The Compulsion of the Phantom of the Opera (or “Down Once More to the Dungeon of My Black Despair”)

Originally posted on Blogspot 12/11/18

When I was ten years old, my mom woke me up one Saturday and said “I got you a ticket for The Phantom of the Opera.

I thought that sounded pretty horrifying both in the “phantom/spooky”-ness and the “opera being loud and boring”-ness of it.  

She continued, something along the lines of “You’re not going to know what’s happening in the story and I’m not going to want to explain it to you at the show since I’ll be boozing it up with my work friends enjoying a night at the theat-re, so today you are going to sit in this chair with this big “THE COMPLETE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA” book, and you are going to listen and follow along and ask me any questions you have.”

I sat in the big green rocking chair with a blanket on my lap and this book that really was everything you could ever want to know about Phantom of the Opera.  From information on Gaston Leroux’s novel to Lon Chaney’s silent movie, to a horrifying picture of Michael Crawford with his Phantom make-up on, sans mask.

In the back of the book was the complete libretto.  And my mother, God bless her, had two white cassette tapes.  On the front and back of the first one was Act I, and the front and back of the second was Act II.
And off we went. She’d play a scene and press STOP.  She’d explain what was going on and what the sometimes flowery language meant.  Then she’d ask me if it made sense.  If it did, we’d move on.  (NOTE: a year later we tried this same method with Miss Saigon.  Needless to say, I was not about to ask my mom such questions as, “what does ‘If I’m your pin-up I’ll melt all your brass,’ mean?”)

I definitely wasn’t hating this Phantom shit.  It was a spooky ghost story about a pretty ballerina who learns to sing from this disfigured man who calls himself “the Angel of Music” and “Opera Ghost” and lives in the depths of the Opera House where she works. He falls in love with her and becomes obsessed with her and would do anything to have her including killing a bunch of people and throwing fire balls from a skull on a stick and being super extra.  He had a boat.  He had a cape.  He had a freaky Red Death costume to wear to parties.  What was not to like?

At one point my mom read aloud, “say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime.  Lead me, save me from my solitude.”  She sighed her emotional, sympathetic “poor thing” sigh I was used to hearing if I was running a fever or if I threw up in the middle of the night.

“Do you know what that means, Jess?  He’s asking her to save him from his loneliness.”

‘Yeah.  Cool.  Bring back the boat.  Who else gets whacked?’
By the end of our listening sesh, I’d say I was pretty curious about what seeing the show live would be like. Not bursting at the seams with excitement or anything.  But like, a Peter Griffin-level curiosity: “Hey…let’s see the ugly half of your face!”

As prepped as I was to understand the plot at even the most confusing moments…I was just completely unprepared for the emotional effect this show was going to have on me.  Not only was it the most visually stunning and impressive thing I had ever, ever seen in my ten years of existence…it emotionally gutted me.

This super extra ugly ghost guy became this very real, broken human being who’d been shunned by the world, and tried just ONE time to get someone to love him…and failed.  He didn’t win, and I’d rooted so hard for him.  Even after he’d dropped a chandelier on everybody.  Even after he’d committed murder!  I was with him.  

After seeing the show, all of my free time was spent camped out on my bedroom floor with my ear pressed to the speaker of my boom box, replaying those white cassette tapes—big Phantom book spread out before me. Trying as hard as I could to recreate the feelings I’d had in the theater that day.  Rewinding the last ten minutes over and over again….ROOTING for the Phantom each time, and weeping into my hands when he failed.
I remember feeling this DEEP need to see it again.  And then again.  And then again.

Last night I saw it for the (roughly) fifteenth time.  I decided to buy the ticket spur of the moment.  I was talking with someone about Broadway shows, Phantom came up, and immediately just thought “oh my god, I need to see that show right now.”  With the speedy “I dare you to click it” of a button on my phone, the ticket was purchased. 

I wrote a very brief post last week about my current up-tick in OCD symptoms, and the difficulties it’s come with lately.  I mentioned there not being much I could do right away to feel better.  Well…this definitely wouldn’t be a permanent fix…but it’d surely help somehow…right?

And, of course, barely two minutes into the show, I was immersed, and my mind was focused on the world I knew so well. There, just like I needed him to be, was the auctioneer standing over the big chandelier under its dusty cloth where it always was.  He moved us, monotone, through the Chalumeau poster, and the three skulls, and then he auctioned off the papier mache musical box, complete with its “figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals—this item discovered in the vaults of the theater, still in working order.” 

Raoul would bid.  Madame Giry would bid.  Raoul would bid once more and win.    He’d utter the first sung words of the score:

A collector’s piece indeed…Every detail, exactly as she said.She often spoke of you my friend,Your velvet lining, and your figurine of lead.Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?
*note: all lines are quoted from memory.  Soo.  Pretty cool, right?

We hadn’t even heard the famous Overture yet, and I had bullet-sized tears raining down my cheeks.  The 19-year old next to me who’d been taking snapchats with her boyfriend before the show was full on glaring at me. 

And I didn’t care.

The chandelier sparks and begins to rise into place while the familiar theme plays.  Carlotta comes out with the severed head, and the rehearsal for Hannibal begins.  Piangi can’t climb the elephant, as always.  Madame Giry bangs her cane on the floor at the exact, precise times.

A funny thought enters my brain: it’s kinda like the perfect OCD ritual. Ha.

Carlotta begins “Think of Me” and does her familiar scarf-ography.
Backdrop falls. Chaos ensues. Joseph Bouquet, chief of the flies:

“Please, Monsieur, don’t look at me. As God’s my witness I was not at my post. Please, monsieur there’s no one there—And if there is, well, it must be a ghost”

He’s here: The Phantom of the Opera!

‘OMG…this IS kinda the perfect OCD ritual…’
Christine finishes HER first verse of “Think of Me”, and the music swells—she’s won the part!  She backs up, and members of the ensemble help her change into her Hannibal gown.

This makes me cry.  A frantic inner-dialogue begins:



She may not remember me, but I……..mem…..ber her.

More tears.


‘Because he’s singing our favorite score!  He’s singing the words we love to hear…that we loved to read in our big Phantom book!’

It was then I realized that it wasn’t some big OCD compulsion.  It was an antidote.

Sitting in the Majestic Theater, I didn’t have to worry.  It was my show.
It’s the choreography and blocking I saw at age ten when the show first rocked my world and awakened in me some very adult emotions that I’d never felt before.

