strange musings of a distracted spunk

Settling in is a lot harder than I thought.

It doesn’t help that my body has fine-tuned itself to fall asleep between eleven and twelve, and rise before eight. Further exacerbated by my now religious ritual of driving my sister to the bus. There are three cats waiting to be fed when I wake up, and sometimes, this involves them sitting on my head. Or at least being outrageously flirtatious and allowing me to pick them up for a few seconds longer than they’d normally allow. To be fair, we’re still not sure what the youngest cat thinks she is; her “sqgurks” and “-ehp” sends me into hilarious laughter every time.

But my room is significantly messier here than it was in Berkeley. Maybe because I still haven’t found a proper home for everything yet? Here, my past, present, and future all collide. The Care Bear I used to carry with me as a child. The black and white cat my stepfather gave me when I had surgery. The brand new dress I bought for my birthday party on Friday. I struggle, feeling slightly like an unwilling archaeologist, accidentally digging up the artifacts of my time. There are memories stored in every pocket, every corner, every box and bin and yaffa block. Most of which, I had put aside for the time being.

I have to borrow my sister’s earring rack for the time being, which is a bit of a struggle, seeing as I have over eighty pairs of earrings and hers can only fit about forty of mine. It’s strange accidentally glancing at the headless earring mannequin that holds six of my earrings, but seems to wonder where her head went. In a lot of ways, I feel as though I can relate.

The job hunt is not having it. I wonder if I need to dress myself up - professional clothing to yield professional results? More often than not, I sit at my parents’ makeshift dining room table in pajamas, scrubby hair and face, and bemoan the lack of publishing jobs that I’m actually interested in applying. The job industry is one that far forgets the long-term effects of positive reinforcement. Just a single, “We’re interested,” would be lovely; proof that all those cover letters and proofreads are worth my time.

But the thing that hits the hardest is…when I wake up, everyone else is still asleep. It used to be that when I woke up, everyone on the East coast was bustling away, starting on their day, and I would have plenty to keep me distracted. Avocado and I were on the same time zone, Thailand was always up before bed, and I could begin my day-long conversations with my friends. GDB would have invariably dropped a line or twenty. Now, I wake up to several lines from GDB who has this uncanny poor timing of signing on after I fall asleep. I blame the central time zone. I wait for everyone else to slowly wake up, get their coffees, churn their minds, while I’ve been sitting and wondering what to do today for the last two hours.

It’s a strange feeling, feeling so purposeless. I feel as though I should try to make sense of my new room (for it is new; my parents moved into this house a year ago. I’ve never lived here; only visited.) I feel as though I should foster better relations with my three cats. I feel as though I should be writing a book or more stories or just writing in general. And instead, when someone asks me what I’ve done today, I can only answer, “I’m not sure.”

Is this what coming home means?

Edit: Good news! I just found out I am published in You’re Not the Only One, a book that dedicates its profit to the non-profit group, Warchild! Additionally, several other spectacular authors are published, including the ever-lovely Hope. Buy it here!

-Why does Macy’s Wedding Registry keep sending me e-mails? Do they think I might be a customer soon? They have wild aspirations.

-My parents’ smallest cat makes noises like a robot. I’ve never heard anything like this, and I end up cracking up every time I hear a “Sqgruk.”

-It’s kind of nice having a shower that works. My apartment in Berkeley was excellent at being temperamental in temperature and pressure. This is why I often took baths.

-I’ve been shaving for at least twelve years. So explain to me why a chunk of my right leg is now missing?

-Kyle XY is quite a spectacular show, and they need to come out with the season 2 DVD ASAP. (We started watching this in the islands in Thailand. This is geek chic; who needs to go out and socialize when you can watch a boy without a belly button!) Also, why is Lisa still on Top Chef? And why did my family forget to DVR the last two weeks of So You Think You Can Dance? At least I get my dance fix tonight! *cheers*

-Twould be lovely if I could stay awake past 10. Last night I passed out at 9:45 pm. This does not bode well for my alertness at a bachelorette party on Saturday night.

-I’ve lost an inhaler, an earring rack, and 50 yen. Each one of these are in a different country. Awesome.

-When I invited D to come to a party next week, he said, “Are you sure it’s okay if I come? Won’t your friends want me to die?”

-GDB makes me laugh. He can stay for a bit.

-Family barbecues with mine and Thailand’s family are super fun, especially because he and I finish each other’s sentences and would tell stories and giggle hilariously. Also, I am craving a hot dog like no one’s business.

-One of my easiest snacks is a ketchup sandwich in a hot dog bun. My mom used to have to have my camp counselors take them away from me if I made that, but I’m such a picky eater sometimes that instead of picking at my food, it was easier to make a ketchup sandwich! I don’t know why it hasn’t caught on more.

-I think my hair is redder in California than it is in New York or New Jersey.

-I’m actually kind of digging not doing anything this week.

I could write about the tan line on my left wrist, of the shadow of my silver and turquoise watch now imprinted on my skin.

I could write about the mosquito bites tracing a trail along the side of my right leg, verbose in its catalog of places I’ve traveled.

