It's the End of the World as we know it....

[Hello kittens! Double post today because I love you. And also recapping a whole month in one post equaled holy fucking impossible. Cheers, bitches.]

Twice in my life I’ve discovered places where people mysteriously fall in love with me. I can’t explain this phenomenon. It could be the perfect lighting, the amount of alcohol consumed or just plain gypsy magic. The first was a hallway in my best friend’s house, right outside the bathroom. That was the summer I got my MIP, started smoking cloves and learned how to break hearts like a real motherfucker. The second was a secluded beach in the Rattlesnake Wilderness Area. That year I painted my soul purple and swore I’d love you forever. We all know how that turned out.

I can’t say for certain, but I may have discovered a third. Before I discuss the pros and cons of being elbow-deep in a toilet tank, let’s backtrack.

Considering Friday was the end of the world (at least as we know it) I intended to go out with a bang. I loosely organized a meet-up for the PDX Autostraddlers. Ok, mostly I told people where I would be on Friday and expected them to show up. Friend and I rolled into Bar of the Gods (BOG) just after 7pm and quickly determined that there were no other lesbians present. Solution? Obviously we played a game of Scrabble. Halfway through my triple word score rampage, three potential friends arrived.

Friend: Those look like people who are looking for us…

Me: Yeah, but maybe not.

Friend: Want to discuss Autostraddle awkwardly loud and see if they come over?
Me: Nah, let’s just avoid eye contact. That seems like the best way to make friends.

And it totally worked. Two drinks and 5 minutes later they approached us and very subtly asked: “So are you two lesbians?” Yes, excellent. Thus began the whirlwind four days I’m fairly sure I barely survived. PBR, thong-clad Santa, brunch mimosas, spilled whiskey eggnog, Dazed and Confused, Fireball and cider, Fuck the Dealer, Ziggy Stardust, I-Hop Christmas rattle, Feliz Navidachos and finally sleeping. Finally showering and feeding myself and remembering how to be a real human being.

But it all started Friday night at the Local Lounge.

Friend: Loca Lounge? Like craaaazay Lounge?

Me: No, Local. Like in this neighborhood. Well ok, it’s not in this neighborhood, but some neighborhood somewhere.

Like I said, there are certain places on this planet where people are strangely drawn to me. I’m 90% sure the Local Lounge is one of them. Maybe it was my freshly pressed bandana. Or my terrible dancing. Or my lip-syncing to Call Your Girlfriend on the dance floor… I have never received so many compliments or free drinks in my life. Seriously, I was tempted to never leave the house again because I’d reached the pinnacle of my popularity. It’s all downhill from here.

So there I am, waiting in line for the bathroom. The door opens and the girl inside starts to explain that the toilet isn’t flushing. My rural Montana sensibilities kick into gear, and suddenly I’m elbow-deep in the toilet tank reattaching the chain to the rubber stopper. Aforementioned girl stares at me, mouth agape and says “Holy shit. That was so…”

Disgusting? Potentially dangerous?

“…Sexy.”

Times in my life basic plumbing know-how has earned me a compliment: 1. I don’t know guys. I’m going to have to visit the Local Lounge again to see if this was a fluke happening or a repeatable phenomenon. Maybe it had everything to do with the Mayan apocalypse, or the proximity of the moon to the sun and astral currents or tiny gypsy fairies. I don’t know, but I hope you all had a lovely December 21^st. I’m kind of glad we’re still here.

All my love, you bunch of creeps.

-b 

Special for December, Let's Pretend We're All for One

Hello weirdos! 

I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that this month is almost over. Remember how yesterday was Thanksgiving and I was cruising around Missoula with my family and friends? Now I’m preparing for New Years. By “preparing” I mean sitting in Starbucks, drinking away my holiday gift cards and attempting to recap nearly an entire month of my life for you creeps. Did you get to spend the holidays with your families? I spent mine with old friends, new friends and mostly my cat, because why not?

Thank god this was not under our tree...

I’ve wanted to write for a lot of days now, but the words have been hiding somewhere. Plus I’m not entirely sure how to explain how I’ve been me-but-not-me and I don’t remember what Just Me felt like anymore. I blame the book I’m reading. When Rabbit Howls is the autobiography of an incest survivor who developed multiple personalities to cope with her trauma. I’ve always been good at psychosomatics. C told me to stop reading it, because I’ll just drive myself crazy. I think she might be right, but I hate the idea of quitting.

Which honestly is probably why I’m writing this blog right now; because Somebody told me once that I’m incapable of following through on something for more than 6 months. I might be writing this just to prove her wrong but I’m writing it. Goddamnit.

