I hope you’re miserable


I remember Halloween being on Saturday in the year of everything going swell and nothing ever going wrong 2020. 

And every year I stand in front of the mirror pulling out clothes in my wardrobe that have not seen the light of day since they hung on a rack at the store. 

And since it was your favorite holiday, I remember how you told me my body was disgusting, Sister. That the pillar of beauty was AAA “tits,” like you were shopping in the battery section at Walmart. That straight, 90s skeleton legs were the unattainable beauty standard, like you even knew the days that decades old fashion shows would rerun on channel 2 above the TV guide.  That women with huge “tits” are cows gazing out in the field beneath the light of your beauty, to peer up at the sun through the gap in your thighs. 

Well I have to say, if you’re shopping for batteries, they have gone up in price, especially D batteries. 


I drove to three different coffee shops to discover that all of them were closed. 

I drove to three different coffee shops to have my heart halfway across the country, but to be reminded that my body, unfortunately, is still here. 


I remember when you and I were driving down mainstreet and you pointed out a larger woman walking down the sidewalk. 

“That woman looks like a cow,” you said, as if dipping your toe in tepid water to test to see if I would bite, like the enticing nibble of your dry athlete’s foot could birth my inner piranha to go rip every woman apart until she was dust to the size 4 standard. To ask me to hunt the Amazonian rivers for your next prey to fill the shallow pond of your character. 

But I did not catch the fishing line and the hook was ten feet from my mouth, glaring at me like a mocking Spongebob episode. 


I fell through the cracks of my life, despite my fumbling to unceremoniously cling onto the cliff. And there at the edge, was an altar to my failure decorated in deflated balloons and a forgotten medal marked with a scratched-out number three. I imagine crushed flower leis under the foot of a tall, skinny professor with a clipboard with the word “stupid” written across the top. Hopefully written in lavender. 

I can only peer above the jagged rock at the mocking shine of $200 loafers, my dry lizard hands out of reach of my life-saving prescription eczema cream. 

I’m pretty sure what lies at the bottom of the cliff is a pile of corn nuts that smell like the old soggy corners of school hallways. 


The day turns sour when I see your face. 


Contacting people is like conjuring dead ends. Sometimes I debate purchasing an ouija board so that the person I’m trying to contact could be harassed by great grand mama to answer my email. She’ll have no idea what I’m talking about, but at least I’ll get a response out of her. 

But I can’t help but wonder why emails and text messages go unread, that little red tick mark hanging around to the end of days. And the weight of the world is heavy, it’s not as heavy as my editor breathing a deadline over me. 

While the world is at our fingertips, I cannot help but to think that we feel more isolated than ever.  


I feel like I’m sinking but I wonder where I am sinking to.

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