107. Brother

"You would walk all over a dude like that." My brother said, slurping his Dunkin Donuts coffee.

Milk only, just like how mom used to drink it.

"I wouldn't mean to!" I argue.

"I know, Sweetheart." he said, "But look at the men that brought you up."

James had a point. I was raised by a long line of alpha dogs with calloused hands. I am of men with a firm stature, broad shoulders, white color minds but blue collar attitude. Because of them I appreciate stoicism, but am a vessel for sensitivity.

I'm over how weird it is that I need to be with a man like that, but I do regardless. Like anything good in this world, they are hard to come by. I'm not too sure a man like that would be into a woman like me.

Regardless, I am too content with my singularity to sacrifice my freedom for someone that is just "okay." I want it to be of a mutual, "No one else will do."

It makes me feel like I'm lacking, in a variety of different ways. Yet in the moments it gets to be too much, that's what my big brother is for.

"You're a diamond, Jess. Never forget that."

106. She Is

She doesn't need to spend $20 on cream at Walgreens just retain radiant skin.
She is well traveled, least in body. She was supported by her parents.
She has this femininity thing down like she never had to search for it. She has this sweetness thing down like life never tried to take it away.

She moves quietly. She doesn't drink down her bad choices. She doesn't talk about sex like her body retains virginity after each encounter if she has them.

She is the exact opposite of me.

I am like the lovely frock that is prone to wrinkles.

I am like the cigarettes I never smoked sometimes.

But I can still look in the mirror and see pretty,

thriving, jostled but focused-

I can see her and know that sometimes she can be too much, especially to herself but at the end of the day

She is

enough.

105. Nerd Dude at Filter

My 27 year old mental version of "Call Me Maybe" is

"Hey, I'm creeping on you at a coffee shop or bar, but you're cute and I think we should have started making out like 10 minutes ago."

104. Whining Toddler

Dear Whining Toddler,

You combined with my cat puking this morning reminded me and my ovaries that parenthood is a firmer "NO" than I had been thinking lately.

When I consulted my biological clock, it laughed.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Late 20's Female Who is Not Sorry for the Bitchface She Gave You

103. Short Haired Girls

I walked into my go-to writing spot and saw two girls right away with pixie cuts similar to mine. We exchanged a smile and a nod.

Tattoo culture used to be like that. Alternative culture used to be like that. Maybe it seems like it no longer is because I live in a trendy area of my city. Anyway, I feel like a woman having short hair is still taboo enough where it warrants recognition when I see another. I hope it doesn't someday.

102. Goth Poet

My friends are incredible. The way they share information, music, writing and art with me is amazing. The older I get the more I feel like my personhood is a scrapbook of all the people, experiences, and things suggested to me. I am living Pinterest really.

That being said, my friend Kate introduced me to a poet today. She was curious about what I'd think given that she's getting into poetry and I've been into it as long as I can remember.

"A lot of people I know are obsessed with her." Kate said. So I checked this poet out.

At risk of shaming the poet, I won't link to her site. I will say this-

Writing poetry fluctuates between being the same thing as slitting your wrists and masturbating. This girl's poetry is her getting herself off to her own peril.

There is feeling, and expressing so someone gets it, and expressing your feelings so beautifully and articulate that it becomes art. Then there is feeling as though that your feelings are somehow unique, or that you are more broken yet better than everyone else because of them.

Your feelings are not unique-your means of acquiring them are, and how you express them are. Sadness is sadness. Joy is joy. You are not some special snowflake because a lover melts the ice in your heart that froze because your dad beat you as a child.

It is the same thing as loving a band because you love them, and telling people you love a band to make yourself look more cultured.

This poet is not a larger vessel for human emotion or understanding because of her way with words. In this regards, she is a skiff while she is trying to be tanker. She narrows herself by being full of her own heart.

101. Tinder Guy

A guy on Tinder messaged me saying he wants to lick my butthole. He asked if I would be interested. I declined, but said I hope he finds a girl who is.

Modern love is perfect.

100. Hobo

There was a hobo on my run yesterday who commented that he could see the outlines of my nipples through my sports bra-which was the exact reason that I went on the run to begin with.

99. It's Friday-I'm in Love

I walk by him every now and then outside the bar he works at. He's smoking a cigarette, staring out onto Halstead.

He doesn't notice me as I walk by. I am likely not his type. Still, every time I pass him, I can't help but think how beautiful he is-medium brown hair, red beard, tattoos spotted up his arms, tall, broad shoulders, muscular build.

Today, I was feeling ballsey and said hello.

"Hello there!" He replies.

He smiles casually out the right side of his face. He's amused, adjusting his "I don't give a fuck" attitude that turned me onto him in the first place. So alpha. So blue collar. So New England.

"Where are you off to?" He asks.

"Off to a bar that's not yours, sadly."

He flicks his cigarette.

"Wouldn't be the first time I've heard that. Though mine is pretty awesome."

I say something about how his place is a stones throw to work, and that the place I'm going to is in Wicker and close to home. We exchange a few more words.

As I leave he reaches out his calloused hand to shake mine.

"I'm David."

"Jess. Nice to meet you."

 I always say that you call tell exactly who a person is the first 30 seconds of looking into there eyes.

I pause to look into his. Sweetness. Rough on the outside but sweet internally sweet. I walk up Halstead swooning. I hope I see him again.

98. Elephant Journal

I lost the link, but I was reading this Elephant Journal piece by a writer who I respect about how we need to readjust our concept of what a happy life means. It got me thinking that if I stripped everything down,

"How do I define success?"

Having enough money to get by and to afford a vacation every now and then, people positively responding to my writing, and my niece growing up with a firm understanding that her Auntie Jess is a badass who loves her very much.

97. CTA Guy

The morning attendee at the Blue Line Grand/Milwaukee stop greats everyone entering and exiting the station with a big smile and a happy,

"Have a great day!"

I appreciate this man so much. He's become about as vital as my coffee.

96. FedEx Girl

Dear FedEx Girl,

You don't smile and you say nothing. I know you probably hate it when people tell you to smile, but you should at least pretend you tolerate what you're doing.

Sincerely,

A Reluctant Customer

P.S- I can refer you to places of employment if you really hate yourself.

95. Fucking

An acquaintance of mine recently told me I should write about my sex life more. Not going to lie, I have some fantastically awful stories. That being said, I feel like I can give more to the world than anything involving my vagina. I expressed this to her saying I'm still nobody in the grand scheme of things. Least not to indie, never mind mainstream media.

"Doesn't matter who you are, people care who you're fucking." She said

Kinda sad to think about.

94. Sexism

Sexism is when a owner of a package (liquor) store will not sell you your favorite cheap beer because,

"Only old men drink that, not young ladies."

My dad called it, "chivalry."

Last time I checked, chivalry was supposed to make my life easier.

93. Jos/ Sometimes Cats

Jos was one of my roommates in Boston, and a foster parent for a cat shelter. My other roommate and I would lovingly refer to the foster kitties as, "Sometimes Cats."

We would drunkenly sing to them,

"Sometimes cats, oh sometimes cats. You are sometimes in my house but forever in my heart!"

92. Steven

Steven will always be golden to me. Because of this, I hate to reduce our friendship to just one line. I am sure our conversations will lead us to a better verse.

On this past birthday, he said to me how proud he was of all that I accomplished in the past few months. When I expressed that I still had A LOT to do he said,

"Jess, enjoy your success. If only just for today."

91. Help Me Feed My Son

I was at the Clark and Lake Blue Line stop waiting for my train back home after a much needed shopping trip, when I'm approached by a man and his kid. He asks me with sadden eyes,

"Excuse me, Miss. Could you spare some change to help me feed my son?"

"I'm sorry, I don't have any on me." I replied.

I look down at the boy, who was probably about 5 years old, getting distracted by all the people in the station. He looks at me as his dad walks him away and says,

"Thanks mean lady!" And kicks in my direction.

Quite a bit ran through my head. I am halfway between, "This is not my responsibility" and "But it kind of is."
earlier in the week, I spent way too much in cash at The Flat Iron. My boozy night or food for that kid. This is how I think.

I once dated a guy who would get visibly angry every time someone pan handled him for change, his face getting red as he walked away saying "How DARE they ask me for my hard earned money!" Lack of empathy is one of the more unattractive qualities, in my sincere opinion.

The thing is, I'm happy to spare a little something if I can, but I can't often. If I flip myself to be on the other side, while I'm confident I would have a spot on more than a few couches between here and the east coast  if I ever got close to that level of helpless, I still feel deeply for the people that aren't so lucky. At this point, my biggest pill is my education. The irony is insane. Still, I am not in the position where I can hang out of survival mode for more than a few seconds. I could spare change for every person I see with an empty cup, but could I?

I feel guilty until I get home. My roommate asks me for two dollars so she can take the bus to her dad's. I tell her what pocket she can find it in inside my purse.

I resolve that we have to take care of our own first, before we extend outward. While I'm not of the religious kind, I sent a shout out to the universe hopping that the man in the train station gets a consistent means to feed his son.

90. Little Girl in Shaws

When I lived in Boston I had a little girl go up to me and ask me if I was a princess. When I told her no and asked her why she said,

"Well, I am a princess and you should be one too!"

