Virgin BlowJob (Update)

I’ve been in a publishing slump, which I shouldn’t complain about because I normally get at least one acceptance letter a month from a journal. So why am I bitching when I don’t for two months? Because I can and January and February was kind of shitty anyways.

But this Monday I found out one of my poems got accepted into a badass anthology about women’s issue. An Anthology I was really hoping to get into. I mean I had busted my ass with the poem they accepted too. Rewrite, after rewrite and I had even gotten to the point of sending it to my old professor (a week before I found out) and he was like, “I don’t find anything to cut or pinch or snip. It’s funny and partly scandalous and damn good.”

The poem that was accepted is about my old ex/hook-up/whatever you want to label “Virgin BlowJob.” The poem carries images touching on memory, my emotions and the sense of place. But especially the emotions, the idea that “I wasn’t the one.” Because he that said to my face, “It’s not like we’re gonna get married or anything.” This was right before the blowjob I gave him.

This was the image that stuck the most with me from the hook-up. It wasn’t like I was hoping I end up with this guy at all during the hook-up, but we had gotten close, we had stayed up late talking a lot. I didn’t think marriage, but I thought I was more than a blowjob.

He made me realize two things:

  1. Just because you’re a virgin doesn’t mean you’re not a chauvinistic pig.
  2. Men really do think like that don’t they? They really think “well this is just a fuck.”

And you know the worst part is I think I was just a girl to fuck around with because I wasn’t a virgin and he couldn’t be in a real relationship with someone who slept around. (He was religious to a fault).

It’s funny though because last night an old friend was asking about him. Gosh, I hadn’t really thought about him since I posted about him on this blog and it’s been a year and a half since the corn field thing happened and a just about a year since I’ve spoken to him.

So, since it was getting close to 3AM and my mind needed a break from submissions I decided to take a peek at his Facebook profile.

He just recently (like last week) proposed to his girlfriend.

I never really have mentioned this before, but the moment he said to me, “not like we’re gonna get married” his Ex girlfriend popped in his head because I knew and felt that was who he wanted to marry.

I’m not sad or hurt. 

It’s more of just a “huh. Well, look at that.

My poem was pretty much on target, huh?”

Leftover Relationship Pieces

It’s not the sex I miss the most. Not any of the gifts, cuddling or hand holding.

I miss the friendship.

When my ex of four years cheated on me and left, it wasn’t the other woman, the pictures I found or the love poems he wrote to her that hit my gut like a freight train.  It was the realization that I had just lost my best friend. And I know there’s a quote, a story or poem that talks about the whole process oh losing someone, but they haven’t died, they still walk around Earth. Yet, they have left your life like they have died.

And I don’t cry for my past relationships. It’s been a very, very long time since I missed any of my ex’s.

But I really miss having that best friend.

Ok, I know I have loads of best friends, who happen to be both women and men.  I’m so thankful for the people in my life and I got really lucky to have so many people who care about me.

But for those of you that have been in a long relationship there’s this other kind of best friend you find in the person you publicly admit is your girlfriend or boyfriend. There’s something wonderful about having that person there.

God, I miss when having someone to just sit and talk for hours about books, speech and debate. To bounce off ideas, emotions and if I’m acting crazy or not.

That certain person, you just have to text or call and tell them: I went to pick up my bridesmaid dress today and the lady was like, “would you like to try it on here?” And my internal voice is like, “I just ate half a pizza by myself…noooooo.” But I just told her, “I’m in a hurry, so I’ll just be picking it up.” (Lies). I was going home to eat ice cream.

I miss those conversations.

Ok, sure I could tell my friends. But I have to space out my ridiculousness with them. For everyone’s sanity.

So that’s what I miss most. I miss the friendship in love and it’s probably been about four years since I’ve felt that.

It’s not pain or hurt I feel. I cry about not having it and I guess what I feel is longing. It’s like a television series or cliffhanger books: You really wish you could look into the future and know what’s going to happen. Is everything going to be ok?

I’m really terrible about television shows and looking up what’s going to happen before I watch an episode. I try really hard and so far haven’t really looked ahead in The Walking Dead and somehow I’ve managed not learning anything about Breaking Bad (I still haven’t watched it yet).

 So, I think I cry sometimes about missing this friendship because I’m not really sure when it’s going to come around again.

