How To Tell I Need a Life #2

I wrote a blog post just now about interacting with my cat and having no life.

How to Tell I Need a Life #1

Photo courtesy of Erica Scott McGrath

My cat just sneezed. I said "Bless you!"

Shit My Roommate Says

“He’s pretty cute for an Asian kid.”

“Are you changing your bra? I should change mine too. I think it’s been a few days.”

“Do you want some of my Ritalin? No, I’m just kidding!”

“I used to make (blueberry tea) all the time when I was at Christian rehab.”

“Jen-Jen, you should have lived in Martha’s Vineyard. Or in the 70s. You’re much more of a hippie than I am.”

“I feel so bad. I feel like you’ve done 90% of the work and I’ve only done 20%.”

“It’s such a trashy show. Some of the girls are lesbians, which is gross. But they don't even look like lesbians.”

“What do lesbians look like?”

 “Oh, you know, I don’t know. These girls are just really pretty. They just don’t look like lesbians.”

“Don’t forget, you’re gonna be my surrogate mother!”

“Are you infertile?”

“I might be!”

“What’s an interpretive dancer?”

“Uh, hard to explain.”

“Is it a stripper? I’ve never seen one of those.”

“Argumentative. I have a cousin like that. No worries, though. They’re getting better.”

“Do you like instant coffee?”

“Um, it’s okay. I don’t mind it, if I don’t have real coffee. It’s okay.”

“Oh, me too! But you know, a lot of people don’t like it. We should have instant coffee together some time.”

“Well, I have real coffee.”

“Oh, yeah. But some time, you know? We should have instant coffee together.”

“Hey Jen, I just got some pictures of your baby.”

“ . . . My baby?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean my kitten?”

“Yeah. Oh, you don’t call her your baby?”

“No, i call her my kitten.”

“Oh. Hahaha! I love your reactions to things. I’m putting the pictures on the Facebook.”

“I don’t want to mess up the internet by using too many networks.”

“I have those wipes – those lady wipes. Don’t be scared to use them. That’s what they’re for, for when we get our periods.”

“Oh, I live in a state of paranoia.”

“Oh, is that your boyfriend?”

“. . . Yes.”

“Oh. I have pictures of him on my Facebook. You should look.”

“You could come over. I have a blow-up mattress. Or you could sleep in Jen’s bed. You like sleeping in her bed.”

“Are you braless too?”

“When I went to Christian rehab, my foster mother cleaned out my car, and she found my little . . . you know . . . my little bunny toy. And she threw it away.”

“Clarissa, you can sleep in my bed and watch me clean if you want. You can sleep in any of our beds.”

“It’s been four years, you know? And I don’t want to be gross or anything, you know, but I did all kinds of, like, sexual activity before, you know? So it’s like, been there, done that, but it’s been a long time!”

(to the cats): “Yo, that’s my baby picture!”

“Does he talk in hobonics?”

“You mean ebonics?”

“Oh! Haha, yeah! I can’t remember his name . . . It ain’t Alex, is it?”

“You don’t use feminine wipes?! I’m going to buy them for all of you!”

“I peed my pants a little. Don’t tell anyone. And Jen, don’t you tell anyone either!”

“I didn’t hear what you said.”

“Oh. I was just telling Erica I peed my pants yesterday. Not a lot, you know, just a little! But don’t tell anyone!”

“She writes gay porn, which is weird, because she’s married to my brother. She’s not even pretty, either. I mean, he’s not that cute either, you know?”

“I keep getting boogers in my nose and I can’t get em out.”

“I shouldn’t tell people that I peed myself.”

“How was worky-poopoo?”

“Did you get up to get water last night? That’s not what I was going to ask, but did you?”

“People are going to say I didn’t shower today, but I used some of those wipes, just so I wouldn’t smell!”

“So if I believe in evolution, does that mean that I have to believe we came from monkeys?”

“Have you ever had a real hot flash? I have, when I was on that fertility drug. I am not looking forward to menopause.”

