The next time that the four of us were at a show was in the spring, once again to see MCR, but this time, their friends Bleed the Dream were also playing. It was a mini festival produced by the same guy who put together Warped Tour. Being as uncool as I was, I didn’t realize until they explained it to me later that this music industry big wig was the guy we had spoken to in the parking lot who looked way to old to be at this show and dressed that way.
While we were in line this time, we were very early, but at least it was cold, so it wasn’t so bad. We were in good spirits, trying to make conversation with the roadies as they passed with equipment. I wound up striking up a conversation with a guy with platinum blonde hair and leopard print pants who had carried by an equipment case with Veruca Salt written on it. I asked him if he was in Veruca Salt because I didn’t think they were supposed to be there, and he said no, their band had just bought it used and never bothered to paint over it.
He wasn’t a roadie; he was the lead singer of Opiate for the Masses, a metal band out of Phoenix. A little more conversation revealed that he and I could very well be cousins. And just like that, I had my cool points. I had a really hot cousin that I never knew about who was the lead singer of a metal band. What was really great was that he played along. He even introduced me as his long lost cousin once or twice.
This time, I was able to be right up front for MCR, and it was awesome. The only bad part about what was otherwise a really great concert was the fact that I am 5’3” and when you are in the front and people are crowd surfing, it’s your job to push them over to the security guards. That doesn’t work out so well when you are shorter than everyone else around you because your height creates a hole and the crowd surfers fall on you.
Therefore, I’m not a real big fan of crowd surfing, but I’ll admit that some of that could be angst that I’ve never been able to do it, because I’m kind of heavy (not that that stops some people). I understand why you would want to do it, and I even support your right to. I don’t even mind if you want to do it more than once at the same show. It’s your right and I’m pretty cool about it – until the same 15 year old in hot pink and black striped mall punk clothes nearly breaks my neck by falling on me for the 15th time during the first set.
At that point, I have to wonder who the assholes are in the back that keep picking her up are and why they are doing it. After you come over my head ten times, my patience with you wears thin and I’m not inclined to be nice anymore. I have been known to punch people as they pass over my head, or to grab a handful of love handle or back fat and twist. I don’t mean to be a bitch, but it get aggravating. But maybe I’m just mad because I’ve never done it. One day I’ll see if it’s all it’s cracked up to be.
The last time that I saw the three of them at a show was that summer at Warped Tour. We had big plans to go to Voodoo Fest in the fall, but, ya know, Hurricane Katrina kind of fucked up those plans for everyone. Warped Tour was interesting. I didn’t pal around with them, I had brought my friend Shelly and she and I hung out that day, although we all met up to see MCR and Opiate for the Masses. I was really impressed that Ron remembered me and even more surprised when he cried “Cousin!” upon seeing me. Finally, a little street cred.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Friday, June 1, 2012
The First Time I Saw My Chemical Romance
The first time I saw MCR, they played in Orlando. I am going to take this opportunity to tell you that I hate driving to Orlando from Crescent City. I have driven across states and the trip to Orlando is still one that I hate. It’s not that long, only about 2 hours, but there’s the toll road, I never have change, and it’s just a really boring drive. Drivers are mean, there are more traffic related deaths on that stretch on I-4 than on any other stretch of road in the country, and I am always terrified that I’m tempting fate every time I go down there.
I like to be extra cautious and give myself plenty of time to get to wherever I’m going. I left at 1 and arrived at 3. Whitney, Melissa, and Aila were already there. For several hours, it was just the four of us sitting on the sidewalk outside of Hard Rock, talking and catching up. I had brought my makeup with me because I knew I would have plenty of time to work on it while I was there. After an hour or so of waiting, I broke out the eyeliner and got to work. I was looking at Whitney who was to my left, while holding a compact in one hand and the eyeliner pencil in the other. I was blather on about something that I can’t even remember, and Whitney interrupted me,
“Joyce,”
“Hang on, I’m not finished.”
“Joyce!”
“Shut up, give me a minute.” I should have noticed that she was looking over my shoulder, but I was too busy with the makeup and with what I was saying.
“What?!?” I finally replied as I exasperatedly put down the eyeliner.
She pointed over my shoulder. I turned to see several figures walking around the corner. I looked at Melissa.
“Well?”
“That was MCR.”
My black rimmed eyes grew wide. “What?”