It’s the melodies and notes I craved when I was sick and depressed and would only agree to go on a scary trip to Sloan-Kettering for an exam if we could see Phantom of the Opera the night before.  On that trip my dad had remarked how physically happy he could tell I was when I watched the show.  Even with no immune system, and no hair, and no certain future.  “If I could take you to see The Phantom of the Opera every day, I would,” he’d said.

Many people I meet, especially those in the theater world, don’t understand my love for Phantom of the Opera.  A lot of people just don’t get the show and don’t get how it has lasted so long.  And, of course, opinions are like assholes: everyone’s got one.  And should have one.  I imagine it would be pretty problematic if you didn’t.

But one of the biggest reasons I love The Phantom of the Opera is that it gives me a place to be—it puts me in a WORLD—where everything is just as beautiful as it was the last time I visited.  Where everything unfolds before me just the way I know it will.  It is—for me—one giant exhale.  It soothes the beast—the compulsive need to control things and make things perfect.

I took the subway home after the show.  One of my compulsions of late has been a high anxiety over the cleanliness of the subways and I’ve wasted a good portion of the new money I’m making on taking Ubers and Uber pools everywhere because I’m just too paranoid to ride the subway.  But after the show, I took the subway and wasn’t afraid and didn’t even douse all my belongings with rubbing alcohol the way I’ve been known to do lately.
I feel better.  Not fixed.  But better.
Isn’t it kind of amazing what art and music can do?

So basically all I have to do is try to see Phantom at least once a week, and I’m cured.  

Obv. JK.

But so far today even just listening to the score has been calming. 
Whatever helps right?  It’s helping me get through the day.  Was blasting in my ears when I forced myself to ride the subway.  
Last night I sat beside a kind old British man at the show who chatted with me about musicals.  He cried with me at all the parts that are actually supposed to make you cry—not because they’re familiar costume changes and it’s making you emotional, but because it is touching and beautiful and sad.  

It got me thinking about why people do still come in droves to see this show.  And I think it has a lot to do with this ultimate subconscious fear we all have that we will not be accepted.  That we could be cast off and shunned by society.  That we are unlovable, and if we try to give love we will be rejected and end up alone.  That—as my mom so sighed over when we read the score together—no one can lead us or save us from solitude.  Our one chance at love will leave us for another, forcing us to end the music of the night, hide under our cloaks, and disappear.  
We come to the Phantom to root against that.

I once listened to a conversation with Hal Prince where he said that when the show was in rehearsals there was a big discussion over whether or not the audience should be rooting for the Phantom.  It was ultimately decided that they should be.  

I know I always do.

I love this show.  I feel as though I will probably…PROBABLY…see it again.
Because for me, I suppose, there is nothing sweeter in this whole word than the moment where the dance sequence ends, the music rallentandos, and on the perfect beat the entire cast snaps into perfect alignment on the staircase, each covering half of their face with one palm to sing: Masquerade! Paper faces on parade! Masquerade! Hide your face so the world will never find you!


State of Mind

Originally posted on Blogspot 12/5/18

I want to love December.  I really do.

But every year, without fail, I find myself counting down the days until it’s over. 

For most of the past ten years it’s been because it’s the anniversary of the tumultuous month of my cancer diagnosis where I was in and out of doctor’s offices and no one could tell me why my mobility was decreasing day by day until I had to be cathetarized and doped up on morphine.  And they were like “oh ya my bad, big tumor, so sorry.”  Sad story, tiny violins, how traumatic yadda yadda yadda.

This year I was like hey cool, I’m gonna enjoy the Christmas season and be like “oh look at the lights” and shit, and peppermint lattes, and pretending to be mad about the 24 hour Christmas radio station.  I have a new job that I’m enjoying, more money that I’m enjoying…

However, no amount of holly jolly bullshit has been able to cover up the fact that I’m in the midst of one of the worst OCD flare-ups I’ve had in years. 

You may not have realized I even had OCD because I’m usually going on and on about one of the other things wrong with me.  Even I forget sometimes.  It’s a phantom illness that I can’t pinpoint as easily as I can my kidney issues, or other impairments left over from the cancer.

But right now—man it’s bad.  There’ve been a few clear triggers over the past few weeks that have brought it on but truthfully, I don’t give it the proper attention it deserves.  I don’t check in and re-evaluate it’s status in my life as often as I should.  Maybe if I did, when triggers came on, I wouldn’t be so susceptible.

You may be wondering where all of this is going.  But I don’t really think it’s going anywhere.  It occurred to me I hadn’t written in a while and that maybe my struggle right now is something I should get down in writing.  And then I thought, “no, wait until you’ve gotten the proper help and are through it and feeling better.  Then write about it.”

But—and no offense at all to the brave people who step forward to talk about mental illness—I feel as though that is often the approach taken.  People suffer through something and then come forward to speak about it and shed light on it and shit.  When it’s all over.  Which, yeah, is important for people to see.  It’s important to see people who’ve come out on the other side of it and gotten it under control.

But maybe the way I can make this post helpful to both me and maybe to someone else is to show you my real-time struggle.  It’s rightnow.  I’m in the thick of it guys.  I’m so stressed out that I wake up in the middle of the night covered in blotchy hives.  Therefore I’m not well-rested, and can barely sleep—but it’s easier to keep trying to sleep, because at least if I’m sleeping, I’m not obsessing.  I’m not picking at things, overthinking things.

Iknow logically when thoughts I’m having or compulsions I’m partaking in are irrational.  I KNOW these things.    But it’s like there’s this whole chunk of my brain that just doesn’t give a flying fuck.  And right now, I can’t seem to talk it back and keep it in check.  I normally do a pretty good job…but lately I just can’t remember how to do it.

So what’s a gal to do?

Well, yesterday I went home to Syracuse to see my old therapist and make a plan.  Although “making a plan” actually means coming up with a solution that has many steps and takes time to complete.  I know it’s necessary, of course.  But it doesn’t supply immediate relief.  Yes, maybe it’s time to re-evaluate my medication and yes, it’s way past due for me to find a specialist in the city where I can go talk about my feelings.  But like…what can I do right the fuck now?  That doesn’t involve taking more pills?

Mental illness, folks.  It sucks to talk about.  I hate talking about it, which is why I’m making myself talk about it. OCD is no joke—please consider that the next time you use it as an adjective to describe yourself as “organized.”

I’ll be okay though.  I’ll get it under control—I have before.  It’s been a part of me since I was ten years old and could only sleep if everyone and everything in my house was carefully placed in the room of my choosing.  I just figured I don’t write in this blog nearly as much as I should, and maybe it might be helpful for me to share my current struggle.  And maybe if you are currently struggling, you will feel better knowing that life is hard and others are struggling, too, right at this very moment in time. 

