That One Word

He was the most physically perfect human I had ever seen in real life.

Yellow blonde hair. Baby blue eyes. A chiseled face that couldn't have turned out more beautiful had it been crafted by a meticulous sculptor.

But he was filled with hate.

In middle school, that hate was directed at me.

You see, Jake was the most popular boy in school. He was at the very top of the food chain. Even his cool friends didn't seem as cool as him. None of them, not even the beautiful cheerleaders, could match him in the looks department.

It was my first day of eighth grade. I had just transferred from another school. Because of our last names, Jake had to sit next to me in homeroom. He took one look at me and sneered, "I have to sit next to the squaw, great."

I was so stunned and mortified, I didn't even correct him that I wasn't Native American.

Jake seemed so repulsed by the mere presence of my face that he couldn't help his outbursts every time he saw me, whether it was in class or in the hallways.

I had dandruff. My long brown hair was ratty. I was weird. Shut up, what you are looking at squaw?

All his words.

Of course, I wasn't the only victim.

Other kids were disgusting for being "fat." Another girl had "Muppet lips." The boy sitting behind us in homeroom "smelled" because he was "poor."

Out of all his insults, the one that had the greatest and most long-lasting impression on me was when he glared in disgust at my face during homeroom one day and called me "ugly."

It broke my heart.

Nobody had ever called me that to my face before. It confirmed my biggest fear, the one gnawing at the back of my mind since elementary school. I was ugly.

It's amazing how one insult, no matter how untrue, becomes your truth. Your shrunken confidence allows it to scar you, to brand you.

A billion people afterwards could tell you you're the most beautiful woman in the world, but you'll never believe them. Because when you were 13, the most popular boy in school called you ugly. And you believed him first.

A year later, in high school, Jake and I didn't have any classes together and he eventually moved on to mocking the physically and mentally handicapped kids. When he passed me in the hallways, he pretty much forgot I even existed. I was relieved.

My dad's job was transferred to another state and I moved away at 16, never to see Jake again.

But I still see Jake's face and hear his words when I want to forget them. I don't believe people when they say I'm attractive. Instead, I see Jake telling me otherwise. Even now, in my late 20s.

I don't know what angers me more: the words themselves or that I allowed those words to destroy me.

I was visiting a childhood friend at the hospital a couple days ago. She had her appendix removed.

I was sitting by her bedside, reminiscing about people we used to know in middle school, when she suddenly exclaimed, "do you know about Jake?"

I looked up, startled.

"Know what?" I asked.

She pulled out her iPhone and showed me Jake's Facebook profile. I had never seen it before because, obviously, I would never friend request him.

I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.

Jake is gay.

Not just gay, but he's an entire fruit salad.

Photos revealed him kissing a haughty looking male model next to a Fashion Week runway, drinking a pink cocktail on a sandy beach, and straddling a pole at a gay bar. His interests include "poodles," "fashion," and "cuddling." A status revealed he's "here and queer and you bitches better get used to it." He lives in New York City and he works for Vogue.

During high school, Jake always dated the cheerleaders. It never occurred to me that he really wanted the football players.

Seeing the de-closeted Jake in front of me, on that little screen, didn't change my opinion of him. That look, that mean streak, that blinding arrogance, remains in his icy blue eyes. He might be gay, but he's still Jake.

He's still the boy who ripped my heart out and left it bleeding in my hands with one little insult.

And I still haven't put it back.

I hope one day I do.

Because I want to believe I'm beautiful.

Jezebel?

I know a girl who was kind, funny, and sweet

But her life was merely deceit

She had long blonde locks then cut them short

She might have had babies she had to abort

I wanted to be her best friend

I didn't know her presence would end

(so abruptly)

The lies caught up with the image

We were left to pick up the wreckage

Was she...? Did she...? She was, she did

It breaks my heart the secrets she hid

Cheating, lying, scandals, and sex

Paying her bills thanks to horny rednecks

(it seems)

I want to believe it's not true

I want to believe that's not you

In times of desperation I can understand

But not when it comes to cheating on your man

Maybe we're wrong, maybe we're right

But why would you block us out of spite?

(otherwise)

This is a terrible poem and I know it

If you're not guilty, why don't you show it?