“Yeah, they came out the stage door. They were standing right next to you, but you wouldn’t shut up and they left.”
I was mortified. Mortified. I had almost had a “Whitney Moment” and I fucked it up. That was only the beginning of my troubles though.
As we were so early, we managed to get a spot right in front of the stage when the doors opened. As any concert goer knows, you wait to be let in, and then they make you wait for the show to start. Well, by the time that I had waited in that sea of bodies for half an hour pressed into the security railing, I felt like I was going to faint, and of course, that made me feel like a complete and utter pussy.
I tried to hold out, I really did. I don’t think I even made it to the first band before I had to leave. I remember watching a now disbanded group called Letter Kills from the balcony which was surprisingly both open to the general audience and empty. The singer from that band had a tambourine and never stopped moving during their whole set. I was impressed.
A couple of other less memorable bands played, and I was bored . . . then MCR took the stage. From the balcony I could see everything, and I was further mortified to see Gerard lean over the rails, microphone in hand, and sing with Whitney, Aila, and Melissa during the chorus of “I’m Not Okay”.
I should have been there. It should have been me. I was never going to be as cool as them. I was a wimp. I couldn’t hack it in the pit. I sucked.
After their set, we all decided to leave. No one liked the headlining band, and by this time it was around 1 or 2 in the morning. I thought I was just tired, and we were all going to get a hotel together, but no one would rent to us, so I set out for Crescent City alone. I just wanted to go to sleep. I was hot, and I felt as though I would pass out any minute.
Like so many other times, I miraculously made it home and went to bed, covered in sweat and smeared makeup. In the morning I didn’t feel any better. Thus began my month long battle with the flu that included burn orange pee, laxatives, sleeping pills, and vicodin.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Dear Friends and Gentle Readers,
I know that I've been going on about being more positive around here, but that's not really being authentic. I have been having a hard time emotionally, and it's really not in me to thing of pleasant or informative things to write about. Thankfully, the name of this blog is "First Person Narrative" and as such, I feel that I am able to forego actual blog posts for a while and just share some of my writing with you.
In March, I shared with you an excerpt from a larger essay I wrote about going home and visiting the cemetery. Over the next two weeks, while I do some serious self-care, I am going to share the rest of this story with you. I hope you enjoy it.
xo,
Uranium J
Click here to read the first part of the essay.
Click here for Part 2.
Click here for Part 3.
Click here for Part 4.
Click here for Part 5.
Click here for Part 6.
Part 7
After I passed their grave I walked straight back to the far side of the cemetery, stopping at the fence that didn’t used to be there and walking to the right along it until I came to the grave of John Mathis. John Mathis was someone who I had never known but who I used to always visit when I was at the cemetery. I hadn’t been to see him in ten years or more.
He was a boy who had been in the marching band several years before me and who had played the same instrument I did: The trumpet. He was very smart, had a scholarship to a great school, and everyone had nice things to say about him. I always got the idea that he was the all American Boy Scout that every mother secretly hopes her little man will some day become.
He died a little before my dad, and their tombstones were only a few steps away from one another. After my dad died, John Mathis and I became friends because I could deal with a young man I had never known a whole lot better than I could my dad. Being boy crazy at the time, John Mathis and I had a scenario as well, although I can’t remember a whole lot about it right now. I’m pretty sure that it involved roses and me having a car.
I was always more interested in putting flowers on John Mathis’s grave than on anyone else’s. I thought it might comfort his mother to see flowers on his grave from someone she didn’t know. Or maybe I just liked the idea of having a dead boyfriend. What’s more romantic than that in a totally Goth way?
I never did give him any flowers though. As a matter of fact I never put flowers on anyone’s grave. There’s a part of me that talks to tombstones when I am wandering around in the cemetery. That’s the part of me that apologizes when I was walking over someone’s mortal remains. The part of me that skips from head stone to foot stone to plot marker in order to not step on someone out of “respect”. I think this is just some custom I learned from someone somewhere along the way and it’s become so engrained in my being that I can’t not do it.
There’s another part of me though, that knows no matter how much I want there to be a place in the ether where all the people I love are gathered and where I will someday join them in the sweet by and by, that place is not six feet under. There is nothing beneath those headstones but dirt and wood and bones. They cannot hear me. They do not care if I step on them and they don’t care if I put flowers next to a piece of granite bearing their name or if I don’t even slow down as I drive past.