I could talk about the elephant’s ear flicking off my left shoe and causing me to jump in my seat, and the boy who tore lemongrass from the ground for me to smell.

Or I could write about wading into the Andaman sea, the water and sand working its way over me, leaving sand and water on my shirt, shorts, everywhere.

I will leave tomorrow, with my right leg and left thumb scraping wounds of a motorbike accident in which I almost got run over by four cars. I will say goodbye to monkeys walking on phone wires and girls in burquas sitting sidesaddle and texting. Somehow, Thailand is a place where technology and tradition meet somewhat incongruously. Seven tier waterfalls with swimming pools so clear, you can see the fish swimming near the surface. Incidentally, these same fish are more than happy to nip at you once you jump in. Green rivers humming with mosquitoes, trees leafy, mindful of the sun, the kind of sun that you go out for ten minutes and come back with a fierce burn. Tuk-tuks chugging along the crowded streets of Bangkok, clamoring for a passenger, lights flashing as though there should be a whistling tune sung along. Have I ever seen such a place?

This is Asia. Or Southeast Asia as Thailand would be quick to correct. Where whitening cream can be found in every 7-11 on every corner. Where ladyboys are quick to interpret for me when a cashier cannot understand my simple request. Where cabs are neon, signs are neon, and the sky is choked and polluted, a clogged artery left untouched. Yet the sunsets here are dazzling, simply because of all the gases in the air. This is where you cannot enter a building without being pushed or harangued or crowded. There’s no concept of personal space here, and indeed, my bubble has been violated many times over. This is where my white white skin and my red hair make me the unintended subject of many stares. When did I become what other people want to be?

I don’t know yet that I will come back. The beaches of Thailand, so much of it altered from the 2004 tsunami seems pristine, as though this is how the world was one thousand years ago, and this is how it will be for a thousand more. The silence on an island, so unlike the deafening crush of this overwhelming city calls my attention, of infinity pools and islands far out at sea. Mangrove trees and houseboats, wild animals everywhere. Who knew they had cows in Thailand?

I never thought I could feel so overwhelmed in a city; I’m from New York damnit! But this city, this area is a whole world in and of itself. The jungle, the bridge over the river Kwai, the elephants and tigers we pet and sat with, the dead gecko lizard in the floor of our hotel room last night; this is not New York. The super malls and the plush movie theater seats with recliners and blankets and pillows, the sexpats and their Thai prostitutes, the glass and the steel, the gold and the Buddhas, and my god, the stray cats and dogs everywhere! I’ve never seen a place where everything fits so perfectly, and clashes so discordantly. I feel as though every time I walk down the street, I am history and future at once, present gone out the window.

This is Thailand. And this is my farewell.

-I am a good wingman. For gay men. I met several Americans, Englishmen, and Canadians, and chatted them up, dragging Thailand into the conversation when I could

-We went to a bar where it was all teak wood, lounge-type furniture, a small little carriage seat in the middle of the lounge, stone horses hanging from the ceiling, ponds, steps, palm trees, etc. It was so inherently Asian, yet I cant quite put my finger on what made it so Asian. I was just super excited.

-On Sunday night we went to a gay bar named DJ, which is supposedly one of the hottest gay bars in all of Asia. We got there in time for the ladyboy show. Basically, the Thai culture is super accepting of transvestites and even have multiple terms for them; we recognize them as transsexuals, but they call them transsexuals or kathoey. I’m told the latter is more of a derogatory term, but the premise is that some Thai believe that being a kathoey is the result of transgressions in past lives. Anyhow, the ladyboy show featured thai men who had had hormone therapy, breast implants, and perhaps other surgeries done to play up their female side. Thailand has the best gender reassignment doctors in the world. Pea in a Pod pointed out how fascinating it is that a country we Westerners consider to be less…civilized…has more progressive views on gender and sexuality than we do back west.

-Another thing that was so utterly interesting to me was the abundance of older white men with these younger gorgeous Thai men. Thailand has a huge sexpat culture, where it’s easy to get your needs met because anything goes. We would call these situations sugar daddies back east, but here, the emphasis is placed on the boys who are called “Money Boys.” The premise is they agree to accompany the older, and not necessarily attractive white men because the men buy them everything and give them money. It was interesting for me to watch - because when I wasn’t playing wingman, I was watching the crowd.

-Straight girls have no place in a gay club. I got pushed, shoved, and sat on. Twice. Apparently, my vagina makes me invisible. It took me a full five minutes to just get out of the club because everyone kept pushing me out of their way.

-Thai society decrees that every male be a monk at some point in his life, though it can be for as short as a week. Thailand dated a guy who had just finished a three month service in the monkhood. For some reason, it strikes me as slightly ironic, as I typically assume monks to be celibate and heterosexual.

-The gay scene here is HUGE. Granted, Thailand lives near one of the biggest red light districts in the city, where they have live sex shows (which I am also debating seeing), gay clubs, ping pong shows, and more. However, pornography is illegal here. Am I the only one who finds this slightly twisted?

