I wrote about how perfect life would be If Archie Panjabi Were Your Girlfriend for The Toast!
As long as boys will be boys, I’ll be a bitch.
Guess who is in Cosmo.
Jessica said this, about my anaphorafixation:
Also: “anaphora” sounds a bit like a prompt I’ve been toying with lately: “refrain.” Been trying to connect the idea of something you hear repeated in a song that moves you, with the idea of something (or someONE) you keep coming back to.
I’ve been dreaming lately about somebody I used to know. A boy. An if you love him let him go type of boy. An if you love yourself you’ll let him go type of situation.
There’s such a tension in these dreams. I know the way things unfold; I watch them from the now knowing everything that comes after. In my dreams I choose to stay, to live it out again, to relish it, with and without hope for a different outcome. There’s still all this love, pale upon waking, this longing and misplaced certainty. And there’s the me who is watching the dream and wincing, but who knows that it’ll be okay.
I wrote a poem about it once. It was the first poem I ever wrote after knowing Crystal. I wrote about how I was certain like the sea, how the way I felt about him was like having my feet in wet sand, ankle-deep, being pulled. It was the only time I’d come close, really close, to knowing what it’s like to feel in love.
It seems pretty silly now, honestly. (It seems, sometimes, like the surest thing I’ve ever known.)
I tried to reach out to him recently. I wanted to apologize for something I’d said. I could have said it months ago, and I didn’t. But this situation was my perfection combination of definitions. A refrain, this person I keep coming back to; to refrain, to stop myself, for my own good.
I met Crystal at an odd, sad moment in both our lives. We were both so young and heartbroken. We’re still pretty young, and we’re probably still heartbroken, sometimes, but it’s a little different now. She would come over to my apartment, a nicer place than I could afford, which was always lit in red and gold even though the walls were stark and bare. We’d drink a giant bottle of wine and scribble things down and cry. Twenty-three is a good time to be that way.
Of course it wasn’t always pretty. There was one time that we drank this awful passion fruit rum another friend had given me as a housewarming gift. I finished most of the bottle and promptly puked it all up from the top of my bed, which was lofted over the sofa. Crystal cleaned it up and made sure I fell asleep and in the morning we ate snowy pastries from the bakery around the corner. It had been there for a hundred-and-three years. It had probably seen generations of hungover girls short on sleep and seeking a sugar high, the only people who could save each other just by letting each other be, and by witnessing each other write it down.
Way back in January, era of cold snowy misery, I read The Girl in the Road by Monica Byrne, and it blew me away. You may remember me flailing about it here. Well, it seems I’m getting kinda good at this being-a-working-writer thing, this leaning-in, pitching-like-a-shark thing, because when I learned that one of my friends, Laura, actually grew up in the same town, instead of feeling awed and shying away, I said “Hey! I’d love to interview her.”
And, readers, I did.
So do you remember how, way back in December, I posted about how I’m going to be studying with Roxane Gay in Germany this summer? The time is nigh to figure out how to fund that. Thus I have created my first ever GoFundMe. Please take a look at it and throw some pasta my way, if you can!
Here’s what you’d be Internetly slapping your hard earned money down for:
I write about my experiences. I write about feminism, and misogyny, and surviving sexual violence. I write about how freaking awesome and brilliant and strong girls are, for the awesome/brilliant/strong kid I was, for the awesome/brilliant/strong kids I haven’t even met yet. I write about the tough-as-nails women who raised me. I write about sex in all it’s silliness and sultryness and joy.
I also write about fairy tales, and zombies, and mermaids, and superhero chicks who save the world a lot. So if you like any of those things, or if you just like me, please consider throwing some dinero my way.
If that sounds worth it to you (and I hope it does), please (if you’re able to!) help a lady out.
Also, as a thank you for your kindness and generosity, I’ll send you post cards and letters and trinkets and sketches of topless mermaids and personalized stories and poems written just for you, if you so desire.
There is external gravity and then there is internal gravity, the gravity of the guts. External gravity is always there; internal gravity spins up, like that ride at the amusement park that pins you to the wall. You might not sink when it hits, not visibly. You might not even brace yourself for a moment on the shelf of fancy jams in the grocery store. But inside, the gravity is too strong for the narrow scaffold of your body to hold. Inside you’ve crumpled dramatically down and you’ve taken the jam shelf with you.
Usage: “I know the jam shop is only a few blocks away, but I’ve got gravity.”
Jess Zimmerman, over at The Hairpin