Or the account of my decline into barbarism (and all of the lovely, mad people who helped me do it).

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Swing Life Away

It's been so long since I've written. I find that when I'm overwhelmed it's difficult to convey my thoughts via writing. But I suppose I should catch you guys up.

This week's been a dangerous combination of ecstasy and dread. Ecstasy because I've been seeing someone and he's the most incredible guy I've ever met. And I could fall in love with him, but I'm leaving for France in two months and I can't bear to think of us being apart. Thus, the dread.

Tuesday night we had a date night. We went to Doc Chey's downtown, where we went on our first date. Then he sang and played his guitar for me at his apartment. He played "Swing Life Away" and now I can't hear that song without thinking about him. Afterwards, I read him some of my poetry. Boys playing guitar are aphrodisiacs for me so we made out, watched a movie, and laid on the couch. He had worn a French cologne and I pressed my face to his neck.

"When you go to France I'm gonna give you a picture of me and I'll spray it with this cologne." He said.

Then he fell asleep and I cried.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Jumping Fences

Tonight was nothing short of a disaster. I went to a party with Kate, Michelle, and Liz and sipped vodka and tea from a water bottle. BPA free. Some foreigner came up and asked me where I was from. Typical. Then we spotted Pete and I dragged him with me the rest of the night.

"Cops!" False alarm. False alarm. TRUE.

Pete and I ran out the back door. I tore off my suede stilettos and jumped a fence. While going over, my leather bag got stuck, I fell to the ground and yelped. Some girl goes, "Honey, pull yourself together." Bitch, please. I am not drunk, one. Two, you are wearing a sports bra and leggings. Check yourself.

Pete grabbed my shoes from the ground and we ran through someone's backyard and into some bushes. I had no idea where my driver was, and Michelle said she was trying to find me. We were on a back road, so there was no street sign. Pete and others wandered back to the party, but I didn't want to risk getting caught by the cops so I stayed in the forest. Alone. Finally, Kate picked me up and we drove home with Liz and Michelle.

Apparently there was a gate beside the fence. No matter. Jumping it was more fun.

Monday, October 18, 2010


Saturday night was Diana's quinceanera. It was a 9.5-hour party that ended with me, barefoot and wrapped in a white tuxedo jacket, walking to my car.

That night, I sat by a fire that was too hot. I listened to the sounds of the mariachi band. I danced with several boys. It kept me warm. I wanted to steal some wine, but Mama pulled me away, said, "You're driving."

Throughout the ceremonies, I couldn't help but compare this family with mine. This, I thought, looking at the three-tiered cake Lucero had made for her daughter, how she had decorated their backyard to compensate for 100 guests...this is family. Love is not selfish. Then Lucero came up to me before I left, kissed my cheek, and said, "You are my family."

It was cold, but I linked arms with a boy who shares my name. The ground was wet beneath my bare feet but I didn't care.

Sunday, October 10, 2010


I've never been one for regrets. I follow my heart, so at one point, this is what I wanted. However, I've recently wondered if I haven't been a little rash in my decisions. A part of me regrets breaking up with Pierre, despite how immature he was about the whole situation. Was I really in the wrong here? Maybe, I don't know. A big part of me feels like I really fucked up. I can't look at those pictures from Montreal without feeling sick to my stomach, like I lost something very special. What was once the most incredible week of my life now brings me pain. I had this fairy tale romance, and I let it go. Maybe it was for the best. I mean, one could hardly call it a relationship. We only talked every week or so...but still. A part of me wonders if I'm a huge fuck-up.

On top of that, I think a small part of me really loved Pierre. Well, what is love anyway.

Saturday, October 2, 2010


It's been a shitastic week. Yesterday Pierre and I broke up and today we discovered bedbugs in our apartment. The entire afternoon was spent ziplocking our mattresses and fumigating our bedrooms. Now it's 12:30 AM, I'm exhausted, and I have to wait for my sheets and pillows to be cleaned before I can go to bed.

I set aside a bottle of wine for tonight, but nothing fun happened. I suppose that's for the best. I spent the night reading and watching Wilson and Taylor make apple chips. But I won't lie. It's been hard having my two roommates with their boyfriends here this weekend. I didn't think our breakup would affect me that much, but it has. I've sobbed and everyone knows that nothing kills confidence like a terminated relationship.

On the bright side, I think I'm going to the spa tomorrow with Kristi. And fall break starts on Thursday. Hopefully things will start looking up.

Friday, September 24, 2010


Well, shit. Long time, no talk. I wish I could tell you about all of the crazy shit that's happened thus far this semester. I really wish I could. But some things are better left unsaid.

As of right now my head hurts from drinking 3/4 bottle of wine last night. Totally worth it. Yes, I'm content. I've learned to light a black currant candle and listen to jazz when I'm stressed. Right now it's the calm after the storm. The past two weeks were shit, but things are okay now.

School has been crazy as hell, and I'm getting all my shit together for France. This semester is going by so quickly. I'm trying to savor each moment I spend with my friends because in three months I'll be immersed in another culture with a new language and new sentiments. Kinda scary. On the bright side, Pete and Tay are planning on studying abroad in England next semester. At least I'll have them over there, though I worry about the damage we'll cause in a foreign country.

Things with Pierre have been weird lately, because I don't talk to him on a regular basis. It's strange, but I'm just holding out for France. It'll be worth it, I know.

Thursday, August 19, 2010


Your fifteen-year-old daughter only sees that her mother is walking out on her.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Humbling Experience

Saturday morning I woke up with a hangover from two Smirnoffs and a plate of nachos. How the hell I got hungover from the Smirnoffs is baffling, considering I wasn't even buzzed the night before. Nonetheless, I felt shitty late into the day. I couldn't stomach much but forced myself to eat anyway. While I was getting ready to go out to dinner with my family, Caitlin my roommate called me and said she just looked at our apartment and it was a wreck. It was so filthy that there were roaches.

