Kissing is a Stranger's Game

I used to imagine that my first kiss would be a magical experience that should be cherished and remembered. To thirteen year old me, I imagined that kissing someone was nearly as important as full blown coital, and even as my friends were getting their first kisses and much, much more, I waited patiently--most of the time at my house on Saturday night watching reruns of Boy Meets World, wondering if I would ever have a simple love like Cory and Topanga. I wasn't sure what it would be like, so I asked my friends. Sadly, it was more like a giant secret, so eventually I went on to study movies and television. I wanted to understand what this kissing business entailed; I continued my search until I ran into the movie Man in the Moon. For those unaware, it's Reese Witherspoon's first role ever and the ending will leave you wanting to kill yourself out of depression. But to no surprise, young Reese and I had something in common: we both wanted the answer to this kissing dilemma. Her sister in the movie advised her to practice by kissing her closed fist.

Logic told me that if that was good enough for Reese, then it was good enough for me. So for a couple weeks, I went around practicing on my fist, hoping that I would gain some kind of insight as to what I was supposed to be doing, but after my dad caught me making out with my hand and told me that it looked like I was attempting to kiss a butthole, I decided to wait for the real thing. The only thing worse than being thirteen years old and not being kissed is being thirteen years old and have your dad accusing you of fake kissing a butthole.
The next few years, I lived vicariously through my slutty friends who got kissed on the regular. I used to pray for them and envy them at the same time, as any true Christian understands. I wanted them to be washed of their sin, but I also wanted what they had more than anything. Eventually, my day would come, but we've already discussed that. The first kiss is always the most dangerous because it reveals that kissing doesn't kill you... actually, the first kiss opens up the door to so much more kissing, and if you time it correctly like I did, you don't end up being called slutty like all of your early blooming middle school friends.
I stayed pretty monogamous with my kissing throughout high school, only kissing people that I was in a stable, healthy relationship with... which usually consisted of talking for 1-2 weeks, never going on a date, then deciding that you're boyfriend and girlfriend. But in the summer before my senior year, I made a fatal error and kissed someone I wasn't dating. At first, I imagined that God was scowling down at me from above, citing multiple verses of Leviticus that I hadn't reviewed in years, which made me feel even more guilty for not knowing which verses of Leviticus I had infracted. With time, the guilt subsided, and I realized the world I had stumbled onto: the world of casual kissing.
I began to realize that I had just been a victim of American prudishness--countries around the world had been kissing each other for years. Hell, depending on what part of France you're in, sometimes men kiss other men. In comparison to the rest of the world, America is nearly a celibate country. I began coming more and more open to the idea of sharing kisses with the masses, and soon, I began implementing my plan. College started out slow, but the more comfortable I got with the idea, the more people I kissed. I kissed future Broadway stars and people who would eventually drop out, but no matter the person, as long as they were open to the idea (and didn't have cold sores... ew), then I would offer up a friendly kiss at least. I found it to be my gift, or calling, perhaps.
But with every good intention comes an equally important responsibility. I soon found that the amicable, mouth hugging ideal that I had in my head was fading. I found myself in competitions, particularly with my friend Patrice, going around and trying to kiss as many people as we could in an hour. At the time, it seemed like harmless fun, but in retrospect, I had become everything I had envied and prayed for--I had become skanky. I had started kissing so many people that it didn't feel like anything anymore. It had become sport for me, so I decided to stop. College was college, but in the real world... things had to be different.

