Me and Naked Jesus

When I first began my internship at St. John’s Regional Medical Center I was excited to report for my shift each week, eager to learn and observe all that the hospital had to offer. I didn’t even mind the 45 minute drive from the UC Santa Barbara campus to the facility in Oxnard. It was a scenic drive along the 101 freeway with the vast Pacific Ocean oscillating just outside my passenger window. College was all about seizing opportunities, gaining experience, and making contacts that would lead to a successful career, and I was sure that this internship was just what I needed to get an edge on the competition when it came time to apply to med school. Unfortunately this period of optimism didn’t last very long. I soon became disenchanted and grew to dread my time at the hospital, seeking out excuses to skip my shift any chance I got—homework, illness, beer. It wasn’t the subject itself that turned me off—I still find medical science incredibly interesting—but the tired, frustrated staff (doctors and nurses alike) who advised me not to go into medicine, and most significantly, the onerous, demanding, and just plain crazy patients who I was forced to contend with each week. Perhaps the biggest problem was that I was more interested in the patients’ illnesses than in the patients themselves. I’d find myself saying things like “you have multi-resistant staphylococcus, awesome!” which is not really an appropriate comment to make to an anxious patient. I lacked what you would call “a good bedside manner”. As a result, I often found myself in terribly awkward situations that I didn’t know how to respond to.

            On one of those early days of idealism and enthusiasm I made way to the medical-surgical unit on the third floor and checked in with the head nurse. She greeted me gratefully and informed me that there was a patient on the unit requiring a sitter. I made my way to his room convinced that I was in for a relatively easy, unexciting 4 hour shift. Time on the med-surge unit was often filled with undesirable tasks such as changing the diapers of bed-ridden patients, sponge-bathing a morbidly obese man, or feeding elderly invalids who lacked the motor ability to lift a fork to their mouths. Being a sitter usually just involved sitting in the room with a sleeping patient making sure that she didn’t stop breathing and reminding her of who and where she was when she woke up disoriented. The white board across from the bed displayed a name and condition and you simply had to repeat it: your name is Mrs. Jones, you’re at St. John’s Hospital, you’re recovering from surgery.

That was the sort of thing I was expecting my day to consist of, so imagine my surprise when I entered the room that I was sent to and saw that the patient was wide awake, sitting up on his bed with his legs hanging over the side, the way you would sit when hanging out in a friend’s bedroom. He was an extremely thin man probably somewhere in his fifties (I’m really bad at determining age), dressed in green hospital scrub pants and a white t-shirt. He had shaggy brown hair with a full beard; he looked like Jesus. I introduced myself and took a seat in the chair opposite his bed. I had never sat for such an alert patient before (eyes open, sitting up) and wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. In attempt to break the ice I asked, “So how are you doing today?” Which is really a terrible question to ask someone confined to a hospital room, but where else could I start? The man made no acknowledgement that he had heard me, just continued staring down at his bed. I looked to the white board hanging above me for some indication of who he was and what he was in for but it provided no such information, just a greenish blur left behind after a half-assed erasure. And so we sat in a cloud of silence for several long minutes. Shortly thereafter he began grabbing at his bed sheets and mumbling incoherently. I rose from my chair to see if I could assist him in some way. Once I reached him I realized that he was attempting to pick the design, some sort of diamond or flower or other typical hospital linen pattern, off of the sheet. Apparently this man wasn’t as “there” as I had originally believed. At a loss I stood watching him as he put his thumb and index finger to the shape and squeezed them together just above it lifting an empty hand to his face, then repeating the process trying desperately to grab hold of the impression. I felt bad for the guy and wished that there was something I could do for him, but I didn’t know what that was.

            Eventually he got bored doing this and his next move shocked me beyond all else. He stood up, looked me straight in the eyes, and proceeded to pull down his pants. Horrified I grabbed his hands as they approached the tops of his thighs, just before he revealed his genitals, and began to pull his pants back up again.

“No, what are you doing? Don’t do that!” I demanded.

There was a brief struggle, me trying desperately to keep his pants up and he fighting against me to pull them down. He was surprisingly strong for being so frail looking, but lacked endurance and soon gave up releasing his grip on the pants and allowing me to return them to their original position. I was relieved, but it turned out that he actually hadn’t given up quite so easily. As I returned the top of his pants to the top of his waist he lifted his shirt over his head and cast it onto the bed. Frustrated I picked up his shirt and began to force it back over his head. While I did this he dropped his pants to his ankles so that once his shirt was on he was completely naked from the waist down. Then I pulled his pants back up as he pulled his shirt back off.