I’m here if anyone needs me.  In return, you just might have to listen to a laundry list of my current fears and look at pictures of my hives.

Perfect Gentlemen

Originally posted on Blogspot 10/9/18

I had a lot of trouble writing this.  Well, I had trouble STARTING to write this–pushing myself to do it.  I tend to not take very strong stands on hot topics and politics and basically anything someone could argue with me about because I WILL scroll through comments and cry if I think someone is mean.   And I think everyone is mean.  I work in the service industry.

You’ll notice that the closest I get to a really touchy subject usually involves playing the cancer card in some respect because I know the majority of the people who read my posts wouldn’t dare challenge me on that subject knowing my body withstood the most excruciating test of physical pain and discomfort, and that I have become a fully functional (if not semi-neurotic), well-adjusted human being despite the fact that I’ve been pushed to the brink of sanity, looked death in the face, and said “not today Satan!”

But I digress.

So here I am, about to do this! Consider this me working through my feelings on recent events.  Because that’s really what it is. 

I remember when the #metoo movement started, and I remember being one of the women who posted #metoo on Facebook.  I’m fortunate enough to have never been raped or sexually assaulted, but I’ve definitely been sexually harassed sometimes to the point where I’ve had to remove myself from a situation or avoid certain people at old jobs and make sure I’m wearing loose, baggy clothing and a skull cap while walking home. 

I got followed once after work, and was able to deter the guy by pulling out my pepper spray and giving it a test run on the sidewalk.  And yeah, that shook me up a little bit, but I shrugged it off and was like “ehh, that’s NYC for ya.”

Donald Trump was elected president even after he bragged on tape about “grabbing women by the pussy” and forcefully making out with them–and I was like “okay, but is he gonna take away my health insurance?  There will be adults keeping him in line, right?”

This past year, well-respected people, many of them actors, were outed as former and current perverts and I was like “oh that’s gross.  RIP President Underwood.” And I kept on my merry way.

I’m not proud of my complacency.  But it was there.  I was pretty ho hum about it all–and I’m very sorry for that now.

It took the most recent events to jolt me awake.  I sat on my couch watching Christine Blasey Ford testifying about what was done to her all those years ago and I was shook.  Tears welled up in my eyes, and every time my roommate tried to make a comment during the hearing I snapped at her, kept having to apologize.  “I’m sorry, I’m just fired up.  I’m so fired up.”

After Ford’s testimony I was even angrier and even more on edge.  As I walked to work, a catcaller said something to me–couldn’t hear him because my earbuds were in.  But I stopped in my tracks, pulled out my earbuds and spat “DOES THAT EVER WORK?”

“W–what?”  he said, shocked.

“I said ‘does that ever work?’ “


“I figured.”

What the hell was my deal?  And I know you must be thinking, “what do you mean ‘what’s your deal?’  It was very emotional and upsetting!”

But why now?  Why was THIS the thing that was finally waking me up to this whole #metoo movement?  It wasn’t Donald Trump or Bill Cosby or Harvey Weinstein or Kevin Spacey or Matt Lauer or Aziz Ansari or my beloved Chuck Bass AKA Ed Westwick. 

I was not a victim of sexual assault.  I was not a victim of rape.  Why couldn’t I keep it together?

And then a few days later I was reminded of an incident that happened to me back in June.  An incident that I had been reporting to many people as a funny story–a funny thing that happened to me.  An incident that was maybe having more of an impact on me than I realized.

And so in light of these recent events, I admitted to myself that I’d been telling this “funny story” with a forced smile.  Forcing myself to laugh, because realizing the dark side of it was icky and gross and besides–nothing even really happened.

I was NOT sexually assaulted.

I want to begin by saying that I take full responsibility for my actions.  I was stupid.  Proof to naysayers, I hope, that women CAN fess up when they make a mistake.  We don’t claim to be innocent angels all the time.

But back in June, I met a guy at work who struck up a conversation with me and was gorgeous and smooth-talkin’ and seemed to take a genuine interest in me.  We talked about the restaurant and how I loved where I worked and it took me a long time to find a service industry job I could stand.  We exchanged names.  He got up to leave and I said “maybe I’ll see you around.”

He said “you will.”

And I didn’t.

But three weeks after we met, I found his name and phone number sneakily written on a business card that was NOT his but was left at the desk (presumably at some point that night when I had walked away).

I had been dating somebody pretty regularly until then, but he was gone for six weeks and at that point we hadn’t decided we were exclusive–so I figured what did I have to lose?

“Would you think I was a total idiot if I told you I JUST found your phone number from three weeks ago? 
–Jesse”   SEND

Fast forward another week, and we had a date to meet for drinks after work.

The day of the date, I was physically nauseous.  I had never been out on a date with someone who was not involved in the arts in some respect.  With someone who had a real big boy 9-5 job where he made big boy money and had a big boy apartment on the East side.

What could he possibly have in common with a wannabe actress who had no direction or clue what she was doing with her life?  He obviously just wanted to hook up, right?  Did I just want to hook up?  No, I didn’t.  I wasn’t looking for that.  Maybe I should cancel.  Maybe I didn’t even want to go out on this date.  Maybe what I really wanted was for ‘other boy’ to come back and confess his love for me and live happily ever after or MAYBE I should just be alone for the rest of my life!  Regardless, I was not mentally ready for this date. 

He got out of work later than I did, so I decided to go to a bar around the corner and have a glass of wine to calm my nerves.  Opening the big glass door of the bar with my heart in my throat, I was relieved to find two co-workers hanging at the bar as well.  They called out to me, let me join them.  Gave me a shishito pepper and asked me what I wanted to drink.

“Just one glass of sauvignon blanc for me!  Just one!”

I let them buy me four.  I had four glasses of wine and a shishito pepper.  Not exactly a great big meal to soak up all that alcohol.  But after the first glass of wine I was so relaxed!   I felt so good!  After two, I was starting to get excited about my date.  After three and four–BEST DATE EVER ALREADY AND IT HADN’T EVEN STARTED!!!! WOOOHOOOO SPRING BREAK!

(——>at this point I feel the need to inform the reader that due to health issues, I really didn’t start drinking until age 23/24, and even then, it was a rare occasion that I had too much–and too much for me is not that much.  I’d only ever thrown up twice from drinking, and had only experienced one truly awful hang over where I thought I was dying.  So let’s just say we are STILL figuring out our limits<—–)

I received a text an hour later with the name of the place to meet him.  I downed a glass of water and walked halfway there before getting an Uber the rest of the way. 