I'd like to think you weren't faking the sweetness

But either way, it's a terrible mess

I guess you really just don't know someone

Until you hear the truth and they're long gone

(without a word)

It's okay. Don't cry.

Summer of 2006

I knew what he was going to say before he said it.

The panicky feeling of dread enveloped me, squeezing tighter and tighter. I nearly collapsed under its clutch. It had started six days before. He took longer to answer his cell. He wouldn't talk more than a minute. He didn't want to make plans. That warmth in his voice, reserved especially for me, was gone. He stopped saying "I love you."

It was so out of the blue.

There had been no fight. No obstacle had presented itself.

But there he was, standing on my parents' doorstep that sweltering summer day, looking sheepish and grim at the same time. He shuffled on the welcome mat. He didn't even want to come inside.

I grabbed his arm, desperately. Too desperately.

"I bought your favorite bagel," I cried out. "And that jalapeno cream cheese you love so much! Come eat lunch. Please."

He reluctantly stepped inside.

"I can't stay," he said, awkwardly. "I need to do something. I wanted to do it in person. Please don't make this any harder than it is."

I stood there in shock. A large mass blocked my throat from uttering any sound. Tears welled in my eyes.

"It's over, Jen," he said.

There were other words. I think there was even a fucking speech. I'm not sure. All I remember is crumbling on the floor in my white sundress like a giant tissue.

I was so pretty back then. Ninety-nine pounds. Twenty-two years old. Long brown hair.

"You can have any guy you want," he comforted me.

"But I want YOU!" I wailed back.

A panic attack arose in me. I begged him to reconsider. I told him he just needed time to think. He didn't even have a reason, other than he didn't think we were right for each other.

"WHY?"

"I just do."

Pride didn't exist that day. I threw myself at his feet. He didn't care.

When he left, I ran into the kitchen and threw the bagels against the wall. I picked up the carton of jalapeno cream cheese and smashed it on the floor, glaring at the white and green clumps against the beige tile.

Your first broken heart is the worst one. I heard that somewhere recently. It made me half-smile, because it's true. You honestly think the world has come to an end. It's a shock. It's grief. It's your soul trying to readjust to life without him.

I didn't eat for eight days. I forced down juice. I dropped down to ninety pounds. I was putting on a bikini in my bedroom when my mom came inside. "How can you be so sad when you look so amazing?" she marveled, staring at my body. I looked in the mirror. I had never been so thin. It didn't matter though. Nothing did.

Eventually I ate because my hunger returned against my will. But I was like a prisoner, trapped inside my aching mind. My head physically hurt to think about him.

Later that summer, I got my first real job at the newspaper. It distracted me a little bit. I went on a bunch of first dates and then hit ignore on my cell when the guys called back.

That fall, a guy I knew from an American Literature class in college randomly Facebook messaged me and we became pen pals, sharing our lives and deepest secrets. We fell in love through black and white and have been together ever since.

I'm with the person I'm meant to be with now. It's a comforting feeling amidst all the other troubles occurring in my life.

But that doesn't erase the past.

Today, my dad bought me lunch and the minute I took the first bite, an overwhelming sense of sadness smacked me in the heart. A distinct feeling I hadn't felt for seven years. I looked down.

It was that damn jalapeno cream cheese.

The truth.

I've been gone for a really long time.

Have you noticed?

I know I don't really owe an explanation of sorts. I mean, bloggers are entitled to a break, right?

But if you're still reading this blog, it means you probably care, so I'm going to tell you.

I'm depressed.

There it is, in black and white. Well, pink.

I have several (fifteen to be exact, I actually made a fucking list) major problems going on in my life right now that cannot be easily solved. It's a complicated hot mess involving mistakes I made in the past, a severe lack of finances, and family issues.

And I'm crushed underneath it all.

As a result, I just don't care about anything anymore. I avoid my friends. I have no desire to write personally or blog. I'm not in the mood to learn about anything.

When I'm not working, I'm guzzling black tea and listlessly reading Jane Austen fan fiction novels. Or, you know, sobbing into a pillow.

Anyway, I thought you should know the reason for my unexplained absence.