But when I was younger and wanting to be kissed more than Drew Berrymore in a 90s cult classic, my mom explained to me that people matured at different times and that we all go through things at our own pace. So when my roommate and I went over to a friend's apartment and starting drinking flavored vodka, I could feel myself being catapulted back into my sophomore year of college. My super-post-grad-maturity kicked in, and I realized that my company had never had those slutty college years that Rita from Bridesmaids warned Ellie Kemper's character about. I knew that for one night, I had to take a hiatus from my life of purity--I needed to be their Rita.
So after spending about fifteen minutes convincing one roommate that I was indeed not gay, I kissed her on the balcony, while to my surprise, my roommate was inside making out with the other roommate. Later that night, my makeout friend was throwing up in the toilet while my roommate was dancing alone to the Backstreet Boys smash record Millenium. I knew that was when the night needed to be over. Yes, it seems extremely immature, but these moments are necessary. We promised as a group that we wouldn't let it affect our friendship, and much like sophomore year, we didn't talk to them for a month. I was confused why we kept apologizing for kissing each other, as if we had taken turns punching each other in the face. I was quickly reminded that, even as a 22 year old, kissing is just something that no one really seems to embrace like the Europeans and me.
I find myself apologizing for a lot in my life because I'm naturally a guilty and nervous person, but one thing that I refuse to apologize for is kissing another person. Yes, I like to believe that I use a little more discretion these days than I have in the past, but when you come from a position where you've made out with your hand, you don't take any kisses for granted. Kissing is nothing to be ashamed of, but my new friends helped me to realize something. Casual kissing is best done with people that you don't know because casual kissing among friends leads to awkward silences and a laundry list of questions that never needed to be questions to begin with. Kissing, much like conversations about politics and watching sports, is best done with perfect strangers.

Testify!

The week after I was saved, the Southern Baptist obligation was to become baptized, so I duly scheduled for my sins to be washed away the following Sunday because... these things have to be scheduled, you know. A lot of church was like that: you came in fifteen minutes early to shake every ones hands, then you sit and doodle on your bulletin. If you're between the ages of 15 and 24 or what those below the Mason Dixon line like to call "Small Group Age," then you raise your hand above your head while older-church-goers stumble through the words of a Steven Curtis Chapman song that has come to replace the songs within the hymnals that have merely become a sturdy surface to write your offering check on.
Eventually, you wade your way through a sermon and get to the invitation where three teenagers from the youth group mosey to the front to rededicate their lives to the Lord for the third time this year as everyone nervously shuffles waiting on some unknown face to approach the alter to potentially, sincerely give their lives to the Lord. I always loved the girls that would rededicate their lives because we would always give them obligatory congratulations afterward to which they would respond, I just really wanted to give my soul back to the Lord, as if you can just petty theft from Jesus. And then afterward, we would go downstairs and have lunch. Being Southern Baptist for the first sixteen years of my life was one of the most methodically inspiring things I could have ever been apart of.
The first couple years were the best, but it's funny because the Baptism is where things started to go downhill. As I prepared to be dunked in the holy water that could burn your sins off with its chlorine content alone, the pathway to the baptismal pool was cluttered with too much Jesus. On the way to the bleach pit of Heaven, I climbed over discarded crosses and boxes of pageant pamphlets. All of these things promoting Jesus were actually blocking me from getting to my baptism, and even as a 13 year old, the whole thing seemed kind of ironic. Once I had been cleansed, I joined the youth group and said prayer requests for all the people we were worried about. Prayer requests were our chance to gossip about the people in our lives while also hanging out in the circle of God. If our lives became too uneventful, we would just say "unspoken," which alluded that we knew something that was just too juicy to say to the group.
Eventually after bouncing around three churches, I decided that maybe church just wasn't the right place for me to find God. I had decided that men (or at least the Baptists) couldn't be trusted with the power of God because all of the community softball teams and youth retreats and van rides on the way to youth retreats touched on a number of things (pun intended) but none of those were Christianity. I had been on church-hiatus for about two years, cleansing myself of all those MercyMe and tobyMac lyrics when a woman my mom works with invited me to go to church with her. At first I was kind of surprised that my mom relayed the message to me because momma didn't really trust me to be around any other adults. That might have been because our neighborhood was dotted with meth houses, or Surprise Fireworks as I like to call them. Either way, there was a very short list of people I was allowed to go out with, and apparently, fellow-telemarketer and fierce-black-woman Teresa was one of them.
Teresa had found the Lord sometime during and/or after her stay in prison. I worked as a telemarketer with them both and heard Teresa break down a remix version of "Jesus Loves Me" multiple times before. She attended a Church of Zion, and after weighing the pros and cons, I decided that it couldn't be any more misdirected than any other church I had been to. I got up early on Sunday, and mom drove me to the Weigels in East Knoxville--the same Weigels that had been on the news a week earlier because of a neighborhood shoot out. For the record, East Knoxville is not where you go to have a picnic, let alone worship the Lord... or so I thought. Either way, I took solace that the police station was just a football field's length away.
I turned to Mom and asked, Are you sure this isn't going to be awkward? Mom looked back at me and said, Don't worry. I'm sure you'll have fun. Thanks, girl. I wasn't really asking if I'd have fun or not, but that's a super consolation prize. I was obviously not dressed appropriately for what we had simply deemed "black church" in my neck of the woods. Teresa spun into the parking lot and emerged in a bright purple dress, and there I was... standing there in a white short-sleeved button up, light khaki pants, and my semi-translucent skin... just like Oh hey. I'm not a klansman. She was having trouble getting her giant purple hat out of the car, so she hollered out, Aw, shit on it-- language I'm confident that she never brings into the house of God. I was quickly ushered into her Cadillac, and we were off to meet the Lord, one way or another.

