Christmas Cards for Friends


Just wrote this free form poem (based on real life experience)

Crazy drunk man,
Singing and yelling
In the parking lot
Outside my window.
I wish you'd stop.
I need to go to bed now.
Who are you even talking to?
You are so loud.


It's really only a matter of time....

Sometimes I dream about it.

Sitting there in all its glory. Haunting me.

It would be so easy to give in. Just once. Who would know? What harm would it do?  But even thoughts of it leave me feeling dirty. Scandalous even. It's been so long. I scarcely remember much about it.

Steak. Chicken. Hamburgers.... Meat.

I am not really a vegetarian. I eat fish. Fish is an animal. When people say, "I'm a vegetarian for ethical reasons. I don't eat meat, just fish," I feel an overwhelming urge to slap them in the face. I don't though, but only because I know I would probably get in trouble for doing so. Instead, I gently explain to them that fish are in fact sentient beings. People whose ethics are situational annoy me. I am sure that, if you consulted both a fish and a cow, both animals would find the prospect of being eaten unappealing.

"I don't eat mammals, birds, amphibians or reptiles," I generally tell people. "Not for ethical reasons. I'm a total jerk."


Fart Tones

On Thursday, I changed most of the ringtones on a co-worker's cell phone to farts.

My intention was to change all of the profiles on her phone so that, no matter what type of transmission she was receiving (text or phone call), it would be a fart that would sound to let her know something was happening.

Later that day, she approached another co-worker in a state of confusion.

"I think my phone just farted," she told her. After several minutes of intense discussion, they proceeded to call me and question me about my possible involvement. "Watch," my confused co-worker said, "call my phone right now." And I did, using my own cell phone. The beauty of it was that, in my rush to change all ringtones and alerts to farts before I could be discovered, I had failed to get to all of the profiles. As a result of this, when I called her phone it simply rang normally.

"I don't get it," she said. "I swear that I heard a fart sound coming from it before. I don't know why it's not doing it now."

She spent the rest of the day staring at her phone suspiciously. Later she approached me and said, "I think it might not have been my phone after all. I think it might have been the woman in the cubicle next to mine farting."

My hope is that the phone continues to fart only intermittently so that my coworker approaches me to seek my advice on what the issue may be. "You probably have a virus," I will tell her. "You should talk to IT about it immediately." And then she will take her phone to IT and explain to them that she has contracted a virus that is causing her phone to fart.


Time Flies

It has been ten years since I've heard your voice. Ten years since I've seen your face.

I find it hard to believe that so much time has passed.

I've always been the kind of person who feels someone's absence most once I am finally reunited with them. It is not until I am back in their company that I realize how much I was lacking without them. With you, I am thankful for this absence. I do not want to know how much less my life is without you in it.

I know that I miss you, and I know that losing you broke my heart. I've put it back together since, but it will never quite be what it was.

I sometimes think back to what I was doing during what would have been your final moments.

The doctor's office. That's where I was.

I felt gross that morning. I didn't want to go to work, so I went to the doctor's instead. The doctor determined there was nothing wrong with me. "But I feel gross," I told him. "Something is off."

I've had a long standing fear that I would forget you. Not you in general, but the little pieces you were made of. I don't worry about that anymore. When I close my eyes, I can picture your face(s). If I try hard enough, I can remember the way your voice(s) sounded when you said my name. I don't spend time wondering if you would be proud of the person I have become. I know you would be; I am a good person.

I used to think about you every day, but I don't any more. Sometimes I will stop and realize it's been months since I gave you any thought at all. I don't feel guilty about that anymore. It doesn't mean I love you any less.

Ten years ago today, you pulled out into an intersection when you shouldn't have. Ten years ago, you died, and I am still angry with you both for not giving me the chance to say goodbye.


On fooling around in a car

"What are you doing?" I asked, pulling my mouth away from his in order to pose the question.

It was a rhetorical question, or at least sort of. I knew what he was doing. His hand had slowly been making its way under and up my shirt as we fogged up my car windows while parked in front of his house.

"Are you wearing that bra you told me about?" he asked, playing with the hem of my sweatshirt.

I looked at him like he had sprouted two heads.

"I am wearing a sports bra," I said flatly. "We just ran up several hundred stairs. Why would I wear a lace bra to do that?"

"So you're not going to let me go up there?" he questioned.

"Do you mean up my shirt? Gross. No, not tonight. That is disgusting. Things are sweaty and probably smell," I stated.

His eyes perked up upon hearing the word "sweaty," but quickly returned to normal when I shook my head and began to glare at him.

"Let's clear this up right now: post-exercise, I am always going to want to shower before fooling around or having sex," I told him. "There is no chance of anyone getting near my lady bits if I am feeling less than fresh. I need to shower first." He did not seem to understand the purpose of this, so he decided just to lick my neck. I decided to follow his lead and return the favour.

"I just have to remember not to give you a hickey in case you have to go to a job interview this week," I said, more to myself than to him.

"It is okay," he replied, "I am the kind of guy who likes to wear turtlenecks under my scrubs."