Tonight is my first step back into writing. I don't have the energy to research doomed starlets or fabulous gay men anymore. I'm sorry.

But since I can't afford therapy, perhaps spilling my soul onto this screen will help me in another way.

I can't let my unhappiness win.

I don't want it to.

The Tale of Two Lovers

With his mischievous grin and saucy wit, Joe Orton could get away with just about anything.

So when the working class 20-something Brit moved to London to try his luck at acting, nobody questioned it.

Although he was a fair actor, with impressive physique and genuine charisma, it soon became clear the stage wasn't meant for Joe. He was an incredibly talented writer and his dark, dry humor shocked and delighted everyone who read his essays or short stories.

In 1951, Joe met and fell in love with an older, middle-class guy, Kenneth Halliwell, who seemed lonely and lost. Life hadn't been very fair to Kenneth. When he was 11, he had watched in horror as his mother was stung by a wasp and choked to death in front of him. When he was 23, he woke up one morning to find his father dead from a suicide in the kitchen, his head still in the gas oven. Both incidents had left the shy kid devastated.

Joe and Kenneth felt a deep understanding to one another. Joe, being so outgoing and joyful, brought Kenneth back to life. Kenneth, reserved and observant, brought out a more serious side in Joe. It was a perfect match.

The two started writing stories together, such as Lord Cucumber and the Boy Hairdresser. Their honest and humorous accounts of homosexuality raised eyebrows but didn't get them published at the time.

Bored by their lack of success, the two young men became pranksters.

In their spare time, they stole more than 70 books from the public library and defaced the covers before returning them. For example, on one cover they drew a naked middle-aged man with tattoos. Unfortunately, the library system didn't think the vandalized covers were very funny and both men were prosecuted. They spent six months in jail.

While Joe was in jail, something about being alone in a cell changed him. He had hours upon hours to think creatively and ponder about the world. His writing started to change. It became more mature and fresh and exciting. By the time he was released from jail, Joe was a changed man.

He started publishing unique and hilarious plays, such as Loot, which were gaining national attention. Critics either loved or hated him. Celebrities wanted to hang out with him. It was swinging sixties London and he was one of the hottest figures in town.

Unfortunately, his boyfriend couldn't bring himself to bask in the success.

Kenneth grew more and more jealous of Joe's growing fame and talent. He was bitter that Joe seemed to have moved on professionally, away from him. Whatever happened to writing stories together? He felt left behind, even though he was always at Joe's side, invited to the hottest parties and traveling the world on exotic vacations.

Kenneth started taking anti-depressants to ease the pain. His sulky, resentful attitude turned off most of Joe's new famous friends, who would invite the hot 30-something playwright to parties on the condition that Kenneth had to stay home. The two men began to grow distant.

On a warm August night in 1967, Joe decided he was going to break up with Kenneth the next day. After all, their lives were going in opposite directions. Joe had already fallen in love with another guy and wanted to see where that relationship went. It wouldn't be fair to string Kenneth along anymore. Plus, Joe was on top of the world. Tomorrow, he would be meeting with The Beatles to discuss a screenplay he had written for them.

But tomorrow never came.

While Joe slept, Kenneth took a hammer and bashed his boyfriend's skull nine times. Blood splattered all over the bed, the walls, and the floor. Then, Kenneth took an overdose of pills, killing himself instantly.

Heartbreakingly, Joe remained alive in his bed for several agonizing hours, before finally succumbing to death himself. The bodies of both men were found by their chauffeur the next morning.

Today, it still remains one of the most gory and disturbing crime scenes in London's history.

And just like he feared all along, Kenneth has been forgotten. He is merely a footnote in literary history.

The muse and murderer to a brilliant mind that was simply crushed too soon.

(kiss my shades)

He was fucking crazy.

It was what we loved and hated about him.

Will came wrapped in an emotionally broken package, carelessly stapled together with an over-consumption of liquor.

Almost everything that poured out of his mouth was fiction. He was in a rock band. He had his graduate degree in art. He was going to be famous.

I knew him long before we became friends. But I remember the minute it changed. We were standing outside Jonny's downtown loft one winter evening, sipping champagne and tipsily reciting lyrics from Hand in Glove.