“My Adderall tastes like candy. You want to try a little piece?”

“Yeah. It’s too, like, cut. As I like, touch myself.”

“My mother didn’t know that she was pregnant with my brother.”

“Sometimes you have to tell a little fibby.”

(in class): “I can turn my hot spot on for you, Dr. Massey.”

“. . . I don’t even understand what you’re saying. Please don’t turn on your hot spot for me.”

“Are you going to be one of those infertile dog women? I’m probably going to be one of them.”

“Yeah, I used to notice that you had a lot of tension in the bathroom this summer.”

“Are you Swedish or Scottish?”

“Oh, Jen, I gotta spray you later.”

“Well, honey, she’s Haitian.”


"I got balls. Not, you know, like a man does. As I touch myself."


"Oop! I just passed gas! Not that you needed to know that."


"All right. I'm going to go sit on the toilet and brush my teeth. Ooh, that's gross."


"I just did you know what by accident. You know! Poop!"

thoughts in class: Progress

Progress implies drawing closer to an ultimate goal. Progress in medicine means that we are closer to discovering cures for cancer, AIDS, etc. Progress in diplomatic relations means that we are closer to granting the wishes of every beauty pageant contestant ever: world peace. But some things have no progress, like fashion. You will never hear someone say, “This sweater is perfect. No one ever needs to design another one again, and we can all throw out our old ones, because this is the perfect sweater.” It’s the same with literature, and with a lot of other things. They don’t progress. They just change.

What I Hate About God

He is always right. Always. I mean, sure, it's great to have an infallible source of wisdom and guidance, but just once i'd like to win one. Even when i'm right, He still wins the argument. This time, He even used my own words against me. How is that fair?

About a year ago, i was hanging out with a friend of mine. We'll call him Jack. Jack, having been raised well, always opened doors for me. And while i appreciated this, i would sometimes try to open doors for him. But Jack wouldn't let me. We'd literally be standing outside of an open door for five minutes; i'd be holding it, saying, "Just go!" and he'd be reaching for it saying, "No! Let me get that for you." Finally, i asked him why he always insisted on behaving like a gentleman.

"Because it's a nice thing to do. I like doing nice things for people."
"Would you say it's a blessing to be able to do nice things for people?"
"Yeah, absolutely."
"That's exactly my point. By doing nice things for me, you are not allowing me to do nice things for you, and are therefore denying me a blessing."

Fast forward to about a week ago.

Anyone who knows me at all probably knows that i am stubborn and independent to a fault. Whether a big thing, like trying to get a loan for college, or a small thing, like walking to CVS after dark, i don't ask anyone to help me. I insist on stumbling along alone. And while i'm sure that, on some level, my loved ones are glad that i am not a burden on them, they also insist that they'd like to do nice things for me. But i didn't get it, until one day i was walking back from work with God. He kept telling me that i have to let people do things for me, and i kept brushing Him off, until He grabbed me by the shoulders, looked me in the eyes, and said, "When you insist on doing everything for yourself, you are denying others the blessing of helping you."

Damn.

So i'm working on that. I'm reaching out, even if only a few inches. I'm asking for help, even if only in small things. And i'm trying to bless you, even if only a little bit.

I Write Because

I can't help it
my head swirls with relentless images
there are too many colors to see all at once
because afternoons are warm and hazy
because midnight is soft and clear
because rain is sharp and unapologetic.

My heart is too full of hopes and fears
yet i don't speak as often as i should, and
because i can't try to have this conversation with my mother
because Emily asked to have it in black and white
because i haven't met you yet, and so cannot tell you to your face how i feel
yet i know you are there.

The sounds of words keep me awake at night
because the rhythms get stuck in my head
because my fingers twitch with tense, restless energy.

No one else has said it yet, or else
they've all said it, but i want to say it again
because some things bear repeating
because otherwise, i would forget
because how else can i unravel the many layers of meaning in
a season, or in a moment?

I write because i can't help it.