But I care, and tomorrow I am going to buy flowers.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Part 6
Dear Friends and Gentle Readers,
The whole community came together to raise money for the funeral. Burying one person is neither easy nor cheap. To bury five people at one time who had no insurance would have broken the survivors. News crews descended on the little town of Lake Como where the tragedy had occurred. My best friend says that he remembers the news trucks blocking the road in front of his house.
The older little girl had been a year behind me in school. I had seen her around, but didn’t really know her. My mom was friends with the grandmother which is why we were at the funeral. Apparently, she was the first babysitter I had ever had. I don’t remember it, having been a baby, but I was there to pay my respects all the same.
There were hundreds of people at the graveside service. The local funeral home barely contained all the caskets during the viewing. In later years, as I began attending more and more funerals in that space I marveled at how they could have fit five caskets in that space with all the flowers (and there were flowers, let me tell you) when it seemed that one casket barely fit. Granted, three of them were small.
I remember going to see the bodies, and trying to be stoic about it all. It’s not as though I had never seen a body. My mother was always very open about death with me and by that time I was a funeral veteran. I don’t think I was able to keep my composure. It was a tragic thing and even as a third grader, I could understand that.
I was looking at little girls younger than me. They weren’t supposed to be in coffins – they were supposed to be playing with Barbies. And their daddy had done this to them. That’s a lot for an adult to digest. I remember being haunted by them for a while afterward. Even though I hadn't known them in life, they were with me in death. Ghosts were no longer fun characters in books about the civil war – they were little girls who just wanted to play with their daddy.
I know that I've been going on about being more positive around here, but that's not really being authentic. I have been having a hard time emotionally, and it's really not in me to thing of pleasant or informative things to write about. Thankfully, the name of this blog is "First Person Narrative" and as such, I feel that I am able to forego actual blog posts for a while and just share some of my writing with you.
In March, I shared with you an excerpt from a larger essay I wrote about going home and visiting the cemetery. Over the next two weeks, while I do some serious self-care, I am going to share the rest of this story with you. I hope you enjoy it.
xo,
Uranium J
Click here to read the first part of the essay.
Click here for Part 2.
Click here for Part 3.
Click here for Part 4.
Click here for Part 5
Part 6
The whole community came together to raise money for the funeral. Burying one person is neither easy nor cheap. To bury five people at one time who had no insurance would have broken the survivors. News crews descended on the little town of Lake Como where the tragedy had occurred. My best friend says that he remembers the news trucks blocking the road in front of his house.
The older little girl had been a year behind me in school. I had seen her around, but didn’t really know her. My mom was friends with the grandmother which is why we were at the funeral. Apparently, she was the first babysitter I had ever had. I don’t remember it, having been a baby, but I was there to pay my respects all the same.
There were hundreds of people at the graveside service. The local funeral home barely contained all the caskets during the viewing. In later years, as I began attending more and more funerals in that space I marveled at how they could have fit five caskets in that space with all the flowers (and there were flowers, let me tell you) when it seemed that one casket barely fit. Granted, three of them were small.
I remember going to see the bodies, and trying to be stoic about it all. It’s not as though I had never seen a body. My mother was always very open about death with me and by that time I was a funeral veteran. I don’t think I was able to keep my composure. It was a tragic thing and even as a third grader, I could understand that.
I was looking at little girls younger than me. They weren’t supposed to be in coffins – they were supposed to be playing with Barbies. And their daddy had done this to them. That’s a lot for an adult to digest. I remember being haunted by them for a while afterward. Even though I hadn't known them in life, they were with me in death. Ghosts were no longer fun characters in books about the civil war – they were little girls who just wanted to play with their daddy.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Part 5
Dear Friends and Gentle Readers,
Of course neither he nor his mother lives in that orange house now. When I was there today I looked across the street and you couldn’t even see it. The shrubs near the front door had grown so large that they obscured everything but the steps leading up to the porch. I noticed this as I was making my way to the Catholic part of the cemetery to visit Heather. While she was such a big part of all that had gone on, I never imagined that I would be paying her a visit from six feet topside. She was there for all of it. I know that she had to have listened to my William scenario more than once and I had invented a future for her as well.