-One thing that keeps overwhelming me is the sheer amount of people. Yes, I grew up in New York. Yes, I’m no stranger to crowded subways. But this is basically like Times Square overload. I often get swept up in a mass crowd of people, on the subway, walking, etc. Sometimes, I find myself almost running to get away from the crowd. We went to this mall called MBK, which is seven floors. And huge. It’s bigger than any mall I’ve ever seen in the U.S., more crowded, and slightly more terrifying. After about an hour there, I began to feel tired and cranky just because there was SO MUCH STUFF and SO MANY PEOPLE. Not to mention, I couldn’t try on any of the clothes because they are meant for tiny, petite Thai girls, and well, let’s face it. I have boobs. And I am not tiny and petite. Asia is giving me a fat complex.

-The temples? Are…amazing. I was more a fan of Wat Arun and Wat Phra Kaew than Wat Pho, though the Reclining Buddha inside was massively huge and impressive. The thing that gets me is I like learning the history behind these things when I’m at these sites. Because it’s easier to match up a story to something that was done, rather than try to remember everything you’ve read or seen beforehand. Even still, just the sheer magnificence of it is stunning. A few pictures!

And finally. Thailand has been seeing more of me than he’s seen since we were babies in the same crib (we grew up together.) He neglected to mention that we would be climbing steep steep stairs at Wat Arun. So I wore a sundress because it’s so ridiculously hot here. Sundress + steep stairs + wind = booty flashing DS. It would have been mildly funny, had it not been for the night before.

See, I had come home early from the club because I was getting a bit claustrophobic with all those people touching me accidentally, pushing me, or sitting on my lap. (Straight girls - invisible. I’m telling you.) I wanted to tell GDB about my experience, so we started talking over webcam. I had just taken a shower, so I hadn’t bothered getting dressed yet since Thailand wouldn’t be home for at least another hour. GDB typically doesn’t wear clothes either. We were talking about Thailand thus far and my experience at the gay club, and I was super hyper, when all of a sudden Thailand staggers in, completely drunk. I’m sitting on his bed naked, GDB is on my screen, visibly naked from the waist up, and Thailand announces how drunk he is. I immediately start trying to cover myself up, GDB is trying not to laugh, and Thailand doesn’t say anything for thirty seconds. Then he says, “Oh. You’re naked. And talking to GDB. And I’m drunk. I’m going to go into the other room.”

I tore a hole in my shorts trying to get them on before running out into the other room. Thailand apologizes for walking in on me naked, and adds, “It took me a few seconds to realize you were naked because I was too busy staring at GDB’s pecs of steel. Also. You have rather large breasts.” I’m not sure who laughed harder, me, Thailand, or GDB.

Two days before we hit up the Thai beaches! (Oh, I am SO excited.)

Ta-da! I am here! And it is…hot. And muggy. And occasionally drippy. Thailand (whom I am visiting and traveling with) said, “The best way to describe it is as if someone took a wet towel and smacked you with it. Repeatedly.” Basically, I just want to take my clothes off all the time. After another fabulous evening, first with my AmeriCorps friends, then with McGee and her man J, I took off for the airport on Thursday morning. 12 hours later, I was in Tokyo. Another 9 hours later (2 hour layover), I was in Bangkok. My observations thus far:

-Watching English movies with subtitles throws me off. Namely, because I’m used to watching films with English subtitles. I kept reading the Japanese subtitles before remembering I don’t read Japanese. It’s amazing how many times I repeated this action before it finally sunk in.

-There was some sort of noodle dish served on the plane. I didn’t pay much attention to what I was eating and the next thing I knew, I was trying not to choke on the wasabi I accidentally ingested. Apple juice is not a good wasabi reliever.

-By the time we got off the plane in Tokyo, I really had to pee. So I went to the restroom. And found a white thing surrounding a hole in the ground. There was slight heart attack-age. But then I found a regular toilet and didn’t have to figure out how to pee over a hole in the ground without splashing everywhere, and balancing a backpack on my back simultaneously. Incidentally, it’s called a Japanese toilet. I much admire Japanese women everywhere who can balance and pee neatly at the same time.

-JAL allows you to keep tabs on where you’re at by providing an in-flight map. It was strange to realize we were flying over the International Date Line. It was zig-zaggy, so I kept waiting for an announcement or some sort of “Whoo! We have just entered tomorrow!” kinda thing, but it never happened. So I waited. And waited. And waited. And eventually, when there was no zig-zag line at the center of the screen, I figured we had entered tomorrow. There was no celebration.

-My method of killing time was to basically say, “And this is how long it took to get to Israel. And…this is how long it took to get to Spain! And…London! Now New York! Now Chicago from San Francisco! Now LA from Oakland!.” This was actually very effective in making me feel better about time.

-Also, JAL? You’re awesome. Putting me in my own row so I could stretch out across all three seats which was actually just the perfect amount of space for all 5′7ish of me was a brilliant idea.

-”Was that your debit card in Thailand this morning?” Always notify the bank when you’re leaving the country.

-I think I may have sprained my big toe on my left foot, and rolled my ankle. This is going to make walking fun.