This month has been so strange. I don’t really know how to explain except that I feel far away from myself. There were times this month that I felt good, felt grounded and Real in a way that I don’t feel today. I remember sitting on my windowsill with the sky all purple and pink in that way that reminds me of cupcakes. I thought “Yes, ok. This is what happy feels like” and that song from Garden State was on loop in my brain, because it’s true. We live in a beautiful world.

Notable things that have happened this month:

1. Blue Monk Poetry Slam

This one time I decided I would be a Real Poet. I invited everybody I know to watch me “compete”. I wrote out my three poems longhand and walked around for three days reciting them under my breath like a crazy person. Seriously you guys, if you want to look unapproachable spend a lot of time muttering to yourself. People will cross streets to avoid you. They’ll shield their dogs and small children when you walk by.

Thursday night I was totes ready. I timed out and fully memorized my material. I wore my classy new black birthday shirt. I parted my hair on the right instead of the left. You know, keeping people on their toes. Turns out, slamming requires something known as “stage presence”. I don’t have that yet. I recited my 3 minute poem, held my breath and… didn’t make it to the second round of competition. But! I did get some good advice after the show. For example, “talk casually, move purposefully”. My voice wants to go all Andrea Gibson-y when I start waxing poetic and my hands do this weird claw thing. Having some feedback on my reading posture certainly helped.

Gratuitous picture of Andrea Gibson, check. http://www.myspace.com/andreagibson

I am not yet a slam poet. But I will be. Can’t stop me now!

2. The Biscuit is Fixed!

After a month of riding the bus and cursing my transportation situation, my co-worker finally got sick of my bitching and made me do something about it. She drove me home after work one night, jumped the Biscuit and followed me to the CarQuest around the block. A delightful fellow named Scottie helped me select and install my new battery, even though we rolled in about 10 minutes before closing time. And that was that! Biscuit has started like a champ ever since.

Lesson learned: sometimes things seem a lot more impossible than they really are. Alternatively: if you bitch about something long enough, somebody will fix it for you. Oh adulthood, you teach me all the things all the days.  

Last but not least, in the notable things I did this month…

3. Watched a Muppet Family Christmas.

You guys, please go experience the magic of this movie. It’s my entire childhood encapsulated in 42 minutes of singing, dancing and general merry-making. We’re talking a delightful fusion of the Muppets, Sesame Street and Fraggle Rock. All in one movie. I just can’t even explain.

Anyways, I hope you are all well! The sun is shining for the first time in a long time. I think I’m obligated to go enjoy it…

I love you all the days!

-b

An Open Letter to My Former Self

Listen.

Wednesday your ex-lover will wallop you over the head with every tactless bone in her body.

Two words, 11 letters, 14 characters.

For a moment you won’t understand what she’s telling you. Hold onto that moment, remember it existed. It is the last moment this week you will still feel like you.

The pain will be delayed; it will start at the back of your head and work its way into your chest. Your throat will swell shut. Don’t panic. When the infection begins to spread, amputate and cauterize before the gangrene hits your bloodstream. Your heart will look smaller than you imagined, laid out on the exam table like a dead kitten. Disregard the jew lodged in the left ventricle.

You will reinhabit yourself ten or twenty minutes later. You’ll know you’re back when your body remembers how to be cold. It is winter and you aren’t wearing a jacket. Your throat will ache from the animal-dying wails. Be grateful for traffic louder than your pain. Ignore your bruised temples, the places you gripped your head too tightly to remind yourself it was still there. In the next ten minutes you will text your closest friends ridiculous things. They won’t feel ridiculous. Indulge the melodrama because some day you might be able to laugh about it.

Things I need: wine, cigarettes and a pack of razor blades.

When your co-worker comes outside and asks who died, don’t tell her about your dead kitten heart. Just ask her for a cigarette. Smoke with her covertly, crouched behind the dumpster. The ritual will soothe your shaking hands. Let her tell you about all the times she’s locked herself in the bathroom to cry. Let her tell you: “She’s not worth it” and “You’re too good for her” and “Her loss”, even though you know it’s not true. Sometimes you’re allowed to need the lie.

When your roommate picks you up from work, she will tell you crying is bad for your sinus infection. Appreciate her practicality. Take her advice: stop your fucking crying. Tell her it’s a Two Buck Chuck kind of night. At the store she will look concerned when you buy three bottles. Laugh it off. Tell yourself they’ll last the week. Finish the first bottle before you go to bed, leave the others for tomorrow. Understand that hate is not the opposite of love. Understand that “numb” is not synonymous with “indifferent” but it’s a step in the right direction.         

This week: smoke too many cigarettes. Drink too much wine. Feel too deeply, ache exquisitely. Listen to music, loudly, in the living room. Sing along. Don’t be ashamed of the notes you can’t hit. Create elaborate lives for each person on the bus. Write bad poetry. Write good poetry. Create elaborate lives for yourself. Craft macabre metaphors to describe your pain. Go back to the places you knew before her. Bohemian Rhapsody, Reefer Madness, Drop Dead Gorgeous.