This is Black Jesus, which can be used interchangeably
with White Jesus. The interesting part of this is that
Black Jesus wears a puka shell necklace, and White Jesus
does not. Even though Black Jesus is light-skinned,
we still like him. #irony

As we entered, I felt like the entire congregation must have greeted me--it was obvious that I was the standout guest. I searched the room and found one familiar face in the back. I don't know what inspired me to say it, but I leaned over to Teresa and said, Oh, look! There's a white woman sitting back there! Not only did I look like a completely insecure racist, but an ignorant racist at that. Teresa brushed it off and responded, Oh, no baby. She's just... 'light skinned.' Her eyebrows rose above her rolled eyes. Got it. So far I had learned two things that I still hold close to my heart: you don't know what it's like to be the minority until you are the minority and we don't like light skinned black girls. But back to the story, it seemed that black church wasn't too different on the surface, but there was something obviously different. I know it sounds crazy, but it seemed like these people genuinely wanted to say hello to each other.
The service began with a string of hymns that we don’t sing at the Baptist church. We’re a very call and respond kind of people. I sing a line; you sing a line.  We sing approximately a quarter of a song, sit down, and pass notes back and forth about how slutty everyone in the youth looks that morning. In this church however, the congregation would add in makeshift lines about how God had transformed their lives. I decided to call upon my mentors at the Baptist church and clap along enthusiastically. I looked around and people were on the ground, crying. I wondered if there was call for an exorcism or if God was throwing people to the ground for shits and giggles. I kept thinking to myself why are all these people crying?
Theresa chimed in with her personal story of finding God, in verse of course, then my biggest nightmare happened. The reverend found me; just a poor whitewashed Caucasian boy sitting somewhere in the middle of the congregation.

Do you love the Lord?!, he screamed.

I bit my lip, scanning around me for hope that maybe, his inquisition was not directed at me.
You, in the white shirt! Do you love the Lord?!
After realizing that I had been passed the metaphorical crown of thorns like a hot potato, I nodded vigorously.

Then say it!
At a volume just a decibel louder than a dog whistle, I mouthed, I love Jesus!
Say it louder!
I smiled extra big, convinced that would make my whisper that much louder, I love Jesus!

He screamed back at me, in the volume that I probably should have vocally embraced Jesus, AMEN!!!

I determined that I had passed the test, but then... it happened. All of a sudden, I felt like I was the ringleader for the Circus of Christ. I was all torn up about Jesus, and I felt something that I had never felt in all of the youth groups and Baptist luncheons. Then, like magic, I felt something... something wet. I reached up and there they were: the tears. Why am I CRYING?
Somehow, in all of the mix and the quiet white judgement, followed soon after by white guilt, I had stumbled upon something I had never found in the walls of a church before: true inspiration from being in the company of Jesus. Even crazier, I had found people that seemed to be there for the reason of being close to God. I walked out of the church, still wiping tears from my eyes, and I noticed that their parking lot had not been redone in years. The mission trips they spoke of were in their community, speaking to the same people they passed on the street daily. No one was going to a Guatemalan beach to bring the Lord to local tourists--what little money placed in the Church of Zion's offering plate was money given to do something greater. It was to actually benefit the people that needed God.
I haven't been back to church since that day because I'm afraid of what might happen if I do. I don't want to jinx church because I went out on a good note, kind of like how Shania Twain ended her career. Instead, I just pray to God pretty regularly. I hold on to that feeling I had at that church, and I remember the people that so graciously welcomed me into their congregation. No one rededicated their lives to the Lord because they understood that everyday was a constant struggle to stay close to Him.
I don't think that religion exists within a church because if you're doing it right, all of your love for God shouldn't be able to fit into a church... that's why everyone was crying--not enough room. Instead, I think that the time you spend in church and the time you spend posting Facebook Bible verses could probably be better spent actually, you know, being nice to people. Even to the light skinned black girls.