I decided that if things didn’t work out for me and Will, I was going to take a road trip to Hollywood with her and George after he got a car (he was almost 16, so this could work) and I was going to woo Christian Slater. We were going to move back to Crescent City and his mom was going to buy us my dream house – a huge Victorian mansion on the lake. Heather and George would get married and live in Jacksonville. I would have an airboat and take the river to visit her while Christian was away making movies. When she came home to visit me and her family, she would stay in the yellow house on Randolph Street that I had bought her and drive around in the yellow car I had for her to use. Being married to a famous movie star, I would have enough money to make all this happen. This was before Christian Slater was officially B-List, by the way.
As I was making my way back to the car, I noticed a large pink granite headstone and remembered the first time I was ever in that cemetery. I was standing with my mom and my aunt Ida and Uncle Gene underneath the oak tree that now shades my dad’s grave. It was April and I would fall in love with Christian Slater that very night as I watched Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves on the movie of the week.
But at that moment I was standing with my family in attendance at one of the biggest funerals that Crescent City had ever seen. People still talk about the Phemachik murder. A man killed his three little girls, his wife, and his mother in law with a shot gun on the last day of the sheriff’s vacation, about a week before Easter. Sheriff Taylor Douglas came to work that Monday morning fresh from a few days off to a scene of heartbreaking senseless carnage.
I know that I've been going on about being more positive around here, but that's not really being authentic. I have been having a hard time emotionally, and it's really not in me to thing of pleasant or informative things to write about. Thankfully, the name of this blog is "First Person Narrative" and as such, I feel that I am able to forego actual blog posts for a while and just share some of my writing with you.
In March, I shared with you an excerpt from a larger essay I wrote about going home and visiting the cemetery. Over the next two weeks, while I do some serious self-care, I am going to share the rest of this story with you. I hope you enjoy it.
xo,
Uranium J
Click here to read the first part of the essay.
Click here for Part 2.
Click here for Part 3.
Click here for Part 4.
Click here for Part 2.
Click here for Part 3.
Click here for Part 4.
Part 5
Of course neither he nor his mother lives in that orange house now. When I was there today I looked across the street and you couldn’t even see it. The shrubs near the front door had grown so large that they obscured everything but the steps leading up to the porch. I noticed this as I was making my way to the Catholic part of the cemetery to visit Heather. While she was such a big part of all that had gone on, I never imagined that I would be paying her a visit from six feet topside. She was there for all of it. I know that she had to have listened to my William scenario more than once and I had invented a future for her as well.
I decided that if things didn’t work out for me and Will, I was going to take a road trip to Hollywood with her and George after he got a car (he was almost 16, so this could work) and I was going to woo Christian Slater. We were going to move back to Crescent City and his mom was going to buy us my dream house – a huge Victorian mansion on the lake. Heather and George would get married and live in Jacksonville. I would have an airboat and take the river to visit her while Christian was away making movies. When she came home to visit me and her family, she would stay in the yellow house on Randolph Street that I had bought her and drive around in the yellow car I had for her to use. Being married to a famous movie star, I would have enough money to make all this happen. This was before Christian Slater was officially B-List, by the way.
As I was making my way back to the car, I noticed a large pink granite headstone and remembered the first time I was ever in that cemetery. I was standing with my mom and my aunt Ida and Uncle Gene underneath the oak tree that now shades my dad’s grave. It was April and I would fall in love with Christian Slater that very night as I watched Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves on the movie of the week.
But at that moment I was standing with my family in attendance at one of the biggest funerals that Crescent City had ever seen. People still talk about the Phemachik murder. A man killed his three little girls, his wife, and his mother in law with a shot gun on the last day of the sheriff’s vacation, about a week before Easter. Sheriff Taylor Douglas came to work that Monday morning fresh from a few days off to a scene of heartbreaking senseless carnage.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Part 4
Dear Friends and Gentle Readers,
I know that I've been going on about being more positive around here, but that's not really being authentic. I have been having a hard time emotionally, and it's really not in me to thing of pleasant or informative things to write about. Thankfully, the name of this blog is "First Person Narrative" and as such, I feel that I am able to forego actual blog posts for a while and just share some of my writing with you.
In March, I shared with you an excerpt from a larger essay I wrote about going home and visiting the cemetery. Over the next two weeks, while I do some serious self-care, I am going to share the rest of this story with you. I hope you enjoy it.
xo,
Uranium J
Click here to read the first part of the essay.
Click here for Part 2.
Click here for Part 3.
Click here for Part 2.
