Your three-doored orange car
is just as distinct as
all my stickers, so
I know you saw me,
whether you saw
the bird or not.
Not my worst fear,
watching you slow turn home
as I turned to text him.
Had I been driving, alone,
and not stuffed with sushi,
we could have played another game–
though I unwittingly won this round of
Ruin Your Day.


The Gift I Can Always Count On…


I remember Donnie and I would refer to our respective birthdays as Birthday Shit Fest followed by whatever year it was– and it would happen every year–we’d make big plans and get let down. Each following year, the plans would get less excessive to ensure success. Then there was the year Donnie stood me up on my birthday to do drugs with that one girl. I waited by the window all day, like a broken home child waiting on their father to pick them up for the weekend. Like that memory of my Mother’s…

Last year’s birthday sort of involved my estranged father. We had begun talking, slightly, at the end of August last year through some Facebook trickery concocted by his wife, who’s maybe 10 years older than me. So naturally, I expected him to call me on my birthday a few days later, right? Who wouldn’t, after just mentioning on that one call how he always thought of me on my birthday and he absolutely knew when the day was. I said to myself, “If he doesn’t call, I’m done. This is the first time in my life he could tell me ‘happy birthday’.” Even my mother was sure he’d call.

And he didn’t call. I even gave him a few days after. Nothing. So I sent him an email containing such phrases as “are you fucking kidding me?” and “save your bullshit excuses.” He tried to apologize and gave the excuses I expected. Then Laura died and I told him I couldn’t deal with him right now because of such. He has said nothing to me since. I do not expect a call this year. His excuse will be “you said you didn’t want to talk to me.”

Laura dying. Jesus, it’s almost been a year. We weren’t friends or speaking at the time, but when we were, it was intense and for about a decade. She was that best friend to me. You know which one I mean– and one day, she broke up with me. I was “too negative,” which I found out later meant, “you don’t let me do whatever I want and play the victim and do all the drugs and think I’m still adorable.” I didn’t take this well, to say the least.

So it had been about 5 years since we spoke when I was informed by a mutual friend– “She hung herself” — a Facebook text by one too eager to break the news. Full of tact. We all gathered in the snake pit that night to cry and drink and yell. (No one speaks any longer. Lots of drama ensued.)

Then the hurricane came.

I usually get a birthday hurricane, but this one ended up being Hurricane Laura. I had to sleep on the couch that night because my husband had hurt his back preparing for the storm and was lying on the bed sideways, like an asshole. I cried in the dark as the windows rattled right above me. I think I sort of wanted the windows to shatter onto me.

So, my birthday is weird and makes me feel terrible. No one ever remembers it. I spent all my birthdays growing up wondering if my father knew what day it was or if he was thinking of me at all. Everything always goes wrong. No one cares enough about anyone. Everybody leaves. My family wants to go out to dinner, like we do for all birthdays. I’m over it. I’m going to be 35. In another 35 years, I’ll be 70 and hopefully already dead.




True Story #2

I was best friends with this girl in kindergarten. In the first grade, she started bullying me. She’d corner me in areas of the classroom where the teacher couldn’t see and guilt-pressure me into giving her my snack everyday. I was very shy and she was becoming an aggressive queen-bee. I told her to leave me alone or I was telling. We avoided each other from then on.

We ended up going to the same high school and even the same college where I watched her become a terrible, prissy bitch. Once, in a college auditorium History class, she made her entrance, fashionably late, and I swear– she was wearing a feather fucking boa.

Then, during a spring break towards the end of college, she was with her boyfriend and his father and they all died in a plane crash–one of those tiny personal planes–crashed right into a building.

I saw the “Breaking News” report.

She was the first person I knew to die.



I’m Always Pissing People Off

Today I got kicked out of my (very small) city’s Facebook group after a bunch of angry women reprimanded me like a child.

I mistakenly had tried to start a conversation as a comment to a woman’s recommendation for a place to get your infant’s ears pierced cheaply and easily. I merely said “Or you can wait until the kid’s old enough…blah blah blah” never saying anything personal or “you’re a stupid asshole for doing this,” but these women still went APESHIT in a “don’t tell me how to raise my child” kind of way. I got my ears pierced when I was 8 years old because my mother thinks it’s cruel to pierce an infant’s ears and I agree.

Trying to explain myself only made things worse. I went temporarily blind when some bitch in the group started a post to me with, “Look, you’re new here, so…” as I had just recently joined the group, though have lived in the city forever. These were 40 something bullies who couldn’t understand the notion of an alternative viewpoint. Bitches must’ve never taken debate.

So, they kicked me out of the group.  Good thing they didn’t know I have no children!

Kinda felt like the time my high school French teacher told me I “wasn’t really (school’s name) material.”

I guess I have a habit of pissing people off. Many years ago, my aunt sent me a chain letter bashing Muslims. Well, her sister married a man from Iran, from which they produced 3 children, her nieces and nephew, my siblings. Yet, when I pointed this out to her and asked why she would send that to me when my family, her family, is of Muslim descent, I ended up being the one in the wrong and am the reason she doesn’t talk to my family any longer.

I had several of these old shitty friends or boyfriends who, upon me asking for my belongings back at the end of a relationship, would inevitably either destroy them or make a huge deal about how petty I was wanting my things back. How dare I? Well, here’s every other thing back that you ever gave me because we live in a soap opera full of crafted trash.

When I got married, there was this one time my in-laws were staying with us for way too long and on the very last day of their visit, I lost my patience when his dad starting saying something racist. I said something and he responded to me with “You are wrong!” in a bellowing voice, like my father, in my own home. I went inside and did not see them off. The next day, I wrote his mom a letter to explain my feelings about the situation and what had happened. Now his parents hate me. And then they had to find out we were already married! Eloped in Vegas, just like she told us not to. Oh, and we’re not having children. So much hatred now.

Finally, when my Gramma died in 2016 and my 3 cousins could actually live with themselves to say nothing to their grandfather about his wife dying, I wrote them a letter. It was mainly addressed to my one cousin who is 5 months older than me, but as the eldest, she has a certain responsibility. I told them how shitty it was of them and how they’re shitty family anyway. They ran and told their mommy on me (aunt from prior story).

Other aunt, “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.”

I’m an adult. They’re adults. I can do whatever I want. Eat my butt.

Now, I tell everyone when they piss me off. “Fuck you, and here’s why…”

I do it matter of factly. Here is why you suck. This is what you did. This is how I feel. Like a robot.

And here is why I have no friends.

But when I had friends, I was a pushover, piece of shit, doormat who everyone used.

Quite the conundrum.


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