my sister, the mean one, pulling my hair

Wake up. Go to class. It's critique day and I'm not an art major. Sad boys grow up to be accountants. Meanwhile, I'm in the bathroom cutting the string off a tampon. "Oh wow, you deal with disasters." He talks in speeches. I laugh too loudly. Car air always feels more fake than non-car air. No one seems tired and I am reminded that I have so much more life ahead of me. "Once you were seventeen. Now you are not." Somehow I have fooled the whole room into believing in me. Sweaty in a new space.

I can't walk home alone at night. There are so many other things to sing about besides being lonely. Or cold.

En route. A woman with ten butterfly tattoos on her back. I spend the next two weeks spitting out gossamer wings. I wonder if my uncle goes to strip clubs and what type of patron he is.

In a dream, Lauren calls, "I'm proud of you for being everything I'm not - everything I'm afraid of." Why does every holiday feel like the last supper? Look oily; smell peonies. Sitting next to her in a car that reminds us both of our father, she is seven months pregnant, but I take up more space somehow.

"Keep him still," an operator spits.  

"I know what you did Carol! I have an attorney. You better watch yourself!"

I am barefoot on summer grass and he is not still, so when I ask myself how I got here I already know the answer. As always, in the film version, they love each other. Hand holding throughout suburbia. Move your lips and say nothing. I edit out their voices and place my tongue in their mouths. That way no one can disappoint me.

In my dream, the love doesn't run out. In my dream, I am not barefoot on the lawn.

My name's not Blurryface and I do not Care what you Think

It's December of 2015 and I have officially been back in this country for a week when I declare out loud for the first time, "I've got to do it. I can't take it any longer!" My friend looks up from where she sits and warns me of what happens when girls end things with their long-term boyfriends: They start sleeping with randoms from their past. We both explode at the intrepidity of such a suggestion.

"Hey, whatever happened to that sad sap that hit on you when you were a literal baby?" she drags out the words, emphasizing how long ago this must have been.

I pause, completely unaware of with whom she is referring.

"Grog Shop." "Andrew Jackson Jihad." "L.A. Grange." She probes me.

"Ohhh, dude I don't know. Probably lost his hand in a warehouse accident."

"I just sent him a friend request," and she bursts into a roaring fit of laughter.

I smile at her sloppily, half smirking, half you better-be-kidding. This babe's probably the most prude person I could comfortably associate with and the thought of her hooking up with a random dirtbag is well...exactly the type of behavior I perpetually encourage her to participate in, historically to no avail. Not to mention, I am utterly in awe at my girl's ability to retain this asshat's name for so many years.

So, a few days later, when my phone chirps with a new friend request I nearly slap my friend square in her face. You didn't I want to scream. But then I remember, my bitch is back in California and punching her in the face is isn't really an option at this point, so I proceed asking myself only, "Will this make a good story? Will this be interesting to deal with?" There's this perfect two week window before school begins again and between working full time in a *gasp* office job and applying to every internship known to humankind, this presents as a comical fourteen day distraction. I saw his band play (an inaudible discombobulated mess) and spent a night in an unfinished bedroom where even the darkest of dreams go to die. Staring blankly and unable to identify why, I remember declaring, "I feel weird."

Then, something truly strange happened. My phone chirped yet again. It was a text from...him. Frankly, I was confused. Why can't guys understand when a scheme is well, over? Did I not specifically ask you not to remember me? But in his hasty abandonment of stock character behavior, I was overwhelmed by the few endearing traits I had collected the previous night, or as Margaret Atwood reminds us, "How easy it is to invent a humanity, for anyone at all. What an available temptation."

I made some joke about T. Swift's "Clean" being about finally washing the Lorain grime off your bod and slowly my fourteen day distraction became erm...more than fourteen days. I was going to be in town for a sewing job and we talked about the possibility of meeting up again, but when that blew up into insane proportions, I wished you well, went back to school, and was on my way. So, imagine my surprise when I walk into a local concert venue to see a whiny band that a friend from high school used to play with and I see this punk. Actually, my first thoughts are that I am hallucinating because somehow that seems more likely. We went three years without ever running into each other before, why now? When you sleep with so many men (sorry mum) they all start to blur together. Was it you who declared a love for the band headlining this shitshow? Why did their name sound so goddamn familiar?