-Going to the gym less than twelve hours after landing is not always the smartest idea. Often leaves one wanting to throw up and die from sudden jet-lag attack that occurs when your body realizes that you’re on the opposite side of the world and night is day and day is night. However, watching small Thai men bounce around and yell, “Everybody say hey!” with a huge smile on his face during a Body Jam class is infectious. There’s a reason Thailand is called the Land of Smiles.

-Bangkok is a neon city. The cabs are pink, purple, orange and yellow cabs, and when we went to the food court in the mall that the gym Thailand belongs to was in, everything was brightly colored. At that point, I was feeling so sick, it just made me dizzy with how overwhelming it was. He told me to go home before I passed out on a pink display.

-Spirit houses! Everywhere! I keep stopping to look at them and admire the intricacies, while Thailand is like, “Oh. Right. You’ve never seen these before.” *stops and fiddles with his thumbs while I ooh and aah.*

-Speaking of which, it’s…insane how well he’s adapted to being in Bangkok. I wouldn’t have expected a gay Jewish boy from New Jersey to be so acclimated to the area, but he knows exactly where and what he’s doing. It’s kind of admirable, and also strange knowing that someone I grew up with is so…well adjusted to a country so foreign to ours. When we’re in cabs and he gives directions in Thai, it blows me away.

-The tuk-tuks are not meant for tall people. Nor is the subway. I kept hitting my head on the strap you hold to maintain your balance. Those things are slightly painful.

-”Want to go to a ping pong show?” “I love ping pong!” “Um…it’s not the American ping pong.” “What is it?” “Girls shooting things out of their vaginas.”

And that’s a wrap for today. Coming soon on the Thai Adventures of DS and Thailand - Ladyboy shows, the “gayborhood,” three Buddhist temples on a Buddhist holiday, boat rides on the river, Thai beaches, elephant rides, tigers, and more! I still haven’t decided if I want to go to a ping pong show.

Dad: I want names, addresses, and phone numbers of every place you’re staying.

Me: Okay. Thailand says his address is Beach Hut #2, Apartment #3.

Dad: Beach….Hut….Was that number two you said?

Me: Dad. It was a joke.

Dad: Oh. That was funny. You know, women disappear and go into sexual slavery all the time in Thailand.

Me: …Oh god.

A year ago, if you had told me I would someday live in California, I would have laughed at you. A year ago, GDB and I were still circling each other, looking for the chinks in each other’s armor where we could slip through to endeavor forward on the march of relationship being. A year ago, I had a job where I read all day, and then went to class, and while class was getting on my nerves, I loved my job. A year ago seems like a mighty long time ago.

It seems funny to me that the last few weeks have found me struggling with different things. Rebound Boy. Student loans. GDB’s reappearance and subsequent announcements. My asshat of a roommate. Missing my social life from home. Wondering if I was still funny if I never laughed anymore on this coast. Figuring out what I need to do to make school work in the fall. Working overtime and stressing that this wasn’t a job I could do forever. What did I want to do? Declarations of love. Declarations of apathy. I’ve been bending every which way I can, and yet the hits still keep coming.

I taunted fate last night. “What else can you possibly do?”

Apparently, fate always has the last laugh.

I left my office this morning at 9:30. After arriving at 8:30. In that short hour, I managed to send out a few e-mails, schedule a few meetings, and get fired.

You would think I would have better been able to control myself. But there’s only so many times you can hear, “We’re not sure if this is the right fit.” I heard it once before, with AmeriCorps when they couldn’t decide if they wanted me to do more or less, and when I tried to do what they wanted, I failed anyway. I heard it again today, when they said, “You’re fantastic and we love having you, and you’re great at all the things we didn’t hire you for, but you’re not so good when it comes to the things we did.” Meaning, I suck at copying, filing, calendaring, and other basic administrative responsibilities.

I almost laughed. Am I being fired because I have a brain and prefer using it? Maybe it’s because the one day I called out sick last week after working overtime multiple weeks in a row, they panicked and thought I didn’t order their lunches. Am I being fired over lunches? This is almost absurd.

Yet tears still clogged up in my eyes and no matter how I tried to hide them, the red around my now turquoise colored irises gave them away. I was offered tissues. I was asked, “Do you want to talk about anything?”

Is there ever anything to talk about when you get fired?

I left, after it was disclosed that I could stay home for the next two weeks and they would still pay me anyway, until May 7th. I went home. I called my parents. The first time I’ve ever been fired.

On one hand, this solves the whole roommate asshat problem.

On the other hand, what am I going to do between now and school in September?

I cried. I texted my closest friends and e-mailed the ones who could maybe show me some hope. I realized, I now have four months of nothing to kill. So I thought about it.

What if I go to Thailand? And visit my best friend who has been living there for almost a year now? (And try to convince Lisa to get her passport and meet me there?) What if I do the famed drive down the California coast line, scarf blowing and wind in my hair? What if I stay with Avocado a few days in San Diego? And visit friends in L.A.? What if I extend my trip to Seattle to include Vancouver and spend more time with Princess Pointful? What if I drive back across the country in someone else’s car, just driving to see the lands and not necessarily even the sights? I learned in Arizona that I can happily gaze at a cacti-grown landscape for an hour without a single comment, admiring the beauty of such a stark land. What if I make this the road trip I’ve always wanted to take, my laptop my only companion and my thoughts centered on the scattered white lines of the road below?