When I got to the restaurant, I spotted him sitting at the bar and slinked my way inside unnoticed to use the bathroom.  I looked at myself in the mirror and remember thinking “whoa baby, you are drunk.”

But I drank a glass of water…right?  I should be fine…right?  Just one drink more…right?

I met up with him and we moved to our REAL destination spot which was right next door.  He seemed to know everyone who worked there, and we were led to a cozy little corner table.  (It did cross my mind…does he do this all the time or something?)

Well, I’m pretty sure I only ORDERED one drink.  But by the time I had the first drink (my fifth of the night), my memory started to get fuzzy.  I know there were more drinks.  They kept appearing.  I know he was charming.  I know I was charming (shocking, right?).  The conversation, from what I remember, flowed effortlessly, thanks to the 5-8 alcoholic beverages of different varieties!

Here’s where the story becomes less silly (and kinda gross).

I know I threw up in the bathroom before I left.  I know it must have been pretty clear how drunk I was.  I remember holding hands and kissing him outside the restaurant.  Not making out.  Just kissing him very lightly–it was sweet!  (Less sweet when you consider that I probably wreaked of puke and had bits of shishito pepper on my sweater).

…but then the next thing I remember is joining the Ralph Club in the back of a cab.  A cab I don’t remember getting into.  Heading somewhere–I have no idea where.  Presumably to his apartment?  But to be honest with you, because of the severity of that black out between the kiss and the vomiting in the cab, I have no freaking idea what happened in between, or what was said.  For all I know, he said “hey, wanna get in this cab?  I know a sex trafficking ring that’s been looking for a blonde” and I could’ve said “Hellllllllllll yeahhhhhhhh!  Let’s do it!”

At this point, I would like to, again reiterate the fact that I drank too much, and that’s on me.  I thought I had to prop myself up on alcohol because I wouldn’t be interesting or funny or smart enough.  I take responsibility for this.
After throwing up in the cab, I know it was ME who flung open the door at the next light with no regard for anything but getting out and getting home.  Date over. 

To his credit, he paid the fare and got out as well.  Followed me, produced a water bottle seemingly from nowhere.  I kept trying to get away from him because I was so embarrassed but he kept with me, I’m assuming to make sure I got home okay.  He texted me later to make sure I got home okay.

And here’s why it took me so long to feel truly scared by the experience: in the parts of the date I remember, he was a gentleman.  I was the drunk, sloppy mess.  I was the problem.
Leave it to my sister, Jackie, to point out what I wasn’t acknowledging.  In recalling my “hilarious disaster date” while we were on vacation, she said “I wanna know where he was taking you in that cab.  If he was such a nice, perfect gentleman, why didn’t he send you home BEFORE you threw up in the cab?  He must’ve been able to see how drunk you were.”

I didn’t have an answer.  I think I just said “ahh well, I was the one who got too drunk.”

I still feel like that.  Because it’s true!  I put myself in an awful position and it really, truly bothers me to this day.  I amsmarter than that.  It scares me to think that I was completely unaware of what I was doing and consenting to. 

But it’s my fault!  I did that!  RIGHT!?!?
Like I said, working through my feelings folks.  Gotta work through my feelings.

I think this occurrence is partially why the Kavanaugh issue woke me up a bit. I realize they are two very different stories, and Christine Blasey Ford was NOT 8 drinks deep when this happened…but even if she was…like…that’s still not okay.

What I think struck a chord with me was the idea that nice guys…perfect gentlemen with big boy jobs and big boy money and East side apartments…perfect gentlemen who coach their daughter’s basketball team and are nominated to the supreme court…can also be NOT-so-nice guys when sex and booze enter the mix.
I’m ashamed of that night. I really am.  But something still feels icky about it.  Something other than my actions.

Surprisingly, he asked me out again…although I couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he liked me or because he didn’t seal the deal.  I honestly don’t know.  I ended up declining for multiple reasons, one of them obviously being that I was pretty humiliated.

I’m still conflicted by the whole raucous.  He seemed like such a nice guy…but also, where were we going?  Where did all these extra drinks come from?  Wasn’t it obvious I was LIT?  Maybe he just didn’t know how bad I’d gotten?  But then how was it not obvious?

I dunno.

I wanted to tell this story for two reasons.  Reason one being so that I could feel my way through it and sort out my thoughts, as I said before.  Reason two being that I think that more women who have NOT been sexually assaulted or raped need to get passionate about what’s going on and not think that these issues are irrelevant to them.  Because assaulted or not, these issues are about you and the validity of your experiences and your words.

I’m not saying you need to picket and protest and march–unless you want to!  That’s great!  That’s activism!  But let’s stop being complacent and stay on top of the issues.  I hope you’ll look at your dating experiences and make sure the gentlemen are real gentlemen and that you are always giving valid consent.  Talk through your experiences with your close friends (and your sisters) so they can say “hey, maybe don’t go out with him again because I don’t like how he did this orthat.”  (I hope that doesn’t sound like a battle cry to misinterpret every male gesture as sexual assault–but you know what I mean.)  It took Jackie saying “so where was he taking you?” for me to rethink this whole scenario as maybe not the “cutesy drunken tale” I thought it was.

And be NOT LIKE ME on your dates.  Keep your wits about you.  Take care of each other.  Don’t drink to oblivion because you think you’re not enough. 

It’s a cautionary tale, too.  Don’t think for a minute that I haven’t thanked whatever divine intervention made me vomit back to reality in that cab.  Do I think I was about to be brutally sexually assaulted?  No.  I don’t.  Do I think I was probably very likely to find myself having sex in a scenario where I wasn’t really able to give coherent consent?  Yes, I do.

If you wanna shoot me a message and discuss, I welcome it.  But please don’t try to fight me in the comments section on here or Facebook or anywhere.  Because as I’ve said–I’m just sorting through feelings here. 

We all need to sort through our feelings.

Oh.  And vote.


To the Big Green Bedroom

Originally posted on Blogspot 9/1/18

Last weekend I went home to Syracuse for the first time in a while–3 months to be exact.  For someone who likes to get home at least once a month, I felt like I hadn’t been home in a year.

There were many things I was looking forward to on my trip:  the wedding of a great high school friend, and the reunion with many other high school friends that went along with it.  My little white dog who I swear saved my life.  My goofy now-both-retired parents whose banter and teasing of one another is both entertaining and exhausting.  My sister and her girlfriend who digs Phantom of the Opera (and Jackie’s own personal renditions of Music of the Night).  The big pool with the little waterfall.  Rainbow Milk Bar at the Fair.