89. Ian

When I met my roommate's ex, he told me he stumbled across my OkCupid profile.

"Your essays mixed with your short hair make you come off as a lesbian." He said.

"Really?" I replied, "Because your words combined with your condescending tone make you come off as a douche bag."

He kept talking, further proving my point.

88. Peaches

I used to call my maternal grandfather "Peaches" because as he aged his hair looked more and more like peach fuzz. He used to call me "Doll," the pet name he'd given my grandmother. When I asked him why, he said,

"There are millions of women on this earth that say they don't take bullshit, but do and quite a bit. The only two I know that put their money where their mouth is are you and my wife."

When I thanked him he said,

"You're taking flattery which is a soft form of bullshit. Make me prove I mean it!"

87. Kyle (One Line)

Sometimes all you get is one line.

I could be friends with someone for decades, and have only one sentence of reference that sticks out more than the others. It could be a sad or happy line, and by no means sum up what my interaction with that human was like. Either way, by means of catching up, I am going to fill the next few posts with "one lines."

When I woke up he was going at me with his forearm pinned at my neck. His sorry at the time was that he didn't know I had fallen asleep. There is more to that part, but I'll spare the details. As I am trying to reason with the reality, I feel my horizon shift, and the vodka my 20 year old body had been consuming all night urging to get out.

I crawl to the bathroom, naked as he left me.

My stomach lets it out into his toilet and he doesn't hold my hair. He instead smokes a cigarette, his red pudgy body leaning smoothly in the doorway.

He takes a drag as I look up. Corner of my mouth crusted. Kyle smiles down at me and says,

"You look sexy like that."

85. Nathan

Sometimes I get names stuck in my head for no real reason. Maybe it's the writer in me-I'm always looking for alternate names of people I know so I can put them in a story. Maybe I just feel names like I feel other words or moments on whim. Anyway, this morning I was feeling the name, Nathan.

I spend my work week adult-ing harder than I ever have with a job previously, so when it comes to my weekend, I try to adult as little as possible. I sleep late and crack open a beer upon my my waking. I procrastinate EVERYTHING. Even my writing has hit a slow patch. Why? Because that's what adults do, and on the weekends I'm 21 you guys.

But today I opted to go get my bike fixed, simply because riding to work > spending $25 a week on the CTA. Being resourceful does not quite equal adulting, least in my opinion.

I hit my pedals and road to Boulevard Bikes. My poor girl, The Purple Nightmare, had seen better days. Her chain felt scratchy, the handlebars were bent from my accidents in the fall. The front tire couldn't keep an inflate for longer than a day or two. When I brought her in, the bike mechanic, a big burly dude with long black hair and a wide brim hat, put her up and checked her out.

"She needs a lot of love," he said.

"A hundred dollars worth of love?" I asked, "Because that's all I have right now."

"Maybe a little more than that, " he said, "but we can make it work."

After checking it out he gave me the ticket- front wheel realignment, a brake tune-up, a second hand set of handle bars, and grip tape for $73.

Fair enough. He told me he would call when she was ready.

When he called a couple hours later, I walked back to the shop. Something about getting work done on your mode of transport makes it feel like new even though it isn't. The teal grip tape on her handle bars completely clashes with her neon color and I love it. He fastened it together with bright pink duct tape because he thought it worked.

I smiled and paid him. I shook his hand thanking him for getting all the work done in just a couple hours.

"No problem, Miss!" He said, happily.

"Hey!" I shouted back as I was leaving the shop. "I didn't quite catch your name!"

"Nathan." He said.

84. Gus and Gaba

The weekend Gus and I ended, my roommate gave me a dose of Gaba. I knew the drill. For slow affect take it with water, for immediate relief, shotgun a beer-any beer will do.

I knew it was either going to end or not progress that night. Things between us were ok but not enough-least not for what I was looking for. He was fine within himself, but I was spending way too much time with him given how casual things always seemed to stay.

When my intuition was confirmed, I felt uneasy, but not enough to take the Gaba. Given all the crazy that's happened since, it's still there.

I think I'm saving it for a total fall out. I recently confessed to Abby that my biggest heartache would be my dad dying and I could deal with just about everything else. In the past three years I have gone through most of the heinous growth hazards that life could throw at a person in a first world country.

But I love the Gaba sitting in the secret compartment of my purse in case I need it. Most of all, I love that Gus didn't cause me to use it.

83. Magic Number

He rolls off me and does the awkward condom removal maneuver before he climbs back in my bed, nestles in a bit and asks,

"So what's your number?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well miss, you seem like this isn't your first song and dance. What number am I?"

I don't know. At this point it's all a statistic.

How many did I love? 3.

How many was I actually in a committed relationship with? 2.

The year I lost tract of the number? 2012.

Does it matter if you're safe about it? I get my tests yearly just to make sure a mistake wasn't a terrible one. I no longer go into these trysts feeling dead inside, trying to get something more out of it than what it is. I don't think it's anyone's business to know my number, especially when I'm not so sure myself. Why don't I know? Because I don't care, especially when the story behind each fellow is a lot more interesting.

If I had to guess, the number is somewhere between salacious and apathy, between someday I'll have a boyfriend and feeling like I'm going in for the kill. It's a number that knows I'm attractive but doesn't want to sit and waste my youth on some knight on a white horse bullshit. My number is sometimes ambition and other times nothing better to do. You're special if you make it to the next round of me cooking you dinner, otherwise you've more or less been voted off this island.

When I tell him I don't know, his face changes. From curiosity to disgust he tells me I should know, that as a pretty girl not knowing means I don't care, like I don' have respect for myself.

My blatant lack of virginity is not out of personal disrespect. I enjoy affection and companionship in varying degrees. Denying myself that would be silly, especially for a sake of some archaic concept of how my womanhood should be. Furthermore, I recognize anything I do as a woman with a negative connotation would be a high 5 and a round of shots at a bar if a dude did it.

Sex is not the deciding factor in morality or human compassion. By sleeping with x amount of men, it does not make me less efficient in my career or makes me unequipped to read my niece a bedtime story. It does not mean I won't do my taxes on time or give up my seat on the bus for an elderly person.  If you're going to judge my entire being based on my sexual expressiveness then maybe it's you that lacks respect for yourself, not me.

I own it.

Yeah, maybe I wish I was loved more and fucked less, but it is what it is. If a guy coming into my room is going to judge me based on the only reason that he's there, than he can leave. Do not pass go! Do not collect an orgasm! Lose $15 on a cab fare without getting anything out of it. I literally and figuratively could not and will not give a fuck.


I tell him I that my lack of a firm number doesn't bother me and he gets into some big rant about the issue with dating and sex these days, like he's still at the bar and didn't go home with a stranger. I wake up as he's putting on his jeans and overcoat. When he leaves he kisses me on the cheek and takes his soap box with him.

My roommate is in the kitchen making tea. When I join her she asks,

"Was it at least good?"

I snort and shake my head, "No."

We're both laughing when she says,

"Yeah.. didn't sound like it!"

82. Frida

Frida, when you found out your husband was having sex with another woman, you stole her away from him.

I discovered your paintings when I was 15, the same year I found Neruda.

You remind me that I don't have to be typical to be beautiful, that not everyone needs understand my art.

But I am over the kind of love that plagued you your whole life. I am over the run around. I know that's easier said than done. Diego didn't love you so much as he loved the power, and I will never give a man that kind of luxury. Least not again.

81. Guy Who's Currently Banging My Roommate

I didn't quite catch your name. I'm not sorry. I like you though because you're not trying to figuratively kiss my ass, as though you know this could be one night, a few, or more moons than I'd really want to count.

But you don't care either way. You're just down for whatever, even if it's just to fuck.

I hope you stick around though. For one, you're the most agreeable of the men she's ever brought home. For two, I'm sure you have cute friends.

And let's be honest, I'm really selfish-least in terms of my romantic/sex life.

Sincerely,
.
Jess

PS: I hope you like punk rock because that's primarily what I'll be using to drown out the sound of you two love birds knocking boots.

PPS- Hook me up with the Harvard Law Grad friend guy that you talked about. I don't care THAT much about what he looks like, but the company wouldn't be a bad thing and it would make for a great story

80. Will

The night I got the call my mom was dying, I went over to Will's place in Davis. He cooked me something simple and he coerced me to eat. When we laid down in his room to watch T.V, I asked if we could deviate from the usual AMC drama to watch something funny. He put on How I Met Your Mother. He didn't like it but he complied because neither of us knew how long it would be before I laughed again.

We had been dating a little over two months. While I was down there I told him that if he wanted to split, it was OK. Asking someone to hold your hand through the death of a parent is a pretty big thing, never mind for someone you hardly know. He didn't though.

He would leave, but it would be to teach English abroad. Through it all we remained friends. It's amazing how distance can almost keep you closer.

He is no longer a lover, but we retain this solid loyalty. We've seen each other through several different incarnations, and held hands through some remarkable points of hell. We've seen each other fight and conquer as well as discover and grow.

Tomorrow he goes abroad again, for an indefinite amount of time. In a weird way I will feel my heart stretch like it always does when one of us goes away.

But I'm also proud.

I'm proud that through the years the core of him is still in tact. He is still as stubborn as he is audacious. He is still curious and noble in his own quiet way. I'm looking forward to meeting the man he grows into, whenever that should be.