Suddenly, the paycheck seemed insignificant. My passport flaunted its empty pages, with lands I’ve always wanted to but never have been. It still stings to know I couldn’t make it work here, after everything I’ve somehow endured. But somehow, having this physical escape from the shackles of this life that I constructed here suddenly makes all the difference in the world. Calmly, rationally, I posted all my furniture on Craigslist. I put together my list of things to do before I move. I made some tentative plans for the summer, feeling my way towards some form of income.

It’s not about California or bust anymore. Admittedly, I am hesitant to try my hand in a new city, but I am reluctant to make New York my safety. She should never be anyone’s safety.

In the gears of the landing wheels of a plane, the churning of a bus’s wheels, the quiet rev of a car’s engine, I don’t expect to find any of the answers I’ve been looking for. I know things are going to remain unsteady for a long time, wish as I may it weren’t. But I will find adventure, words on lined notebook paper inspired by my journeys, temporary escape from the things that have weighed heavily on my mind, dancing wind chimes upon a Pacific breeze.

I may not be leaving for a few more weeks, California, but you showed your teeth. And somehow? I know no matter what happens, I’ll land on my feet. Slightly worse for the wear, perhaps a bit battered and bruised from all the curveballs I’ve been hit with since moving here, I’m looking forward to leaving you behind. My story is meant to continue somewhere else.

It’s kind of funny when two of the more significant relationships you’ve had both tell you they’re starting their own blogs and ask for advice.

Both of them know I blog. One encouraged me to enter my writing in a contest his company ran, but refused to read it because he knew some of it was about him. He’s often held that he won’t read anything I write until I’m officially published. I think that was his way of not reading any of the short stories I wrote in college so he could focus more on programming. The other one stumbled upon my blog one day, and only told me about it after I wrote a rather favorable entry about him. It was a bit surprising at first, and I couldn’t decide if I was embarrassed or amused, but then I just decided that it was a part of my life from a long time ago, and we might have differing opinions on how things went down, but ultimately, we did have those shared memories. And obviously, we’re still fond of one another (though he might deign to disagree and instead call me a poppet or some other unwieldy word.) He also instructed that I note that he’s very alluring, sexy, and by all means hot. (His words, not mine.)

I got to thinking though, as I am wont to do, and realized that somehow, between September when I started blogging and now, I’ve sort of amassed a variety of blog friends. Of people that know my true identity and what I look like and more of my day-to-day activities than I reveal on here. Would that betray my call for anonymity to disclose my identity to so many? Thailand and I intend to do a double homecoming in August, at the end of a cross-country road trip, and there have already been offers of couches and floors throughout the country. But with so many people aware of who I am, do I stop becoming Distracted Spunk and start becoming (name?) I almost feel as though DS is a persona I wear, when I want to cull out the deeper thoughts, the unusual rationalities that purvey my mind, though I know in the context of my A.D.D. behavior, most people would have difficulty believing that (name) is also DS.

It was only a few weeks ago where I met someone new and he took one look at me and laughed, citing me as the most distracted person he had ever met. Yet somehow, I feel as though I find a center of focus through this blog, an ability to sit down and ruminate on just one thing and go from there, something I have difficulty doing in real life. I once explained in a job interview that the more stuff you give me to do, the more efficient I am.

And lookit that, I’m getting off track I think. Really, I guess what I was trying to say is that this blog provides an outlet I never realized I needed. What initially started as a practice in writing every day has become a chance to really dig deep, pull out the thoughts that have been swimming around beneath the aorta and underneath my muscles, and renew life into them with a breath of oxygen. When K first mentioned starting his blog, my immediate thought was, do I link to him? That might reveal my anonymity, and there are so many people who would be upset or feel betrayed or surprised by the existence of this blog, of the realization that as lighthearted and cheerful and friendly I may be on the surface, it goes much deeper.

I mentioned my perception of being fluffy to Jack of All Trades. It seems that if there was a word he would never use to describe me, it would be fluffy. I get that I require a brain, really, I do. But I didn’t think I was incapable of being so surface, but then again, I suppose I do hate superficiality. A walking contradiction to last the ages, I am.

Er. New track. Right. So really, I suppose that there’s a reason I started an anonymous blog. I knew inevitably I was going to write about my depression, about my parents’ relationship and animosity, about my sister (which I still can’t muster up the energy to write), about the friendships I’ve lost and the friendships I’ve gained, about the boys I adored and loved, and the boys who hurt me. I never expected this to become what it has, with so many readers whom I’ve grown to adore and look forward to reading each day.