Lots of things to look forward to.

But what actually weighed most heavily on my mind going into Syracuse on the obviously-late-and-dysfunctional Greyhound bus was a confrontation between me and my big green bedroom.  No longer a big green bedroom.  No longer mine.

But in all honesty it had never been “mine”.  It was always “hers”:  Pre 2009 Jesse.  Dramatic?  Maybe. But true?  Oh yes.And I’d been avoiding her and that big green room every day since I returned home from my biopsy.

There were drawers and books and bins in that room that had not been opened, not been TOUCHED since a 17 year old with long brown hair closed them up after a wind ensemble concert, a dance class, after finishing her homework, or after watching Obama defeat McCain on TV.  So when my 22 year old sister asked me very gingerly, very carefully in June of this year if she could have my old room when she moved back, I begged her, “Please, Jackie, for the love of God.  Please do something with that mausoleum.  Take it.”

Indeed, it was a mausoleum and was treated as such.  During treatment I couldn’t bear to be in there and stayed in my mother’s room. If I wasn’t in her bed drinking my Miralax and watching Desperate Housewives, I was on the couch downstairs eating barbecue chips and watching reality TV.  Post-cancer I would come home from college or from New York City and sleep on the couch.  My luggage would live on the floor in the living room until my mom or dad finally begged me to get my shit out of the way because they were tired of finding bras in the couch cushions and tripping over boots.

So I would reluctantly drag my bags up the stairs to the big green mausoleum and drop them on the big green carpet and then duck the f**k out as fast as I could.  If I needed to maneuver the dresser drawers full of clothes, I did so strategically and nimbly–you’d never know if you were going to find an old love letter in the sock drawer, or come across that depressing bottle of Nautica cologne again that your ex-boyfriend left behind.  You might find the Thoroughly Modern Millie T-Shirt from Junior year or the ugly tye-dyed tank top from Sophomore year marching band with the sloppily written names of the flute players.  Best to get in and get out quickly.

And I know what you might be thinking.  You might be thinking C’mon, now, Jesse.  We all grow up.  We all move out.  We all come home and find our old things.
But here’s the thing.  Jesse with the long, brown hair and the nose too big for her face didn’t grow up and come back to find these things.  She left her big green bedroom on December 17th, 2008 in a snowstorm and came back that evening with a giant patch on her back from a manual biopsy needle and the parting words, “We’ll be in touch.  Merry Christmas!”

She couldn’t go back in that room.  And she just became more different day by day.  Skinnier.  Balder.  Sicker.  Angrier.  Then fatter.  Even sicker.  Even Angrier.  So, so angry.

Well, she just about disappeared.  And the big green room is–was–the only evidence that she ever existed.

Every once in a while as the years passed, I would feel courageous and open up the card that still sat on the vanity gathering dust.  It had lily pads and a pink flower on the front.  Inside were messages from my mom and dad congratulating me on the All-State concert at the beginning of December 2008.  I’d played oboe/english horn in the band that year, and sang in the chorus the year before.  My mom had written how proud she was, and how she could never have imagined when she sang in the All-State concert decades before that her own daughter would be there one day with her own musical talents.

If my nerve was steady and strong, I could even open up the little drawer beneath the card and find the little miniature oboe they’d given me along with it.

But that was a rare nerve.

“Please get rid of the mausoleum.  All of it.”

With the exception of a Calvin Klein sweatshirt, I told my mom and dad it could all go.  Everything.  The notes, the clothes, the posters, the band T-Shirts, the tiny wallet senior photos I’d traded and collected amongst my friends.  Make it all disappear.

I was ready when I came home last week.  I was ready for relief.  And I got it.  The room is unrecognizable.  The green carpet was ripped up and the hardwood floors repaired and smoothed over.  The furniture is brand new, the walls painted.

The green room is gone.

My mom, dad, and sister did an incredible job.  Jackie’s new room is stunning, and my mom carefully painted and redecorated Jackie’s old room.  She made it into a comfy, cozy little place for me to stay when I’m home.  For me to leave my luggage so my bras aren’t found in the couch cushions.

I am so, so grateful to them for turning the mausoleum into something brand new–brighter, and happier.  I’m not even mad that they forgot to save the Calvin Klein sweatshirt.
Since returning to the city, it’s hit me, though.  She’s really gone.  I guess, subconsciously, knowing that big green room remained there, untouched–it made it easier to hold on to…something.  I dunno.  It made it easier not to mourn that little high school kid.

You mourn a lot of things in battling cancer.  But it always felt silly to mourn the person I used to be–for many reasons.  It feels melodramatic, and useless.  Nothing can be changed.  What happened happened…but I still tear up writing this knowing that I can’t remember what it felt like to not have had cancer.  What was I like?  What did I love?  What did I think about?  Broadway?  Grades?  Dancing? Boys?  I remember being very concerned that my tapping wasn’t up to par–after all, I intended on heading to college a triple threat.  I forced myself to endure the advanced tap class at the dance studio even though I was the worst one.  I loved playing my instruments more than I ever let on to anyone, even my teachers.  I loved falling asleep with my cat, listening to Family Guy on the tiny TV in the big green bedroom.

What did I fear, then?  What could I have done?  Who would I be?  Where would I be?

The answers don’t exist because the questions are pointless.  But they arise in my brain regardless.

I am quite happy with who I am today.  Truly.  I have my flaws as we all do.  But, to come full circle, who I am today actually began on that biopsy table, right after I left that bedroom as old Jesse.  Long, brown hair Jesse feared the Gardasil vaccine and passed out at the idea of having blood drawn.  Short, blonde Jesse emerged for the first time when the doc said “if you want to wait to schedule an appointment to be put under in a routine biop–”  She cut him right off and said “do it now.  If we are doing this we’re doing it right the f**k now.”

To this day I’m not exactly sure where those balls came from.

You never actually know what you’re capable of until–often out of the blue–you happen to show yourself.  I think of that moment whenever I have doubts about my worth.  My value.  My capabilities.  My character.  Who I am or who I could have been.  Short blonde manual biopsy Jesse said “do it right now.”

She’s cool.  Highly recommend her.  She’s somebody who used to care a whole lot about overcoming her adversities by being successful. By making it big.  But now, she’s someone who tries to figure out, every night as she falls asleep, where she could’ve been more patient, more understanding or more helpful the previous day.