            Why was this man undressing before me? I was nervous, I was confused, I was uncomfortable. I tried to talk to him, to instruct him that he needed to stay clothed but he seemed unable to comprehend my speech and was angry that I wouldn’t allow him to get naked. He was intent on removing his clothing and I was baffled by his actions. I was also scared that a nurse or doctor would walk in to find me standing in the room with a disoriented, bare-skinned patient. Such a situation would definitely raise some eyebrows and I didn’t want anyone accusing me of taking advantage of the patient or acting inappropriate or any of the other things you might think upon entering a room to find an exposed incoherent person in the care of a competent other. Once again I quickly pulled his pants back up so that he was fully dressed. I rushed out into the hallway to seek help as he began to remove his shirt yet again. A nurse was passing by as I exited the room and must have noticed the anguish on my face because right away she asked, “Is everything alright?”

            “No, this man keeps trying to take his clothes off!” I informed her.

            “Oh yeah, he does that,” she answered matter-of-factly, “He likes to get naked and then wander into other patients’ rooms. That’s why he needs a sitter.” She chuckled, “just make sure he doesn’t leave the room like that.” Then she walked off down the hall to tend to her other charges offering no further explanation or advice.

            I headed back into the chamber, annoyance now added to the panic and discomfort I had heretofore been experiencing. I would have liked to have had some sort of forewarning so that I could have prepared myself for this man’s nudity. Perhaps I would have handled the situation better had I not been so startled by his propensity to undress.

The man was standing exactly where I had left him but was now completely naked. I picked his pants up off of the floor and instructed him to lift his feet and step back into them. Astonishingly, he obeyed allowing me to cover up his bottom half. However, when I grabbed the shirt and made to put it over his head, he once again removed his pants. And so it continued for the next 3 hours, he undressing himself and me frantically trying to redress him—hoping to avoid full-scale nudity for as long as possible. I did consider giving up my effort all together as it was futile, but I felt it would have been more awkward to sit idly in a room with a completely nude man than to at least try to keep him covered as much as I could. Plus it gave me something to do—sitting in a chair staring at a strange naked man would have been quite boring.

I'm on Tumblr!

Because I have difficulty getting rid of things I have decided to keep this blog strictly for posting stories. However, I will also be posting those stories and other random things on tumblr. So for (hopefully) more frequent and eclectic posts go here: http://rockstonic-juicemagic.tumblr.com/

Moving

Just a heads up to anyone (emphasis on the one) who follows this blog, I'm in the process of moving to tumblr. I currently have 3 blogs and rarely update any of them so I thought perhaps I'd be a bit better about that sort of thing if I combined them into one megablog. Tumblr seemed best suited for such a thing. I'll post the url once its all put together.

Where My Mad Rappers At?

Sometimes I like to pretend that I can spit sick rhymes:

Biochem 

(written during a particularly boring biochem lecture)

You talk too fast

I can't understand

trying to keep up just hurts my hand

so I stare confused

at these molecules

and I don't really care

which enzymes act where

this class is lame, I think I'll take a nap

and after lecture go to Gio's for some beer on tap

Blumpkin 

(written in LA traffic after my cousin defined "blumpkin" for me)

I was sittin on the toilet takin a dump

when this bitch started sucking all over my junk

I said "hey there, whatcha doin pumpkin?"

She said "don't you know? they call it a blumpkin!"

Flaunt It 

(written while drunk in a pool)

I'm so damn cool chillin in the pool

there's a bee on me

tryina get in this everyone wants to hit it cause I'm a sick bitch

sippin on gin and tonics and rocking Manolo Blahniks this is how I flaunt it.

A Hoodie Is A Goodie

My favorite item of clothing is definitely my hooded sweatshirt. I actually own a few and favor a different one each week; but in general, I can’t go wrong with a hoodie. I wear it in every season, in every situation. Whether its 9 degrees or 90 degrees, whether I’m out in the world or sitting alone in my room, whether at a social gathering or even at work, I prefer to have my head covered. I just feel so exposed and vulnerable when forced to reveal my cranium. My hoodie is my sanctuary, my comfort zone, my invisibility cloak. Yes, I realize that people can still see me when I’ve got my hood on, but it makes me feel so inconspicuous. Though in all honesty, it actually seems to have the opposite effect. My beloved hooded sweatshirt sadly makes others uncomfortable; apparently it gives me an air of mystery and stirs up feelings of foreboding in those around me. My sisters often scold me for looking inappropriate. My boss calls me “The Unabomber” and claims that I scare her. Shopkeepers eye me suspiciously when I enter their establishment. Pedestrians move to the other side of the road when they see me approaching. But I assure you, I have no desire to bomb, kill, or rob anyone. I am not a thief, or murderer, or drug dealer. I’m simply a nervous sociophobe; and sometimes my head is just cold or I'm having a bad hair day. So the next time you see someone roaming the streets hiding beneath a hoodie, judge not. The object of your fear may very well not be a degenerate, but a harmless neurotic.