Tell yourself every lie you need to stay alive. That you deserve better. That “better” exists. Tell yourself this love wasn’t the end of you. That you’ll be happy again. That you’re going to make it.

Tell her goodbye.

-b

If You're the Devil, then it Isn't Me Telling this Story

Tonight the rain sounds like tidal waves, like I could be in the ocean but not drowning. It reminds me of packed dirt trails, or running so fast and so far, surf swirling around my bare feet. I don’t remember if we swam naked that night. I just remember throwing up behind a garbage can and belly button piercings and Brakes, Susie! Brakes! Keep your hands on the wheel. I just remember how the ocean felt like bath water; how it made me lonely for lakes. I’m always craving clear, still water.  

My co-worker almost smiles when she tells me about her hearing loss. Says 98% of the time there are no complications. Says the surgery should have been routine. She misses the sound of the rain the most. Sometimes I can almost remember how rain smells. I’m always thinking fresh cut grass and 6am when I think rain. Or sometimes it smells like summer camp circa 1997. Don’t ask me why.

I’m thinking about you tonight, but not in the hurting way. Remembering when you left poetry folded just-so on my pillow, annotated with your thoughts. I imagine you studying or drinking whiskey or kissing her and it doesn’t matter. She might be a killdeer game, or your soulmate; what we’re doing is never what we think we’re doing. We are all the human being stories we’re telling ourselves. I’ve started leaving poetry (folded just-so) on my pillow. I’ve started taping it to the wall above my bed, painting it on the insides of my eyelids.

Daphne Gottlieb, Tyler Knott, Jean Gallagher, Eileen Myles.

I’d like to memorize them like my life depends on it, because maybe it does. Don’t kiss trainwrecks. Don’t kiss knives. Don’t kiss. I want to write you a letter but I’m afraid. I want to hold onto this quiet.

Pablo Neruda, Doc Luben, Margaret Atwood, e.e. cummings.

Pretend there was no wreck—you watched the train go by and felt the air brush your face and that was it. Another train passing. You do not need trains. You can fly. You are a superhero. And there is no kryptonite.

My kitten thinks I’m a superhero. My stomach thinks I should eat more often, says my face will start to look gaunt. Do I look like an AIDS victim? My room says I need to open a window. I didn’t realize my room knew the meaning of the word “metaphor”, but I’m not surprised. No you look like you cry too much. I’m always choosing the rain, and tonight that seems ok. The rain sounds like waves breaking on my window pane, feels like looking up from the bottom of a bathtub.

Forget her name.

But I can’t because sometimes your name feels like the only thing I have to hold onto. I imagine you smell like the rain, but in reality everything smells like scar tissue to me.

-b

Narwhals, Narwhals Swimming in the Ocean.

Causing a commotion, because they are so awesome…

Hello kittens! I’ve returned safely from my Missoula foray, and tucked myself into my bed. Things I am currently grateful for: clean clothes, That Cat, my amazing friends and fruit snacks (not the 100% juice kind, but the weird gummy cartoon shapes kind). I hope you all take time to notice the full moon tonight. I got to admire it at eye level while flying over Mount Hood. You guys, it’s been an incredible and exhausting six days.

I flew back to Missoula for a whole heap of reasons, including but not limited to missing my family, running an 8K and craving a Taco del Sol burrito. Also, it was my birthday. Also, I hadn’t seen my family since July, which is a crazy long time considering children grow faster than chia pets. They’re closer to becoming real human beings every day! Anyhow, this particular trip was full of ups and downs, per usual. For your reading enjoyment I’ve compiled a helpful list of holiday faux pas based on recent experiences.

Things to avoid:

·         Chewing so vigorously that you chip a tooth. Seriously, nobody enjoys celery enough to cause permanent dental damage.

·         Consuming back-to-back Thanksgiving dinners (unless you are spiritually and mentally prepared for extreme agony).

·         Sleeping on a leather couch. You will sweat, and it will be disconcertingly sticky.

·         Attempting to equally divide your time and attention between three siblings. Just don’t. You will fail.

·         Laughing when one little brother sprints across the room to throw an elbow into another little brother’s face for calling him a “poopy”. I know I shouldn’t condone sibling-to-sibling violence, but holy shit guys.

·         Crying during Twilight: Breaking Dawn, Pt 2. Not once, but several times.

·         Blaming aforementioned tears on K-Stew’s face rather than admitting you wish your ex-girlfriend was holding your hand. Except replace “holding your hand” with “being in love with you” and you’re closer to the truth.