And suddenly it hits me. Why I had felt weird the night I spent in that bed; fucking him was like fucking my high school self. And no, I do not just mean in the awkwardly timid way in which his gangly body moved, but in the manner in which fear dictates every single aspect of his human existence. Fear of navigating a new city. Fear of economic insecurity. Fear of forming new relationships. Fear of unscrewing the bottle cap of years of emotional suppression. Cozy in a twenty mile radius of his hometown he wrote songs about detachment with the same ol' cronies he grew up with. Shrugging apathetically in a perpetual declaration of indifference, he actively avoided opportunity and instead choose to trade every last drop of potential for a guaranteed lifetime of misery. Although music was the one thing his eyes semi-lit up for, the sheer possibility of unrecognized effort left him completely unwilling to devote any time or ability to anything. His band barely practiced, avoided promotion and was in a near constant lineman shift. Fail proof ego protection, sure, but I wondered if such doubt paralyzation had him biting his fingernails in the shower or waking up beneath steady streams of cool sweat. The whole chain-smoking habit made perfect sense now.

Like any opportunity presented in the last three-four years, he tiptoed around, actively avoiding eye contact and pretending not to see right through me. I did not really experience any surprise, for he essentially did the same thing months ago, hiding behind SMS screens and unanswered plans, but I was thoroughly amazed at his awkwardness, his institutional inability to behave like a cordial adult. Although an apology was far from what I wanted, “I’m sorry I made you unhappy,” were the only words he could fumble through trembling teeth. I did not feel embarrassed or humiliated or burdened by wasted time, I just felt sorry. Sorry that there are 24 year old men who have not dated since high school, who are controlled like puppets by the supposed horror of uncertainty, and who stage run-aways to avoid having to confront any sort of raw human emotion.

"I feel sorry for you," was all I had to offer.

Perhaps I am the one who owes you an apology. Sorry for seeing through your defenses. Sorry for believing in you. Sorry for having expectations of basic human decency.

Ten days clean, you were the first man I locked lips with in sobriety, and three years later, you were the first fuck after the official ending of arguably the most unfulfilling relationship of my lifetime. The beauty in such a cosmic continuum juxtaposed next to the reality of your fear made this whole experience exponentially more tragic. How foolish I was to believe you would allow me to do for you what you have done for me.

Two cars pull away, driving in opposite directions, each filled with a gaggle of laughing single-sex adults. I imagine the conversations that pour over, men foaming at the mouth, each eager to offer a misogynistic joust. Crazy. Bitch. Our car only shakes harder at the audacity. Sometimes when men are so incomprehensibly pathetic in their cowardice, all you can do is laugh and put on a lil’ show for your gal pals. Here’s to being fearless, aye?

Thank you for saving me twenty bucks in bleach and blue hair dye because why dye your hair blue when you can scare men away with your heart alone?

A Quick Word on Why Blogspot Matters.

It was senior year, I was slowly shutting the door to high school and tugging open a new one. I found myself anxiously burdened with the personal crisis cliche when "What do I want to do with my life?" transitions from a thought exercise in English class to a practical question. Bored, alienated, and craving an outlet, I convinced myself that the best way to answer that treacherous question was to go public about who I've been and who I now was. Shortly after, TheOnyxClam went public. Going public forced me to stop worrying, take a stand, and have a freaking opinion.

My writing for TheOnyxClam, not my Blue Ribbon wanna-be prep school background, taught me how to develop interesting angles for posts, emphasized the extent of my passion for writing, and proved I could follow topics with consistency and do my research. Most importantly, however, my blog writing, has taught me I am capable. It serves as my first glimmer of hope that the sum would be greater than its parts when I merge my writing skill and personal experiences with my political beliefs.

TheOnyxClam is the first public online space where I truly felt my opinion mattered. Before, I'd been one of two young women, either guilt-stricken and whimpering "Aw, I'm not smart like those women. I don't know enough about this" or, angsty and cynical with statements like, "Who the fuck cares what I think?" TheOnyxClam proves that I do know and people do care. Learning that has been more influential than anything else in regards to me becoming whole again. My blog strengthened my self-efficiency, serving as a springboard for the acquisition of resilience and courage.