This Is My Gene Pool (or why I don't plan on having kids)

My older sister’s favorite lament is that we inherited the worst traits from each of our parents. While she tends to be a bit dramatic in most regards, here is an assertion on which I whole-heartedly agree with her. Don’t get me wrong, both my mother and father possess plenty of advantages attributes; however, Genetics, bitch that she is, bestowed upon me only those most defective of idiosyncrasies. As the physical characteristics are most noticeable, I shall begin there. I have my father’s eyes: deep-set sockets housing round, frog-like, popping out eyeballs; framed by dark circles and heavy eyelids and oh so many wrinkles. My mother kept her large, fully-lashed, almond eyes for my pretty sisters. In addition to his eyes, I also inherited my father’s body-type: a chicken’s legs and a football player’s back. I wouldn’t call my father a handsome man (sorry Freud) but he does have really nice skin. I look much more like my father than my mother, however, when it comes to skin cells, mine are molded from my mother’s large pores and oily, break-out prone epidermis. Personality inheritance pattern takes a little longer to realize, but it follows the set paradigm. I get my neurotic anxiety from my mother. She herself is quite calm and friendly; her father however, is “easily perturbed” and “doesn’t like crowds.” I’ve also inherited her passive, submissive nature and reserve. My father kindly passed on his financial ineptitude (spend it before you lose it), and terrible sense of direction (I get lost in my hometown while using a navigation system). Thus, being a long-time admirer of Darwin, I feel it my duty to affirm myself in favor of the eradication of these ghastly nucleic acids.

In The Heights

My decision to stay in New York following the end of my term of service wasn’t finalized until the beginning of November; coincidentally the last month of our apartment lease.  At this time I knew that one of my roommates had already made plans to move to another apartment upon the expiration of our lease.  I was under the impression that my other roommate would be renewing the lease, and so I planned to remain there with him.  However, a couple weeks later he informed me that he too had decided to seek residence elsewhere.   Still, I had nearly a month to figure something out.  This was plenty of time.  Too much time apparently, as I did nothing about it.

Finally, on the 30^th of November, the night before my lease ended, I decided to get my shit together and began scouring Craigslist for shelter.  I set up a couple of appointments to look at rooms the next day, the day by which I was supposed to be out of the apartment. 

I had one day and four possibilities and was feeling pretty optimistic as I headed out for my 10am appointment.  It was also in Washington Heights, just a couple of blocks away from my current apartment, but on the “good” side of Broadway.  I walked up to the fourth floor and hesitantly knocked on the door of apartment 4. It was ornamented with stickers announcing the resident’s love for Jesus and proudly proclaiming that “This is a Catholic Home.”  A grandmotherly Hispanic woman opened the door and greeted me happily in Spanish.  I apologetically informed her that despite my Mexican heritage I am quite ignorant on the language of my people and followed her into the apartment.  She walked me through a tour of the place emphasizing her affinity for cleanliness as we entered each room. 

“This is the bathroom. I like to keep it clean.” She announced as she opened the first door on the left.  “See, wipe the sink when you’re finished with it” she grabbed a nearby towel and demonstrated. We continued down the hall to the next doorway. “This is the kitchen. I like to keep it clean. You can eat at that table, but you can’t cook in here.” I was astounded and probably looked it, because she went on to explain, “It’s too messy. You can use the microwave if you need to, but that’s all.”

Finally we reached my possible room.  “See how clean it is?” She asked. “There’s not a closet, but see the dresser, to keep your clothes neatly put away.” I nodded. “And there’s no eating allowed in here. It’s dirty and attracts bugs and mice.” She further instructed.

We exited back into the perfectly kept living room. “What do you think?” She asked me.

“Well, it’s a good size room. And the apartment is nice and clean.”