Don’t feel sad for me though. That’s not what this post was intended to do. I don’t need pity. Yes, I’m sad and it hurts. If you can feel that through my words, then that’s enough for me. Because being sad about this, it just reminds me about what matters most to me in a relationship.

Disabled Writers

I’ve read over this article on the Poetry Foundation website numerous times, mostly trying to give myself a jolt in my personal statement and also it’s rare to find an article on disabled writers (which is ironic because that’s half their arugment…the lack thereof).

Recently, I was setting up a few submissions and it crossed my mind, what if I submitted a non-disabled poem to a journal that’s focus was the disability community? Would they want it? If I wrote a poem about falling in love, wouldn’t it still be on a technical level about a woman with a disability, falling in love? Wouldn’t every aspect of one’s words have an underlining acknowledgment of the disability? If a poet of color wrote a poem about love, you wouldn’t strip away their race because the poem is about love and not skin color. I think it’s interesting that disabled poetry becomes a one-sided publishing endeavor but with gender, race, or class journals are merely there to support the authors.
I enjoyed what each writer pointed out, but I only wished they had more regarding other disabilities, besides the physical and deafness. (Funny the disability community ignoring its own community and leaving a chunk of us out.) Because I have my own set of problems and issues I deal with daily, along with the notion of hiding in plain sight. I don’t have a wheelchair or a missing leg to account for my daily struggle. People don’t see me as disabled right off the bat, but I go into panic mode when trying to count coins or trying to spell the word, “especially.” I fear cashier jobs and publishing jobs worried they will find out and think less of me. Teaching a tiring job of showing up an hour early to fix my spelling errors on the board, practice saying each word in the lesson plan, to hide my disability.
That’s where I disagree with some of the writers in the article. I do wish to protest, to talk about the pity moments because sitting down to write is a battle itself for me sometimes, because I will spend 20 minutes trying to remember how to spell a word, or going back and changing every “now” to a “know.” Same with “see” and “she.” So I’m sure the poet in a wheelchair, the deaf fiction writer and I all have a different set of struggles.
I guess I’m simply trying to say is, though the disability community has become a larger part of the writing community, I still believe most readers imagine only wheelchairs, sign language, and failing bodies when they see “disabled” across the page. When voices of the community also are writing about torn identities, hidden self and trying to make do with missing tools.
Plus how can I really make someone understand what it’s like not understanding language? It would be like trying to write a poem about taking one’s breath away, which is more an expression of feeling than a literal idea.

At the Movies


Since the Oscars was Sunday I thought I put together a few fun lists about different films, in different categories:

My Some of My favorite films: (I feel like this list changes sometimes)

  1. Pans Labyrinth 
  2. Spirited Away
  3. Amelie
  4. Wall-E 
  5. O Brother, Where Art Thou
  6. Mary and Max
  7. The Descendants
  8. Capote 
  9. Phoebe in Wonderland 
  10. District 9
  11. Frida
  12. Walk the Line
  13. 12 Years a Slave
  14. The Iron Lady
  15. The King’s Speech

Films that scare the shit out of me:

  1. My Amityville horror:  A creepy documentary that I never finished because my friend and I tried watching it at 3AM in our very dark three story house.
  2. The Troll in Central park: I had nightmares as a child that his troll would crawl up into my body. I shit you not, I would not sleep facing the side of my bed facing the wall for 8 years because of this fear.
  3. E.T. (I’m not putting a link in, a link means I have to glimpse at an image) I had a dream as a kid he tried to kill me, so I lived in fear my whole childhood of E.T. and still do.
  4. The Great Mouse Detective: Ok the movie isn’t scary, but there’s a fucking bat in it that scary as shit. Two years ago a bat ended up on my bedroom door and I touched it…full circle.

Some films I enjoy watching (there are pently more I left out)

  1. Midnight in Paris 
  2. Some Like it Hot
  3. Heathers
  4. Psycho 
  5. The Theory of Everything
  6. The Book of Eli
  7. I am Legend (The book was fucking good)
  8. The Dark Knight Rises 
  9. Frankenweenie 
  10. Sense and Sensibility 
  11. The Emperors New Groove: One of the most quoted movies when I lived with my roommates.) Ok, we mostly quoted the flea-box line.
  12. The Rescuers Down Under
  13. The Sword and the Stone: Just a silly movie to laugh at and I’m the red squirrel.
  14. Rio: I will never understand why I love this movie so much.

