommate
37. "I hate you." boy
38. Incest cousin
39. Kandy Kid
40. Kandy Kid's girlfriend
41. Kansas babe
42. Lima club kid 1
43. Lima club kid 2
44. Lip-rapist
45. Lip-rapist's friend
46. Spaceship asshole
47. Mini Chilean
48. My best friend
49. My best friend's girlfriend
50. My best friend's little brother
51. My neighbor
52. Native American
53. Post-bro
54. Popped collar bro
55. Ranchero
56. 17 year old homosexual male
57. Sex kitten
58. Sloppy lesbian
59. Spiderman
60. Statutory peruana
61. Threesome girl
62. Tree house boy
63. Turkish Jedi
64. 24 year old 17 year old
65. 24 year old 27 year old
66. Twin
67. Utah County hipster king
68. Vegan punk
69. Weiner party woman
1; 4; 12; 14; 21; 27; 37-40; 49; 64; 66; 68.
Friendly kisses.
"Laney," I began a drunken confession, "kissing girls is kind of fun when you're drunk."
"Oh," she said nodding, "absolutely."
"Want to make out?"
"Okay." And in the back of the Avalon, in between heckling the band, we kissed for a sloppy minute, laughed, and continued our conversation.
2; 15; 26; 28; 35-36; 45; 47; 53.
Boring/appalling kisses.
"Oh my god. Alright. You have to leave," I said impatiently. "You're being too loud. Bianca is pissed."
"Sorry. I'll be quiet! I swear," he said sheepishly. But I was bored and disgusted by his lip ring.
"No. You need to go home now."
"I won't."
"You will," I said as I pushed him off the couch.
22; 29; 54; 61.
Mindless kisses.
"I like your jacket," he told me before we found an alley to kiss in. I don't remember what else he told me. I don't remember his face.
3; 20; 34; 46; 52; 55; 63; 67.
Twelve hour relationship kisses.
While chain smoking in the park, he took another swig of vodka and told me about his friend's fatal overdose. I held his hand, and we cried together like lovers. We made it to my mom's basement, made out and passed out. The next day I drove him home and never saw him again.
5; 8; 17; 33; 51.
Extended alcohol-induced relationship kisses.
"Do you want to be my 'significant other?'" the Poet slurred.
"Yes. I'd love to," I said, gazing at him with heavy eyelids.
We had met a few nights ago, under equally hazy circumstances. Our relationship lasted for a belligerent month.
6-7; 42-43; 56.
Intentionally debaucherous kisses.
There's a distinct pleasure that comes from partaking in debauchery with a boy who used to bless the sacrament every Sunday. "Alex," I laughed as he took off my shirt, "we went to Sunday school together!"
10-11; 44; 65.
Horrifying kisses.
We kissed. He unzipped his pants. Minutes later he told me to slip off my tights. I looked him in the eyes and realized that I was with a 26 year old Ukrainian man, next to a dumpster behind a bar. "I have to leave now," I said with horror.
"Can I have your number?"
"No," I didn't look back. "Bye."
16; 18-19; 23; 30-32; 48; 50; 58; 60; 62; 69.
Bizarre kisses.
"Buddy!" He woke his roommate up, as I threw my shirt off. "It's time to go." Estella, the Eccentric, and I passed each other around until the Eccentric's roommate realized why he'd been woken. I walked over to his bed after being phased out of the threesome, anticipating a foursome. But I soon realized that we had been paired off. Feeling gypped, I got dressed and left.
24; 59.
Lovely kisses.
"Wait," I said as I snuck him out my window. "You can't leave without kissing me!" It was brief and awkward.
25; 41; 57.
Sexy kisses.
"I really need to get home before my parents get angry," she said.
"Wait." We kissed in the middle of the street, incinerating every nerve on my body. She moaned.
"No, but I really have to leave."
"Wait," I persisted. We continued. A few minutes later, I walked to my car, completely lightheaded. In the morning I found a text message from her:
"Come back!"
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