Like a tulip shoved under a giant heat lamp, my upper body wilts beneath yet another wave of depression and grief. More than five years have passed since Lisa’s death, but I’ve become increasingly unable to withstand her absence.
I spend the next six hours coding, hoping this attempt to shed the blues (so blue it’s black) may result in productivity. I find myself humming a tune the oldies station hasn’t played in years:
Please lock me away
And don’t allow the day
Here inside, where I hide with my loneliness
I don’t care what they say, I won’t stay
In a world without love
Professor Heart Attack (again, not to be confused with Professor Heartache) took me to a super fancy restaurant (I forget the name, but it was the kind of place where you can’t wipe your own hands in the bathroom — as he called it, “Zagat rated”) the first night we were in Atlanta. He ordered for me, which I surprisingly liked. (“The lady would like . . . “) I forget what he ordered. Something with truffles, but I hardly had a chance to eat.
And I had absolutely no chance to digest.
“Is it okay if I have a glass of wine? I must say, I don’t feel as sharp when I drink, but the setting seems right.”
“Sure. But I’ll actually have an espresso. I could use a jolt after traveling all morning.” I thought it was sweet he asked my permission to drink, not like I would have ever taken issue with it.
“At two and a half hours, the flight was just long enough to watch Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”
“How was that? I fell asleep 15 minutes in.” I had absolutely no interest in seeing yet another blockbuster with Angelina Jolie running in slow motion with her tits bouncing dangerously close to her chin.
“It was palatable.”
“Glad to be reassured. I wouldn’t want to miss the next American Beauty.”
“Speaking of reassurance,” Professor Heart Attack pulled his briefcase onto his lap and popped it open. “I want to show you something.” He pulled out a stack of papers about an inch thick.
My heart sank into the pit of my stomach. I didn’t need to know the content of the papers to know that a JD/PhD could only produce one of two things from his briefcase in that moment.
Originally posted on blufrog23's Blog:
Everyone is familiar with the social network site Facebook. As we all know most of us have numerous friends from all walks of life, various members of family from either side and maybe even a few complete strangers added as friends of a friend. Family for me is a very difficult topic to broach as the latter years of my school years were spent in various foster homes. I learned early not to talk about my situation as it became fodder for ridicule or labels by adults that I was a bad seed. During college I wrote a successful paper about my experiences dealing with stereotyping in the world of child protective services having my paper passed around the class as an example of an A grade as well as the desired style of narrative. Through all of this I doubted any success and I yearned desperately for a connection…
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Originally posted on Anakalian Whims:
(This is supposed to be a review of My Antonia, HPB Humble book club selection for September’s discussion. But it’s not.)
With every book I read, I miss my high school English teacher more and more. I’m nostalgic by nature, so this should not be misconstrued as any overly dramatic longing. I only regret the times I was too exhausted to stay awake in class. I want to hear him talk about something I’m currently reading that wasn’t part of the curriculum ten to fifteen years ago. I feel desperate to hear his literary thoughts.
I miss Mr. Rundell – casually referred to in the classroom as Rundy – I miss conversations we never had. Which is ridiculous. Who misses their high school English teacher so much?
Sadly, it’s because somewhere in my seventeen year old brain, I was convinced that when I was a grown up, Mr. Rundell might…
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The following comment was semi-anonymously posted on my blog in response to a 2010 post I wrote on Yale’s DKE incident:
See also Light and Truth: Exhibit A.
Having endured over 30 years of alternating waves of adversity and prosperity, I thought I had figured out at least a few things–particularly my sexuality. While I appreciated the dynamic nature of sexuality, I also felt my sexual orientation had essentially congealed by that point. In other words, I thought I pretty much knew where I stood along the sexuality spectrum.
But the more I got to know Rachael, the more aware I became of the most painful irony: as my biological clock began to chime, I grew exponentially more attracted to women.