Upon hearing this, I was pissed. The landlord knew we were moving in the next day. I went to dinner thoroughly aggravated. Caitlin tried to find us another home, but with no luck. I told Pierre my predicament. He knew I was upset so he called me. It was nice to hear his voice despite the fact that I couldn't understand most of what he was saying. His accent is strong and my phone reception was terrible. He kept telling me how much he wanted me and how he was still going to take care of me despite the distance. I felt better. I really did.

We met in Asheville this morning to see our options. When we got to the apartment, the carpet had been ripped out. They promised us new furniture, light fixtures, fumigation, and touch up paint.

By this time, I was upset. I just moped around the rest of the day, thoroughly disappointed. I didn't want to live there and considered buying a one-bedroom apartment, but prices for one-bedrooms are typically ridiculous. I'd also have to rent all of my furniture and pay for cable, internet, and utilities. Fuck.

On top of that, someone found out about me and Pierre and told me I was crazy for being exclusive with a guy overseas. She said it in the most loving way possible. I know she meant well, only giving me advice. But if anyone knows me, they know that I don't follow advice. I always do what I want. Nonetheless, her comment hurt and I started rethinking this whole relationship. These doubts made me even more miserable. Why is it so hard to follow your heart?

For the remainder of the day my roommates and I drove all over Asheville trying to find a place to live. No luck. I eventually called my dad and he advised that I stay at the current apartment. They were giving us brand new furnishings and flooring, so it shouldn't be that bad.

This entire weekend my stomach has been in knots. I have constantly felt ill from stress. I guess my life has been pretty incredible lately. Maybe this is just a humbling experience.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

You Only Live Once

Pierre and I are an official couple now. I'll admit, I don't feel much different than when I was single, because he's so far away. It's a very strange sensation, really. To be connected so intimately to someone across the world. It's kinda nice to say I have a French boyfriend though...I won't lie about that. We have two anniversaries due to the time difference too. Kinda cute.

The only thing that sucks is that my dad's really skeptical about the whole situation. He constantly hints that I should be wary, that Pierre could be cheating on me. I don't appreciate the comments. Since we're in a long-distance relationship I can't listen to people's doubts. I have to stay positive or it won't work. The relationship is fragile. But at a basic level I still seek approval from my father, so his skepticism is really bothering me. Then again, I have to remember that my father, while wise, doesn't view relationships the way I do. He's always been more judgmental then me. I think his perspective is a little more cynical than mine. And I'm not just talking about romantic relationships. Friendships as well.

I guess time will tell. I just hope I'm not making an ass out of myself. But, hey, you only live once. I might as well try, right? Besides, everyday we're together I think, Wow. That's one day I've handled a transcontinental relationship, a feat I thought was impossible. But it's working one day at a time. We're doing it.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010


Last night Daniel tried to get me back. Again. The whole conversation was frightening, because Daniel kept telling me how much more time he had now. He could come see me on campus, eat lunch with me, see me in the mornings...etc. I started to compare the offer with Pierre's situation. He's overseas. We won't go on dates or be together again until January. As soon as I noticed myself comparing, I told Daniel he was being unfair and he should just respect my decision. He's gonna take some time away from me for awhile, which is for the best.

As if the past 72 hours haven't been strange enough, I was getting ready for bed when Pierre texted me good night and told me he loved me. I texted him back but he had already gone to sleep. Well, shit. What the hell is that? Love? What is that anyway? I sure as hell don't know. I've never felt it.

This morning Pierre contacted me like he always does. I asked him about last night, thinking it might just be a cultural difference. He said, "I know it's strange but sometimes I feel like I really do love you. Last night was one of those times."

I didn't know what to say. I've only known him three weeks so naturally I'm confused at his affection. But if it's one thing I've learned it's never to judge someone's feelings. I remember seeing young girls in love and thinking, How dumb! How can they say they're in love? They don't know what love is! But then I experienced these feelings and was infinitely frustrated when people told me to "get real."

I feel like I'm there now. People have been rather cynical about my relationship with Pierre. They don't take it seriously because of our distance, but if I want this to work (which I do), I can't have people whispering doubts in my ear. I understand everyone's concern, but I prefer to make my own mistakes. Indeed, when a girl's infatuated she doesn't want to heed her mother's warnings, she wants to boast of newfound love.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010


I'm utterly baffled. I've had one of the weirdest weeks of my life.

Daniel and I talked for two hours last night via FB. This is strange because we never talked while we were dating. He would not open up to me, so we usually sat in a painfully awkward silence in front of the television screen. I figured this was because we were incompatible. Exhibit A:

I loved reading. He loved television.

I hated sports. He loved them.

I love fashion. He couldn't care less.

I speak French. He took the mandatory Spanish classes.

Within the past 24 hours I've learned that Daniel has stopped watching tv and started reading, is burnt out from watching sports, has donated his old tee shirts and has taken an interest in male fashion, and has been teaching himself French for the past two months. It's the most surreal thing. It's like seeing someone who idolizes you copy your haircut, buy the same clothes, and imitate your speech patterns. It's so strange to see your qualities reflected in another human, especially when that person is your ex-boyfriend.

On top of that, Pierre told me he's not sure if he's gonna make it to Asheville because he can't afford it. I figured this would happen, so I'm not devastated, but I am rather sad. I'll see him in 161 days, if nothing else.

And now my Blackberry is flooded with messages in French from- not one- but two different guys. I think I'm living the American dream.

Monday, August 2, 2010



Daniel texted me today to say he had been thinking about me. I thought he had said everything that needed to be said after he called me the other day. Apparently not. I told him I was well and he asked when I was coming back to Asheville. Like the dumb ass I am, I told him I would be there tomorrow for an internship interview downtown. He asked to see me because he missed my smile.

Well, shit. I didn't expect this guy to stay in contact with me because the last time he said we'd "keep in touch" he went MIA for two months. I laid it down straight and told him meeting was a bad idea because I was talking to someone. It would be weird to go out with my ex.

I was in the process of asking my dad for advice when Daniel called me. I ignored it and he texted me to say he had a few things to get off his chest. Fine, I said.