“Good.” She gave a satisfied smile. “If you decide to live here, I have only three rules. No cooking in the kitchen, and no eating in the bedroom,” she reminded me. Then continued to the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard, “Also, there’s no drinking.  You don’t drink right?”  She peered at me threateningly. 

I had been working at a wine shop in Midtown, and drinking was about all I did. “Uh…well…s-s-sometimes I li-li-like to drink wine…?” I stammered. 

“Well, that’s your business!” she retorted “but there’s no drinking here!” 

“Okay. Thanks for showing me the place. I’ve got a couple more rooms to look at, but I’ll call you and let you know.” We shook hands and I hurried out of the apartment as quickly as I could, all the while having no intention of speaking with her again.

The next apartment that I looked at was perfect and I fell in love with it quickly.  It was also in the Heights and on the right side of Broadway; across the street from a swanky park nonetheless.  This place also had a decent size bedroom. In addition there was a closet. And rather than an overbearing, germ-phobic, grandma for a roommate, this one came with a nerdy Columbia grad student, who I was sure wouldn’t be much of a bother.  Despite its perfect location, size, and personnel, I had to pass on this apartment also. The rent he was asking was a little pricey, and due to an accounting error on my part, my bank account was in worse condition than I had thought. Sufficiently worse condition. 

Upon discovering my error I came to the conclusion that not only could I not afford this apartment, but I couldn’t afford any apartment.  I still had two places I was scheduled to look at, but I had lost all hope.  Defeated, I sent a rather pathetic email to some friends begging they let me sleep on their couch for a couple weeks while I figured out plans to return to California.  In exchange for their kindness I would cook meals and provide them with booze.  As I awaited their reply, I telephoned my mother to discuss the situation, who convinced me to at least look at the last two apartments.  Both were only a block away from my current location and at least I could say I tried.  So that evening, not expecting much I strolled over to my first appointment. 

I was greeted at the door by a tall middle-aged Asian man. He had a thick accent and spoke with broken English. From what I gathered, there were 2 bedrooms. One was currently being rented, the second I was looking at, and the proprietor of the apartment, the man with whom I was speaking, slept in the living room. He led me to a closet-sized room with chipped white paint. I looked inside from where I stood, just inside the front door, having no desire to enter. From our same spot, he pulled open the dark blue curtain that hung on the opposite wall, revealing his make shift room. Two steps forward, was the bathroom, followed by a door to the second bedroom, which I’m sure was just as small as the first. Across from that was the tiniest of kitchens crammed with a fridge and beat-up old stove. This place was an overpriced piece of shit that I couldn’t afford even if I had liked it. I ran out of there quicker than I had left the first place.

It was now 7 o’clock and I was missing Jeopardy! to view my last prospect.  It was on the corner of my current block.  Yes, a shady neighborhood, but one that I was familiar with.  I was kindly granted access to the building by the drug dealer standing on the stoop. I walked into the dingy, tiled entryway found my way to the correct apartment door and reluctantly knocked. I was greeted by the lady of the house, a thin, white woman in her late-twenties.

“Jessica?”

I nodded.

“Hi! I’m Melissa.” She led me into the hallway and down toward the living room. “Babe, she’s here!”

            A tall, Dominican man of the same age emerged from the room and introduced himself as Victor. Then they proceeded to show me around. The kitchen and living room seemed to be surprisingly large (for a New York City apartment) but the bathroom was absolutely tiny. However, all seemed well kept. There were three bedrooms in the apartment: my prospective room, the couple’s room, and Victor’s mother’s room.  They explained that she lived in the Dominican Republic but came back to visit every once in a while and occasionally Victor’s brother would stay in the room.  I calculated this to mean two and a half roommates. Overall, it seemed like a pretty decent place. And most importantly they were willing to be paid weekly, requiring just $300 to move in the next day.  Out of options and desperate I took it. 

            I returned later that evening to begin moving my things in. Victor and Melissa were in the room painting white over the bright green walls.

            “It looks so much better white huh?” Victor greeted me.

            “Yeah, it looks good. Thanks for painting.”
            “Sure.” They smiled.

            I pulled my check book from the top of the box I had just placed on the floor. “So who should I make the check out to?”

            Victor shifted his eyes to Melissa, then back to me, “uh…a check?”

            “Oh, would you rather have cash?”

            “Yeah. Cash or cashier’s check.” He responded.

“Only because someone doesn’t have a checking account,” his girlfriend gave him a playful glance. 

“Oh, ok I’ll go to the bank tomorrow” I said trying to figure out how or why 28 year-old would be without a checking account.  