79. Punk Kid

He's too young to have tattoos but he's rocking the vintage leather jacket with self-done spikes. His dark blonde hair falls at his shoulders. He and his friends are leaving the coffee shop as I'm about to walk in. He notices me, lets his friends leave before him, and quickens his pace so he can hold the door for me.

"Here you are, Miss." He says politely.

I thank him.

Honestly, I hate most teenagers. Even when I was one I despised them. My inner militant feminist doesn't need doors held for her either.

Still, it is so hard to keep your sweetness in this world. I know I say that a lot. Hell, there have been years where I walked through life immune to human warmth. It's pretty sad considering how young 27 is.

But I hope the "damn the man" mentality of the punk scene won't make him bitter once he really understands what it means. I hope he doesn't have to fight too hard to keep the sweetness that gets him excited to hold doors for strangers. Most importantly, I hope he grows into the kind of man that still does that kind of thing. They are few and far between from what I've seen thus far.

78. Parenting Mr. S

Mr. S was the father of two of Abby's students. The boys were four year old twins and one was autistic.

Abby had just graduated suma cum laude from a borderline ivy league school with an impending certificate in early childhood education. To state the obvious, she's far from challenge shy.

She landed her first gig right out of school as a preschool teacher and had hardly been there a couple months when found herself being tested. A parent that I'll call Mr. S, had twin four year old boys, one of which was autistic, and when they aged up into her class he was concerned.

"Listen," he said, "You seem like a sweet and smart girl, but I don't think you're qualified to be able to keep up with Aiden's progress."

He was correct. Abby had never taught a child with special needs before, never mind one that was specifically on the spectrum. Still, in her first lesson being assertive, she assured Mr. S that while she would certainly prove him wrong. Even better, Mr. S gave her the room to.

And she did. Mr S. noticed progress in both of his sons. When the boys moved onto kindergarten, he and his wife expressed their gratitude and apologized for being skeptical.

I recently got hired as the Operations Manager for a tech parts start up. I don't own an iPhone and know virtually nothing about cell phone repair. I got hired in part because of all my customer service experience, and I'm relentless in terms of developing my own potential. Still, I think of my best friend every time I talk to a customer.

I may not be the best person to talk to right now in terms of their requests, but I know one day I will be, and I'll work to make sure that happens. While I understand not everyone will be like Mr. S, like Abby, I'm not challenge-shy either

77. West Mart

There is a young Indian guy that works at the convenience store near my work. Today was the first time I saw him, though from what I know, he's been there a while. When I walk up to the counter he greats me with a, "Hello, Gorgeous! How are you today?"

My inner feminist feels awkward, and slightly annoyed.

My ego, however, is surprisingly flattered. I don't think I am an ugly girl by any means but truth be told, it has been a long time since someone called me that.

It's nice to hear it on occasion, regardless who it's from.

76. Grief Personified

When my mom died, Grief became a person in place of her. At first she was quiet, like an old friend, walking patiently beside me. The near physical manifestation was almost comforting in itself. In the first weeks that followed, my mother's death was so surreal it was like I could easily turn back the clocks and have her come back to life.

Then out of nowhere, Grief became a crying child, demanding attention continuously, through all hours at the night. I felt this being follow me everywhere and I was half surprised no one else saw it. Except they did, though not as a separate person. I became a glass vase in the lobby of a firing range. I became a newborn baby that just went out for a nap, or the strict parents of a problem child breaking curfew. In my mother's passing I became the zombie. I'm almost one with the irony of that.

Then one day I woke up and Grief was cooking me breakfast. It made me uneasy so I ate less. Whenever I got home there it would be. It stayed like that for a year or so, snapping at me on occasion.

Just over two years after the fact, Grief is now an ex boyfriend after a bad breakup- except we live in the same neighborhood and know the same people. I see it on the bus sometimes and I try not to make eye contact, but the presence is enough to rattle me for a bit. The good t mes are still as rattling as the resolve. I think that in a weird way, I am better because of it but sometimes when things get to be too much, I am reminded what I'm without. It's the small things that send tears to my face and my body to a bath, trying my best not to think about anything at all.

75. She Doesn't Get It

She's whining at this bar in Harvard Square over mainstream indie rock, while I sip my IPA slowly.

"Why am I still single?!" She asks me.

I tell her what she wants to hear-that she's beautiful and flawless, that any guy would be lucky to have her. Truth was I had other things to handle-like the death of my mother 6 months prior, and issues with my own self esteem resulting from a couple 1-2 breakups.

She equated luck with flaws and attributes. At 28 she saw single as forever. She never could say one nice thing about herself unless she heard someone else say it first.

Her introspection stopped at half-assed resolutions. She would never have that moment where she felt grateful to be her, as her. Instead, she went onto meet a man who would buy her a house and take her far from the city. She would get pregnant, less than a year and a half after their first date.

As for me there is no infant, or someone to call me baby. I did not get swept off my feet and taken far away.

But should any of that ever happen, least in my mind I'll know it's mine-because I put in the time to get to know myself first.

74. Douchebag in New Balance Kicks

I tried going for a run today but couldn't swing it. I busted my knee on the second run on Thursday and it's been cranky ever since. I have a hard time keeping still though. I told myself that if I just worked through the cramp that it would go away, but after starting and stopping several times, the pain just got worse so I went back home.

Amidst my struggle, a guy jogged past me.

"It's ok honey," he says in stopped at a cross walk for traffic, "Everyone has a hard time their first try."

First off, don't call me honey unless you've talked to me before. It's straight up condescending.

Secondly, if you see me hopping on one foot after taking a few steps, odds are I'm injured. Maybe offer to help instead of being a douchebag.

Thirdly, I'm a little woman that's 5 yoga sessions away from a 6 pack, you really think I'd be out of breath after 10 steps?

And lastly, you're running in Humboldt Park, bro, and you're white. You likely don't even go here. If you do, you might want to increase that fancy little saunter you got going on to a full out sprint. Seriously.

73. No One

I get home and I am scrolling through the contacts in my phone.

"We just ended. He's not attractive. He lives in Bloomington. It's been months since I've talked to him."

Conversing with my roommate, I realize I've been involved with more strangers than I've made friends in this city. The statistic is interesting. The reason is just because.

No one. I hold my phone looking at the screen. No one. The concept startles me at first but I find myself smiling.

My knee is busted from pushing myself too far. My limits are exhausted from stretching this ever growing road. The few people that get it are too busy and too consumed within themselves.

As the clock ticks and the drunk hits, there will be less of a need for a companion. When I wake alone, I will be grateful for the space.

72. Good Luck

I went on two runs today. The first one was in the morning before work to compensate for pizza and beer last night, and the other was to curb anxiety.

Cat's out of the bag guys-a lot of the reason I run is to help with that anxiety. I've had a lot of it since moving here, more than I'd care to admit actually. Today was a great day and still I came home feeling anxious and cranky.

So I ran.

In yoga, the instructor dedicates each practice to a purpose. Sometimes it's letting go, other times it's internal cleanliness, etc. When I run, I try to associate it with a purpose. Typically it's something like rhythmic breathing, sustainability, or to trim minutes off my time. Tonight's run's purpose was peace of mind. I made no other goals than that. Didn't matter if I ran a mile or five, by the end of it I wanted to feel some level of peaceful.

About half way through I cross paths with a man wearing a suit and tie, who steps off to the edge of the sidewalk to let me pass. As I go by him, he smiles and says, "Good luck!" I smile back and thank him, but as I clear him by a few yards, I hear my ego scream,

"Bitch please! This is my second run today! I don't need luck!"

I thought nothing of it for another half mile until I started to beat myself up over the fact that I opted to head back instead of heading east another mile. I was instantly reminded that the reason I was running was to get rid of that voice. I thought back to the guy in the suit and realized that yeah, maybe I didn't need luck in the physical department today, but I sure as hell did in regards to my purpose.

I sprinted as much of the rest of the way home as I possibly could, as if I were forcing that negativity out of me. Each time a heel hit the pavement it was like I was back-kicking the ground.

My thoughts varied between, "Wow, it's really pretty out tonight!" and "I'll show you- mean internal voice- how much of a wonderful, smart, beautiful, funny, and loving badass I can be!"

When I got home, the anxiety was still there, but instead of it being like a face to face argument with a friend, it was more like the white noise of a loud, static, city in the background. I cracked open a beer, thinking of the guy on my run.

I think I'm going to need a little more luck after all.

71. Neruda ( LAZY BABY CROSS POSTING!)

Sleepy Jess needs nap that lasts all night so run can happen before work tomorrow. I was going to write about Pablo Neruda anyway because I have his words tattooed on me and thus he is sort of important. Lo and behold, I already did it a few months ago on my main blog! Enjoy. Mmm beer and sleep.

One of the joys of living in an insatiably creative city, is that I get asked about my craft more than I get asked if I want a cigarette. In such occasion, I was talking to a stranger waiting for a cab outside about writing, and he asked who my gateway poet was.

“Neruda” I said, and I proceeded to show him the text on my left wrist. It reads,

“I wheeled with the stars and my heart broke loose on the wind.”