Films I grew up watching (over and over and over)

  1. My Neighbor Totoro: My all time watched childhood movie!
  2. Wallace and Gromit: Another cornerstone of my childhood and probably why I love cheese so much. Also, watch: A Close Shave & The Wrong Trousers
  3. Planes, Trains, and Automobiles: My mom is a huge John Candy fan. So I have seen almost every film he’s been in, over and over and over. John Candy was a large portion of my childhood movies.
  4. The Sound of Music
  5. Winnie the Pooh: Every time I see a bridge I tell my friends we should play pooh sticks and they give me the weirdest look.
  6. Charlotte’s Web 
  7. Lots of Disney movies: My mom always tells I loved to watch Sleeping Beauty and she would ask me why and I would state, “I like Maleficent.”
  8. The Neverending Story 
  9. Gay Purr-ee 
  10. The Land Before Time
  11. The Secret of NIMH: I don’t understand how this film never freaked me out.
  12. Back to the Future 
  13. Jaws
  14. Indiana Jones
  15. Ace Ventura 
  16. Lots of Client Eastwood movies: My dad is a fan of westerns…so lots of westerns.
  17. Wizard of Oz
  18. Jurassic Park
  19. Funny Girl 
  20. Homeward Bound

Confessions Between Ladies

I went out for dinner and drinks Wednesday night with my best friend. A much-needed catch-up time since she’s been busy dealing buying a townhouse with her finace and I’ve been a crying, messy poetry hermit.

I’m not sure how we ended up on the subject (perhaps the maragtrias) but we ended up talking about all the things women do, but we never really admit to. It just so happens that hours after hanging out I saw a list of things women do but don’t talk about.

Now I somewhat agree to this list and I think depending on one’s own pet peeves and personal preferences some of these are either, “oh, yeah, I do that all the time” or “omg, gross no…I have limits.” For example, the article had, “turning underwear inside out because you ran out of clean ones.” No, have you been a woman? That fabric is all up in there, turning it inside out will do nothing for you. I say, “no clean underwear? Well, the perfect reason to go commando.

A list of things my friend and I admit to doing:

  1. Wearing the a pair of jeans three times before you wash them. (If they don’t smell, why wash them?)
  2. Febreze-ing or spraying perfume on your jeans (Just in case they smell a little…you never know)
  3. Spilling salsa or guacamole on your shirt and removing it with a tortilla chip (this is me…all the time.)
  4. A bowl of cheese or a stick of cheese. My friend and I did this all the time in the Midwest. I even bought a separte brick of cheese, that was only for me. I called it, “my snack cheese.”
  5. The boob hold. I am the queen of the boob hold that one time I accidently start just holding my boob in front of my guy friend (outside my shirt, of course). But holding your boob is wonderful. It’s great for reading or pondering life in bed.
  6. Not washing bras enough. (I mean have you ever had to?) It sucks.
  7. Yes, Missy Elliot is the music for dancing in your underwear.
  8. No, girls don’t have pillow fights, but I have been apart of a few spin the bottle games.
  9. My friend went to a bachelorette party and saw someone’s underwear gift was little mermaid underwear, so she went out and bought some and she says they are the most comfortable underwear. Actually she was wearing them during our talk.
  10. The quick and silent poop in public. This is a gift I’m sure all women are born with.
  11. Pants day? Long Sleeve day? Probably mean we didn’t shave.
  12. I don’t know if anyone else does this, but since I’m single and not having sex, underwear selection isn’t a big deal. But I know when it’s time to do laundry because I’m stuck wearing all my nice lacy underwear. The last few days have been a blur of lacy reds, purple tied together with lacy ribbons and lacy black thongs. I need to do my laundry.
  13. I do have “period underwear” a select group of underwear that are on their way out of my life but before I throw them away they are go to when I’m bleeding out of my orifice.
  14. One of my old roommates came up to me before we moved out and said the greatest lesson she learned from me was the art of cleaning one’s room before a man came over. She said she’ll always remember what I told her, “hide your pillow pet, because what you’re about to do, no pillow pet should see.”
  15. Women tell each other everything about the guys they’ve been with. Of course depending on the level of friendship certain things may be left out. But believe me, if I have a close friend, they know the good kissers from the sloppy kisser I’ve experienced. They know the embarrassing stories and the bad sex.


Google Map It

At least once a week I go Google maps and double check how long it would take to drive back to the Midwest. Then I remember I’m only human and I can’t just drive for a day and more with no sleep. Plus I drink a lot of water and I always need to pee. Bathroom breaks alone could add two hours. Even though, I take pride in my efficient pee time. (Another story for another time).

