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Showing posts from October, 2018

A Question of Numbers

I would imagine it would be difficult to date you. You seem like you’d be hard to please. What’s wrong with your face? You’re going to die alone. You’re too picky. Loosen up. You’re intimidating. You’re unapproachable.

I haven’t slept with someone in over two years. I haven’t been in a relationship in close to seven years. (Side note: If it hadn’t been for a very brief fling with an ex-boyfriend, it’s actually been more like four years since I was intimate with a different ex-boyfriend.) This is not the first time this has happened. I am thirty-three years old.
I’ve made brief appearances on online dating apps like OK Cupid, Tinder and Match. I met a man off OK Cupid once at a neighborhood dog park. We let our dogs run around and play while we sat on a bench and talked.
“So, you’re the manager at Skyline Chili,” I said. “Does that mean you’re the one in charge of the three-way signs?” “Yeah."
He didn’t seem to find the question as humorous as I did. I changed the subject and asked him…

Vitiligo

My grandmother has a three-hundred-acre farm in Kentucky. When I was younger, there used to be a tree house overlooking a field filled with the kind of dark green grass that felt soft underneath my bare feet. One Summer Sunday evening, my family was out at the farm for dinner. I was around eight or nine years old. I was playing with my older cousin, he was four years older. He and I walked quickly up the old rotting wood steps of the tree house, and though he had made it safely to the top floor, I began to hear the sounds of cracking wood underneath my small feet.
The next thing I knew, I was about to fall through the floor. Somehow, I had known to throw my arms out to my side to keep from falling through to the ground. Underneath my hanging legs was a pile of wood, the rusty nails almost glowing in decay. I screamed for an adult, and whoever it was helped pulled me up and out of the rotting hole. There were red, tender scraps along the inside of both of my arms. They hurt like hell. T…

Patrick

His back was turned away from me as he began to undress. I stood in the bedroom of someone’s house wondering if what he had said was true. 
“You think too much,” he said.
His ability to make me feel less than human was his super power. He was back in Kentucky during his college fall break, and had called to let me know he was in town. He gave me the address of someone’s house, and I ended up driving thirty minutes to get to him.  It was close to ten in the evening when I got into my ’91 Volvo. I left the wet orange leaves that were stuck in the left windshield wiper. When I turned the car on, the volume on the cd player was loud with the vocals of a woman talking about waking up in her makeup. I turned down the volume and slightly rolled down the windows to let in the tepid October air. Turning into the darkly lit neighborhood, I had trouble finding the house. I turned around and drove slow. In a driveway at the end of a street I saw the white of his car. I had only been a passenger a coup…