A gateway poet is the one you discover that makes you change your mind about poetry completely. I was 15 when I discovered Neruda-working on an American poets project for English. I remember coming across the poem, “Poetry” by accident and after I read it I knew my life was completely different than it had been before. While I was familiar with poetry, (Dickinson, Whitman, Shakespeare to name a few) and had written quite a bit myself, I was shocked how profound I thought Neruda to be.

I didn’t know words could do that. I didn’t know words had the ability to empty out everything that could tarnish your heart. 

From there I became feverish- writing poems every day, diving head first into poetry compilations and discovering new writers. It was like I had leveled up in a video game and now had access to this new world. 

The fever never stopped either.

Poetry has become the way I relate to the world. Writing is the one thing that makes my spirit go, and I don’t think I could have gotten here without Neruda.

70. Ms. Smith

My eighth grade English teacher was not one for creativity, and as a result, expressed concern to my father on how "spirited" I was on paper. When she gave him my essays from my first semester, I felt as though a bag had been put over my head. I needed that way to express myself without judgement. I felt like my words were an endless supply of pennies, that I could just keep putting into a bottomless well. They were tiny hopes and while I knew my teacher corrected them, I also knew she didn't get them. I also knew my dad couldn't possibly get them either, so him having access to that part of me made me feel very exposed.

 He could feel me hovering near his office area as he read the first page of the first essay. He turned his head behind him to see me standing there in my pj's.

"How far did you get?" I asked.

"'The.'" He said. "I got as far as 'the.'"

"Oh, OK."

He motioned me over.

"Do you want me to read these?" He asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because they are mine and they're kind of personal."

"Well, I don't know what is considered personal to a thirteen year old. That aside, I respect your privacy and your right to your work."

He gave me the stack of papers.

"They were all above a B and that's all I care about. I'll make a deal with you, though. I'll respect your privacy if you promise me that you'll tell me if there is something wrong OK? Look eye now and promise me."

To this day, my father understands that if I'm asking him for help I must really be in trouble, given that I'm mum on details otherwise.

As for Ms. Smith, I know she wasn't a huge fan of my father after the next parent teacher conference. I think she has since retired. I only remember her when I'm not feeling particularly badass and I need to make a mental list of people I've proved wrong in order to feel better about myself.

"And fuck you, fuck you as well, and you also.."

69. Dr. C

Dr. C spent a grand total of 3 hours, between two appointments checking out my under carriage. I have never been more grateful that a woman was that attentive to that part of my body. The cyst wasn't particularly huge, but it made minor things like sitting, standing, and walking very uncomfortable.

But there she was with more shots of local anesthetic than I had ever seen in my life. There she was with a scalpel and blue latex gloves covered in my blood. For situations like these, I wish doctors' offices taped classic literature to the ceiling, preferably written by James Joyce, so I could fall asleep. And still, through those very uncomfortable and frustrating hours for the both of us, we got each other to laugh, quite a bit actually.

There's something about the relationship you form with someone that's with you through a circle of your hell. It's the gratitude that comes with being able to commiserate with them so full heartedly.

At my appointment today. Dr. C had me put my feet in the stirrups again just to check to make sure everything was healing normally. A this point I can look at her face while she's checking things because we've beyond exceeded social graces.

As she leaves, she shakes my hand and says,

"Well Jessica, it's been a pleasure spending so much time with your vagina!"

"You wouldn't be the first person to say that to me," I reply, "though definitely not as eloquently."

68. Beverly

With a line of coke fresh up her nose, she tells my roommate she's going to kill herself. I'm at home digesting my own bit of news. My roommate tells me she's on her way home with some takeout and beer, but she stays gone for days.

When she finally comes home, she staggers down the hall at midnight, left to right, left to right, before landing in a heap on the love seat in our kitchen. Beverly is still cascading with sinus rockets. She didn't kill herself, but her dependency on the drugs make her want to.

I've known too many people who died for their own sins, including addiction. They are their own row of dominoes, falling as if they were birthed on an incline. I have sympathy for the person captivated by their own disease, but not for the one who finds themselves in the same circle, digging their heals deeper and deeper into the trenches wondering why things haven't changed.

My roommate comes with a softer side but she's so prone to cinder blocks like Beverly, I'm lately starting to think that if the girl that I respect so much is more of a reflection of who I want her to be and less of who she is. I can't deal with one Beverly, a girl I've only heard of in passing and I refuse to live with one.

67. Plastic Framed Glasses

When I was 15 my dad forbade me to go to concerts because he knew of what went on at them, like people playing music.Still, I had this amazing ability to befriend people older than me who looked respectable and were great liars. That's a long way of saying I went to shows anyway.

On one such event I was at this Battle of the Bands at the Worcester Palladium in I think 2003. I had never been to such a scene and I'm sure I looked like the obnoxious teenager that I felt like. Anyway, I was hanging out at the outskirts of a mosh pit during a punk set when the girl next to me asked me if I wanted in. I'd never been in a pit before. It looked fun enough and I'm not one to turn down an adventure so I said sure.

Within seconds I was skanking and flailing in circle. I felt this type of aggression I didn't understand then boil up in me like it had been simmering for a while. The band called back lyrics they wanted us to repeat and with a fist in the air I screamed them at the top of my lungs, feeling my voice in a way that was foreign to me until that moment.

Moments later I hit the ground. I'm not sure exactly what happened but I could feel people running over me. My glasses were gone and I couldn't see feet in front of me. As soon as it happened I felt someone yank me up and put my glasses back in my hand. I looked at him. He was young though not nearly as young as me, round in the belly and had tattooed sleeves. The white letters on his black shirt read, "BEER." He had glasses almost identical to mine.

"I saw you go down. You OK Sweetheart?" He asked.

"Yeah I think so." I replied.

"Wanna go back in?"

I smiled. "Yes please!"

Like that I was back in the throes of the mass.

It would take almost a decade for me to understand why people were so against the establishment, and for me to feel it to the same degree. That night, however, I learned the quickest way to feel safe anywhere is to befriend one of the scarier looking fucks you could find. That's the guy with manners. That guy will get you home if that's where you want to go, and if not, he's happy to be the paternal push back into the pit.

66. Dan

I know I've been completely slacking when it comes to my writing. It has been a crazy week. Considering most of you are my friends, you know the drill. For those of you that don't know all the fuckery going on lately, I left my old job, start a new one tomorrow, had an abscess cyst treated that I'm still recovering from, and went on a day trip to Milwaukee.

This week? The amazing human being who is pictured above with me is coming for a conference/ visit and I couldn't be more thrilled. The eagle lands Wednesday. Brace yourself, Chicago. By the time he leaves, we are all going to be best friends.

Dan and were Craigslist roommates and we hit it off pretty much instantly.Since then, it's been pretty much a platonic love fest between us. While on the surface it might seem like our friendship is based mostly off debauchery, it goes a lot deeper than that. He's walked me though quite a bit of hell and was able to keep me feeling like a decent human being in spite of it all.  While I love my current roommate, when days are particularly heinous I sometimes wish he would still be there when I got home, cooking dinner that he would often share with me, our beer fridge fully stocked. I'm looking forward to the overall merriment his presence brings and I can't wait until he gets here.

Transitive high five, bro.

65: Menino

Mayor Menino, of the city of Boston, has been mayor for the past.. forever. So when he didn't run the past election, it was kind of a big deal. Marty Walsh was his successor and he's been fantastic thus far. Today, Boston.com tweeted that Menino was diagnosed with an advanced stage of cancer.

Listen, I know I'm not in Boston and that Chicago's politics affect me more, but this guy held office most of my life. Something deeply affects me finding out this news and I have no idea why.

Boston is still my city. It always will be. I'm training for 2015's marathon once my biological logistics get fixed. I could spend 30 years wherever and it will always be my home. This in mind, Menino, a dude I've never met, gets sick and it still hurts.

64. Mark

I'm in my room where I hear slamming doors and shouting. I'm 7, living in the projects of a Miami suburb with my brother, my mother, and her boyfriend Mark. I hear his voice last before I loud bang sends the pictures hanging in the living room crashing to the floor. The front door clicks shut. Within a couple minutes I hear this song coming from the old Sony speakers. I quietly leave my room to check my mother who is propped against the radio, long legs in front of her, head in her hands. She motions me to come to her. As I get closer to her, I notice her right eye is swollen and purple, but I don't ask questions.

She runs her fingers through my hair. It's late and she tells me after a few minutes to get back to bed. Before I go she looks at me with tear stained eyes and says,

"Do not have faith in me. Do not have faith in your father, and promise me above all else, you will not have faith in a man. Any man. I don't care who he is. The only person you should have faith in yourself. Please please please promise me the only person you will have faith in only yourself."

I promised her. When I got home today, I opened the fridge and had a beer. I turned on the radio and this song had just started. Along with Mary's song, my mom's words echoed in my head. The first sip of beer I swallowed hard. The second, I swallowed sweeter. Much much sweeter.

63. Polish Professor

A guy called to ask a question about our snack at work today.  The below post is as close to verbatim as I can get it. My responses weren't as curt in real life, but I found more importance in what he said so I edited them as such.

"Hello my darling. Can you hear me? My name is ____ and I am from Poland. Are you Polish miss?"

"No. I am not sir." I reply.