Falling in Love Outside of Your Race (Or, Mother Do I Have a Milkshake?)

I think my parents always expected me to bring a nice white, Christian girl home one day and announce, This is the woman that I'm going to make my wife... or at least that's what they hoped for. In reality, I've brought home just about every variation of that equation except for that one. Casey and i never left a lot of room open for prejudice in our house because we were apparently really bad at following direction. And in started early for both of us. Casey's first major crush was on Amber Logan, a girl in our eighth grade class, and while Amber was extremely nice and extremely Christian, she wasn't by any stretch white, and once they had lost Casey, my parents began to reevaluate the characteristics they would hope for in our future mates. To come from the extended-Kirkland-clan (who made racist jokes into sport over Christmas dinner), my parents taught Casey and I how to love a little more freely than even they expected. We didn't see color or religion or any of that stuff, and there's no way that Kathy and Wendell could have prepared for that.
But being the trailblazer that I am, I opened up the door for Casey when I fell madly in love late into seventh grade. It was a process because you don't just jump from an incidentally all-white elementary school (with the exception of John Kearney and his biracial brother) into a melting pot such as South-Doyle Middle School. But once I had acclimated as a sixth grader and moved into seventh grade, I realized that the myths were untrue: black people are actually not only safe, but friendly. As a seventh grader, I was allowed to apply for and join Cherokee Television (CTV), which was the morning broadcast put on by middle schoolers to inform the school what was going on. If you were accepted into the small ranks, you were essentially a school-wide celebrity. Originally, I was placed in charge of the soundboard, but because of my inability to keep from pressing random buttons, I was quickly moved to an on-screen position. At the tender age of 12, I was placed as co-host of Homeroom Feud with Sydney Cross, my first black friend. We were quite a duo and groundbreaking in terms of CTV history. Never had South-Doyle had a multiracial duo hosting Homeroom Feud.

"And they're like, it's better than yours."

It took weeks to get over the fact that I wasn't selected as the primary host of CTV, or "the Katie Couric," as I would come to call it. But I made the best out of my position... that is until Sydney and I started having communication issues. I was always a precocious child, but in the purest ways possible. I could have a conversation with an adult like it was my job, but when it came to people my own age, sometimes I fell behind. Up until this point in my life, I had only listened to country music, so when Sydney walked in singing My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, I was a little taken aback. I asked Sydney who this song was by and what a milkshake was, but she denied me an answer. I was very obviously out of the loop, and it was upsetting to know that this milkshake double entendre was like a special club that I couldn't be apart of.
I went around asking people Will you tell me what a milkshake is? I asked my regular information sources: teachers, cafeteria workers, anyone with the slightest bit of authority. No one seemed to understand this "milkshake" either. I went home and asked my parents, but they didn't understand what was going on. So, in desperation, I turned to Google. I had prepared a list of preliminary questions, just in case I found out the answer:
--What is a milkshake?
--Do I have a milkshake?
--Is this the kind of milkshake you can drink?
--Why does this milkshake bring all the boys to the yard?
--How do you compare milkshakes?
Sadly, I don't think my query was specific enough, so for months, I was left stranded with the cliffhanger: what is a milkshake? I had decided that without Sydney's help, I was essentially out of luck. That was (and I didn't realize how mildly racist this was until now) until I met my second black friend, Kierra. She was everything that I had hoped my second black friend would be, and she was much less crass than Sydney. From the time that I started CTV to the end of eighth grade, I had been through three co-hosts, but no surefire fit. I was just a Kathy Lee looking for my Hoda, and there she was. Naturally, the first thing I did was ask Kierra what a milkshake was, and she quickly obliged and educated me on Kelis' ways. It wasn't long after that I started having the deep, raw emotional love that only seventh graders can feel, and then it happened: I had fallen in love with a black girl. I had no idea how I would ever tell my parents, but I knew that I had to. Kierra, for all intensive purposes, was supposed to be the love of my life. No matter the race, when you find a woman who willingly tells you what a milkshake is and compliments you perfectly as co-host of a low budget middle school television program, you love that woman with all of your heart.
I promised myself that I wouldn't kill my parents' dreams of snow white Aryan babies until I had to, but when I told Kierra that I liked her, she told me that she didn't "like me-like me." Little did she know, she set off a chain reaction in which I would spend the majority of middle and high school without any physical or emotional contact with anyone, followed by my college years when I would scandalously make out with just about anyone... regardless of race, religion, etc. The pain has died down since, but it just recently hit me: Kierra, my second black friend in the world, used her milkshake to bring 12 year old Justin to the yard, and then denied me. The personal alienation that followed, the scandalous/somewhat loose college years, my inability to commit to people: it all dials back to one thing... the milkshake.
But in time, all wounds eventually heal and time has a way of changing things. Kelis would go on to release much more provocative music before finally fading out into oblivion; I like to believe that her and Macy Gray share an apartment somewhere in inner-city New York. Kierra is off at college finishing up her undergrad; I like to think she's made friends that aren't nearly as ignorantly racist as I was as a twelve year old. Me on the other hand, I wander the streets of DC without any regard to any defining quality of a person. I just want someone to love--someone who will use their milkshake to bring me to the yard, teach me, but not have to charge.
And in the long run, I don't think my parents even care if I bring home a nice, white, Christian girl home anymore because I did that once, and that was the one girlfriend that I've had that both Kathy and Wendell didn't really like at all. In reality I think Wendell, who at one point could have arguably been classified as racist himself, dislikes white people more than he does any other race. Our Thanksgivings are void of color requirement (and religion and sexuality, for that matter) at this point. Raising Casey and me opened their eyes to a new world, and they've learned that there are much more important things in the world than a small defining quality.