"I used to hang out with Morrissey back when I lived in LA," Will casually told me, flicking a spark of fiery cigarette ash onto the snow-covered sidewalk.

I laughed at him. It wasn't true. But I didn't care.

"You're gorgeous," he told me seriously, looking into my eyes.

I smirked back.

We spent most of our nights running around town, chugging wine from the bottle and puking in alleys. We danced in neon-lit gay bars. We snuggled together, watching horror movies. We climbed rooftops for no reason. We were such an all-American pair.

The man with tattoos. The girl in the sun dress.

Lounging on the sprawling lawn outside the art museum one summer afternoon, he asked me to run away to St. Louis with him. It'll be fabulous, he said. We need to run away together, Jenny Bunny, it would be so fabulous.

So fabulous, so fabulous.

I laughed into the sky.

"So fabulous," I whispered, watching the clouds stare back at me.

A warm spring evening, we met at one of our usual hangouts. He was with a boy.

"I'm so in love," Will said, gazing at the cute curly-haired guy smiling back at him. "This is it. This is the rest of my life."

"When did you two meet?" I asked.

"Two days ago," Will said, dreamily.

I smiled.

They stayed together for more than a year.

At 2 a.m. on a chilly fall night we found ourselves at a park overlooking the river. Sitting on a rock.

"I love you, Jenny Bunny," he said.

I love you too.

"You're the most fabulous girl I know," he said.

You're sweet.

"Let's run away together," he said.

Where?

"Santa Fe," he said.

Okay.

(But we stayed.)

It wasn't long before his life completely spun into oblivion. Drunk nights led to emergency room drama. His temper got out of control. He used people, especially his boyfriend. We all started to avoid him.

And the lies. So many exposed. What was real? What was fake? Who was he? Did he exist?

After a nasty break-up with his boyfriend, he moved back to his hometown, a few hours south.

He called me several times. Laughing. Talking. Lying.

And then we had our first and only fight. Bitterness was spit at each other. Goodbye.

We were out of each other's lives.

I thought I would never see him again. And I was right. I'll never have that chance.

Two days ago, his life was taken away as recklessly as he lived it.

And as I'm still trying to digest this reality, all I can do is think about those two words he always brought up.

Run away.

"Evolution does not necessarily reward intelligence."

I'm sorry for the unexpected blog vacay.

I was drowned in work for a while.

And during the past week, I haven't really felt much like blogging anyway.

There is nothing like a tragedy to remind me we live in a world running rampant with complete idiots.

I'm not even talking about the Boston Marathon bombers. That's a given.

I'm talking about the others.

The ignorant. The hateful. The racist.

It breaks my heart every time I hear about a person randomly getting attacked for something that has absolutely nothing to do with them.

Ever since 9/11 my head has been rolling by all the racism bludgeoning our nation.

People being murdered at their place of worship. A place that is supposed to be the most sacred and safest of all. A sanctuary.

Women being physically assaulted and verbally humiliated in front of their young children.

Men being pushed in front of subway trains.

And then there are the people who make things worse simply by being on the internet.

You see, innocent people, who had absolutely nothing to do with last week's bombings, had their names dragged through the mud because of twitter rumors which got retweeted by the thousands.

Everybody wants to be famous. They all want to be the first important person to relay the "breaking news" on twitter. Without checking the facts. And in doing so, they destroy lives.

A careless click of a button might not mean anything to you. But to the person you're accusing of being a terrorist, it means their entire world. It means you have changed their future because you are linking their name to terrorism forever. You can't erase who writes about you on the internet. That shit stays with you for life. No matter how spotless you remain in the end.

Finally, there are the people who are simply, for a lack of a better word, stupid.

They don't bother to read the news. But they have opinions, dammit!

I'll leave you with a quote I recently overheard at the movie theater this weekend.

The man was talking to his wife.

"Well, you knew it was going to be the Muslims. They're all after us. But I really thought there was a chance they were gonna be from North Vietnam. Those idiots were supposed to nuke us last week!"

"Confessions of a Fabulous Almost Thirty Somewhat Sober Always Broke Journalist"

I'm a walking chick lit stereotype.