But then I worry about revealing my anonymity. It truly is such a small world. I often wonder what if I’m reading an anonymous blog of someone who is involved with a man who belongs to another, and I’m encouraging her to get involved deeper, only to realize that that man belongs to someone I know. Or someone else I read. How often do our blogging lives cross paths with our real lives and we never know, because we shroud ourselves in anonymity? What if one of my family members found this blog? How unlikely is it that she would find a blog that links to another blog that links to another one that links to me? Would she confront me? Or would she just share it with other family members, until everything I’ve kept so carefully crafted under a wall of “I’m fine, how are you?” spills out like a vase of flowers shattered onto the floor, my protection discarded?

When I started writing, I chose anonymity because it seemed easier. No self-censorship. But it seems in a way, there always will be a sense of “What if?” because let’s face it. The world is a small place, and that includes the world wide web. Inevitably, the real world and blogging is going to collide. K has found me, my old boss has found me, it’s not unlikely that someone else will find me. I don’t mind sharing my blog with close friends, as they would already know much of these thoughts anyway, albeit much more scattered, but it would be strange to find that someone I don’t know as well has been reading my thoughts and learning more about me than I ever have of them.

Perhaps that’s why there’s a sense of safety in putting our lives out there for one another to read, because at the heart of it, we’re all sharing. What does it become when one is just reading, and not sharing? Does anonymity lose its place? Does the power of blogging weaken? I find I’m left with so many questions, and really, all my exes wanted to know was “How did you get started blogging?”