Death and All His Friends

Last night, I was sitting with my roommates, talking about our lives in the context of a television show, which happens pretty regularly around our apartment. At first, I think they loved it, but I can tell from their lackluster reaction that it has become white noise like most of the things I do and say around the apartment. But last night, as we were commingling life goals and television talk, I said that you can't just settle for something in life because you don't know how long you're going to live. Eventually that led to me asking What if one of us died tomorrow? Wouldn't that be a huge plot twist in the show? What if it's me? to which Ben responded, You can't die. That would be like killing DJ off in the first season of Full House. It was reassuring because I always considered DJ the most integral of all of Danny Tanner's daughters.

It's not the first time by any means that I've contemplated my impending death. At six-years-old, I specifically remember going up to my mom and telling her that I was going to die when I was 29, which is super sketchy for a six-year-old to drop in casual conversation. That moment always stuck with me, and it stuck with my mom as well, so we don't talk about it. And the idea of 29 haunts me every birthday because I know it's getting closer and closer each year, and as silly as it sounds, I don't really feel like getting to 29 to find out if my child-in-a-horror-film-esque proclamation was right.

Death has always been a tricky thing in my life because I've seen so much of it, so in a way, I never really thought much of it... almost to the fact that I've been obsessed with it. Death and Justin are a bit of a roller coaster because when it comes to the topic, I've always been a bit up and down on the matter. One of my favorite anecdotes I've ever read (about my silverfox mancrush, Anderson Cooper) was that he became so obsessed with journalism and taking in sights that he would take pictures of all the things he had seen throughout his line of work. One day, whilst taking a picture of some dead bodies he had come across, a friend took a picture of him and gave it to him; it was to show him what he had turned into, and from that day on, he has supposedly drawn boundaries for himself. In a way, Anderson and I have that in common. I become infatuated with death and the emotional consequences it can have (i.e. One Tree Hill school shooting) that I sometimes forget how incredibly real death is, and then like clockwork it comes rushing back, and I witness something death-related--and all blog candor and humor aside, it's not a joke.

So when I woke up this morning, I was weary of even getting out of bed because I had this inclination myself that this is going to be the day that I die. I suppose it could be a lead-in from the conversation that I had last night or maybe that the bed was just really warm and that my subconscious went to a really dark place so that I would stay there, but I really did have a gut feeling that this was going to be my last day on Earth. So naturally, I reset my alarm for two more minutes... and for twenty minutes, I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping that my intuition was wrong. In essence, it was very Meredith Grey in the bomb episode of me (2.13 "It's the End of the World," for those interested). And after resetting my alarm ten times over the course of twenty minutes, I admitted to myself that if this was really going to go down today, and this was my time, I couldn't really intervene fate when I don't actually know what the fate is. 