He called me to apologize if he had been overbearing the past few days. He didn't mean to stress me out. It was just shocking, I said. Because he tells me how much he misses me, how he had to keep himself from begging for me back. Like the time I saw him at Ingles before the Vampire Weekend concert and how he ran after me, but I was pulling out of the parking lot. I remember going home to Michelle that evening and saying I shouldn't have seen him that soon after we broke up (it had been a week.). It was just too hard.

Anyway, the last thing he said is that whoever I'm talking to is a lucky guy, and he better know that. Yeah, he better.

If this isn't surreal enough, his statuses lately have been lyrics relating to lost love. His most recent one looked familiar. It's because they're lyrics from a song I burned for him on a CD for Valentine's Day. Finally, I went to his FB page and noticed my favorite quote in my favorite book The Catcher in the Rye was posted beneath his profile picture. I know he hasn't read the book.

Well, shit. Guys just suck.

I'm still trying to hold the whole Pierre affair at arm's length, but it is hard. He's looked up the costs of tickets from Budapest to Asheville and is very set on seeing me for fall break. We'll see. I'm not convinced until he books the tickets on Aug. 28th. I hate being cynical because that's not me at all. I just really don't want to get hurt here, and there's a lot of potential for that. I just want to enjoy things while they're lovely and crazy and fucking weird.

CORRECTION: Daniel just told me he read The Catcher in the Rye last month. Wow. I'm very impressed. I recommended the book several times, but he used to tell me how much he hated reading. I must have made an impression on him? Or maybe I'm just being conceited. Hm.

Sunday, August 1, 2010


I've realized just how idealistic -perhaps naïve- I am. People whisper doubts in my ear, but I turn my head and continue on. I'm not sure if this is some great flaw of mine or if I am truly blessed. I suppose it could be both.

In literature, we learn that great men fall because of their epic flaw. Will my optimism lead to my ultimate demise? I suppose it's possible, but why not enjoy life until then? I'll frolic along in my usual fashion and if I do happen to fall, at least I should do so knowing it was a grand ride to the bottom.

Saturday, July 31, 2010


Trip to Montreal: $500
New GPS software: $200
Grove Park buffet: $25
Having my ex call me, crying and begging for me back: Priceless.

Best birthday ever.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

C'est La Vie

I recently returned from a trip to Montreal with Michelle. We stayed at a hostel, stayed up until 6 AM, and slept until noon everyday. I want to share my experience with everyone, because I never want to forget what happened.

Michelle and I arrived. It was Mojito Monday on Crescent St. so we enjoyed our newfound drinking privileges, ate a Nutella crepe, and went to bed early.

Here's where the fun begins...The hostel coordinated a pub crawl, and we decided to go. I talked to the host, Max, and told him I was studying French. By some cosmic force, he introduced me to a few boys from Paris. I freaked when they began speaking to me in French, but I told them my name and that I was studying French and Lit at school.

At the first pub there was a special on beer, so Michelle and I tried it. We hate beer, but attempted to stomach it anyway. At the bar, one of the Parisian boys asked if we'd like to sit with them. I sat next to a boy named Pierre and we talked for awhile. I told him I was studying in Angers this spring and asked if he knew much about the city. His eyes lit up. He had studied there before and he would be there at the same time as me, working. He wrote his name on a metro ticket (which I still have) and told me to contact him through Facebook. He'd help me out when I got there and if I couldn't reach him he'd give me names of his friends.

His friend Brice spoke to Michelle.

"American girls think his accent is very cute, but they can't understand what he's saying." Pierre said, laughing and pointing to them. "We're going to a party after this. Would you like to come?"

The French apparently use party and club interchangeably. But Pierre explained that he and Brice were skipping the second pub on the tour and going to the last one. Michelle and I decided to join.

On the way there, we stopped outside the second bar and this very large toothless man bumped into me. He apologized and introduced himself.

"I'm a UFC fighter. Congratulations, you just met a celebrity." He said, shaking my hand.

"Oh my God! I don't know what to say...I'm just an American girl."

"What are you doing?"

"I think we're trying to get into this bar."

"You are? Here, I can get you in. Come with me." He grabbed my hand and started cutting the line and leading me to the door.

"No!" I said. "I'm with the group!"

"Okay, okay. Well, hot women...Seriously though, you're dynamite!"

We said goodbye and followed the French boys to the nightclub, where we danced until 3:30 AM. Pierre bought shots for Michelle and me and we made out on the dance floor. He taught me how to dance and kissed me on the lips each time he dipped me.

Michelle had tequila and beer spilled on her, so we left soon after. Pierre protected us from a creepy guy who tried to hit on us while he had a smoke a few feet away.

"I leave you for thirty seconds and this happens! You are too hot. You should be ugly." He said.

Pierre asked for my number, Brice paid for our taxi and we walked to a McDo's half a mile away. Pierre picked me up and spun me around, told me he'd take me to his house by the sea where we could see the stars. After we walked back to the hostel, we said goodbye and he told me he wanted to take me to dinner on Friday.

We hiked Mount Royal and Michelle dry heaved into the forest. We ate poutine and sat at the bar that night, looking for fun. Some film producers from Vancouver were there are they invited us to play a drinking game with them. They were twins and their cousin was an actor in their film that was being featured in downtown Montreal. They were also there with three of their friends.

Later, they took us to a bar and we took shots with Parisian girls. The boys left without us. Chris, who had been hitting on me earlier, was super drunk and walked into the middle of the road. Michelle and I got stressed and walked back to the hostel, where we talked to some middle-aged man about sex. Strange...

The boys came back, but the film producers, Denny and Nelson, and their cousin, Ricky went to bed. Chris came back and it was cold so he put his arms around me. He kissed me, told me I was cute, and I later made out with him. He got in bed with me later (WITH MICHELLE IN THE ROOM) and tried making out with me, but I pushed him off. He told me he was leaving the next day and how it sucked he'd never see me again because he liked me a whole lot.

I admitted to Michelle that I was using him for his warmth because it was cold. I just wanted to cuddle in bed, but guys just have to take it to another level.