"Well, not everyone can be so lucky, but I'm sure you're lucky in other ways. I am calling about your (snack.) I am staying with a friend and the bag he has of your snack has just expired recently. Is it still safe to eat?"

(It's a dry food so I said that I assume so yes.)

"Goot. Goot. I am going to microwave it a beet to help it be fresh. I am an English Professor in Warsaw you know. Have been for 50 years. That means that if you know someone from Poland who speaks English they learned it from me! What is your name again?"

"Jessica."

"Jessica. Lovely name for a lovely girl. I'm sure a lovely, smart girl. Where are you located, Jessica?"

"Chicago."

"Are you scared?"

"No. Why would I be?"

"I have a friend who is from the South Side. They say lots of shootings and very cold."

"It is very cold, but I live up north. It's not so bad there."

"Well that's good. You be safe now. I am in California. There are lots of brown people. They all speak Spanish. Do you speak Spanish, Jessica?"

"Very little, Professor."

"You should speak Spanish. More and more your country is filling with brown people. It is your job as a people to be one with your other people. It builds unity you know? Lean Spanish. Even if you don't speak it often."

"I'll try, Professor."

"Good girl. I let you go now. Be safe you hear? Thank you for answering my questions and tell that president of yours to stop being so nosy. My country is my country. Yours is yours you know?"

"I understand, Professor."

"Be well my dear. I hope I meet you again!"

"You too, sir, and likewise!"

62. New Girl

Today is the last day of my current job and my boss has been actively working with a recruiter trying to fill my position. I've never been this closely involved this way so it has been an interesting experience.  From what I get they're looking for something really specific, though it's all just hearsay.

So how do I feel? Neutral. I'm relieved to be shedding the 3 hours total commute and the consistent repetitive questions. I'm looking forward to the four days off in between now and the start of my new gig. I'm a mix between scared and excited for the future, but that's been the overall theme of this place since I've moved here.

The new girl probably won't read this, but if she does, here's some advice:

Working in customer service in the food industry will really put you face to face with humanity in a way that you probably never wanted to be in. The good parts are incredible, the bad parts are frivolous. Don't let it hang to heavily on your head at night.

Don't take anything inside these walls personally. Don't take anything personally for that matter.

61. Ash

For anyone who is keeping up, I am behind on posts. Some days I have no one to really write about, so I end up digging through my memory trying to come up with a story. It's essentially the writing version of looking in your packed closet and having nothing to wear. I apologize for the lack of quality of the next couple of posts.

Ash is aggressive, but to me it's lovely. With me being good friends with her husband for a while, she was a little skeptical of me so she opted to have us meet to quell her suspicions. We hit it off instantly.

She'd rather rock a man's jersey that's too big for her than something that's cut to her figure. She's gladly layer up for a stadium series hockey game without bitching about the cold. After knowing me for only a little bit, she is happy to roll up her sleeves and defend me. Due to a preexisting medical condition, she can't drink-so she's balls to the wall without booze.

Despite all this, she has this quiet softness. She's an incredible listener with a deep empathetic streak. When she goes in for a hug and tells you she loves you, it's not a social grace. She says what everyone else is thinking and doesn't fear the fall out, though she's well versed in holding it together.

For a souvenir of their trip to NYC, her husband opted to get me a Buffalo Sabers rubber duck, but she opted to get me a pocket knife with my name on it. You know, in case it comes in handy someday.

60. To the Nurse

The feeling of complete inundation happens quickly for me. A challenge is either over my head or underneath my feet upon first presentation. If it's at first over my head, I get nervous and cry out my anxiety. I'm serious about this. If I'm crying, it doesn't usually mean I'm sad. It means someone needs to temporarily be my adulthood and reason because it's just not happening otherwise. After this, I'm golden. My head's clear and I'm focused.

Today something medically freaked me out and I was instantly overwhelmed. I called my doctor to schedule an appointment for Thursday. Not feeling completely satisfied with my resolution (told you-reason, out the door) I called the nurse hotline at my doctor's office to see if I should come in sooner. I ended up crying-full on, can't speak coherent sentences crying to this poor nurse. When I collected myself, I apologized and thanked her for her expertise.

"Oh honey!" she said, "No need to apologize! I understand. Sometimes our bodies do crazy and random things for no reason. I tell you what, nurse's orders. Make sure when you get home from work, you make yourself a cup of tea, get a big hug if available, curl yourself under your covers and read a good book. It'll make you feel better."

I'm in bed before 9, curled under my covers with some mediocre writing. A few people from back home sent me virtual hugs.  I have my water bottle and a High Life on my night stand.  (My version of what she ordered.) She was right- I feel A LOT better.

59. Hold On

Nadia took us to The Zebra Lounge because she knew the bartender. It's this quaint little piano bar tucked somewhere near Clark and Division. She looked more exotic than normal in contrast to mostly white people with gelled hair and Polos. I still have no idea who the pianist is, but he's their regular if that counts for anything. We stayed long enough for him to replay his set, twice.

By his intermission, the place is packed. We lucked out, arriving early, to anchor a spot right at the corner of the bar. The speakers are blaring your typical in-between music until a gem comes on- "Hold On" by Wilson Philips.

At first the opening notes are met with a loud cheer, followed by everyone singing along the second the words kick in. While we were all singing with the pianist originally, this one is different. Casual screamed conversation grew silent giving way to a full on rock out. Strangers are high-five-ing and singing to each other. People, once propped against the wall are jumping up and down. Drinks are being spilled but no one really cares.

When it's over, everyone get's back to their small groups like it never happened.

I have a penchant for the ridiculous, and a love for accidental humanity. I look at Nadia and tell her that it was the perfect moment. She takes a sip of her red wine, and with glowing, black lined eyes, she agrees.

58. Temporary Sidekick

I was running on Division when I passed by a little girl and her family. She looked about seven. Her hair was twirled in six pigtails on top of her head, with colored barrettes at the end. I smiled at her as I was approaching and she smiled back, revealing a grin with two teeth missing on different sides of her mouth.

Upon passing, I wave and she waves back. Excitedly, she runs with me for a few seconds before a man, I assume to be her father, calls her back. I turn around quickly and see her waving. I wave back.

She totally made my day. I hope I made hers too.

57. Tom

This story has a back story..

One of my favorite things to do is to talk hockey with older fans. You know, people that have seen the many incarnations of the NHL, that were old enough to be drunk watching Bobby Orr at the old Garden but young enough to not have them feel it too hard in the morning.

My first Chicago experience was in 2011 on vacation. Upon arrival, I dropped off my stuff at my hostel  and headed out to find a bar because desperately needed a drink. I found this hole in the wall basement pub somewhere in Lincoln Park, where the only people there were the surly old man bartender and the surly old men patrons. I was 24, by myself, wearing this little floral frock. Within 10 minutes I was talking sports with the men at the bar. Within a hour, the place filled up and I was friends with everyone there. (Mostly all middle aged people.) I texted my dad to let him know that Chicago is heaven and I was never leaving. Two years later, I moved here. 9 months after, it's finally starting to feel like the place I fell in love with.

At any rate, I am finishing up my last full week at my current job to move onto a new opportunity. (Terrifying in its own right, but that's another story for another blog.) With most of my customers being incredibly cranky this week, I'm more convinced I'm making the right choice. Today however, the customers have been golden. I spent a half hour on the phone with two of them just talking. One of them was Tom. What started as him placing an order and then asking where the office is located for small talk, turned into a conversation about hockey.

As you are likely well aware, I am a passionate Bruins fan. I don't get the chance to talk about the NHL much because most of my friends here aren't into sports at all.  (That's not a complaint by any means, its just the way it turned out.) While I'm still close with my hockey crew back east, there is something wonderful about talking to someone who's seen generations of players take the ice. It's also great to have a conversation with someone who knows your sport, but comes from a different allegiance.

Tom is a Carolina Hurricanes season ticket holder and has been for at least 10 years. We talked about everything from the recent cup wins, to a time when helmets weren't required. Most importantly, we spoke in length about why we love the game so much. That's the thing with old timers, they don't care your gender or how long you're been watching the game. They don't care about your fantasy team stats or who's on the back of your jersey. They just love the game, and will talk to anyone about it- even people who aren't listening.

It was good to listen, and I ate up every word. As we hung up he said to me,

"OK Miss, well you have a great weekend and don't be too salty to Blackhawks fans. They don't know any better!"

I'll try not to be, Tom, but I guarantee nothing..

56. Lena

She was aerodynamically curvacious in the way that even as she approached 80 she still called herself sexy.
She was
The coral lipstick she often left on my face.
White Diamonds perfume and a loud, elongated "DAAHHHHLINN!"
She once stole my dad's pot stash when he was a teenager and replaced it with oregano.
She once attempted to sell watches out of a mink coat at the beach he was hanging out at.

She was his mother by DNA but not in the way he needed her to be.

I'm talking with my dad over coffee shortly after my own mother, his ex wife, passed away. He's tossing out his grievances like pieces of paper into a fire. I'm listening, watching the color flush to his face, his hand waving up in the air like mine does when we really get into the story.

He says, "I'm sorry I couldn't give you the mother you deserved; the mother you needed."

I take a deep breath, half focusing the steam snaking it's way out of the cup into the open air of our house that three generations of our family were raised in.