On the way to work, while very consciously watching out for other drivers, I thought about what I would want to do--how I would want to act--if this was the end of my road. So I called my mom, who started talking out of the blue about how she was happy that nothing had happened to me since I've moved because she has no idea how she'd get to me. Needless to say, when you have the pressing feeling in your gut that a catastrophe is bound to happen, and you're going to be its victim, the foreshadowing of your mother's praises don't help matters... so I told her I loved her, and I got off the phone. By the time I got to work, I had decided on my game plan... just be kind.

I didn't want to go to a special restaurant for lunch or take the day off (mostly because if I took the day off, then my chances of dying would have exponentially increased). I just wanted to be kind to people because I think that how's you should want to be remembered: kind. And it was probably the hardest thing that I did today because apparently no one else thought they were going to die today, or at least, they had a different approach to humanity if they did. I didn't want to tell anyone about my unconfirmed fate because I didn't want to taint the day, and I didn't want anyone to respond to it one way or the other, so the only person I told was my sweet, sweet coworker Liz who was mildly concerned and mildly frightened. As for everyone else, I just wanted them to act as is. I made an effort to call people on my breaks today to tell them hi or that I loved them, but it seemed as if everyone was busy or, honestly, just didn't want to talk. I made an effort to talk to an ex who would only respond in one word answers and quickly reminded me why we probably broke up. Others that I would hold the door for were downright hateful. I thought to myself Wow, you guys are really taking a giant shit on my last day on Earth. The climax built up to the walk to the metro when I nearly got hit by a car who sped through a red light. After I got to the metro, I accidentally backed into an Asian woman who flipped out on me in the middle of the car. 

That's when the take away kind of hit me: you don't live your last day on Earth (or at least act like it) for the praise of other people; you do it because that's how you're supposed to be every day. And for the logically-minded, I apologize for wasting your time with a whole bunch of nonsense revolving around potential death. If I had wanted to be logical, I probably could have spelled out all of the reasons that I wasn't going to die today (even though, today isn't really over. I still have to drive to class and back). However, and I may be stretching it, I don't think that feeling like I was going to die today was really the end-all-be-all lesson that came from my experience. People can be kind of cruel without even thinking about it, and it's even easier to notice when you honestly believe that it may be the last time that you'll ever see them again... even if it is just the door people at your office. But as crazy as it sounds, I really did believe when I opened up my eyes this morning that there was a good possibility it could be my last; it's a numb pain that's been with me all day. And as logic would have it, this will ultimately probably not be my last day, but it's a good reminder anyways because any day that you take out one minute, just sixty seconds, to remember how very fragile life can be... well... I would consider that a day well spent.

Heart Shaped Box

"Heart shaped box, she eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak."- Nirvana