We went on another bar crawl. Denny told me he wanted to be my writing partner. He bought me my first tequila shot and we got cozy (no kiss) at the bar. I also took whiskey shots with the boys. Michelle got fucking trashed at the third bar and the twins got into a bar fight with a guy who called himself Boston Bob. There was so much blood, and the fight began because Bob was fucking with the foosball table Michelle, the twins, and I are were playing with. We were right in the middle of it all.

The boys got escorted out and we followed them downstairs. They found Bob out back taking a smoke so they beat the shit out of him and ran in the opposite direction. Chris yelled, "You coming with us?" I grabbed Michelle and we heard sirens so all of us ducked into an alley. Cole came running, asked what happened, and ran back to the bar and told Bob he'd stab him in the throat.

We took a taxi home. Chris broke his hand and was looking for pity, so I gave it to him. We sat in his car and listened to Christian music outside the hostel. I was cracking up because this guy was in my bed the night before.

We went to bed at 6 AM, and Chris said he was leaving tomorrow so we should cuddle. Yeah, right.

We woke up at 3 PM and I had a date with Pierre. We met downtown and he took me to a bistro, where he bought me a fifty dollar bottle of Italian white wine and some pasta.

"How did you know I liked white wine?" I asked.

"It was the first thing you told me." He said. We had bonded over hating beer and loving wine. "It's funny the first things people tell you. It says the most about them. So tell me. I want to know everything about you."

"You already do," I said.

"No, I don't. I know that you love white wine, that you and Michelle are best friends and roommates. I know that you want to learn languages and you want to work for the UN as a translator. You are a vegetarian. You went to Italy and you're going to study in Angers in January. But that is all I know."

I told him I was a writer, he said I was brilliant. We talked, as the French do, for an hour and a half at dinner and made the waiter nervous. He asked if I wanted another bottle of wine, but I was drunk, so I declined. He took me to a movie since it was raining and then took a taxi to the hostel. I told him not to forget me, and we separated.

When I got to the room, I had a message from him. He said he missed me already and that he wouldn't forget me.

That night, Michelle and I bought flowers and went to an after party in the twins' hotel room after their film showing. The boys smoked pot twelve feet away from a security officer and Chris and his brother got in trouble for swimming in the pool with some stoned naked girls. Chris kept coming on to me that night, but I didn't respond like I had a few days ago. I really liked Pierre. Denny was also coming on to me but it was awkward because both boys were a little jealous of each other and kept making comments to me like, "There's your boy."

Okay, so while this is happening Pierre tells me he wants me to be his girlfriend. I told him I'd meet him and we'd talk. He went to bed but said he'd wake up when I called him. At five, I left the boys. Denny tried to kiss me but I turned my head. I told the guys I was sick and going to sleep. Michelle stayed with them.

In my room, I called Pierre but he wouldn't wake up. Michelle texted me to tell me where they were so I wouldn't cross paths with them when I met up with Pierre. I had this all planned out. We would meet at the Basilica in downtown Montreal and I would wear my black maxi dress. It was a misty morning and the clouds seemed to rest of the sidewalk.

Here's what happened. Pierre never woke up, but after Michelle told the boys I was sick they really wanted to come see me. Denny kept asking Michelle if he could come see if I was okay. He texted me. I told him I was fine. Then Michelle said they were walking to the hostel.

Shit, Michelle, you're a bad wingman!

Lobby, she said.

Eventually, the boys left. I woke up at 9:30 for our flight and Pierre just woke up. He was very upset that he had missed my calls, but we BBMed for a little while. He told me all of the reasons he wanted to date me in English, then in French. He told me it could work. We'd only be apart for four months. I would travel to Budapest with him in December. He only knew me for two days but he said he'd wait four months for me. I told him he treated me better than any American boy ever had and he said it was because I was worth it. Shit. He said he'd give me as long as I wanted to think of an answer, but I knew what he wanted.

I told him to visit me in NC. I had 182 days until France so he said he'd come in 91 days, right in the middle. If he comes, I might have to say yes. I miss him a lot, and I'm not sure what to think of the situation. Everyone's been pretty cynical thus far, but my mother tells me to hold it loosely. This can't be a coincidence. We're meeting in France in four months, and this could very well be the greatest love of my life.

Au revoir.

Saturday, July 17, 2010


"I don't want to know my name," I said, clutching a bottle of chardonnay.

I drank the whole bottle in twenty minutes. Savannah and I were considering becoming lesbians with each other and then I had my head in a bucket. I held Aaron's hand while people stroked my hair and spoke to me in small voices. We didn't go to bed until 3 AM, and then we woke up at 8 AM to drive to Charlotte for the John Mayer concert with Rachel. I slept in my makeup and contacts and contracted an eye infection. God's own way of kicking my ass.

In Charlotte, we weaved through traffic and listened to thunder. My GPS is a dumb bitch so we got lost on our way to find "The Best Soul Food in the Southeast" because Rachel and I are chronic dieters and deserved a little treat. Unfortunately, that goddamn restaurant doesn't exist so we settled on a steak house.

After that, we got ready and headed to the VIP section of the concert. We had incredible seats and I could see Johnny perfectly. He opened with my favorite song, "Vultures", and performed his encore on the lawn. On his way back to the stage, he came within a few feet of Rachel and me. We clutched each other and squealed.

After the concert, we ate pancakes at IHOP and Rachel walked barefoot out of the restaurant. All in all, it was an incredible 48 hours that only solidified how much I love my best friends. They're there whether I'm puking into a paint bucket or screaming into their ears at a concert.

Monday, July 12, 2010

To My Father

Tonight I cannot sleep.

This weekend my best friend's father was in an accident which almost proved fatal. For several hours it was uncertain if he would survive. Thankfully, he's made incredible progress and he will be returning home tomorrow. Tonight I laid in bed and thought about how it would feel to lose my own father. Sadly, sometimes this is the only way we learn to appreciate something: when it's gone. I couldn't bear to lose my father without letting him know how much I truly appreciate everything he does, so I dedicate this post to him.