Click here for Part 3.
Part 4
He said that he couldn’t believe that I had never been kissed before.
That was in December of 1997. Everyone was going to see Titanic and “My Heart Will Go On” was everyone’s favorite song. We were outside of the bathrooms that are no longer standing in Eva Lyon park under a flickering streetlamp. My best friend Heather and her boyfriend George were on the other side, most likely making out. That’s what people did, after all.
It was cold. I don’t remember a winter that cold since. He was gorgeous. I had Elton John’s newest single “Something about the Way You Look Tonight” running through my head the whole time, because he was beautiful that night – all blue eyes and dark hair (in that 90s style that looked so good on Christian Slater in “Untamed Heart”) and he smelled like heaven.
I don’t know what the hell he smelled like – I’ve never been able to identify the scent in all these years – I’ve begun to wonder if it was just raw pheromones or something – but anytime I catch the hint of it in the air I am a good as done for. If you are interested in getting me into bed, let me smell that and I’m all yours. I know that my husband would love to have that magical potion at his disposal, but it’s a mystery even to me.
I was the luckiest girl in the 6th grade so I thought and I couldn’t wait for Monday to roll around so I could tell all those preppy bitches at school what I had been up to over the weekend. Oh? You’re going out with Andy, are you? Weh-heh-hell, I have a high school boyfriend. Eat shit and die, I am going home and watching Broken Arrow – that’s right – an R rated movie – and then I’m having phone sex with my boyfriend. Ciao bitches!
Yeah that worked out real well when I had to eat crow on Tuesday cus he broke up with me.
I’m sure you can now see how I let that whole rose/cemetery/ stalker thing get a little out of hand. What’s sad is that there I was at very important funerals in my young life – my surrogate grandmother – and two weeks later my dad’s – thinking of how I was going to get out of this one horse town on the coattails of a guy who couldn’t be bothered with me unless I had lust on my lips and he had his dick in his hand. Adolescence and naivety might as well be the same word.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Part 3
Dear Friends and Gentle Readers,
Even before people in my life started dropping like flies, the cemetery was an important fixture in my mind because I knew that William lived across the street. I was ticking off the days on the calendar until I got a license so that I could park in the cemetery at night and pine over him. I didn’t think this through though – he was three years older than me and would be long gone in the Army before I even got a permit, and anyway, that was stalking, and not even normal crazy high school girl stalking – but creepy weird Goth cemetery stalking.
I had this idea that I was going to stake out his humble orange abode every night from the confines of the graveyard, most likely writing bad poetry by the dashboard light. Once I figured out when I was least likely to be discovered, I would steal into his yard and anonymously leave a single red rose on the hood of his car. He would suddenly acquire clairvoyance and know that it was me and that my love was true and pure and faithful and unending.
He would sweep me off my feet and we would move somewhere far away and have a great studio apartment like on Friends and have lots of eclectic people around us with whom to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas (so that we would never have to come back to Crescent City, God forbid). I would make fantastic feasts for our bohemian crowd and my mom and dad would come to break bread with us. Then, after the guests had cleared out on these holidays we would wrap ourselves in warm blankets
Even before people in my life started dropping like flies, the cemetery was an important fixture in my mind because I knew that William lived across the street. I was ticking off the days on the calendar until I got a license so that I could park in the cemetery at night and pine over him. I didn’t think this through though – he was three years older than me and would be long gone in the Army before I even got a permit, and anyway, that was stalking, and not even normal crazy high school girl stalking – but creepy weird Goth cemetery stalking.
I had this idea that I was going to stake out his humble orange abode every night from the confines of the graveyard – most likely writing bad poetry by the dashboard light – and once I figured out when I was least likely to be discovered, I would steal into his yard and anonymously leave a single red rose on the hood of his car.
He would suddenly acquire clairvoyance and know that it was me and that my love was true and pure and faithful and unending and he would sweep me off my feet and we would move somewhere far away and have a great studio apartment like on Friends and have lots of eclectic people around us with whom to celebrate thanksgiving and Christmas (so that we would never have to come back to Crescent City, God forbid) and I would make fantastic feasts for our bohemian crowd and my mom and dad would come to break bread with us. Then, after the guests had cleared out on these holidays we would light black cherry candles, wrap ourselves in warm blankets and our love, and make love on the floor as the rain fell outside.