I say, "You know dad, looking back, I did alright without it."

He catches the blacks of my eyes with his and says, "Yeah I did alright without a real mother too."

"Maybe we didn't need them like that after all?"

"That's nonsense!" He exclaims, his voice cracking a bit. "Don't you know how much easier our lives would have been if they were more focused on being parents, and less focused on themselves?"

"Yeah," I say back, taking a long thoughtful deep breath, "But they wouldn't have been nearly has colorful, would they?"

He grabs his tea, the cup shrinking between his hands, takes a sip, looks at me out of the corner of one eye, and with a half smile on his face he says in the same way his mother, Lena would have, "

"You're damn right about that, Kid."

55. Yolanda

Yolanda sat in a gray plastic patio chair in her garage, swirling the ice in her tea.  The air was thicker than normal for a late April day. She looked at me seated next to her and made note of it, then continued to look outside at the sun setting over the elderly housing community where she lived with her daughter, my mother. I was twenty two at the time.

Truth be told, I never really liked the woman. She came a few times a year to visit when I was really small and she was always really cold to my brother and I. She was my first glimpse at a person who probably really hated her life, all eighty something years of it. I don't recall her speaking positively about anything except when she was positive that one of her children was acting ridiculous.

All that in mind, she gave me one of the most important pieces of unsolicited advice that I will likely ever receive.

She looked back at me.

"So you love that boy you're with? Jerry's his name right?"

"Yeah, his name is Jerry and I love him very much Gramma."

"You going to marry him?"

"I'm not sure. We've only been together two years. I'd imagine so. I think that's where it's going."

"So that's it, huh?"

"Yeah, that would be it. We'd get a place on the coast and let life happen that way."

"But what do you want to do OUTSIDE of Jerry?" She asked. "Your mother said you like to write and draw. Do you do either of those things?"

"Not really. Too busy."

"Too busy being Mrs. Jerry whatever his last name is right?"

I wasn't a fan of the inquisition I was getting by a woman I barely talked to, never mind liked.

"Listen, Jessie. Let me tell you something. I loved your grandfather, and I love your mother and aunts and uncle very much. I was very blessed to be given the life I was given. Some people aren't so lucky. But with my generation, that's what you did. You got married, and you had kids and to some degree those kids were expected to get married and have kids too. You're generation though, you're not expected to do a damn thing you don't want to. Women have gone to the moon. Women have held office. Those things weren't possible when I was your age. Hell, when I was your age I had two babies and was pregnant with a third!"

She looked at me in the eyes.

"If that boy makes you happy and you want to devote your life to him, I say you do it! Jump right in and give it your everything. But if there's even a little voice inside your head telling you that maybe, MAYBE this isn't the road you want to be on, than you need to follow that voice until it lands you where you're supposed to be, you hear me? Trust that voice, because that's YOU talking OK?"

A few months later I started hearing it. At first it was a whisper from a room away. Gradually it became a person I was having a conversation with in my dreams. After a while, I would hear it so loudly and feel it so physically that it would wake me up, screaming at me from inside my chest.

It took five years from that day, but that voice and I are finally in sync. It exists in me, as me now, not a separate entity like it used to.

54. FoMu Girl

Around this time last year, Annie and I went to FoMu in Allston- half to see our friend *Andrew's artwork, and half to get some vegan ice cream. For those of you that don't know, I'm lactose intolerant. I recognize there are far worse things to be, and I'm certainly used to it by now. That being said, I am hard pressed to find a good ice cream substitute in the rare event I'm craving the treat. Andrew suggested this hole-in-the-wall place, and we were happy to check it out. It was early March and we are the only customers in there.

First off- flavors galore. Seriously if you're ever in Boston, you need to check this place out. I get instantly giddy and ask to try a few flavors and the girl behind the counter happily complies. She's young, probably still in college-with rainbow streaks in her blond hair, a nose ring and hipster glasses. She first gives me Cake Batter. Heavenly.

"This is amazing! The closest thing to ice cream I've tasted and I can't eat dairy." I tell her.

She smiles.

"People like you are my favorite!" She exclaims. "Most people that come in are on some type of fad diet. I love serving people with dietary restrictions because you know how deeply they appreciate it."

I end up ordering a small cake batter that ends up being so rich I can barely finish the whole thing.

I'm not going to harass people about their diets. Everyone is entitled to consume whatever they seem appropriate. Also, I recognize it's petty to complain about being lactose intolerant when there are people with deathly peanut allergies in the world. On the same vein, while in customer service you are taught to treat people equally there is a distinct difference between speaking with people who have a health condition vs someone who adjusts their food consumption because it's the cool thing to do- entitlement. Some people's narrow way of existence is a luxury whereas with other people it's life. It's a matter of "You have to understand me," (entitled people) vs. "Please understand me."  (restricted people)

I wonder why that is?

53. Lisa

A couple years ago, I was living at my dad's and working at a private jet brokerage. I'll be honest, while I'm good at the whole customer service thing, hearing complaints day in and day out can be a little draining. On the day in question, I had come home an hour later than I was supposed to because of a few more broken planes than normal and diversions due to weather and presidential movement. When I put my key in the door I noticed the light was on in the living room. I walk in to see my sister on the couch with a big bag of tortilla chips watching "The Shining."

"Hey.." she said, with barely enough energy to be audible.

"Hey kid. How are ya?"

"Shitty. Mike is being a fucking asshole again."

(Mike is a now ex boyfriend. Thankfully not the father of my niece.)

"Ugh  that sucks." I replied. "I'm sorry."

"How are you?" She asked.

"Work tired. People are the worst."

I sat down next to her and grabbed a chip.

"Yeah." She said still looking at the T.V. "People are awful."

With that we sat in silence and watched the rest of the movie. She had been in and out of trouble the past few years and we had just started talking again. While we weren't close prior to this, my step sister and I were definitely not friends. In the next few months starting that night, the passenger side of my old CRV would act as sort of a therapy chair for her. We would take long drives in the morning to get coffee and I would let her talk. Often times we would find ourselves laughing at absolutely nothing. One thing that's sustained my sister though all her crazy is her sense of humor and I'm grateful for that. I hope Gia ends up inheriting that.

The movie nights would happen regular too. From Mulan to Mean Girls, and even some ridiculous reality T.V, Lisa and I would decompress by watching something mindless on the screen. Since we both moved out, every now and then I'll get a text paying homage to those days.

"Watching The Shining. Thought of you!"

52. We've All Been There

At the show I went to the other night, there was a girl holding up the line in the bathroom because she was puking. Standard. At any event where there's lots of people, and easy access to booze, there's bound to be one of those.

Truth is, no one knew why she was puking. For all we know she could of had the flu or food poisoning. Hell, she could of had a real rough emotional night. Still, when she she left, the girls remaining in the bathroom had commentary. (Standard.)

The girl next to me rolled her eyes.

"Poor thing," I said breaking the ice, "We've all been there."

"I've never been there!" said one of the girls.

Another girl laughed.

"Maybe not," I thought, "But we've all been THERE." That situation where you might be slightly inconveniencing 5 or 6 strangers because you are just not having a great night.

I was the girl crying at a concert because my ex just dumped me and I was trying so hard to make myself feel better. I was the girl at a comedy show that was so overwhelmed at the passing of her mom, that hearing that many people laugh at once made me get up during a guy's set just so I could lean over the toilet just in case. While I haven't been the one white girl wasted in the bathroom, I have definitely been the girl holding that girl's hair.

We've all been there, feeling the judgement like a sunburn on our backs making an uncomfortable situation that much worse.

So while I shrug off what's left of the convo, I think that yeah, I really want to get back to this show, but I can wait a few minutes extra if it means that girl puking has a little more time to collect herself. You're not leaving your dignity in the toilet with whatever you ate earlier and the roll of paper you used to cover it up. You're better than the eyes that follow you out the door.

It's OK darlin. We've all been there.

51. Liss

Liss was adopted by a pack of wild Italian Americans. With fair skin and auburn hair, she didn't look like us, but I rarely recognized that. I never asked why we all had olive skin and dark hair and she didn't. She was my cousin, that was it. I was told about what brought her too us briefly but I never questioned it. As my own immediate family would stretch and dissipate, I would figure out that love and maybe a few legal documents are all that really defines it anyway.

Anything that makes you different is open for ridicule. Liss, now 24, recently read an article on the Huffington Post about the meanest things that are said to the adopted daughters of this one woman.

After reading it, she said that it taught the girls how to be victims. Growing up with my aunt at the helm of her family, she was raised to own her flaws and to carry herself with the grace of her own convictions. . She knows that being raised by someone as loving as her parents hardly constitutes as being a victim.

"If anything," she says, "I got lucky."

We did too, kid.

50. Glass Houses

I don't remember much of when I met him as we both hit the bottle pretty hard that night. I do know that shortly after, I figured out that being friends with him meant having to stomach a fair amount of elitism on his part.

His mistakes were far grander than everyone else's and they always came with a great story. He found a way to prove and disprove god. He walked rigid like he had a gun to his back but carried himself like he knew better. He didn't know better, as much as his success would pen you to believe otherwise.