Dear Dad,
It's been quite a year. I moved into my first apartment, had my first real boyfriend, and traveled overseas for the first time. I've changed a lot, but you've supported me through it all. I've grown up since my freshman year of college. I no longer depend on you and Mom to bring me home when I'm homesick. Instead, I call you weeping and beg for advice. You're always right, by the way. You were right about the boys. About how they don't know what they want and I should just focus on my studies for now. Eventually, I'll find the right guy. He'll know just how amazing I am.

You funded my month-long trip to Italy because it was something I had dreamt of doing since I was little. While there, I called you several times a week, even if it meant paying a dollar a minute to share my experiences. I couldn't help but think of you when I visited the Vatican, because you always talk about how you were an altar boy, about wanting to rekindle your Catholic roots. I thought of your Angels & Demons references and took pictures of sights I remembered from the movie. I stood in St. Peter's and wept at its beauty and thought of how you'd probably do the same.

You're always thinking of us, but we never demonstrate our affection. When we complained of being bored at the beach last summer, you planned a nature walk. All we could do was whine about how early it was, but I secretly enjoyed learning about the alligators at Kiawah. I'm like you in that respect. I inherited your love of learning.

You're always the first person I call when I have good news: when I was invited into Pi Delta Phi, whenever I have a grand new idea (even if it's kind of half-baked), and whenever I get excited about my future plans. You've always shown enthusiasm for whatever I do.

When I said I might want to switch from Literature to International Studies, you supported the idea, even though it meant an extra year's tuition. Whenever I plan some international trip, you're the first person to approve it and send me on my way. If you're wary, it's because you don't trust the crazy people in this world. It's not because of me.

Even when I do really crazy, stupid things (like wreck my car), you forgive me. You say, "It's not because you're a bad driver. It just happens." You're always willing to defend me even when I know I've done something unforgivable and dumb.

Now it's midnight. I hope I have the guts to give this letter to you. I have trouble expressing myself to others, which is why I became a writer. If I do give you this, don't show Mom. She might get jealous.

Your daughter,

Tuesday, July 6, 2010


I spent this weekend at the beach with my family. We watched fireworks and felt the sand shift beneath our reclining bodies. I met a blue-eyed Parisian waiter who spoke to me in French.

On another note, I'm feeling a little overwhelmed right now. As the fall semester approaches there are a few things I need to get worked out. It's been hard being productive this summer because I've been vacationing every few weeks. I need to decide if I want to keep my Creative Writing major. If I do, I need to begin the application process, which means I need to really focus on writing daily. However, I'm not sure if that's what I want to do.

In addition, I need to prepare for France in the spring. However, the school site to which I'm applying is in French, so I have to translate the instructions. Ugh. I really don't want to think about all of this right now. I feel like I've lost a lot of my focus this year. My freshman year I was so unhappy but I was incredibly diligent with my schoolwork. Now that I have a social agenda I don't want to do my work. I really don't know what to think. I hope I shape up before school starts.

Sunday, June 27, 2010


Emily and I picnicked on the floor of her dorm. We drank wine and ate peanut butter and jelly on crackers. I don't recommend the combination. Sarah came over and we left.

Stephanie texted me and said she saw Daniel at a party and he dropped my name. I asked what he said and where she was, but she never responded.

We headed over to T-Bo's for the second night in a row. I referred to him as T-Burr the entire night and sat on the couch watching Michael Jackson music videos and feeling the room spin. I chatted with an attractive boy named Alex and apologized repeatedly for being intoxicated. He kept assuring me everything was fine, I shouldn't be embarrassed.

Emily kept giving me ice water to help sober up, and we went outside on the breezeway. She and a friend from home, Jordan, talked about ass-to-mouth until 3 AM and Sarah was smoking and screaming about how she hates cuddling after sex.

One of the basketball players has been soliciting me. He wanted me to visit him at the Grove, but I had already decided against becoming a whore.

When we left, I gave Alex a hug. T-Bo was sweet and asked, "Are you sure you don't want to get her another glass of water? It's free."

This morning, Emily and I ate breakfast downtown. We had french toast and sweet tea and talked about how much we loved Asheville. I hated to leave. On the way home, Stephanie called to apologize for not texting me back last night. She told me about seeing Daniel and how she accused him of still liking me because of "this look in his eye."

"Oh my God, Stephanie." I said. I declared her my hero and smiled until I got home.

Saturday, June 26, 2010


The night began on a bad note. Emily and I sipped beers and watched a sub-par 90s film. We got drunk on terrible Ingles wine. Later, Sarah joined us. Her friend was having a get-together at the Grove, so we went over. She introduced me, said, "This is her first time drinking in the States!"

They thought I was exotic and proceeded to ask where I was from. I explained I had just returned from Italy. Sarah and Emily disappeared, and I had an intense conversation about world travels with a guy who had been in the Navy. Thirty minutes later, the guys left the apartment, so we had to relocate.

Sarah, Emily, and I wanted food so we traveled to McDonald's, then BK, then IHOP, where I concentrated on eating Nutella crepes and guzzling ice water. It was 1 AM and we were laughing. Emily addressed the waitress as "Hey, girl."

We were obnoxious, but it was kind of nice to finally be that girl who's having fun and not giving a shit.

Thursday, June 24, 2010


Last night my friends threw me a surprise birthday party in Johnson City. Michelle was there, which was completely surreal. I hadn't expected to see her until our Montreal trip next month. But it was a good surprise, of course.

After taking shots and sipping wine, we drunkenly walked to a nearby park. I got on the swing set. My dress fluttered above my thighs and I squealed as I took flight. It was dark and quiet.

"This is so good." I said. The breeze seemed to melt on my skin. I pumped my legs until the view below-so small, so fast- gave me chills.

"It's like the last innocent thing, you know?" I said. I felt like everyone was writing me off since I had guzzled three glasses of wine, but I was being serious. Swinging in the summertime, my heart ticking, my bare skin in the wind, it all felt so good. The sensations were innocent. I didn't think about them, I just let them happen.

