Last Place Olympian

Sinking, sinking, sinking, crash

Where is that noble buoyancy

That dad told me all of us humans have when we’re swimming

Because it’s part of biology?

It’s cold down here

Icy and dark where I can’t

See a damn thing

And even though I’d like to

I can’t get past the amount of time I spent

Swimming, swimming, swimming

Learning all the strokes and paddles to

Get to where I am now.

Maybe resilience doesn’t come from

A natural, internal floating mechanism

But from telling yourself that

YES – swimming is fun! Swimming is easy!

I can swim through Jell-O if I tried.

And while I write in metaphor

The tragic irony of this seasonal sadness happens to

Lie in the fact that

I cannot swim at all.

Last Place Olympian

Deranged Dog Lady or Precursor to Motherhood?

I confuse myself. 

I’ve fluctuated for eons about whether or not the prospect of children seems appealing to me and the lifestyle I want to adopt once I’m a Real Person. Let me interject – this Real Adulthood business is trickling slowly towards me, like molasses rolling downhill in slow-mo. It’s not a DIRE decision I must make before the night is over. I don’t think I even need to make the choice before graduation next summer. But if there is something I want this instant, nearly more than anything else on this planet (including french fries or dark chocolate), it is… a puppy.

Isn’t that kind of like a baby?, you might ask. I asked myself this every time I threaten to bring home a puppy. Is there something wrong with my biological clock? Am I geared toward non-human care after all? Or is my rationale simply reminding me that I am hardly able to care for myself, let alone properly raise a tiny human? Will a dog curb this undulating desire to take care of something small and vulnerable, and to love and be loved by a cuddle monster? 


Deranged Dog Lady or Precursor to Motherhood?

NYC Prophecies

I’m going to move out of my parent’s house in approximately two years. 

I’m leaving with the love of my life. We’ll live in an apartment relatively close to our respective city-jobs, and we’ll share a car. I can drive sometimes, he’ll drive other days. I’m sure public transportation will be a daily routine. Hopefully, I won’t concede to moving out of NYC and into the radioactive slums of Jerz… but, I suppose, it is more logical to live in NJ whilst paying off grandiose tuition debt and saving for my wanderlust affliction.

We’re going to get a Belgian Malinois puppy, called Havok. He’s going to have a little smushy black face and floppy ears. He’ll need a LOT of training. But we’ll both be therapists, so conditioning is right up our alleys.

I’m going to work in a cochlear implants center, where I won’t have to choose an age population. I can assist in habilitating or rehabilitating my favorite human sensation. 

We’ll exhaustedly shop at Trader Joe’s at night, and wake up for jogs with Havok at the ass crack of dawn. I’ll clean, and he will cook – by preference! He’s going to make the most amazing chef. He already has fantastic creativity within kitchen boundaries. 

I can’t wait.

NYC Prophecies

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