Even still, we loved him. We loved him because once he dubbed you as one of his own he took care of you. He was a consistent firm shoulder to cry on. He was the quick fix to your broken bike. He was a round of cheep beer at your favorite dive and a bitchy glare you loved seeing him give to other people.

For the sake of his health, we all hoped he would ease up on the drinking. Then he did, completely.

It had been a long time since I heard from him, least since before my trip back to Boston. He was dating a girl that he was stupid for. I'm glad for that. What I'm not glad for is that when his best friend came to visit town recently he wouldn't give him the time of day, sticking up his nose at the idea of engaging in the same kind of debauchery they did maybe three months prior. Never mind that, but the fact that he would barely give him the time of day for a dinner, and then judge everyone's alcohol consumption a good part of the time.

I wasn't there that night, but when Porter came back to my place the look in his eyes was sullen. I'm aware that friendships based around booze are doomed for failure, and while I am psyched he put the bottle down for good, I'm under the  high school mentality that you don't just fly high with your pals only to shoot them out of the sky minutes later. Sure we grow up and change, but wouldn't you rather provoke inspiration  than bitterness? God knows Porter could use staying clean for a while. Who better than instead of his best friend to help him?

He won't get that luxury, but I hope he gets something better.

I hope the glass house my friend sits pretty inside echos with his own judgement right back at him. I hope he learns that while love may come easy to him, loyalty is not a disposable commodity.

49.Buddy Wakefield

Instead of writing/ editing I found myself watching slam poetry videos- my favorites by Wakefield, Kay, and Lee. I love it so much. Prior to poetry, there was nothing that spoke to me so profoundly.

About a year ago today, Abby and I were in this attic theater of this larger theater in Providence seeing Buddy Wakefield perform. I had been a fan of his since about 2010, and had been starved for live poetry since. Why I never partook is beyond me. I think I was a much different person back then.

I guess it doesn't matter when you show up to your own life, provided that you do. And I did- with a week left of my 25th year.

Prior to the show, Abby and I met Wakefield. He had the pre-performance frenzy in his eyes that I've seen in a lot of creative types, but he was friendly non the less. Abby was awkwardly grinning from me holding her hand so tightly.

I wasn't sure what to expect so it wasn't like I imagined the meeting a thousand times over, I was just happy to be there. I knew I wanted to have an in-depth conversation about inspiration and all the ways his work affected me, but all I could say was some cliche line about him changing my life, and I asked him to sign this red journal that Abby had gotten me as a maid of honor gift. He got confused which way to sign it, so in true poetic form he wrote this:






"Don't forget what side is up, Jessica." He said.










His show was flawless. I still can't talk about it without fangirling like a tween at a One Direction concert.

The odd and wonderful thing about poetry is that the right poem by the right poet always finds me when I need it too. It's a frequency I am always tuned into. If something ever happens to my memory, be it disease or an accident, or whatever- the way to bring me back is with poetry. I can promise you that.

48. Kenny

Kenny was a paratrooper in Vietnam but still has love for the jump. I met him when he was a captain for the ferry boats I used to work for. We took to each other instantly. I still say that if I didn't get my father, I would have been happy with Kenny as a close second.

I rarely saw him without sunglasses, even on cloudy days. He has a silver mustache that curls just over his top lip and while most of his speech is mumbled, the words you can make out are pure genius. (He was usually swearing at some type of injustice-from the girl at Dunks putting too much cream in his coffee, or having to drive the late boat on the evening shift, and the early boat the following morning.) Every boat captain has their favorite deckhand I was his. On quieter runs we would have long conversations in the wheelhouse about anything from skydiving to our home lives. Sometimes we would sit in silence overlooking the ocean while he drove the boat.

I have so many stories about Kenny and all our worth telling. This one time, I walked in on him rocking out to (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. (A quintessential Kenny moment in my opinion.) Another time, a rainstorm passed quickly though the harbor and he radioed me and the other deckhand to "look at this fucking rainbow on port side."

After weeks of teaching me how do drive the ferry and showing me how to dock it, he finally gave me the sticks while pulling into home port with a crosswind.

"I can't do this! I'm going to crash the boat!" I argued.

"You wouldn't be the first person to." He said while leaving me to my own devices.

Within a minute or two he's watching me from the bow. Oncoming passengers and a few deckhands are lined up on the dock. I'm moving the jet propulsion into the direction of the wind to compensate for being knocked. I try to zone out how impatient everyone must be with me taking my time.

I get the port side end of the bow completely into the notch before easing in the starboard side. It barely made a tap. I push the sticks full throttle ahead to make sure the boat doesn't go anywhere. One of the deckhands bows down in worship.

When Kenny gets back into the wheelhouse, he smiles.

"Well that was fucking flawless, Kid." he said. He pats me on the shoulder and I head back into the cabin.

It wasn't beginner's luck. I had a great teacher.

47. The New Englander

I am in line at at the Walgreens at 6 Corners when I hear it,

"Yah. It's wicked cold. Wintah for the next evah!" says a cracked voice into an iPhone. He's 3 ahead of me, middle aged, and wearing a tartan scarf, navy overcoat, and Red Sox hat. I wish I knew him outside of observation.

"Yah, the Olympics, right? Proud for Bergy but can't wait for the Broons to staht. Wednesday, right? Yah. Of course I'll watch it or at least stream Gochah if I get stuck in traffic.

I'm here for tissues but I swear I can smell the ocean. I close my eyes to not be in Chicago if only a moment. I've talked hockey with guys like him back east. They love the sass. They don't buy me drinks but flag down the bartender when my Gansett is empty. I remind them of their wives twenty years ago.

When they leave they tip their hats and tell me I hope the right man makes me happy someday.

I swear there is nothing like an New Englander.

46. Abby

"Here's the thing: The animal kingdom loves toughness.
The tough ones survive.
The tough ones become leaders.
The tough ones get the resources.
The dainty fragile ones die off.
I'm done with society telling us we need to be fragile when natural selection says be anything but."

-Abby

She has a fair face but she is all muscle. At 27, she can stomach a half marathon and is training to teach yoga, but her strength is more internal than anything else. You might judge her for the mere fact she cried over the paint colors in her house, but you didn't see the stone look in her eyes as she implored her alcoholic father to attend her wedding.

Half her "friends" will comment on how beautiful she now is, but I loved her as "Abitha T" and  the more hurtful middle school taunt the kids used to yell down the halls. When the nerds are nerds because their homes are broken, they cling like leaves to a breezy tree. We kept one another warm in the coldness fate gave us, and as adults we healed together and thus became the same at heart.

In those days, I loved her like I loved being eleven and trips to get Slurpies. I love her now as a skydive wearing a super hero shirt with me, like long car rides and iced coffee. I love her in the way she flips the mirror to say

"Look Darlin, those parts you think are ugly are quite pretty after all."

When your connection exceeds sisterhood and all the promises you kept as kids.

She is my blessed neutral, my link to sanity. In this crazy world, no one knows me as me, quite like she does.

We will swear while watching hockey. We will swoon over graying men. We will still giggle over jokes that are rounding two decades old. With her, my sensitivity is my strength, my audacity is beautiful, my resilience is golden, and I see the same in her.

45. To the Child I Won't Conceive

(This is a draft of something that I might turn into something else. Tonight, I am feeling sassy so this is what you get.)

I will never feel your feet push inside me, nor will you ever give me kankles.

The concept of changing anyone's diaper is my ninth circle of hell. I mean really, I'm not great with bodily functions that are my own, never mind someone else's. I know love is what makes you want to do such a thing but to me, love is a goodnight's sleep and glass of wine to celebrate anything from finally getting published to putting on pants and getting the mail.

I will never post pictures of your food covered face on social media. I find those to be about as gross as ferrets. Why do people even do that? To all my friends, you're welcome.

You do not tick, like other women say you should. Your lack of existence does not make me feel like less of a woman, or lead me to believe I will always fall short on love. I am not a slave to the need to have you. You are not an, "I have nothing better to do."

 It's not that I couldn't love you. I love you already. I love you as the egg I lay once a month that gets washed away in a crescendo of Hersey's Chocolate with Almonds, cotton based products, and "women's" medication that they swear is different from Advil. I love that you don't exist in the same way that I love zombie movies as movies, and not as a real life thing.

At this point, you are an arbitrary figment of my writer's brain and I hope you stay that way. Why? Because should I decide to become a parent, I want to give a chance to someone who might not have gotten it otherwise. It takes the stress of science, and relieves my hold on fate. It does not tether me to anything that I would rely on someone else to help me create. The lack of you allows me to be free in all the ways I need to be.

44. Barbie Girl

I have had very few social interactions this weekend given that I have been sleeping off a cold much of the past couple of days. With that being said, the next two entries are probably just going to be references to people I've read about, because, why not?

Anyway, so I've spent the past 10 minutes or so doing somewhat research on Blondie Bennett, who's main goal in life is to be Barbie. OK. So she's had dozens of plastic surgeries to make her look like the iconic doll, that are funded by fans through her NSFW Twitter. She is currently undergoing hypnotherapy to lower her IQ. She essentially wants to be a human sex doll.

I don't want to judge her specifically, but I kind of have some social commentary.

