At the sight of a small, dark strand of

Curly hair 

In my shower

On my soap

—I felt sheer joy.

I even laughed at how moved I was

By something that would elicit 

Nothing but total repulsion

From anyone else.

I was so thrilled to see that tiny 

Hair on my soap

Because it reminded me that 

You were here so recently.

Grinning from ear to ear

—A remnant of you!

With difficulty I let it wash away,

Because, in time

You will use my shower again.

Some days,

Those lonely reminders motivate me the most.


Summertime sadness, from a collegiate perspective

Those two weeks before school begins:

Aching, writhing, loathing; bursting, grinning, cheering. The paradoxical feelings before you commit another consecutive 9+ months to an institution. I, personally, adore being educated; I could sit in a lecture hall for hours with a [talented] professor. 

And in my case, a Masters degree sits brightly on the horizon, two years down the line. Two years after many gifted and brilliant instructors, 400 hours of clinical experience and training, days of bonding with my peers and future colleagues, and endless nights of studying or crashing in the Village. I am so very excited to start in two weeks, but classes will strip me of my fleeting summertime freedoms from now until 2015. And in 2015, I will begin my career… which means…


Crash! Boom! FIRE. Fire explodes from deep within my sulci in gyri, setting my thoughts aflame. Did I just run out of young adulthood? This suddenly seems scarier than shitting my pants. 

Please press pause for a moment, and slow down the infinite spool of film from which my life is spinning away. NYU just trolled my existence.

But it’s okay, right? I’m ready for adulthood. I’m ready to spend every day, not just weekends, with the love of my life. I’m ready to raise and take care of my own puppy, and to go grocery shopping, pay the rent, make solid choices for myself… 

No summer breaks means no parents explaining your own life to you. I suppose that is well worth the sacrifice.

Summertime sadness, from a collegiate perspective

BS Sociological perspective on writer’s block

I feel like I’ve written so many posts like the one you’re about to drown in. In fact, my very first WP post summarizes it. This is the entire reason I attempted to dive back into blogging. 

When I was 14, I was quiet, frail and antisocially awkward. It was always difficult to propagate and then maintain a conversation with my peers. I thought I might have released “weird” pheromones that forced them to keep a good distance.

I had neon rainbows coursing through my neural networks (when my brain wasn’t attuned to high school nonsense). I would finish my homework (or precede my homework) by blogging about my day: my feelings, happenings, ponderings, cookings, bookings, crushes, blushes, hatreds, loves. My old LiveJournals (…yes…) reflect an aggravated but opinionated and verbose adolescent, unscathed by social pressures. I would recount just about everything in the flowery languages of all the beautiful novels in which I’d lose myself. 

Today? 23 years young. I’m an entire bachelor’s degree and 1000 research papers gone from staying awake for 40 hours straight, reading the latest Harry Potter novel before the spoilers could desecrate my LJ blog. I am approaching “real adulthood,” as I call it – you know, that point when you actually move out of your parents’ house and take on all of the bills you did not realize they were paying for you, simply because you have a fabulous job in a brilliant city. Now that I’m here, why have I nothing to say about it? Where are all of my adjectives and snarky comments? 

Inspiration used to gently tap me on the skin, like a feather floating on the breeze. I was so tactually (and mentally, of course) reactive to everything. I mean, my bald gym teacher’s phallically bald head was the subject of many a post. 

Sadly, I believe part of it has to do with the fact that those neon rainbows swirling around in my skull have been released. I’ve met people who understand a lot of them and can engage in a genuine back-and-forth exchange. Thus, what is left in my head to expel on a blog? These things are no longer bursting at their membranous seams, due to my newfound ability to communicate with just about anyone, for at least 5 decent minutes. And my close friends and I can ramble on for days about the rainbows. 

Does this mean that total quarantine would be an excellent remedy for writer’s block?

BS Sociological perspective on writer’s block


20 pistachios later, the rewards of laboriously cracking their shells seem to lack tremendously. Meaning, I’ve shattered two of my already Vitamin-D deficient fingernails in an effort to consume a healthy midnight snack. (Because ‘healthy,’ ‘midnight,’ and ‘snack’ all go divinely well in the same sentence.)

Have you ever crunched down on an oddly burnt pistachio? Its pungent flavor rivals only the ass-iest of rotten fruits. But that struggle of releasing that pistachio from its cocoon inhibits me from ever CONSIDERING to spit it out.