Later, I passed out on a power chord in Michelle's apartment. I slept on the hardwood floor by the window so the breeze would dry my sweat. I woke up at 8:30 to meet my personal trainer this morning. I powered through another tough work out. I wasn't sure I'd be able to run laps with a belly full of wine but I surprise myself sometimes.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

I No Longer Give a Fuck about an Oxford Comma

I'm seriously considering dropping my literature major. I no longer love reading, and it's a shame because Barnes & Noble used to be my haven. Now I buy books but never manage to read them. I recently wrote a note on Facebook entitled "On Literature" which outlines how I feel about studying literature. Basically, school really took the joy out of it. I wanted to be a creative writer because I love stories: fabricating them, sharing them, and hearing them. I love how Paradise Lost made me feel the first time I read it, how there's nothing better than enjoying a good novel past 3 AM, how satisfying it is to finish another book, shelf it, and choose another. But I haven't felt this way about reading for several months now.

I also miss writing. Since I finished my novel two years ago, I haven't been able to write another long fiction piece. My attention span is too short. I've written a few things in my writing workshops, and I'm proud of some of them. But when I write now, all I can think of is the criticism in the back of my head. What's the point in writing if I know it will never be good enough? Do I really have the courage or resilience to spend months- even years - on a project, only to be dissatisfied in the end? I miss writing and having fun with it. I still love creating characters and stories, but I cannot communicate them on a page. And isn't that what a writer does?

I'm still in love with the spirtual aspects of literature. I know how powerful words can be. I love that you can manipulate them to make someone cry or laugh or sigh. I love that, and I love experiencing those emotions when I read a good story.

Damn. I don't know what to do. In a perfect world, I would drop literature for International Studies, because after traveling to Italy I know that I want to continue studying French and foreign languages. However, it's too late now. I will never graduate on time if I switch. Besides, I'm almost done with literature so I should just finish it. After all, the classes honed my writing. Maybe this is just a phase. I hope it is.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010


I've been in Italy for the past month, and I cannot begin to recap the adventures I've had there. I wish I would have brought my computer so I could have blogged overseas, but we traveled from city to city and I didn't want to carry any extra luggage.

The trip effected me in a way I cannot describe. I climbed the Alps and its beauty restored my faith in the goodness of the world.

The people with whom I traveled, once acquaintances, soon became my close friends within days.

In a monastery, I got drunk for the first time and showed the nuns my underwear.

I racked up 80 euro bar tab (about $150) with my friends and ran through the streets of Rome with a belly full of cocktails to make the curfew at the monastery.

I stood in St. Peter's Basilica and wept.

I learned I speak perfect French when I'm drunk. Resume material??

I got sick of hearing Italians say, "Americani." Am I that obviously American? I can't be. I almost didn't make it through Italian customs because the officer thought I was Italian, not American.

The night before we left, I wept for hours. In the bar. In the befriended's shopkeeper's store. In my friends' arms.

I miss Italy.

Friday, May 14, 2010


My fortune cookie read: Prepare yourself for a change of events in your personal life. Naturally, I applied it to my imminent trip to Italy.

Soon enough, however, I received some bad news. I was disillusioned once again. I have expectations. Everyone does, and when they fall through, it hurts. It sears. Though disappointment is frequent and natural, we cannot help but build our hopes up again and again, because we as humans crave happiness. We want to believe things will work out. Sometimes they do, and we cling to these realized dreams. But when they don't work, we must endure painful disillusionment. This has been the topic of my writing for the past year.

Yesterday, I dealt with selfish humans. Who treated me like shit at the scene of an accident. Today, I was disillusioned by the reality that sometimes, relationships don't work. Sometimes two people cannot be together even if they've tried. You know, we build hope in each other. There's this never-ending cycle of climax and resolution. Joy and pain. At this realization, I sat in my car and wept for the human race.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Human Nature

Humans suck. They are a greedy, selfish, disgusting species. Who else hurts and kills others solely for the pleasure of another's suffering? Or to further their own fortune?

I consider myself an escapist. I became a writer because I loathe reality. I'd rather believe people are good, true love reigns, and the impossible is possible. Reality tells me otherwise. It whispers nasty things.

When I start to lose my faith in humanity, there are those people who comfort me when I cry, who buy me pizza on a bad day, who make me smile with a compliment, who sacrifice their time to be with me. I grasp onto these people because they're the most essential evidence of goodness in this terrible, terrible world.

Sunday, May 9, 2010


I'm hurting. I'm happy, but my past is hurting my future. Past relationships have tainted my prospective lovers.

I'm a romantic. I want to travel across the country to see my soul mate, but I don't want to be disappointed. Am I too serious about this? What if this person doesn't feel for me the way I feel for him? Why must I fall so quickly? I wish I could be more flippant. I'm so tired of being hurt.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Here Comes The Sun

Things are gonna be alright. I can tell.

This weekend I went to Merlefest with Sydney. We went to concerts, sipped frozen lemonade, and licked powdered sugar from our sticky fingers. While there, I forgot about everything.

Saturday night, a sexy Irish band played and we headed to the dance tent, where bodies jumped and crashed into each other. My laughter was inaudible against the drums and accordions.

A snapshot:
I'm mid-air, my hair exploding as I leap. I glisten with sweat.

We fell asleep to the sound of banjos. With blisters on my feet and the sun in my face, we danced, we sang, we lived.

Monday, April 19, 2010


I'm far too acquainted with Nissan Altimas. This isn't necessarily a good thing. Why?

My first car.
My first boyfriend's car.
My first wreck.

My first boyfriend, my first wreck. Oh, how they relate!

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

I Am Beautiful

It's been a rough day. Actually, it's been a great week. But my ex is being a dickhead and I don't deserve it. In response, here are all of the reasons I'm incredible and, thus, much too good for him.

1. Je parle français.
2. My hair? Fabulous.
3. I've made Dean's List every semester.
4. I'm saving my virginity.
5. I'm one of the only girls who can wear four-inch heels daily without complaint.
6. I've lost 17 lbs since last summer.
7. My boobs are perfect. I'm a perky 34C.
8. I can juggle a double major.
9. After I graduate, I'm going to Princeton.
10. John Mayer totally saw me in Lousiville...

Monday, April 12, 2010

Phone Number

I'm sitting, drinking black coffee at 11:11 PM. Make a wish. Fuck that. Make a change.