1. There are people in this world that are funding this. How many of these people turn blind eye to homeless people panhandling, or say no when asked in the supermarket checkout line to donate a dollar to cancer research? I'd be curious to know. I also think that if you are going to do something like that to yourself you shouldn't reach out and ask people to fund it. That would be like me having a Kickstarter fund every time I wanted to get a new tattoo.

2. The concept of plastic surgery skeeves me out. I know that's easy for me to say right now given that at 26, I consider myself to be decent looking enough. I know I'm trying not to be judgey, but this woman has double J's. 1. Ouch. 2. How do you handle that much boob on you? I think the best parts of a woman are the parts that are supposed to be a little squishy so I don't understand wanting to be all hard plastic.


3. I read in one of these articles that she thinks being a human is boring. What?! I'm not sure if it's me, but I think being human the exact opposite. Life is a beautiful, fucked up thing. I'm not going to go into the psychology of what she does because I'm not educated enough to say so confidently, and if being a human Barbie gives her life meaning than fine, but being human is only as boring as you make it. Life only has the meaning that you give it.

As a tried and true empath, I really want to see where she is coming from outside of the cliche, "She seems really sad." I want it to be more than, "Well Jess, no matter how bad your day gets at least you're not her." I want to think Blondie Bennett is Blondie Bennett and that she always was that. I don't want to think of her as Norma Jean who got sucked into being Marilyn Monroe. I think people deserve better than to change themselves from the outside in in order to be this fucked up image of idolatry. I think the word deserves more out of its idols than mass produced celebrities that are more shock value and less humanity.

I also know writing a blog post about this makes me a huge hypocrite, but I digress.

43. About an Ex, THEE Ex

In one of the breakup lines that I will never quite scratch itself from my memory, I am looking at my ex in my old Toyota Camry when I tell him,

"I don't know who I am anymore."

"You are mine," he says before kissing me, "That's who you are."

We would quasi date the next year and say that we were "working on things" when in reality it would be because we weren't quite ready to let the other one go. A week after my best friend's wedding, he would leave me for a girl he is still happily with, and I would begin the journey that would land me here-a week shy of my 27th birthday, in the city I've always dreamed of living in.

We're rounding 4 years since the initial split and that girl feels like a whole other person. Up until then he had been more of my existence than he probably should have been. We were the same crew and the same places. He was an endless summer, an acoustic song, and a six of Coors Light that I still can't stomach to this day. To me, he was the way to our favorite places and our favorite moments in time. I still love much of what we both enjoyed as a couple.

But I knew there was more to me than a relationship and a suburban domestic life. I couldn't fight the feeling of the brakes being pumped inside my head.

While I'm so happy to be removed from the slow hell that was that breakup, I still thank him for a lot of things. I thank him for the year it took for me to see him as more than just a friend, the three more or less happy years he gave me, and the year afterward where we finally realized how over it really was. I thank him for all the love, patience and sacrifice. I'm grateful he's found someone he can call home that really brings out the best in him. My only regret is that for whatever reason, we can't be friends. While it's a choice on his part that I completely respect, it still bugs me sometimes. Whenever my cat does something ridiculous or the Bruins score, I want to text him. Whenever I'm drunk and hear Warren Zevon, I fight the urge to call him for a sing-a-long.

As long as I've known him, we would always text the other one when it snows. I still feel like I should sometimes.

I'm finding out that while time can do quite a bit to a relationship, it doesn't change a connection. If it's real, whatever it is, it doesn't go away. He's someone where outside comments from friends can't touch and to some degree, he will always be one of my people.

42. Bus Lady

It's just before 7 o'clock in the morning when I hop on the 72 at Humboldt and two ladies are arguing. Considering the time, the bus is remarkably empty, so it's not like they couldn't change seats to remove themselves from the situation. I turn down my head phones just enough to hear the cause.

"Mr. Bus Driver! She's looking at me funny!" screamed one lady.

"Girl, you're out of your mind!" shouted the other one.

The bus driver flicks his hand. He's having none of it.

Neither am I. It's far too early for this. I turn up my headphones to drown out the crazy.

The shouting continues and people start staring. A lady seated across from me smirks. The woman being accused of giving shade gets off and accuser moves to the front to argue with the bus driver. As the bus fills, she stands up as if to give up her seat only to sit down again right before each person is about to sit.

When we approach the Red Line stop, we all begin to line up to exit. The woman, who is still arguing with the bus driver hip-checks another woman out of line in order to get off first.

"Some people are just starved for attention," my mother would have said.

I never understood that. I think it's better to go faceless on a commute than to be the crazy lady on the bus Thursday morning.

41. Wally

I've been going to the same liquor store since I moved in with Alex back in August and I've become enough of a regular where one of the guys that runs it knows me on a first name basis. He's Egyptian and goes by "Wally." He told me his actual name once but it was forever ago.

Over the summer he asked me out but I tried my best to dodge the question. I thought he was over it until I started showing up in the company of guys. When I come in alone or with other women he's incredibly kind, calling me "Sweetie," and asking me how I am.  If I'm with a guy, or in a group when a guy is included, he gets incredibly salty, not looking me in the eyes and barely saying hello.

The next time I show up alone he always asks me if the guy I was with is a boyfriend. While none of them have been, I try to be kind because I know what it's like having a crush on the person in front of the counter.

40. Young Couple on the Train

They're in early high school. I can tell because of the lack of hair on his face and the fact that his lady clears him by at least 5 inches, but he doesn't care. They are sitting next to each other holding hands, sharing a pair of earbuds between the two of them. She's casually glancing around the train as if to check to see people are watching.

He's smiling, glowing even.

He leans in and kisses her shoulder. She smiles slightly on the right half of her face and stares down at her feet. Her cheeks remain pale.

I fiddle around with my phone, immersing myself in my morning Facebook chat ritual with my best friend, congratulating her on her 8 year date anniversary with her husband. The temperature is supposed to break 30 in what seems like eternity. This winter has been cold. This city has more or less been cold, give or take a handful of pleasant moments. I'm willing to bet the people here keep their hearts tucked inside their overcoats, even when they hang them up for the warmer months.

But not this kid. He's exuding this soft morning comfortable like he already knows what it's like to wake up next to someone he really cares about. He reminds me of Neruda's poetry that is less sexy but more tepid. I start to think his girl is less interested until I notice how tight her hand is around his, her lavender veins stand out around her pure white knuckles. He pats her hand with his free one as if to console her. I want to tell him to hold on to that sweetness along as he can because the world is going to try it's best to take it from him. I want to tell his girl that it's OK for her to enjoy being adored.

39. UPS Guy

The UPS guy is always saying he hates Skokie, which is funny because I'd be shocked if I heard anyone say they loved the town. He's surly in the way only old men can be and throws a layer of negative onto anything that's neutral.

He loves giving me sass about all the packages I have going out, but lets me put a sign on the door if I need something picked up. I try to balance out the grey in his voice by being just overly pleasant when he come in.

He's been an acquaintance for 7 months and I don't know his name. I find that funny considering I see him everyday. Maybe I'll ask him tomorrow.

Special Post: A Story From Dad

This doesn't count as one of the 365 posts, but I found this story so endearing I couldn't help but share it.

I want to preface this by saying that my dad was such hardass when I was growing up, to the point where if his voice reaches a certain decibel, a rush of fear still flushes through my body, even if I'm not the one it's directed at. Grand fatherhood has softened him up quiet a bit though. Below is a story he shared with me today.

(For those of you who haven't been following, Emmy is my step mom,  Lisa is my stepsister, and Gia is her daughter, my niece.)

"So because Lisa works Saturday's now, Emmy and I get to spend the whole day with Gia. I'm hanging out in my chair in the living room, watching T.V with her in the crook of my arm and she's making goofy baby faces at me. You know how they do. Anyway so, I'm stretching out the joints in my hand by making a fist, getting the old man blood flowing, and I see Gia make a fist too. She's not even three months yet, so all her movements are sporadic baby movements, but this one was intentional. I make a fist again to see if she'll do it too and she does! She looks at me, and I look at her, and she just starts laughing as if to say, 'Holy crap, Papa did you see me do that?!' It was just a cool thing to watch, seeing the little one suddenly aware that she can make intentional body movements. It was the cutest thing, Jess. I wish you were around to see it."

38. Eddie

We had nearly killed the cheese and crackers by the time music came up. Alex was going on and on about how she loves Lana Del Ray. I made a face.

"Not impressed?" Eddie asked.

"I hate her," I said. "I hate how she copied everything from the 60's except not well and she plays off this forlorn manic pixie dream girl shit."

Alex rolled her eyes. Nedda laughed.

At this point most guys would ask if I'm always this forward, but Eddie is well versed in women so he proceeds with his questions in a disarming way.

"What kind of music do you like?"

"More or less everything," I replied. "But lately I've been on a huge punk rock kick. Against Me, Misfits, Bouncing Souls etc."

"I used to be into punk, but mostly when I was a teenager. I liked the aggression."

"I like the aggression now," I said. "I need it more than ever have. I have a growing fear of becoming suburban."

"No white picket fences for ya?" he asked.

"Not unless they're actually road maps and accepted manuscripts."


***
I listen to these songs over and over again and with each play I realize that the revolution wasn't a lie, it's just internal and not talked about. "Anarchy" is the old "Jesus take the wheel." Just because the ideas take a different manifestation as we age, doesn't mean that they died.