I'm in my late 20's, with a journalism career that pays pennies. I live in a tiny apartment with my guitar-playing, poetry-writing boyfriend. I'm surrounded by my gay best friends. I've gained 15 pounds since college. I have charmingly insane parents who live five minutes away and call me 10 times a day.

Every weekend, I go out with my artsy, single friends and drink pink cocktails while I entertain them with humorous stories from my week.

Actually, the more I write it down, the more I realize I don't have it SO bad. But still.

I'm sick of being stuck in this bubble.

I feel like I'm just going through the motions of life, without trying to figure mine out.

I've spent the past two years trying to write a book. I have so many stories typed out, spread out on different computers. Some are even the same stories, just written in different tones. And I'm not satisfied with any of them. In fact, I hate them.

It's just frustrating that I spend most of my day writing news stories, that by the time I want to write for myself, I feel dried up. My creativity is expired. I just want to sleep.

And because I spend so much time writing for work and pleasure, I don't have time to work out. Like, in a gym. Hell, I can't even afford a gym.

I just wish there was more time in the day. I just need a couple more hours to do the things I want to do.

But for the past six years, my life has been the same. Write for work. Write for pleasure. Laugh with friends. Go to bed. Repeat.

The lack of time in the day makes me want to scream. I want to lose 15 pounds. I want to finish this fucking book. I want to live life, instead of watching it pass me by.

But instead, I'm going to cry about it and then get back on the hamster wheel.

Because I'm too tired to do anything else.

Why I Love Bunnies

Bunnies don't talk shit behind your back.

Bunnies don't pretend to be your best friend.

Bunnies don't vandalize your car.

Bunnies don't cheat on you with some girl they met on Facebook.

Bunnies don't act like religious hypocrites.

Bunnies don't disinherit you for moving out of the house.

Bunnies don't lie to your face.

Bunnies don't complain that you're not married yet.

Bunnies don't call you fat.

Bunnies don't cause drama.

Bunnies just want love.

The Girl Who Made Me Cry

Two years ago, I had a rude awakening. Her name was "Nancy."

She severed our five-year friendship like it was meaningless shit.

Nancy and I became close friends around seven or eight years ago, when we were in college. I couldn't have asked for a better fit. She was sarcastic, intelligent, modern, and practical. Sort of like Daria.

We both adored Jane Austen. Our guilty pleasures included the same stupid reality shows. Our book lists held the same titles. We could talk for hours about anything and everything.

But Nancy brought out an ugly side of me. She loved to talk about her friends behind their backs. I would often find myself caught up in dissing everyone and everything.

She wasn't very clever at hiding her disdain for my life either. It was clear she hated my boyfriend, couldn't stand my best friend, and thought my blog was stupid. It wasn't uncommon for her to snidely remark, "don't post these on your blog" after I took photos of us together.

One thing I noticed about Nancy is that she never seemed satisfied with anything, especially her own life. There were certain girls she was desperate to impress--these boring, mildly attractive hipsterish girls with etch and sketch personalities.

I don't know why she was drawn to these people. It was weird, especially considering she already had a good thing going. She had interesting friends, she was dating a decent guy, and she had a close relationship with her sisters, something I always envied.

As if those clues weren't enough, I had other people telling me for years how much they couldn't stand Nancy. And I always defended her. I figured they were just jealous of a strong, independent career woman with a mind of her own.

Our five-year friendship ended one summer, when Nancy stopped returning my calls, texts, and e-mails. She eventually blocked me on gmail, facebook, and twitter. It was so completely out of the blue, I felt surely there had been a mistake. After all, it's not like I had done anything wrong. There was no fight. There had been no bad words spoken. I had actually just seen her at her birthday party a week beforehand and we had said goodbye amicably, promising to make plans.

But I was shut out. No warning. No explanation. No apology.

It was bad timing too. I was still mourning the recent loss of my grandmother. I had just been laid off from my job. I already felt worthless.

I e-mailed her, asking for a reason. She owed me that, right?

Nancy wrote back stating she didn't think we had anything in common anymore. That was it.

Five years of friendship. Five years of hanging out. Five years of sharing our personal lives together. Five years.

And after weeks of crying, months of licking my wounds, and now years of acceptance, I finally understand what she meant.

We never did have anything in common.

Because I'm not a bitch.