Let's start over. I'm sitting here with some random boy's number scribbled on my hand. He stopped me while I was pumping gas and told me I was beautiful.


"Not anymore." I said, grinning.

"Here's my number. Call me?"

"Hmm." Nope.

The attention was nice, much-needed after the recent plummet in my confidence. Still, I will not resort to picking up boys at gas stations.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

My Stupid Mouth

I made an ass out of myself last night at formal. I was in the car with my date, Aaron, and Laura and Jaime, who are friends with my ex-boyfriend. Aaron was giving me shit about being a John Mayer fan so I yelled, "DANIEL!"



Thursday, April 8, 2010


There's a boy in my fiction class who looks like Holden Caulfield. He was even kicked out of private school, so of course he's my type. He started talking to me after we sat together at a poetry reading on campus, and we've been chatting ever since.

"You should test the waters." Taylor said.

Jennifer and Michelle acted as enablers and urged me forward. "Do it." they said.

No, I shouldn't! He is bad, a bad boy. Christ, what is it about me that attracts bad boys? It's because I'm good. I smell sweet, so they come thirsty like mosquitoes to sweat in the summertime.

And so it begins...

Wednesday, March 31, 2010


There's something inhumane about our human instinct to relish pain. I watched a relationship crash and burn. Daily. And then, finally, I walked from the plumes with ash in my hair. 

I continually compare envied loves to my own fucked relationship. Why??? WHY.

To extinguish my emotions, I've thrown myself into my work. Maybe one day at Princeton I'll look back and learn not to hate him. I'll learn that, maybe. One day, in a nearby summer, I will dance through Italian meadows, cobblestone streets, and learn to forgive. Until then, I'm just learning how to deal. And once again I'm suspended. Suspended somewhere between hurting and healing, between a relationship and the freedom I once craved. I'm too hurt to love, too lonely not to.

Monday, March 29, 2010


I've arrived at the anger stage of my grieving process. I'm angry because he's sharing experiences with other girls, and I'm not welcome anymore. Angry because he hasn't called. Angry because two humans can coddle and love and days later, they aren't speaking. They're just a figment of a shared past. And I'm angry at people for asking about it. And for not asking about it. Angry at myself for still crying, for checking his Facebook, for losing my sense of self-worth, for not feeling beautiful anymore. Most of all, I hate that I got my heart broken. This wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't, I swear.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Tissue Paper Dress

Taylor, Sydney, and I went to a party hosted by the Literature Club last night at one of the professor's homes. Everyone sat around sipping Sake and eating Korean food. It was a nice contrast to the usual fraternity parties. We spoke of the classical references in Paradise Lost instead of strong white liquids in sippy cups.

Afterwards, Michelle and I wore saran wrap mini dresses to a Sigma Nu ABC party. For the amount of effort we spent dressing ourselves (with Taylor's help), the party sucked. Few people dressed up, save some guys in bed sheet togas and a hefty boy in an inner tube.

None of the guys approached me. I stood yawning in the corner. We left and I remembered that old, familiar feeling of rejection. On the ride home, I sulked in my tissue paper dress.

Friday, March 26, 2010


I hate endings: songs, movies, relationships, you name it. But I suppose an ending is necessary for a new beginning.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010


Daniel and I ended our relationship. We cried because we knew it was right.

And wrong.

10 PM: Michelle takes me to buy a collection of Bukowski poems and another copy of The Catcher in the Rye. Taylor calls me in the store, "Are you okay?"

I sob in the literature section.

"Daniel's middle name was Holden, I thought it was a sign." I say to Michelle. I suck an Oreo mint milkshake and reminisce.

Next time it will be better.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

John Mayer, Walk Me Through This One

Sundays always depress me, especially when it rains.

I cry, say, "In the past year, I've experienced more emotion than I have in my entire life. Only the poets understand." I'm always making these literary allusions, and I can't help but wonder if he'll miss it when I'm gone.

Friday, March 12, 2010


Years from now, when I narrate my life to new generations, I won't remember the chapters I forgot to read. I'll remember the first boy I ever fell in love with and his blue eyes. I'll remember feeling beautiful and walking hand-in-hand with my best friends or driving through the rain at midnight, laughing and shoving french fries in my mouth. We magnify what's important to us. Fuck the rest.

Sunday, March 7, 2010


Okay, lately I've become obsessed with the web's newest voyeuristic craze: ChatRoulette. It's simple. The site connects you via webcam to strangers across the world. If at anytime you become bored or (more commonly) disgusted with your partner, you "NEXT" them, and they're gone forever. While Chatrt has become a forum for perverts and their playful, raw parts, I have met a few interesting people.

A Tunisian guy named Wjadi wanted to marry me.
I talked to a film student in Dallas for two hours before I was disconnected and lost him forever.
I've practiced French with a few Frenchies.
A military man from Nova Scotia talked to me at 6 AM when I couldn't sleep. He showed me his flannel underwear, told me how incredible they were.
Last night I stayed up until 5 AM talking to a college freshman from Paris. We're now friends on Skype, and he opened up about his relationship, how the last time he saw his girl was a year and a half ago. He can't even talk to her on the phone, but he's waiting until she turns eighteen (in two years) so they can be together. Now that's love.

There's something fascinating about talking to a stranger. You can be totally honest, because, hey, they don't know you. You may never see them again. And if things get too unbearable and you find yourself too vulnerable, you can always say, "Next." I wish this applied to reality. When you become too close to someone, when you know you're on the brink of heartbreak, I wish you could say, "next" and that person would be gone forever without the risk of pain, of instability, of being so connected to someone that you forget about yourself and adhere to them completely.

