random love

I love

Jealousymy bitches.
My right-hands.

ARGH.
I can’t fit it all in one post.
There’s too much- chats, saving my ass, working, sharing, bitching, whiskeying.
Too much fun, crying, laughter.
Too much love.

So.

It’s cold in February.
Tokyo’s chocolate heart explosions have come and gone (by the way the focus here is chocolate from the females on Valentine’s and the guys reciprocate on White Day, next month.  This country loves hetero-consumerism).
Which reminds me of my favorite V-Day tradition…

My bitches and I wear unglamorous but soft, flannel-y, fleece-y things and cheers to brown drinks on the rocks.
The oven is preheating and we do this:

Um…I’m in love with an alcoholic.
You used a condom right?

Did you use a condom?!

The one who can cook (motto: no babies, only beards) puts cookie dough on baking sheets as my young, pre-professional right-hand and I peruse the containers of magical toppings that will turn simple, golden sugar cookies into delightfully inappropriate treats to be shared with our work family in a number of hours.

We have red, pink, purple gel and cream icings.
Multi-colored sprinkles, red and pink glittery sugar dust.
Cookie dough goes in the oven.

I’m excited and feel the whiskey gently warming my cheeks…cozy times.

I blurt:
I think I’m pregnant.

These two are my damn truth serum, as my worry thought just spills out of me.

Really?
When are you supposed to bleed?
Not soon enough.  Fuck.
Plan B time.
Sigh.  I know.
Want me to go buy it for you now?
Damn they’re so sweet and waste no time taking care of fucking business.
Basically, they ROCK.
Nah…I’ll get it tonight and take it.

Ding!

As the cookies cool, we test out different icing tips and ready all the little containers.
And the fun begins.

V-A-G
CUNT- yes.
I think my penis looks weird.
I can’t fit the balls on this thing.
Uh…this tip is messed up.  I think I broke it.
It’s too big!
God, this gel icing is gross.  EW.
Chlamydia or gonorrhea?
You can fit that shit on there?
So…the nips are melding into each other.
Just sprinkle a shit-ton of glitter on it.
How do you spell—
Boobs.
Just boobs.

We turn into Valentine’s elves, gleefully creating dirty sweets that taste like total crap but will get eaten nonetheless because: the love, people.
Who doesn’t want to eat some sweet cunt on this lovers day?

More than a few 2.14s have passed since we’ve baked cookies and goofily giggled like pubescent tweens.

We’ve gone from living in the same house and/or across the street to different states and continents; we see each other a fuck of a lot less but they’re still my truth serum.

We witness big and little changes of the work, heartbreak, marriage, graduation variety.
We take pregnancy tests together, 7,000 miles apart.
We grow some and stay the same.
When I’m broken, they help.

And even though we 10,000 word-text each other and have marathon video chats, sometimes I just want a fucking whiskey with my bitches.
At a table.
In person.

Love y’all.

P.S. Also, shout out to my bitches in SF/Oakland, DC, Spain, Bahamas, Colorado, SoCal, Cambridge/NYC, Montreal, Memphis and Tokyo…thank you.

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random love

120 seconds

120 seconds

at a time is the best I can do sometimes.

The first time:
I’m on a bus in NYC, 19 years old, and why can’t I breathe normally all of a sudden?  Fuck, is this an asthma attack?  I haven’t had one of those in years and I feel so weirdly tingly, like I’m about to throw up.  I’m trapped.  I have a habit of eyeballing every exit upon entering a room.  I have to know where the bathrooms are as well.  But I’m on a bus.  And it’s crowded; god, there’s no negative space on which to focus.  It’s too busy around me; too many faces, limbs, too much air taken up, just too much.  I feel like my eyeballs are rolling in the back of my head and I might freak out.  I don’t want to freak out.  Look out the window, look at the street numbers.  Count.

5 blocks.
Hold on for five blocks.

I debate running out at every stop but I’m fucking paralyzed.  I can’t move.  My brain and body won’t fucking connect and I hate it.  I wring my hands together until my fingertips are red then white and my nails leave crescent-shaped dents on my hands from gripping tight, tighter and I don’t care if I break the skin.  If I can cause and focus on other physical pain, maybe it’ll trump this other shit that has suddenly taken over.

Three more blocks?  Eternity.  The weird numb feeling won’t go away.  I have a block in my throat and I don’t think I’m going to retch anymore because this tingly sensation is different and there’s no pre-puke hyper-salivation.  Just let me not lose it.

But I can’t get air.

I can’t swallow.  My heart’s in my throat.  My organs are choking me and I DON’T KNOW WHY.  Why is my body torturing me?  And then a memory file superfastforwards; lots of images, like worst thing that ever happened to me images flash by.  I tell myself that another part of my brain is trying to help me, like:

you got through those events so this should be ok.  you’ve made it so far.  no one is hurting you.  you’re not locked in and trapped, at someone else’s mercy.  you’re just on a bus.

Okay.  If I do lose it, what then?  If I pass out, medics and a hospital?  I’m not so scared of hospitals even though I hate them.  As much as I hate attention being called to myself, if that’s what happens I can deal.  Except I feel so fucking uncomfortable, I want to scream and if I scream then I’ll be sent to that other hospital, the one with rubbery walls and shifty eyes all around.  And then I’m grateful that my heart is in my throat, still choking me because at least it means that I can’t scream.

Omyfuckinggod.
26th street.
Sweet fucking relief.

I made it.

This still happens, what I suppose are panic attacks.  Almost always in subways and trains these days, which doesn’t diminish my love for public transport.  Luckily it’s only occurred on train lines where it’s 2-3 minutes maximum between stations.

So I count 120 seconds.
If I can make it 120 seconds, I can run out.
I’ve made it so far.

The relief is the same as the first time: immense and so, so sweet.

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