Sometimes we would go to the roof of this fantastic apartment building I had constructed in my mind and dance to the sounds of the bars that wafted up from the street below. We would live together in delicious sin in a city that I am pretty sure was either New York or Seattle considering the massive amounts of cold weather and rain this daydream had woven into it. I would be a famous writer and he would do whatever it was that insanely attractive incredibly smart older men do for a living. We would have a Turkish Angora named Nefertiti who would take long naps on our burgundy comforter. We would drink tea and have the kind of sex that people had in the movies that involved moving in slow motion and kissing as though you were going to consume the other person’s entire existence and become part of them with the lightest brush of tongue against theirs and the gentle pulling of their lips with your own.
I had a very active imagination. And he was my first kiss.
I know that I've been going on about being more positive around here, but that's not really being authentic. I have been having a hard time emotionally, and it's really not in me to thing of pleasant or informative things to write about. Thankfully, the name of this blog is "First Person Narrative" and as such, I feel that I am able to forego actual blog posts for a while and just share some of my writing with you.
In March, I shared with you an excerpt from a larger essay I wrote about going home and visiting the cemetery. Over the next two weeks, while I do some serious self-care, I am going to share the rest of this story with you. I hope you enjoy it.
xo,
Uranium J
Click here to read the first part of the essay.
Click here to read Part 2.
Click here to read Part 2.
Part 3
Even before people in my life started dropping like flies, the cemetery was an important fixture in my mind because I knew that William lived across the street. I was ticking off the days on the calendar until I got a license so that I could park in the cemetery at night and pine over him. I didn’t think this through though – he was three years older than me and would be long gone in the Army before I even got a permit, and anyway, that was stalking, and not even normal crazy high school girl stalking – but creepy weird Goth cemetery stalking.
I had this idea that I was going to stake out his humble orange abode every night from the confines of the graveyard, most likely writing bad poetry by the dashboard light. Once I figured out when I was least likely to be discovered, I would steal into his yard and anonymously leave a single red rose on the hood of his car. He would suddenly acquire clairvoyance and know that it was me and that my love was true and pure and faithful and unending.
He would sweep me off my feet and we would move somewhere far away and have a great studio apartment like on Friends and have lots of eclectic people around us with whom to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas (so that we would never have to come back to Crescent City, God forbid). I would make fantastic feasts for our bohemian crowd and my mom and dad would come to break bread with us. Then, after the guests had cleared out on these holidays we would wrap ourselves in warm blankets
Even before people in my life started dropping like flies, the cemetery was an important fixture in my mind because I knew that William lived across the street. I was ticking off the days on the calendar until I got a license so that I could park in the cemetery at night and pine over him. I didn’t think this through though – he was three years older than me and would be long gone in the Army before I even got a permit, and anyway, that was stalking, and not even normal crazy high school girl stalking – but creepy weird Goth cemetery stalking.
I had this idea that I was going to stake out his humble orange abode every night from the confines of the graveyard – most likely writing bad poetry by the dashboard light – and once I figured out when I was least likely to be discovered, I would steal into his yard and anonymously leave a single red rose on the hood of his car.
He would suddenly acquire clairvoyance and know that it was me and that my love was true and pure and faithful and unending and he would sweep me off my feet and we would move somewhere far away and have a great studio apartment like on Friends and have lots of eclectic people around us with whom to celebrate thanksgiving and Christmas (so that we would never have to come back to Crescent City, God forbid) and I would make fantastic feasts for our bohemian crowd and my mom and dad would come to break bread with us. Then, after the guests had cleared out on these holidays we would light black cherry candles, wrap ourselves in warm blankets and our love, and make love on the floor as the rain fell outside.
Sometimes we would go to the roof of this fantastic apartment building I had constructed in my mind and dance to the sounds of the bars that wafted up from the street below. We would live together in delicious sin in a city that I am pretty sure was either New York or Seattle considering the massive amounts of cold weather and rain this daydream had woven into it. I would be a famous writer and he would do whatever it was that insanely attractive incredibly smart older men do for a living. We would have a Turkish Angora named Nefertiti who would take long naps on our burgundy comforter. We would drink tea and have the kind of sex that people had in the movies that involved moving in slow motion and kissing as though you were going to consume the other person’s entire existence and become part of them with the lightest brush of tongue against theirs and the gentle pulling of their lips with your own.
I had a very active imagination. And he was my first kiss.
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