That was my first indication that something wasn’t quite right.  When I had first met them Melissa said that she was in fashion in midtown and Victor was “in real estate on Long Island.”  I remember this because I worked at primarily in the evenings and on weekends and was excited that we had opposite schedules.  Being somewhat of an antisocial recluse I refused to leave my room when others were home so this gave me complete freedom to use the kitchen and restroom as I pleased during the day.  However, to my great dismay Victor was always home.  He was supposedly in real estate on Long Island, yet he had no checking account and was home during the day…things weren’t adding up. 

About a week after I had moved in I returned home from doing laundry and saw Victor standing out on the stoop. He was wearing a heavy jacket with the hood on and seemed to just be aimlessly hanging out. This raised my suspicions. It was common knowledge that in Washington Heights drug dealers stood out on various building stoops all day. In addition, it seemed to me that as drug dealers get paid cash they would have no need for a checking account. I became convinced that I was living with drug dealers, perhaps even members of the Dominican Mafia. Now most people would probably be a little put off by the prospect of their roommate being a drug dealer (my friends had urged me to move out ASAP when I informed them of my suspicions) but I had been watching a lot of Weeds at the time and was somewhat intrigued by the idea. I actually considered asking if I could get in on their business, but as this required actually leaving my room and starting a conversation, I never got around to it. Plus, there was the fact that I was a little scared for my life. 

       Aside from lying to me about their occupations on our first meeting, my new roommates had also lied about how many people were dwelling in the apartment.  I still don’t how many people I was living with. They had told me only that there would be occasional visits from a mother and a brother. They failed to mention, the uncle, sister, cousin, friend, second brother, and God knows who else. I ran into so many random people in the hall of that place; each time I left my room (which was rarely) it was a surprise who I would meet next.  Had the couple from whom I was renting been around when I ran into these “guests” that would have been one thing, but the majority of these encounters took place when no one else was home. I met the older brother when I went into the kitchen to grab my Champagne from the fridge before heading out on New Years Eve.  He and a friend were drunk and taking shots of Patron. 

“Hey, I’m Willy,” he introduced himself. “I live upstairs,” he looked at the ceiling, “but I also kinda live here.”

I had no idea what exactly that meant. “Oh, cool. Er…nice to meet you.” I grabbed my bottle from the freezer and turned to go.

“Where you going with that Champagne? You’re just gonna leave us?”

I smiled, unsure how to respond and took a step toward the doorway.

“So none for us then?”

I gave an awkward obligatory laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were gonna be here.” I glanced at my watch, it was just after 11. “I gotta get to my friend’s place before midnight.”

“That’s cool. Take a shot with us before you leave.” He picked up the half-full tequila bottle.

“Oh…uh…”

“Come on, join us for a round,” his friend insisted.

In an attempt to make the situation less awkward I obliged.  We toasted to the New Year, I thanked them for the drink and headed out. To be honest I don’t know if I ever saw them again.

I met the uncle in a similar fashion. One afternoon as I exited my room in pursuit of the bathroom I was startled by the sight of a middle-aged disheveled man in the hall way carrying a bunch of bananas.

“Hola” he greeted me with a huge smile displaying decaying teeth and offered me a piece of fruit.

“Uh…hi…”

“Hablas Espanol?”

“Oh, no, sorry.”

“Me Victor’s uncle,” he explained in broken English. “I stay here.”

“Oh, okay. Nice to meet you.”

He extended his arm and gave me an enthusiastic handshake, then continued down the hall to the living room. I definitely ran into him again, each encounter just as frightening and awkward as the first.

            For three months I lived in fear, of both the possibilities of awkward social interactions and that my roommates would find out that I was on to their little business and would off me at any moment. Finally I could take it anymore; I had to get out of there. I handed Victor my last rent payment, $150 in cash, on Monday morning, told him I’d be moving out by the end of the week and was gone by Friday. Two weeks later my friend sent me a link to a Times article; there had been a major drug-gang bust in Washington Heights between W 170 St. and W 174 St. I’m sure the complex I had been living in on W 171 St. had been involved.