Also, it’s fucking cold in the Midwest. Like rock solid nipple cold. That’s no fun to drive in and my sunshine skin is weak after more than half a year back at home. Plus that’s a lot of gas money and I’m cheap.

So at this point I daydream about visiting, turn off google maps and watch something on Netflix.

I have been in a terrible funk. Really emotional, lonely and I feel like I try to send out my flare gun, little messages to people, I need to talk. Feeling alone and in limbo is taking a toll on me. Plus I’m my own worst enemy. I’m too hard on myself and I have been negative about a lot of things: from my poems to the odds of getting into an MFA program.

In the face of it all I try really hard to keep writing. It’s important to continue writing, even during the worst writers block. Poetry is like a relationship. If I was going through a bad time I wouldn’t just ditch who I was with. I would lean on them for support.

Many great poets have emphasized to me the importance of pushing through the writers block. So I write poems, send out submissions, edit what I can. I work on my personal statement and study for the GRE. Is it enough? No, not enough (well not enough for me). I think I should be putting more time in.

And my stomach turns every time I try to write about this subject matter. I feel like I’m whiny, over dramatic or just being lazy and not a hard worker. I feel like I’m just being self-deprecating.

This is when I double check the weather in the Midwest or other parts of the world. This is when I double check how long it would take to drive back.

Confession #33 

I am so terrified of not getting into an MFA program. Utterly terrified because I couldn’t take sitting around working one more year. I worry that an MFA isn’t for me. Like I don’t fully understand what I’m getting myself into. I’m just a silly kid day-dreaming more than anything.

But I want to be in an MFA program because I want more. To learn, grow, master skills I’m working on. (goodness that sounds cheesy). I am always willing to spend hours at a time on writing, just sitting there knocking out work. I love it. I love feeling like I have a place to talk.

Then I think, “how silly and young do I sound?”

Maybe I need to get some sleep. 

When my mother was in the hospital with the kidney infection, she was propped up in bed reading a movie magazine when, all of a sudden, she felt me turn in her belly and her feet went cold and colder and the cold moved up until it almost reached her heart. She knew then that she was dying. She buzzed the nurse, then she didn’t move. The nurse couldn’t find a pulse, she ran for the doctor. My mother was thinking, “If only they would open those windows.” They were huge, French windows. And the doctor walked in and he looked into my mother’s eyes and he opened those windows and her pulse began again. Hey dog, that’s my favorite story. -Terry Galloway

Life Choices at Midnight

I have these rare moments at Midnight where I’m hungry, but nothing sounds appetizing. I stand and stare into the fridge, trying to deduce what will satisfy my body.

I decided to go with a roast beef sandwich. I made one late last night and I thought, can’t wrong with roast beef two nights in a row.

Now I’m not an amazing cook. I rarely cook and I have no patience or natural instincts for cooking. But I cook. I can make you a mean french toast, various forms of eggs and egg in toast, sandwiches, and a few assortments of desserts.

Last night’s roast beef sandwich went very well, so well in fact that was the main choices for attempt number two.

Problem: I left in the middle of toasting my beard. Trying to multitask cooking and watching John Mulaney’s New In Town was a bad idea. Definitely burnt my toast. During toast attempt number two I was scared for a brief moment when I thought we were out of roast beef. I definitely had a cartoon “oh noo!” moment, but think petite redhead in a cartoon saying no or something adorable.

Don’t worry, because the roast beef was hiding under the ham.

I made the sandwich (not as good as last nights) the stem of the avocado ended up in the sandwich somehow. Then I went back into my room to watch reruns of The Walking Dead.

30 minutes into my late night sandwich eating and Netflix watching my brother comes home and walks into my room to ask me why he found my glasses in the fridge.

“huh…I didn’t notice.”

“Sister! How is that possible?! You can’t see without them!”

“Well, all the zombies on The Walking Dead look at same blurry or not.”

The moment you realize maybe it’s time for bed because you’re that exhausted.

Glasses back on I decided to eat a cookie. But I couldn’t open the box and I had to ask my brother to open the box, which prompted more “Sister! you’re a mess!”

Ate the cookie and watched Mike Birbiglia, My Girlfriend’s Boyfriend. Yes, I am moving back and forth between shows on Netflix.