But you should ask her about the big green bedroom sometime, and the girl who used to live in it.

I don’t wan’t to forget her, completely.

An Open Letter to the Girl Who Brought an Extension Cord to the Audition

Originally posted on Blogspot 4/27/18

Look at you.  Just look at you.  With your jewel-toned dress and black pumps and full make-up.  It’s not even 7:30am.

But it’s good that you’re ready.  You’ll be the first to sing today.  You’re probably one of the first five on the list.  Maybe you even know every one of the first five.  Maybe they’re your friends.  Maybe one of them started the list at 4am when their bartending shift let out and they signed you guys up so you could sleep an extra half an hour.  

I’m not bitter.  I’d do the same thing if I had five friends.  

Instead I crashed on my uncle’s couch on 69th street in sweatpants and a Hedwig t-shirt, rolled outta bed thirty minutes ago, tucked my hair into this cloche hat and said “eh.  Good enough for the gal who’s about to be number 162 in line.”

My roommate recently told me that these kinds of hats were called cloche hats and now I like to say “cloche hat” whenever possible because it makes me feel like Blair Waldorf.

But I’ll bet you already knew what a cloche hat was.

Ahhh, I see you’re reading “Eat, Pray, Love.”  I’m not judging, I think it’s great.  I mean I never read it myself, but Julia Roberts was in the movie and she doesn’t star in just anything.  I loved her in “Wonder.”  I saw “Wonder” in theaters with my mom and my Aunt Martha and I cried like a baby. #girlsnightout #wonder #kleenex #juliaroberts 

Yes, better see if that flat iron is hot yet.  It’s a Chi, they warm up pretty fast.  I got a Chi for Christmas once, but then two weeks later my hair fell out so I didn’t get much use out of it.  Isn’t it ironic?  (Don’t ya think?)

Ugh love Alanis Morissette.  Did you hear about Jagged Little Pill: the Musical?  Who am I kidding.  Of course you did.  You’re up to date on your news.  You’re you!

Yes, girl, plug in that iPhone.  It’s about to be a long three hours and I want you to get full use out of that extension cord.  In fact, I hope you brought a crockpot.

Guess what? 

I don’t really know what a crockpot is.  

People talk about making things in their crockpots all the time and I just smile and nod and go “ohh yeah crockpots, love it,” but what I’m really thinking is “sweet baby Jesus I love Celeste microwave pizzas they’re 99 cents and I love running my index finger around the perimeter of the pizza and licking the excess cheese off in a manner that’s more sexual than necessary.”

One time my mom said “Jesse I need you to turn the crockpot on at 4 o’clock.”  So I turned it on at 4:17 when I remembered.  

Oh, you don’t need a crockpot.  You brought Shakeology.  I drank Shakeology that time I did the 21 day fix for nine days.  But today I just brought this Nutella and dipping sticks pack because I recently discovered them at Duane reade and said “where have you been all my li-i-i-ife” a la Rihanna. 

Are you on the 21 day fix?  If so, what are you trying to fix?  I really want to know.  I’m curious about a lot of things, which, truly, is at the heart of this letter.  Try to sift through the sarcasm and useless anecdotes and see what’s really going on here:  I’m obsessed with you.

I’m in awe.

I have so many questions, not the least pressing being WHAT ARE YOU SINGING TODAY!?  Is it “You’ve Got Possibilities”?  Is it “Vanilla Ice Cream”?  I’ll bet it’s “You’ve Got Possibilities” or “Vanilla Ice Cream.”  You strike me as the “You’ve Got Possibilities” or “Vanilla Ice Cream” kind of gal.  

Do you work at Lululemon?  Is that how you can afford that gym bag full of Lululemon?   Do you like working at Lululemon?  I’ve heard it’s a great place to work and they do the cha cha slide at team meetings.  

Do you sleep?

Do you eat gluten?

Do you like Survivor?

Are you EMC?

How do crockpots work!?

Can we be friends?

Teach me your ways!!!

And also can I plug my phone into your extension cord?


Cloche Hat (Blair Waldorf)

Why I Made My Dog Poop in the Dark: A Reflection for a New Year

Originally posted on Blogspot 1/4/18

My year ended with a dog fight.

Do not be deterred by my use of the term “dog fight”.  If you please, take note of the space between the two words and understand that by dog fight, I do not mean “dogfight.”  As in Michael Vick style dogfighting.  I am merely referring to a rather heated fight I had with my dog.

A dog fight, if you will.

A dog fight that taught me a lot about life…  

Okay, it didn’t actually teach me that much about life.  But regardless…I digress.  

The fight in question took place in the wee hours of December 24th, 2017.  The dog is Paulie Bleeker, an almost-nine-year-old maltese who is beginning to feel the effects of doggy aging and is handling it just about as gracefully as Gary Busey.  He needs assistance getting up and down off couches and beds now, and is not super pumped about needing all this help.  Therefore in his older age, Bleeker will quite often, and quite literally bite the hand that feeds him.  

I promise he is not vicious.  I choose to describe him as crotchety, a word I find is under-used in the English language.  May we all make a better effort to use the word crotchety on a basis more fitting of it’s worthiness.

On December 24th, Bleeker was feeling particularly crotchety.  Like.  “Clint-Eastwood-Gran-Torino-Get-Off-My-Lawn” crotchety.  We had both fallen asleep on the couch, and at approximately 12:20am, I decided to go to bed.  Bleeker, I knew, would need to do his biz one more time, and then would need some assistance getting his crotchety ass into bed.  So I called his name and nudged his body with my foot, initiating the growly, grumpy, waking up process he has grown accustomed to and after a moment he sat up, seemingly ready to move on with his life…

So I went in for it.  I bent over him to kiss the top of his head and pat his butt like I always do to get him moving toward the door…but alas…he had not recovered from his abrupt awakening, and proceeded to chomp down on my upper lip.

Needless to say, we were immediately in a fight.  
What transpired next was a series of dramatic tactics I employed in an attempt to convey my anger and hurt feelings to a dog/hurt his feelings in return/make him feel bad for me and grovel at my feet for forgiveness.

My first instinct was to drop kick him into the neighbors yard and cut him out of my life completely and forever.

But, as I said, this is not dogfighting, this is dog fighting.

Which meant Mean Girls-style manipulation and backstabbing–and I was full of fury and ready to deliver.  Nobody was safe from my wrath/over-dramatic tendencies.

After cussing for approximately 13.5 seconds, I felt the tears and the blood begin to flow out of my face.