As I emerged from the metro this evening, I made sure that I had my earphones in. I turned up Edith Piaf's "Milord" to a deafening level to drown out the flurry of Virginia voting enthusiasts that attack you as you emerge from underground. As I squirmed through the crowd finally getting to the crosswalk, I thought to myself, Oh, God. They won't be there tomorrow. I don't even know why I was sad... but I was. The Virginia voting hawks waiting outside the Clarendon metro screaming at me were going to disappear into dust, or maybe just back home with their abandoned families. Either way, we were about to break up, and in the worst break up way possible. I never gave them the time of day until it was too late, and now, these people that have become something normal, something comfortable, in my life are going to be gone. I'm breaking up with the Virginia voting hawks, and I'm not taking it well because as stupid and silly as it sounds, when you're in a new place with new people and nothing seems normal anymore, then yes... the Virginia voting hawks are important.
But it's not the worst break up I've ever been through by any means. In the grand scheme of things, I'll look back on my time with the Virginia voting hawks, and I'll smile. But in the moment, a break up can be one of the most devastating thing the human heart can go through, and yes, I'm talking about the literal human heart. Okay, actually, maybe I'm talking about the human body in general, but there is a pain that comes with heartbreak. And that's why it was so hard to deal with the two hardest heartbreaks I've had in life back to back. Like the voters, they both ended slowly--one with a letter, the second with nothing at all.
Even when things are complicated and messy, it's nice to know that there's someone around that is living in it with you, even if that person is partially responsible for it being that way. As humans, we love the conflict because it's a reminder that we're breathing and alive and capable of feeling. So after several tiresome months of an on-again, off-again relationship, everything that had gone wrong was outlined in a letter. She explained to me everything that had gone wrong, everything she didn't like about me anymore, and how in the process of getting to where we were, I had somehow become a different person. And with no consideration for everything that letter meant, I immediately threw it away. Just like that, all the good and bad and complicated and amazing that came with that relationship was gone. The only thing not listed in that letter was that I was clearly in love with someone else for the last half of our relationship. She never spoke to me about it, and under any other person's standards, I didn't cheat. But soon after the break up and the letter, I found myself grasping for the hand that I loved more than her. And as time went on, that hand got further and further away until it wasn't even visible anymore. Everything about my life had been turned upside down, and that's when the numbing pain really started. And that leads me to "the heart shaped box."
At the time, no matter how shallow or simple it may seem, my life consisted of those two people. I relied on their consistency: one to be around to always love me, and one to be around for me to always love. And in what seemed like an instant, it was all over. It doesn't particularly have to be romantically charged, though it oftentimes is, but it's at that point--the point when you have seemed to fall into absolute no man's land, so lost you can't stand it--that the heart shaped box is emptied of all its contents. What's even worse is that you have no idea where all the things inside it went. You're just left sitting there with this box and for a while, it seems so appealing because with nothing inside the box, you have nothing to lose. There's so much room to fill within it, but the issue is... filling the heart shaped box is kind of like the opposite of packing. There's a sense of urgency that comes with filling it, but ultimately, there's nothing to put inside.
To tone down the metaphor for a second, let's backtrack. After I lost those two incredibly important people, I realized that I never really made enough time (or room) for anyone else. My life had become a dedication to the relationships I had with them, which is where the problem set in. There was no one around to help me understand what had happened or how to put it back together, and in essence, there was nothing inside of me to help me remember the person I was. In all that free time I had with myself, there were a lot of tears. No one ever saw them because most of them were in private, which isn't so hard when you realize that most of your life is being led in private. I had to reteach myself what it was like to sit with my own thoughts. It took awhile, but to even begin to refill that box with anything of importance or meaning, I had to understand the person in charge of collecting those items.
For people like me, even when you kind of begin to grasp what's going on inside of your head and start to reestablish the person you are, you kind of get over the self-reflection. Unfortunately, you usually still have a chunk of time left over, and it's bittersweet and frustrating because with that extra time, you get to evaluate that box: how much room you have, how exactly you can make everything fit, but most importantly, what and whom goes into it. I don't think that the emptying of your box happens an absurdly high number amount of times in your life, but it definitely happens more than anyone would ever hope it could. Each time still sucks because... well... you got your shit thrown out and you weren't really planning on it. But in time, you teach yourself how to adjust because you know that's what you have to do. You memorize what was once inside like a Memory game, and the most important things and people will find their place within your heart shaped box again. It may sound cold, but the older you get, I think you learn more so what shouldn't be in that box... your life becomes exclusive and important, not because you're above those around you but because you finally realized that your life is too special to just share everything with everyone.
I'm three months into living in DC, and sometimes I'll still get impatient. I guess I thought that everything would be sorted out by now, and I have to begrudgingly remind myself that filling the box takes time. Something I've noticed is that I've become more particular about what and whom becomes apart of my life, and in a way, I worry about the people that I choose because I hold on to them more steadfastly than I ever have in my life. It's a steady balance that you have to hold because you don't want to scare the shit out of anybody... no one likes a "Stage 5 Clinger,"but I do think it's equally important to realize how quickly life moves and morphs. We never know when we are going to be pulled away from one another and the circumstance under which it might happen. And sadly, I'm pretty confident that the Virginia voter hawks will not make it into the heart shaped box; at this point, I think we're going to cut our losses. However, I would like to believe that the very few that I have met in this new city who have a place in there not only understand that their place is eternal, but also how very much it means.

