“So if you speak to a woman who is otherwise occupied, you’re sending a subtle message. It is that your desire to interact trumps her right to be left alone. If you pursue a conversation when she’s tried to cut it off, you send a message. It is that your desire to speak trumps her right to be left alone. And each of those messages indicates that you believe your desires are a legitimate reason to override her rights.”
– an excerpt from Phaedra Starling’s “Schrödinger’s Rapist: or a guy’s guide to approaching strange women without being maced”
I laughed out loud when I read this. It’s the Tinder profile of Donnie, 25.
Thank you, Donnie.
“I propose that we each get to ask three questions. They can be anything. And then after that, we decide if we want to meet. You in?”
“Definitely. I’ll go first.” Continue reading
My job was boring. I was a staff scientist at an environmental consulting agency, and per the instructions of my overbearing manager, Angela, we used AIM Pro for intraoffice communications. I also used it for personal correspondence.
“What would we name our kids?” Eli asked me one day over instant messenger as I mindlessly entered potential clients’ information into a spreadsheet.
“I don’t know… I could see us having a daughter.”
“I’d love a daughter. But you know I’d be so protective.”
“Not as protective…”
We both laughed.
He continued, “You’d come home one day and ask where she is, and I’d be like, ‘Um… She was right here,’ and we would go out and see her eating tomatoes in the garden.”
“Who eats plain whole tomatoes?!” I laughed.
“I did! She would get it from me!” he insisted.
“She’d have pigtails.”
“And your green eyes.”
“Green eyes aren’t inherited, they’re a mutation.”
“Whatever. She’d look like you.”
“I like the name Abbie.”
“But hyphenated with something.”
The weird thing about the digital era is that you can fall for someone, really fall for them, without ever meeting. Not in an obsessive fan-fic way, but with very deep, true, invested emotion. Continue reading
The first chapter was easy, describing how we met and how it started.
I don’t know how many chapters it will ultimately be. I haven’t even gotten to the really fucked up shit yet. For the first time in a long, long time I find myself crying about it.
While I write it, I’m emotionless- I’m trying to search for the right words to make you feel what I want you to feel. But then after, I read it over and it hits me- this is real. It happened. It happened to me.
How do you deal with the emotions dredged up when you write memoirs?
No, really, that’s not rhetorical, I’m asking you. What do you do about it?
There wasn’t much that I could eat without getting sick, so Eli boiled plain white rice while I sat on the couch trying to avoid eye contact with Lucy. She was still mentally confined to the corner but following our every motion with her eyes, and would occasionally whine gently or optimistically wag her tail in the hopes that she would be released.
Eli exited the kitchen with a bowl of rice for me, a glass of neat scotch for himself, and joined me on the couch. I nudged him and gestured toward the dog, but he ignored me and turned on the television. After a while I asked if I could borrow his laptop to e-mail my parents and let them know I had arrived safely. I browsed the Internet and ate my rice while he sipped scotch and watched the news.
When we were both ready for bed, he finally allowed Lucy to move and give me my greeting, commanding her “COME!” as we walked up the stairs to the bedroom. She wasn’t allowed on the bed, but after nearly licking my face raw with her ebullience, she settled on the floor and we climbed under the covers. Eli spooned me from behind, one hand cupping my butt and the other resting between my breasts.
In the morning, Eli told me he wanted to show me something. He led me downstairs to his study and asked me what I thought. Continue reading