Yes, I thought.  He is going to feel so bad for making me cry and it is just too bad because he can’t take back what he did.  He’s going to be so sorry that he’ll–I was completely unsure of my end game.  I wasn’t sure how precisely I wanted him to make it up to me. Tell me how much he regrets it?  Apologize profusely?  Make me live forever?

I had not settled on an answer when I found myself deep in the throes of my next tactic.

With a grand flourish, I flung myself off of the couch and onto the living room floor, rocking back forth, hands covering my face, still crying as loudly as I could without waking anyone.


I curled up in the fetal position, and alternated between moaning and shouting profanities.  When I realized that my face was staining the carpet with blood, I decided it was a good time to check my progress.  Hands still covering my face (both for dramatic effect and for blood drip management), I peeked through my fingers to see if my dog felt bad for me yet.

He was sitting up now, head cocked to one side.  Amused.

Amused is not wracked with guilt and begging to be let back into my good graces.

This was not to my satisfaction.  

Just as abruptly as I’d hurled my body onto the living room floor, I stood up and loomed over him, wiping my sleeve across my deformed mouth, realizing too late that I was wearing my white Spice Girls sweatshirt (now lovingly referred to as the Spice Girls Blood Hoody).


He did not.

Which brought me to tactic number three.  

“OUT. SIDE. NOW.  Let’s go!”  

He trotted merrily to the sliding glass door.  I flicked on the backyard light and threw open the door, careful to add lots of huffy breathing and angry flare.  Arms crossed, peering through the glass, I realized that I was not achieving anything via this tactic, as it had always been my intention for the dog to go outside…

…In a sudden stroke of genius, I flung the door open again and shouted into the peaceful winter morning, “SHIT IN THE DARK, DICK!”

I slammed the backyard light switch down and rested my forehead against the door, satisfied momentarily with this punishment.

With Bleeker presumably pooping in the dark, I had a moment to gather my thoughts.  I crept into the bathroom, wincing at my mangled face in the mirror.

“OH MY GOD IM SO UGLY!”  I cried over the sink.  “I’M UGLY AND IT’S CHRISTMAS!”

My mouth was swollen to about 5 notches above Kylie Jenner status and there was blood in my teeth from the inside of my lip.

So here I was: deformed, bloody, and puffy…and my best attempt at revenge was to make this dog poop in the dark.

I thought through all my remaining “I’m so mad at you and want you to know it” ideas…I would ignore him.  I won’t even talk to him tomorrow!  He won’t have one of his best friends ON CHRISTMAS! I won’t even look at him ON CHRISTMAS!  


And then it hit me.  The true magnitude of what was going on:  people the world over were bent in prayer to celebrate the birth of a man who would be crucified and die for the sins of the world…and I was trying to Regina George my dog.  A dog who would listen silently to my crying, watch curiously as I performed a Shakespearian death on my living room floor, and poop in dark without giving it a second thought.

Which brought me, finally, to tactic number 4: wake up mom and cry/bleed all over her.

Later, as I lay in bed, I considered what I had learned from this experience, besides not to kiss my dog so quickly after waking him up.  I thought about how much energy I had put into trying to emotionally punish an animal.  And, let me tell ya…it just wasn’t worth it…

And so maybe no revenge is worth it…maybe now, whenever I’m angry with someone, I will just pretend they are my Gary Busey Clint Eastwood Gran Torino Crotchity Old Man-Dog and just try not to give a f**k.

Happy 2018
@itsmy_pardee (instagram)

A Very Brief Essay on Peanut Allergies and Cocaine

Originally posted on Blogspot 10/9/17

I recently asked a homeless man on the A train if he had a peanut allergy before offering him the rest of an entire container of dark chocolate covered peanuts.

Which seems like a very courteous thing to do.  

And I am nothing if not courteous.

But apparently it is a stupid question to ask a person who is begging for food on the A train.  Because apparently, as it turns out, a person who is begging for food on the A train just wants to eat some food.  Hives be damned.

Several people were kind enough to help enlighten me on this issue.  For example, a man beside me wearing flip flops (MAN FLOPS, if you will–a detail I would be remiss not to include) treated me to some grade A side-eye underneath the uni-brow he had clearly tried (and failed) to trim earlier that day.  And if there is one thing I hate more than man flops and haphazardly trimmed uni-brows, it’s side-eye.  

Side-eye is passive aggressive.  I, Jesse P, promise you that if I ever have the urge to give you side-eye, I will do you the courtesy of just BLATANTLY GIVING YOU A DIRTY LOOK.

Because I am nothing if not courteous.

The second indicator was an audible laugh from somewhere in the peanut gallery (GET IT?  DO YOU GET WHY IT’S SO FUNNY THAT I SAID PEANUT GALLERY?)

And you know what?  I can take a lot.  I get a lot of smirks on the A train.  A short white blonde with an uneven bob and giant pink sunglasses is bound to stand out a little bit in Washington Heights.  But don’t laugh at me and my peanuts.  That’s uncalled for and it is certainly not courteous…

The third indicator was the look on the face of the homeless man himself.  

And okay, folks, I get it.  Blondie may have come across as a naïve little Priss whose mommy cut the crusts off her sandwiches (SHE DIDN’T—CAROLYN), and has clearly never been so hungry that she’s had to ask for food on the A train (although the peanuts in question were my dinner).

But you know what?  What if he DID have a peanut allergy?  And by trying to help him, I KILLED HIM?  

Yes, I am aware that he could probably read the label.  But as a FOOD SERVICE PROFESSIONAL it is my JOB to ask about allergies and sometimes it just comes out…and it IS possible that he couldn’t read (in all fairness, one could argue that I, myself, cannot read, as earlier that day when I tried one of the dark chocolate covered peanuts in question, I thought to myself this dark chocolate covered raisin tastes funny…)  

I don’t know!  I don’t know this man’s life!  All I know is I was trying to be nice.  Genuinely.  Not just because I feel guilty about my hatred of the man who wants money for holding the door open at the 183rd street station and gets mad at me for just opening a different door for myself.  (Courteous of him, you may be thinking?  No, no.  This doesn’t count.  This man wants to ruin me).

No.  I thought to myself…I don’t need this container of dark chocolate covered peanuts that were supposed to be raisins.  Man flops and the peanut gallery are just ignoring him, and on many occasions I do the ignoring as well, but today I have something and goddammit, I NEED TO MAKE SURE HE DOESN’T HAVE A PEANUT ALLERGY.