Notes From Corporate America

Since I started my super fancy, corporate internship in October, I've had people ask me, What's it like to work at a super cool, nifty public relations firm in the heart of our nation? Actually, no one has ever asked me that, and if we're talking geographically, most would argue that the heart of our nation is somewhere in the Midwest, but that's neither here nor there. But, if anyone is interested, I'm ready to talk about what it's like to work for a company like I do. Most of the time, I'm busy and diligently working, but occasionally, on days like today, we have staff meetings. Since this was my first time interacting with the entire company in one room, I came prepared with a notebook and pen to take notes down.
I soon after found out that no one takes notes at these things, and usually, people start drifting waywardly around the "Finance" section. But, I had the notebook and pen and imagination, so I took notes anyway. Some would call them more of a documentation of my inner dialogue, but I think we all know that when I'm at work... it's work only. Rome wasn't built in a day, but when I'm in charge of it, you can bet it will be done in two. Here's my notes:

1:59pm: Intern Nicole has abandoned me to sit with the Brand team. When I asked if it was okay if I sat with them she said, You can't sit with us! so I took a page out of Gretchen Wieners notebook and sat elsewhere. I felt awkward at the prospect of sitting with the boy interns, so I'm kind of sitting with the Social Marketing division... oh yeah, and Destiney--Destiney is my girl.

2:02pm: I'm feeling unwarranted resentment toward JJ, the Online Strategy intern. I don't know why.

2:04pm: 90 minute meeting has been reduced to 60. The aura in the room went from an orangey-red to a blue. Much better vibes. Much better.

2:05pm: Sudden paranoia has set in. I thought my phone was going to go off... checked it... it's on vibrate. Thank God.

2:08pm: Mother's intuiton was correct. Someone is calling me. Whomever you are, may you burn in the depths of corporate intern hell.

2:18pm: My boss Erica just waved at me from the back row. Hey, girl!

2:22pm: I feel like I'm missing out on a lot of inside corporate jokes. I should have been here longer before I had to come to one of these. Also, Destiney just told me that she likes my socks. They're not special, but it means a lot.

2:26pm: The inside jokes are getting out of hand, and I'm uncomfortable. Not in the "sue the company because this is inappropriate" way, just uncomfortable in general.

2:30pm: Fun fact: I've been wearing these socks for almost three days. #sorrynotsorry

2:37pm: The head of my division just arrived. This is going to be great. Game on.

2:38pm: I feel like we say "sexy" a lot in the Social Marketing division, yet again, not in the "sue the company" kind of way.

2:40pm: In front of the entire company, the head of my division just said, The spirit of the holiday is when you enjoy the misfortune of others. 10-4.

2:42pm: I finally realize why my chair won't lean back any further... it's because I'm pushing against a man's leg. My bad.

2:44pm: The head of my division (aka, super boss) is the most entertaining of all the super bosses.

2:45pm: We have officially hit the Finance section. Money on someone from Brand falling out of their chair.

2:48 pm: My mouth just made a super awkward popping noise, but it wasn't nearly as awkward as the length of time I spent pointing at my mouth afterward. I don't know if anyone saw, but if they did, I'm never going to get a job offer... actually, let's be honest... those chances are looking pretty slim anyway.

2:51pm: Yawn so hard, that yawn cray--ain't is J? Oops. Just got a message from OKCupid on my phone. Note to self: Tell no one at work that I have an OKCupid. Second note to self: See if I can find anyone at work on OKCupid; use it as leverage.

2:58pm: There are literally chapters in this meeting, one of them being a E! True Hollywood Story (literally) chronicling one employees path from college to graduate to her new promotion. Snaps for Dana.

3:03pm: Now a woman is reciting a haiku about an employees promotion... wait. The last line had six syllables. She was like, This is a haiku! and I was secretly like, No, it's not.

3:07pm: Oh good. There's my face on a giant screen. Welcome to the company, Justin. They asked me to stand up, and I think I did something akin to a curtsy. I can hear the keys typing up an ad to replace my position as we speak.

3:08pm: Oh, look it's Intern Liz! But it's awkward because she's not here. Snaps for Liz! I wonder what's she's doing... JJ's on his phone... they're probably texting. (more unwarranted resentment)

3:10pm: They're giving away a Kindle!? I want a Kindle.

3:13pm: Obligatory announcement of birthdays and anniversaries. So much clapping. So much.

3:17pm: In true PR fashion, the president of the company lied... but not completely. The meeting was 77 minutes--not 90, but definitely not 60.