100. I’ve been a dancer for probably longer than I could walk.
99. My parents lost me one night and found me break dancing in a night club on vacation.
98. I was two and a half.
97. I used to do gymnastics too, as well as tennis, until my parents made me pick one activity. I chose dance.
96. Several years later, I ended up doing circus stunts at my sleepaway camp. See: aerial lyra, swinging trapeze, static trapeze, and spanish web.
95. I miss it. Sometimes I look up classes and contemplate running away with the circus.
94. I was a Mr. Rogers girl through and through. Sesame Street was kinda bull, though I did enjoy Big Bird goes to China. Relatively.
93. My childhood room was covered in Rainbow Brite memorabilia. I even have a t-shirt still that says “Sharing is caring.”
92. I also loved My Little Pony and the Smurfs. There used to be a show with animals who had the body of one and the head of another, and I can’t for the life remember the name of them, but I loved that one too.
91. I lost my virginity when I was 16.
90. It was more a sort of…I wonder what this is all about than it was wanting to be with someone I loved.
89. I’m a lefty.
88. I’m one of four lefties in both sides of my family.
87. Both of my grandfathers have red hair, blue eyes, and were born lefty. They both write recreationally, but were taught to write with their right hands. My mother is the only other lefty, but she’s brunette with hazel eyes. She didn’t write; she performed.
86. I wasn’t born deaf.
85. Neither was my sister.
84. But they at least have a strong suspicion why she lost her hearing. I’m just a medical anomaly.
83. We’re the only ones in our entire families.
82. I think my mom blames herself, while my dad blames some doctor he thinks misdiagnosed me.
81. I’m technically third generation American on one side, and first generation American on the other.
80. My dad was born in Israel. It’s made for interesting dynamics.
79. I tend to get bitten by the wanderlust bug often. I’ve traveled to Israel, Spain, Chicago, moved across country, and other places, all rather impulsively. I’ve also traveled to many other places, but those were less impulsive.
78. The first time I fully understood the Holocaust was when I was in fifth grade. It shocked me to realize that I would have been one of the first killed, for my coloring and for my poor vision and poor hearing.
77. It took me another year or two to realize almost all of my paternal grandparents’ relatives were killed in the Holocaust. Including my grandfather’s baby sister.
76. If there were ever one person I’d like to meet or bring back, I’d wish for her so my grandfather would have had her in the lonely years between her death and his next sibling. He might have had a childhood then.
75. I’ve only been in love once.
74. I still am.
73. My first best friend’s name was Ilana. She had a swimming pool in her backyard, and I wrote my first book about her.
72. She moved to Florida when I was five. I saw her again when I was sixteen, on a family trip.
71. Sometimes I think I’ve led a really easy life.
70. Other times, I think I’ve been put through more than most people have, and deserve a fine karmic break for the rest of my life.
69. It still destroys me every time my parents fight. It’s become easier now on this side of the country. I’m nervous to go home because I like not being in the middle anymore.
68. I was a commitment-phobe for the longest time, because I couldn’t imagine ever feeling passionate or interested enough in one person to want to be with them for the rest of my life. I also never wanted to inflict the kind of pain on my children, should I have them, that I experienced growing up.
67. I had a german shepherd named Gingi growing up. It means red in Hebrew.
66. My grandmother calls me gingi calavasa. I still don’t know what calavasa means.
65. My family stopped teaching me Hebrew when I lost my hearing.
64. Some doctor told my parents I’d be lucky if I ever spoke English, let alone Hebrew, and should be locked away so as to not burden my parents.
63. I’m glad they didn’t listen.
62. We used to go to special gala affairs at the New York Aquarium for the League of the Deaf and Hard of Hearing.
61. I will always have a special fondness for the aquarium, even if it is much smaller now than I remember it being.
60. I still sleep with the teddy bear my dad brought back from Boston when I was seven.
59. But only on nights when I feel lonely and cold.
58. I’ve known Thailand since before we were born. I didn’t get much of a choice with him in terms of our friendship.
57. Our moms were each others’ bridesmaids, and we were born a month and a half apart. We’ve been more or less stuck together since then.
56. I’ve managed to sprain at least one ankle once a year, up until I was about twenty one. I’m hoping my streak is broken.
55. Once, I hobbled all over New York City with K as we wandered around, having sprained an ankle the day before.
54. I’ve also managed to step on a kickball and go flying in the air, sprain both ankles days apart, and jam a finger. All in the same summer.
54. Sometimes, I still wonder if there will ever be anything again with D.
53. My mom thought we were going to do a When Harry Met Sally.
52. So did I. We didn’t. And we won’t. But I still wonder anyway.
51. I can find traits of myself in all four of my grandparents, but more presently, in my grandfathers.
50. My paternal grandfather and I could be identical twins if we were the same age and the same gender.
49. We aren’t. So we just argue a lot.
48. I’ve fainted two times.
47. The first was when I was ten, and got a Hepatitis B vaccine.
46. The doctor gave me pretzels and M&Ms with orange juice upon my reawakening.
45. I still remember the taste of all three in my mouth. It was surprisingly pleasant.
44. I don’t recommend blacking out. Everything shrinks, and surprisingly, my hearing was the last to go, even though I could no longer see anything anymore. It was strange relying on my hearing rather than my sight. Then I woke up on the floor.
43. On the bright side, both times I fainted happened to be in a doctor’s presence. The second time, I happened to be volunteering in the ER at the local hospital.
42. I’ve been to the ER several times. Most recently for pneumonia. In the past, it’s involved sprained ankles, jammed fingers, as a volunteer EMT, and lots of x-rays.
41. The first house I lived in was a small row house in Brooklyn, in the middle of the block. We had an alley behind our house.
40. At the end of the alley, a friend of mine lived. He had a treehouse. I would often scale the chainlink fence and hop to the other side to play with him and his brother in the treehouse.
39. While we lived in said house, my sister dropped a radiator on my right foot during a game of hide and seek.
38. It didn’t break, but it was badly bruised. It still hurts when it rains. I was nine.
37. The second place we lived was a two family house across the street from a small park.
36. I never knew how small it was - my mom did the best she could to give us a proper home, despite the recent divorce she had just undergone.
35. It had two bathrooms, adjacent to one another. One black and one blue.
34. I cut my bangs once in the black bathroom, after thinking my hairstylist cut them unevenly.
33. I spent the rest of the summer with the most godawful curly bangs bouncing in front of my eyes.
32. That might explain why I didn’t cut my hair for another five years after that disastrous cut.
31. In high school, the girls sitting behind me would pull my corkscrew curls, just because they liked to watch my hair bounce. Our teacher would yell at them for disrupting the class, or at least mildly berate them.
30. I met Avocado in high school. She wasn’t my biggest fan when we first met.
29. That’s since changed. But we usually have one big fight a year.
28. The only song that can effectively make me cry is “The Trouble with Love Is,” by Kelly Clarkson.
27. I can’t explain why I can understand or hear music in ways that don’t make sense to most doctors.
26. Then again, I tend to come across as a medical mystery in all shapes and forms. When they do my autopsy, they’ll find I have three misshapen hearts, one highway of a vein connecting my body, four overclogged arteries of memories and unspoken thoughts, and one brain that segments itself between my right pinky toe, left knee, left rib cage, right clavicle, and parts in my head where it properly belongs.
25. I’ve been on and off writing a novella/novel for the last four years.
24. I don’t know if it’s going to go anywhere.
23. If I were to be a Disney character, I’d be a mix between Ariel and Belle, with a healthy dash of Abu thrown in. And perhaps a little bit of Rafiki.
22. One of my cousins told me tonight that she loves how I don’t ever express emotion. I laughed and thought, if she only knew about this blog.
21. Neither sides of my family adequately understand me. But at least my mom’s side tries.
20. Sometimes, I feel like I’m living a teenage rebellion now, even though I went through my rebellion phase when I was 12.
19. I volunteered with a first aid squad for two years.
18. While I was there, the guys nicknamed me jailbait. I was a bit of a tease. I ended up tied up and tossed in an empty garbage can by one of the guys who was frustrated with me, because I wouldn’t go anywhere with him. Luckily, Techny Besty pulled me back out.
17. What most of them didn’t know was I was sleeping with a 20 year old and a 26 year old when I was only seventeen. Both of them were on the squad.
16. I don’t know what I want to do or where I want to live anymore. I used to think I did. Now I feel like this country is too small, and they need to build a new city that is the perfect blend of New York, San Francisco, and Chicago.
15. Sometimes I think I will never speak to GDB ever again. And then I realize that I talk to K and D, who hurt me in a way I never thought I’d recover from.
14. I taught myself how to use power point, illustrator, and photoshop in high school, because I was bored.
13. I like teaching myself how to do things. I feel a sense of accomplishment. I’d often rather learn from a book than have someone else tell me how to do it.
12. I don’t think I’m sexy outside of the framework of someone else telling me I’m sexy. I think I’m cute, but I never considered myself sexy until GDB.
11. I don’t struggle from low self-esteem. But I do struggle with overanalyzing everything to death.
10. I tend to feel like a walking contradiction most days.
9. I’m strangely attracted to nerds. My house’s motto senior year was, “I date nerds.”
8. For the longest time, I thought something would eventually happen with one of my old housemates because we had so many sparks. I don’t think it will anymore. His girlfriend was one of my good friends our last year in college. If it weren’t for her, I do sometimes wonder if things would have played out differently. He’s since become a close confidant.
7. I’ve only been high once. I spent the entire time giggling at the three people attempting to paint one girl’s room, all high, as I sat on the bed in the middle falling over with laughter.
6. I learned my harshest lessons about friendship at the camp I went to for seven years. I think it’s one of the main reasons I knew myself so well by the time I got to high school. I had already experienced heartbreak at the hands of those I believed to be my friends the summer before.
5. I won’t ever want to live in the suburbs. But I’m grateful to my mom for moving us out to New Jersey so I saw how much of a world was outside of New York. I wonder if I would have developed such wanderlust if I hadn’t been so bored with New Jersey, and would have missed out on seeing so much of the world. If I do have kids, I’ll probably move to the suburbs for that very reason.
4. GDB was the first person I ever felt like I wanted to marry and start a family with. It won’t be him. But I still want that now someday. I never thought I’d ever say that.
3. I still remember most of the guys I’ve had one night stands with. Mostly because they had some special meaning, or came at a point in my life where it was needed.
2. I don’t regret anything I’ve done up to this point in my life. But I do wish things had happened differently in some cases.
1. I truly believe everything happens for a reason. I just hope to find what my reasons are.

