“talk to yourself for thirty minutes and record it, then transcribe it.”

0:00-10:00 10:00-15:00 0:15:00-0:19:55

I have come to accept that I will be fine. I’m relatively healthy, I have a family that loves me, friends who are there most of the time, and have enough hobbies to keep me busy. If I want to reject the idea that I am a GYPSY, does that make me one? I work for those people, girls who break their phones a couple times a year, drunk, doing laundry. I have to tell them no, we can’t take your mom’s credit card information over the phone. But am I that girl if I drive a BMW? What if I told you it was falling apart, fifteen years old, and I only got it when my dad got a better car? What if I told you we had to move six hundred and sixty seven miles away once my Dad’s company was bought out? My dad’s company consisted of my dad, a desk, and an office chair in our basement. They didn’t want the company, they just wanted him. What if I told you about how when I was little we had to live in my grandmother’s two bedroom rancher because we had no money? I shared a bed with my Grandmeré, but if I was going to be technically correct, I slept on my grandfather’s side of the bed. They had two twin beds pushed together, fifties sitcom style.

In the almost twenty two years since his death, I have slept in that bed almost as much as my grandfather did. Sometimes I would hold her hand when I was scared of her old pipes creaking. She would mumble Tony under her breath, (predictive of the dementia that was developing but still asymptomatic,) and squeeze my hand a little. Instead of giving her a kiss in the middle of the night, like Tony might have, I would lean my head close and listen if she was breathing. She has been every time I’ve checked so far, but one day she won’t be. She’s been forgetful for years now – showing significant symptoms for at least four years. I will miss her, but I miss her already. She’s not the same person, instead a stubborn child in a wrinkled skin that tells off color jokes. But what really worries me is that I will have to do it all again, but with my mother. One day, maybe someone will have to take care of me that way. But until then, I will be fine. I will be as happy as I can be, and if not, I will do what I need to to be happy. If that means getting over my fear of needles to be inoculated against the unfiltered world, so be it.

At this point, depressed and tired, I turned the recorder off.


0:00-10:00 10:00-15:00 0:15:00-0:19:55

Thirty minutes of silence. I stopped talking to figure out what to say next, and had fallen asleep. I am still exhausted on the other side of a nap.

I don’t know what to talk about for another fifteen minutes, but I will wing it. I have thought about writing this almost every day on my rides to and from downtown, but I haven’t been able to get the words to flow cohesively out of my mouth. I actually thought I recorded myself for ten minutes before realizing that I had not hit the record button. C’est la vie. I wanted to tell you about the lightening storm I drove through – rain drops the size of grapes smashed against my windshield and the sky turned purple and white with lightening. I wanted to describe it to you, and maybe make some sort of poetic declaration about the entire experience. The way the street lights reflected off the wet street was beautiful, and as dark and shitty as it was outside, the world was full of colors and washed clean again. But then I realized that “you” were no one in particular, and that really “you” didn’t exist at all. There are boys that have come and gone, friends that have come and gone, but when it’s late and I’m driving, I hesitate on who to call and talk me home. I often don’t call, just turn the radio up and think about people I used to call. People I still could call, but I didn’t want to bother them on a rainy, shitty, friday night.

I worry a lot that this isn’t healthy. I have been “single” for a long time, and have come to accept it. I don’t find myself lonely often, and in fact, people annoy me. Couples annoy me. When dates run out of things to say, turn romantic to fill the silence, reciting lines about how beautiful my eyes are or my smile is, and I roll my eyes. Oh, please. Except I want someone around so bad, it twists me up when someone with promise comes along. Someone with potential will ruin my week and invade my brain. Figuratively, I will erect a shrine to a man with a great smile and who laughs at my shitty jokes. I’ll look at the shrine for a day or two, notice the shoddy workmanship, take it apart, and be over it by the week’s end.

This week’s flavor of the week is a single ladies mix of sky high standards and our signature sauce: biting sarcasm sprinkled with self criticism. Ask for the “fuck that guy” sundae. For a limited time, or until the vacation days are up, is the West Coast Cutie, an orange sorbet made up of delicious, refreshing sweet and tartness. The West Coast Cutie seems like a contender for a permanent flavor addition — smart, makes sharp nerdy jokes, shares your interests, fantastic smile, well dressed, shy, and has an impressive job that takes him around the world for one of the biggest companies in the world. And he’s handsome, to boot. Now that you want it, you can’t have it- it’s only available in California locations. You always want what you can’t have.