That was good enough for me, so I proceeded to attack his neck like it owed me money. A little while later, I pulled back in an attempt to check on my work.

"How is it?" he asked.

"I don't know," I answered honestly, "I can't see. It's too dark in here. I could use the head lamp in my pocket to check it out."

Alas, before being able to confirm that my canvas had been marked, it was time to go. I booted him out of my car, turned on the engine and drove away.


Pets: The Ultimate Cockblockers (After Children)

Your relationship has moved at a slower pace. This is a change for you. Most every other "relationship" you have been in involved drunken sex (at least once) right out of the starting gate. Actually, you can't recall having ever gotten to know someone in this capacity without utilizing alcohol to help lubricate your tongue and other body parts.

The idea of going through any part of a relationship while sober terrifies you. But you push through anyway because that is what normal people do. You think at least. And so you invite him to a date at your apartment during which you eat drug-laced cookies and watch the DVDs of a TV show you both enjoy. "

He doesn't attempt second base on his own. He does hold your hand though, and he does interrupt your intense focus on the television screen (which is really only actually intense because you are too high to figure out how to do anything but stare at one object and only one object at a time) to makeout. You do so willingly and close your eyes. Having your eyes closed makes things way easier for you because now you do not have to worry about focusing on anything other than his mouth. You can do that.

Your slow moving brain is trying to figure out what you can do to shift him so that the entirety of his body is laying on top of yours. You have some serious plans for at least ten minutes of grinding. Serious plans that are interrupted when you realize that your dog (who recently celebrated his first birthday) has decided that he would also like to experiment with recreational drugs and has started eating the special cookies from off of the coffee table.

That bastard. He is a bastard for many reasons: (1) he was born out of wedlock, (2) he pulled this very same shit yesterday (he went into the garbage and ate the spent pot that was used to make the special butter), and (3) his actions caused your man friend to stop what he was doing and look away.. immediately putting a halt to your dry humping.

Whatever. Fine. You can work with that.

You get up, move the cookies away, and sit back down next to your date. You are being a good girl, so climbing onto his lap is clearly out of the question. Also, you are too high to be able to pull off anything that could even remotely be considered a quick movement. It seems like anything that involves straddling could be dangerous.

When your date ever-so-gentlemanly takes your hand in his and begins to stroke your palm, you think, "fuck it," and not-so-subtly take the hand that had just been holding yours and place it on your breast. Also, it turns out that you didn't just think, "fuck it," you said that part out loud.

But, god bless him, your date just goes with it. And you are practically purring, for about two and a half minutes. At that point in time, Hudson proceeds to pee all over the floor right by your front door. By what is surely the grace of god, the dog did not urinate on your man friend's shoes. He did, however, create a small lake in your apartment. There is no ignoring it. And so you sigh, get up and proceed to mop up the mess. You're not even actually sure if you can blame the dog for his actions because there is a very good chance that he is even more high than you are. Regardless, the mood has once again been broken.

It is later on that night. You have resigned yourself to simply cuddling on the couch. Your head is near your dates lap and you are staring at his fly, silently apologizing to what lies beneath for neglecting it all night long. But, just to keep things interesting, you have been lazily running your hand along his thigh for the last ten minutes.

Inching your way closer and closer to..

Your elderly dog, who has just decided that there is room enough for three on the couch and is fed up with being the only one not getting stroked. You stop the movement of your hand and pat the dog on the head. It seems weird to be stroking both your dog and date at the same time, and so your date loses. After all, the dog was around first.

The night eventually comes to a close when all three animals (cat included) just begin to stare at you and your date as you sit on the couch. It's unnerving.

You escort your date to the front door, but not before pressing a book into his hands. "Remember to read this before we go see the movie," you say. He nods. You see it as a chance to make your move and attack his face with your own.

He tries to take a brief romantic pause to ask you questions about whether or not you had fun and when you want to get together next. "Shut up," you want to say to him, "your talking is getting in the way of my kissing." But that would be kind of rude to say, wouldn't it? So you don't. Instead, you just stare at his lips because, hours later, you are still too high to really focus on much more than one thing at a time.

Eventually his lips stop moving and, just for good measure, you nod a few times (it seems like the thing to do) before moving back in for the kill. He seems pleased by this.

Several minutes later, he departs. He forgot the book. You stare at it for a second and then turn around to face the waiting crowd.

"Fuck you," you say to the two dogs and one cat. "You guys are such assholes."  


The stars were bright and twinkling overhead. We sat in a giant circle, seated on cushions, all wrapped tightly in blankets, around a fire.

Three brothers sang songs in arabic as they huddled around the flames, preparing a late night tea. Their voices and the crackling of the fire the only noise in the darkness.

I was struck by the sense that this feeling was something I was unlikely to recapture again. It was a memory I would carry with me for the rest of my life. One that I'd look to others who'd shared it and laugh. "Remember the time we sat around a fire in the middle of the desert, in Jordan, and drank tea and smoked hookahs under the stars with a bunch of bedouins?"