He asked me if I wanted to take a shower with him. The third guy I had ever kissed; the first an unnamed stranger at a teen night, and the second, a boy I met two nights later and greatly resembled Justin Timberlake in his N’ Sync days. I had just started volunteering at the local first aid squad, and he immediately took a liking to me, seeing right through the baggy gray sweats and the oversized blue Billabong shirt, my red corkscrews in a pony tail down to my waist. There was mild flirtation, and a day later, Thailand told me he had been asked for my number.

It had only been about three months since I had met him, and already he had managed to circumvent the beginning of our relationship with the beginning of another - that of a friend named Kim (thus began the Kim complex). Partially bored, partially curious, and partially spiteful, I agreed to shower with him after having made out with him, the newest Scott Bakula Star Trek playing in the background (his interest, not mine.) There was no great passion with him - just mild curiosity.

I’m pretty sure I had my period, but he wasn’t all too worried. The blood could run into the bathtub as we fucked, I gathered. There was no pretension of love or romance - though he did light a few candles, including one memorable Hershey’s flavored candle. I always thought it smelled more like shit than chocolate. Three years older than me, and much more experienced, though how, I don’t know. He had a charm that could woo any girl, despite his pathological lies and his unconventional looks - somewhat resemblant of a squashed fly with beautiful blue eyes and blond hair. A weakness of mine, as had already been foretold.

We tried it standing up, but even at sixteen, I was already three inches taller than him, a full three years older than me. His penis just would not reach my vagina, no matter how hard he tried. I laid down in the bathtub, only to find laying in the bathtub against the cold ceramic tile, my spine pressed against the tub awkwardly and uncomfortably, was not exactly where I wanted to lose my virginity. It seemed I had some conventions after all. I suggested we move to his bed, and after he laid a towel and moved the candles to his room, we tried again.

I don’t remember the kisses, or him entering me. I recall it being slightly pressured, as it is with any guy after a long drought, and then it being easy. He asked me if I was truly a virgin, because it seemed too easy, not painful enough. (Why is it that women are supposed to take on all the pain during sex and pregnancy? Just every once in a while, I’d like to see a boy with a bruised penis or waddling down the street after crazy sex.) Knowing the kind of boy he is now, for he will never be anything but a boy, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gossiped to others that I was a slut because of my ease of entrance - I’m pretty sure I heard stories after I dumped him about my wild wanton ways.

It wasn’t anything cataclysmic or special. It wasn’t until I met GDB that I knew how amazing sex could be - I was aware it could be enjoyable, yes, but never to the point where I couldn’t even pronounce GDB’s name, which is all of one syllable and ends in “oh!” My lovers in the past were quite satisfactory, but I never allowed myself to get emotionally involved to the point where sex could be blissful in its passion. So I lay there, not entirely sure of what I was supposed to do, but having read enough Cosmo magazines and seen enough porn, I figured I should try the whole arched back, bucked hips, legs spread thing. My years of dance and flexibility may have assisted me in the movements.

The whole thing may have lasted minutes or an hour. I don’t actually know. It was more a rite of passage. Once I entered through the archway, I could say, “All right, well that’s taken care of now. What’s next?” I knew early on that my first wouldn’t be my only, and that hopefully, the passion would come later. He pulled out of me, slid the condom off. I sat up, went to the bathroom, and put another tampon in. There were no regrets.