10 Things I Should Have Learned In College, But Didn't

10. How to tap a keg
9. How to chug/shot-gun a beer
8. How to surf
7. How to primp myself for a night out
6. How to get free drinks (probably correlated w/ the above)
5. How to roll a joint
4. How to make a bong out of lab equipment
3. How to calibrate a microscope
2. How to drink copious amounts of coffee without getting cracked out
1. What the hell I wanna do with my life

A Grizzly End

About a dozen years ago, I passed the innocence of my adolescence riding bikes, shooting hoops, and placing bets with the boy who lived across the street. One warm spring afternoon we sat on the steps of his front porch engrossed in a game of five card draw. I glanced at the two fives side by side in my left hand, flanked by a couple of useless red and black numbers and the suicide king. Fingering two quarters in my right hand I stared into the face of the boy who lived across the street trying to determine whether or not his fifty sent raise was based upon a genuinely good hand. The small pile between us was splattered with disks of silver and copper, there had to be over a dollar in there already, what was he playing at? But before I could decide, my attention was diverted by a hysterical scream coming from my house. I stood up and peered over the small wood wall obstructing my view. My parents were standing out on our front lawn; my father had run into the house and dragged my mother calmly out—there was something he needed to tell her in secrecy. Now she was in tears fighting him off as he attempted to quiet her. I immediately ran to them, neighbor boy at my heels. “What’s going on?’ My voice was small and scared. “Get in house!” my dad bellowed. I looked to my mom. “He ran over Grizzly!” she sobbed continuing to punch and scream at my father. “Asshole! You Asshole!” My eyes widened. “I said get in the house!” my father repeated in a more threatening tone. I stood staring at them in confused disbelief when I felt a soft shove on my shoulder. “Come on.” My playmate led me inside. My sisters had all gathered in the living room in a confused panic. They were kneeling on the couch fighting with the blinds and each other to watch the drama unfold through the large front window. “What’s going on?” they asked as I entered. “Did she say he ran over Grizzly? Did he?” “Yeah…uh…don’t know…didn’t see” I pushed between them to get my own spot at the window. Then my parents entered still arguing. “What happened?” we all cried at once. “He ran over Grizzly!” my mother sobbed once more. “What?” “Really?” we all gasped. My father turned to us. “I’m sorry girls. She was lying under my truck. I didn’t see her.” He was noticeably agitated.  He returned his attention to my mom. “You were supposed to keep it quiet! Look, I’m sorry. Calm down. I need to go to work. Take care of this.” He stomped back outside, hopped in his work truck, and drove off. “Asshole!” my mom screamed after him. We turned to her in a panic, “Is she okay? What do we do?” She picked up the phone to call animal control. “There’s a lot of blood. I need towels,” she instructed. We fetched them and attempted to walk outside. “No, stay in here. I don’t want you guys to see her.” Large tears were still falling from my mother’s eyes, slowly sliding down her cheeks and splashing onto the ground. “But I am gonna need some help…” The neighbor boy jumped up to her aid in an attempt of premature masculinity and she accepted. They headed outside and once again my sisters and I jockeyed for position at the front window. Our hearts pounding and eyes streaming we watched our dog, my first and most loved pet, dying. For twenty minutes we stared out that window as the black chow struggled to get up, jerking her head in wild movements forever scaring us with the image of matted black fur and spouts of blood pouring from what were once her eyes. Finally, the animal control truck pulled into our driveway. A uniformed man exited the vehicle and handed my mom a clipboard with a mound of paperwork that needed to be filled out before they could do anything. We had overheard their muffled conversation and were appalled. Finally having someone upon whom to take out all her anger and frustration my sister, one year my junior, burst out the front door. “What’s wrong with you?!” she screamed at the man. “Can’t you see she’s suffering?! Just make it stop! Please! We’ll fill out your paperwork, just please take care of her!” Startled by the hysteria of a grieving 11 year old, the man obliged and loaded the declining animal into his truck as my mother scribbled upon his pages. The rest of us slowly exited the house and we all gathered on the lawn, consoling each other as we watched them drive off into the sunset never to be seen again.

Sky Diving

In college, for some assignment, I interviewed some dude my roommate knew and wrote a brief monologue based on that interview. For some reason I've been thinking about it a lot lately, so I decided to reproduce it here.

How would I describe myself? Hmm...I guess...I guess I'm a little odd. I'm not like everyone else, in that I choose to do things my own way. And the older I got, I found that that's cool, ya know? So now I'm just this weird, kinda fun, happy-going kinda guy, ya know? Also, I had this minor drug problem when I was a kid--and my mom knew it. One day I was lying on the couch in her apartment and she bursts in through the front door and she's like "you're coming with me!" And she took me down to this little airport by the Tijuana border...and she made me go sky diving! And it was like this totally new, incredible high that I had never experienced before. And it was like right then, automatically, I don't do drugs anymore because my mom took me sky diving, ya know?