Monday, March 1, 2010


I don't remember where or or when or how I fell in love. If it was between the CD racks at Best Buy or the three-second intervals between radio songs, I don't know. It could have happened beneath the shadows of my ceiling, late at night, when you slept beside me and I listened to you breathe. It might have happened as my door creaked shut behind you, after you said goodbye, kissed me quickly, and left. Was it between the folds of my linen curtains? As they rustled in the winter wind while your fingers traced my ribs? It could have happened at half-time or between our first and second date or between Saturday night and Sunday morning. Maybe it happened in the blue glare of the television as we kissed in the hot, dark living room. How or when or where I fell in love, I do not know, but it happened. And it aches.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

All You Need Is Love

In this room, I watched a relationship bloom and break. It ended the same way it had begun: with music. We both cried, tried to fix it, but I eventually handed him his Beatles anthology and his copy of Revolver. We hugged one last time, and as he put his lips to my head I heard him gasp, felt him quake.


Lael spent the night with me. I took a Loritab to fall asleep, but I only dreamt of him. I awoke, forgot about our ended relationship, and wept. I want him back. I don't feel the liberating relief that always comes with a breakup. He was incredible, and it's impossible to keep myself from calling him and begging him to come over. I'm going to give it a few days, see if we can salvage it. He said, "Maybe after you go to Italy, my job will be straightened out, and we'll see what happens." Maybe, Daniel Smith, maybe, but I want you now.

Sunday, February 21, 2010


I answered the door in a green men's button-down and a pink lace bra.

He asked, "Whose shirt is that?"

"It's a boy's shirt." I replied coyly.

"Yeah. Whose?"


I've given up swearing (yeah, right) and self-deprecation for Lent. No self-loathing for forty days? I flip my hair, say, "Easy."

Sunday, February 14, 2010


Friday I should have been reading Madame Bovary, got manicures and pedicures with Jen instead. It was flurrying when I met her, but it flurries every goddamn day here, so I didn't worry about it. We went to Ingles, bought pizza rolls and soy milk, and spun out on Merrimon. I shifted into first and crawled up the hill to campus, where Emily told me to stay. I spent the night with Jennifer in her dorm room. We ate peanut butter Oreos and stayed up until five watching Jersey Shore reruns.

On Saturday, Daniel and I celebrated Valentine's Day since he had to work today. We went downtown to Carmel's, but the sidewalks weren't salted so I stumbled through the snow in peep-toe platforms. Mistake? Daniel just shook his head and asked, "Why?"

Afterwards, we hung out and went to my apartment for the night. Edgar, my roommate's high maintenance Siamese, clawed at the bedroom door. In my red lace bra and boxer shorts, I chased the damn cat into the living room.

I'm spending the morning eating Russell Stover chocolates and reading the literature I neglected this weekend. Happy Valentine's Day!

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Lucky Day

I bought a lime green vibrator. Sarah and I sipped vanilla bean frapps and drove through the rain.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Milkshakes, A Little Too Sweet

Saturday night: Syd and I sip peanut butter banana milkshakes and Cokes from the drive-thru. I hit a raccoon with the Land Rover on the way to the apartment. All weekend I feel the lingering sadness of the previous night's meltdown. As a result, I stay in with Syd, Jordan, and Michelle. Lael arrives at our doorstep with a bottle of wine and demands we fix her Easy Mac. We sit on the floor as I dangle pretty harlequin lingerie from my fingers.

Look, look! La Perla....blah, blah, Valentine's Day!

I didn't expect to see Daniel, but Lael calls him and he heads over after bar-hopping with his friends. I sit on his lap and laugh, make him spend the night. We're up until 3 AM.

Sunday: He comes over again and I write a paper on Keats and cry when he asks me what's wrong. We sit there for awhile, his hands on my thighs as I grip a tissue and catch tears in my hands.

"I don't know what's wrong. Everything...I can't put my finger on it. I'm just sad." I say.

We talk. And I hold his hand when I walk him to the door.

Friday, February 5, 2010

I Am Only Certain that I Am Uncertain

Tonight I had my bi-annual mental breakdown. Michelle found me in the fetal position on my bedroom floor. Emerald tears stained my pink cheeks.

"I'm dying." I didn't know how I felt. I really didn't.

Michelle sat beside me and held my hand. She said, baby, baby. I gazed at where the blue sky wall met the shadows of my ceiling.

"Do you want to go to Cook Out to get a milkshake?" She asked me.

"I can't. I'm too fat!" I climaxed into another fit of tears.

"Are you laughing or crying?" Michelle asked, giggling.

"My dad thinks I'm fat." I sobbed.

After another fifteen minutes of rolling around on the floor, we snatched Hannah from her bedroom and drove to Cook Out. I couldn't finish the milkshake, but I ate the cheese fries. I am still unable to accept the snow, so I wore boxer shorts and Uggs with striped knee-high socks.

And then I was okay.

Monday, February 1, 2010


Today, my boyfriend shoved Revolver into my hand and told me to listen. I grabbed it and said, "I guess you'll have to read Paradise Lost." I see it this way: a rock album for the boy who scans music shelves and kisses me on the jaw; an Edenic tragedy for the girl who shuffles on campus sidewalks and clutches literature to her cleavage.

We talked past midnight. Our heads were flat against the bed and parallel to the chalky ridges on the ceiling. He told me of a broken heart in springtime. I smiled, said, "A year ago...funny how things change."

Tuesday, January 26, 2010


Last night: it hurt. Trembling, I rolled over and asked him, "Do you believe in God?"

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Au revoir, 2009!

Haikus to capture my '09. Short and deliciously sweet!

Glasses bow and girls
in sequin dresses snicker
at fresh adventures.

Hot-lipped kisses, gasp!
I sleep alone and devour
warm, foreign phrases.

Silver clouds loom in
dark-eyed nostalgia. Damn!
Tears spew, uncovered.

Rich, white men corrupt the world.
America's dead.

Bare skin against sand
and one sapphire ocean,
too cold to fondle.

Vanilla cigars
pollute the park with candied
teenage rebellion.

He craved that goddess,
but jungles and diamond seas
made her disappear.

A raven-haired girl,
hot from fading summertime,
bathes in newfound pride.

Alabaster men
Tip cups of crystal liquor
and women scurry.

Chinese poetry,
Rain on the fog-stained window,
and I yearn for him.

I flutter in white
as a blue-eyed boy whispers,
"Be mine" and kisses.

Good girls clutch their hearts
in their hands. Fingers loosen
when the belts come off.