An insignificant sacrifice, I’m aware…  

A day in the life, folks.  A day in the life.  I don’t know that I really have a point to this one.  Is it to give the homeless what you can and hope they read the labels???  Or maybe we should take food allergies more seriously???  Don’t wear man flops??? Carefully groom your uni-brow???

I’m just rolling with the punches here.

We’ll go with that.  


One minute you’re trying to help, and the next a homeless man sasses you about how of course he’s not allergic to peanuts! and snatches your dark-chocolate-covered-peanuts-dinner out of your hand.  

One minute you think you have dark chocolate covered raisins and they are really just dark chocolate covered peanuts and you are illiterate.  

One minute a guy wearing MAN FLOPS is giving you side eye, and the next a rich Chuck Bass-type wants to do cocaine off you, but doesn’t offer you any.

I would’ve politely declined the cocaine, of course.  But it would’ve been nice to be asked.  It would’ve been courteous.

And I am nothing if not courteous.


**PS.  Recently have been getting new messages and feedback from cancer survivors just discovering “Confessions of a Disgruntled Twenty-Something Cancer Survivor”.  THANK YOU for your kind words.  I hope you’ll continue to check out my writing here…and I’ll try not to wait four months before posting again.  I am forever grateful to people who read and enjoy my (weird) writing!

Instagram: @itsmy_pardee

I Refused to Title This Post

Originally posted on Blogspot 6/13/17

I am a lazy shit.

But that is beside the point.  

And I’m not going to cuss like a son-of-a in this new blog because I am such a lady now.

Hi, I’m Jess and I used to write a popular blog about my super special-interesting-swell cancer and I used to swear a lot in said blog and bold things like this when I wanted to emphasize something or be really dramatic so you would pay attention and say, “Wow!  She is adamant about this part!”  

Run-on sentences were also a thing I did, and will probably do more of.  <—–I am also a firm believer in ending sentences with prepositions, and I also believe that by telling you in advance that I believe in ending sentences with prepositions, it makes it okay that I’m ending sentences with prepositions.  It’s what I believe in.  (SEE!  See how I ended the section about prepositions with a PREPOSITION!)

I am also under the distinct impression that I am very funny and witty. 

But you can be the judge of that.  Just don’t tell me to my face because I am also very neurotic, and a simple critique like “Jess, you are not as funny as you think you are!”  or “your joke about the use of prepositions was both pretentious and NOT witty at the same time” could result in a massive dissection and deconstruction of the very person that I am and there is not enough Effexor in the world to cover that.

Effexor is the drug that I take for anxiety/depression.  Remember what I said about the super special/something-or-other cancer?  Well, as you can probably imagine, cancer produces a lot of anxiety and it can also be very, very depressing as it makes people very, very sick and sad and kills a bunch of folks.  I also have OCD.  Which I had before the cancer.  So yeah, medicine.  Medicine is a thing I take.  I take 3 of those lil pills every day and it makes me very tired (if this were my old blog I would’ve used the “F” word in place of the word “very” in the previous sentence.  But like I said I’m a classy lady now so I don’t swear).  These lil pills contribute in part to my laziness, which was literally where we began but not at all where we ended up.

Okay, so I’m lazy because I’ve been meaning to write again for quite some time but it just seemed like it was this whole thing.  Like, for one thing I would need a good reason to write a blog.  Like CANCER! Cancer was a super great reason to write a blog and cancer is a good reason and excuse for just about everything.  Even 8 years after the fact.  People just don’t know enough about cancer and don’t want to pry and ask questions about it so I can use cancer as an excuse for pretty much anything and no one  bats an eye.  But writing about cancer every week got to be pretty depressing, and I also came to realize that I wasn’t writing that blog for myself.  I was writing it based on what I thought people would want to hear about in regards to my life with an illness that most of us only know affecting little kids or grown adults.


(I sometimes write in all caps).

Some of the other reasons I was putting off writing a new blog:
*I would have to actually create a new blog and choose a domain, and should I find another one?  Or just be lazy and keep using blogger?  (You see how that ended)
*Templates are hard, and right now the template I chose has a picture of a cat on it and the cat is not even cute.  So.  That’s something ELSE I have to tackle now.
*I have to tell everyone I wrote another blog, and that means being self-indulgent and asking you to pay attention to me.


Well.  I started realizing as of late that the blog should be for my benefit, with the hopes that others read it and enjoy it and if you don’t FUCK OFF.  (That is LITERALLY the only time.  I promise).



I’m a blonde now!  Like platinum blonde now and it’s all due to that ever-so-cliché fact that I’m semi-recently out a relationship that I was in for four years and had to change up my life in a dramatic way to prove “oh, yeaahhh girlfriend you’ve moved on!”  #basic

And yes.  To everyone who read my cancer blog, I am not with the long-time boyfriend that I used to write about.  

I would say I’m a pretty different person from the girl who wrote that blog.  I’m a delicate flower of a woman now, let me tell YOU!  I am currently sitting on my bed wearing a blue maxi-skirt and a neon green tank top that I deemed acceptable to wear to the bodega where I picked up a diet coke and a bag of Boom-Chicka-Pop and that’s all I’ve accomplished so far today.  SO FAR.  (A note on Boom-Chicka-Pop:  I was so against this popcorn for so long because of the name.  I didn’t want to ever have to say it out loud, and I hated hearing other people say it out loud because it is so, so embarrassing to say and I would become embarrassed for whomever said it. But the sweet and salty popcorn is any woman’s wet dream, okay? My roommate and I can kill an entire bag in less than a day).  
         I’m listening to “Say It Right” by Nelly Furtado.  On repeat.  Like I’ve listened to it about 12 times now and I don’t know why.  I’m drinking out of cup that LOOKS like a red plastic solo cup but it’s not!  Its a real life cup!  That you put in the dishwasher!  This is so funny to me!  The things we come up with these days!  Because who has the money to buy red solo cups anymore?  To keep replenishing your red solo cup supply? Not me!  Yesterday my seven year-old cousin called me on the phone and asked me if I was rich and how many dollars I have and I shed a single tear in the bathroom of the restaurant where I work.  

I am an elegant being.

So yeah, I’m gonna write when I feel like it and post it and you should read it because I sometimes think that I’m the only person who thinks the way I do.  But maybe you also think the way I do.  Maybe you also think that because a whole bunch of flies got into your first floor apartment when the temperature dropped last week that one laid eggs in your mouth in the middle of the night because you’re a mouth-breather and now you have a family of larvae in your intestines.  Maybe we could talk about that sometime.  Together.

All the Best,