“Things” have a history that is swept under the rug because of their supposed commonality. Priceless art and linguistic masterpieces are praised for their originality, being held in museums and erected across the homes of the richest people on the planet. Shielded by glass cases and velvet ropes, they spend their time being viewed, not used. They are not things, but sights…
Read MoreI went to the alien sex cult meeting on a Sunday, but opted to wear the Monday pair from my days of the week underwear to act as a good luck charm and guarantee I’d make it to the next day…
Read More“Do you dream in color?” My occupational therapist, Brad, once asked. “Of course,” I said, “Doesn’t everyone?”…
Read MoreIt started with a bra. A big, huge bra. I’m the prime candidate for breast reduction surgery: back issues, self-diagnosed body dysmorphia, and a pair of tits that bust out of every age-appropriate top. From the day they started growing I planned to get them cut off, but I knew it had to be after I started birth control, just in case the hormones took my Gs to Es. I didn’t want just any birth control, I wanted the PERFECT birth control. At first I considered pills, but they would speed up my metabolism too much for my anti-anxiety medication to be fully effective. The implant made me want to flay myself, and I wasn’t close enough to my doctor for the shots. Enter the wonderful T of trimester-preventing, the epic cross of contraception, the thing with the string when your ovaries ring: the IUD. It was perfect, like a beacon of light, a holy cross to rival the crucifix.
Read MoreI met Jack Kerouac and Dean Moriarty last summer. It was my third week of being a bank teller in Waukesha, Wisconsin. First Federal Bank of Wisconsin was my mighty employer and I their ever-faithful employee.
Each new workday began with the rising sun. I caught glimpses of it on my drive to work and when I worked the drive-thru I welcomed it in its entirety. Otherwise I looked out no windows the rest of my workday. I tapped the keys of a gray keyboard. I ate plain yogurt on my 30-minute lunches in the dull break room. I yawned from boredom.
Read MoreI hope this letter finds you well. I know I’m not supposed to respond to your “reply all” rejection emails, but your tip-toed letter meant a lot to me. If you must know, you’re my first. I was too shy to mention that in my 200-character bio I sent on Submittable, but it’s true. You’re my first rejection—a literary deflowering of sorts. I’m not expecting a response, you probably run through rejection virgins like me every day; I just wanted to reach out to show you what your rejection means to me:
Read MoreThe butterfly-shaped organ in my neck has got it all wrong. That’s what the doctor told me—that my butterfly flew in the wrong direction, did a few too many spins, and got stuck in a high up bough. In theory, I like my butterfly for her rebellion. In practice, I feel differently.
The first thing you learn about the thyroid is that it’s butterfly shaped. The second is that it’s responsible for practically everything in your body. I have Hashimoto's disease, which is an autoimmune disorder—a butterfly on a rebellious flight. Every metaphorical wing flap can result in rashes sprouting or my face puffing, but most of the disease is invisible to everybody but me. My favorite offender? Being freezing cold all the time.
Read MoreI’ve often been surprised by how people react when they discover I’m an only child. There’s usually an initial shock, the revelation that I’m more visibly well-adjusted than the stereotypical one. Then, a frown forms as they discern my childhood must have been rather lonely. Where I was lacking in friends, or brothers, I made up for with superheroes. After a long day of school, when other kids were roughhousing with their siblings, I was reading the adventures of the Hulk or the X-Men.
Read MoreMy father is a narcissist. That’s the simplest way to put it, though it took me years to reach that conclusion—a conclusion the rest of my family still struggles to accept…
Read MoreIn the least deranged way possible, I’m a people watcher—have been since I was a child. I enjoy looking through townhouse windows and listening to dinner conversations. I’m by no means doing it to be creepy, in my mind, it’s an anthropological study into the lives of people around me. An innate trait I use to connect to and understand the world.
Read MoreAccording to my silver 2010 Acura, I’ve starred in 32 one-woman shows. I’ve won a Tony Award for “Best Performance of Maureen Johnson at a Dunkin’ Drive-Thru.” To its knowledge, I’m a famous Broadway star, selling out shows every night. In reality, I’m your average 20-year-old college student just trying to get to her job at the local Kumon.
Read MoreWhile studying abroad, there were moments when I couldn’t appreciate what was happening around me. I’d ask, “Why me?” At first, the question wasn’t loud, barely audible inside my own mind, and I was happy. After all, when would I ever be 19 years old in Paris during the Olympics again? Never. So it would be best if I were to just shove that question into the darkest closet of my mind.
Read MoreI’ve seen these trees grow and change, adjusting to the world around them. Their roots bubble up, seeping through the cracks of the concrete which once laid flat. I watch as a group of four-year-olds pour out of the preschool building's doors. Suddenly, my eyes blur and I escape into a memory of when I was small and mighty too.
Read MoreAs a child I assumed the president was a woman—it never even occurred to me that a man would be capable of doing the job. In my little 5-year-old brain, it was women’s work. On the brink of the 2008 election, I had to be told the leader of your country was a man. I was extremely confused, because according to the shelves of Target, Barbie was the president-elect. This had to mean the actual leader must be female right?
Read MoreIf my ninth-grade self could see me now, she’d be rolling her eyes, utterly confused, asking one question: why do I not look gay? When I was in high school, I wore my sexuality on my sleeve. I unabashedly had bright red hair, giant winged eyeliner, and wore massive platform boots at 8 o’clock on a Monday morning. Now, it’s a miracle if I can get myself to put my contacts in instead of throwing on my crooked glasses. So I wonder: Has my laziness left me looking straight?
Read More"Bananas, bananas, bananas.” I’m a sensitive person. The smallest thing can break my heart. If I let myself, I’ll cry for hours. But somehow, along the way, I’ve created a hard, emotionless persona for myself. After 20 years, there’s no going back, so I gnaw on my tongue and think about bananas.
Read MoreWhen you saw me for the first time, I was 12 years old, and I fell because you pushed and pulled, then pulled and pushed. Your desire made me feel seen, worth being counted, so I stepped aside, let you in, and we have lived together since. Though I was wrong about you then: I was nothing but another door for you to force open when one of your doors had slammed close.
Read MoreMy bed is my pride and joy. If you see me anywhere, I’d rather be there, lying in my field of flowers, under the stars—the fairy lights that I’ve had since 2020. It sits in the corner and acts like a throne for a queen who must watch all her subjects at every hour.
Read MoreThe human brain is the most complex organ in the human body for scientists to understand and, in turn, treat. While there are over 600 neurological diseases, I particularly want to dive into the complexity of epilepsy. My neurologist said I had to accept that every time I went to bed… “You may not wake up.”
Read More“Multiple Sclerosis,” he stated, in a tone that was more matter of fact than sympathetic. He didn’t care to explain what that entailed, but took the liberty of giving me time to Google it myself. When he came back into the room he asked if I had any questions. I only had one. “Could someone get the needle out of my arm?”
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