·         Expecting your friends to be enthralled by any story containing the words “Netflix”, “kale” or “obese dachshund”.

·         Planning a 10am breakfast the night after your friends get tanked in celebration of your birth (and also pursuit of throbbing man parts. Gross). Should you fail to observe this suggestion, you will probably spend three or more hours at Uptown Diner.

[Sidenote: pineapple milkshake equals breakfast. Always]

Let’s get real for a minute, ok? I want to thank you all for an incredible week. Thank you for Nertz and homemade stuffing and Baby it’s cold outside… Thank you for leaving the proof out of the pudding. Thank you for hitting the high notes, and reminding me sometimes it’s necessary to dance crazy around the living room. Any living room. Thank you for laughing at my puns, and listening to my boring stories and holding me or not holding me while I cried, or didn’t cry but wanted to. Thank you for extra jackets. Thank you for elephant love medley and three rounds of pool. Thank you for macaroni and cheese. Thank you for the Worst Day Ever and the knowledge that today is not That Day and tomorrow probably won’t be either.

Today I turned twenty-four and last night (between serenading me and complimenting my muscles) my friend asked what my birthday poem would look like. This is what I came up with.

Lessons from my 24^th Birthday

(A Poem for Magingo)

1. Don’t ask questions, just dance. When the music is playing, it’s playing just for you. Close your eyes. Feel the sound pound through your outstretched fingertips. Join the spinning of the world like a double dutch champion. Don’t be afraid. Jump in. The music is playing just for you.

2. Let yourself be loved. Cover yourself in layers of love like thick winter coats. Drape it across the holes in your self-esteem. Let it sink in: there will always be people to love you. Let them.

3. Sometimes the spotlight will just be the flash on a camera. Embrace it like the sun. Let it warm you from the inside. The pictures may be blurry, but they are lovely in the way only true things are lovely. You are lovely in a way that makes me believe in Truth.

4. Etch memories into your mind like names and dates scrawled across the tabletop of your favorite booth in your hometown bar. Carry the scars of your pleasure as proudly as your pain. Both are a badge of honor.

5. Sing every song in your repertoire. Sing with every muscle in your body, even when there’s no music. Especially when there’s no music. You are the music. There are symphonies in your bloodstream. There is a percussionist in your chest. Life only has a musical finale when you open your mouth to sing. Always sing.

This time last year I considered sleeping in the snowbank because I didn't think you'd miss me. This time last year I chased three beers with two Bloody Mary’s, chased two Bloody Mary’s with a bottle of blackberry brandy and met my family for a matinee I wouldn’t remember. This time last year I was lying in my bed, afraid to fall asleep because my heart was doing somersaults and I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking.

365 days of learning later I am in my bed, in my city and for the first time in a long time I feel fully present in this imperfect skin. And I know in three or 30 or 365 days I will be able to come home again; to love and be loved in a way that makes the heavies disappear for a little while. Even if it is at Deejo's expense...

I adore you all so much I could burst! Sleep well, dreamweavers.

-b

noone and a star stand, am to am

(life to life;breathing to breathing
flaming dream to dreaming flame)
united by perfect nothing:

I told you I loved you before my conscious mind knew it was true. That summer smelled like cigarettes and cheap beer; like sweat and sun and loneliness. I had been drunk every day for six months the night we strapped your mattress to the top of Casey’s jeep. You stood in my doorway in your pajamas, your Rabbit tucked under one arm. You were sad and brave and lovely in a way that made me want to invent new words. I loved you before my conscious mind knew how to love.

Three days or three weeks later: you tequila drunk in the passenger seat of your silly clown car, singing.

If you’ll be my star, I’ll be your sky.

Singing.

I need you so much closer.

You, dearest, were never meant to be anybody’s backdrop.

Last winter, through Ju’s kitchen window, you showed me the place you smoked cigarettes in your underwear. I imagined your winterpale skin, smoke pooling in cold pockets of air. Or maybe it was summer and the sun raised a layer of sweat across your exposed body, and the breeze shouldered some of your sadness. Sometimes late at night I smoke cigarettes on my roof, feeling lonely for that girl I never knew. I want to tell her everything will be fine. I want to believe everything will be fine.

When I was younger, I slept with my feet uncovered so I could run through my dreams. I clung to my bedpost so I could find my way back. Now I hold onto the pieces of myself I’m most afraid of losing, dig my fingers into my own ribcage as if I could hold myself together. You told me you’ll always be there when I come looking, but you are not mine to look for anymore.

I have been single for a year now. You are the first thing I think about every morning. Some days I wake slowly, imagine the fingers on my hipbone are yours.  Other days I wake up to the vacuum of your absence. I’m not delusional, just defined by the spaces you are not.

Two nights ago the lights stretched out below us, slow cars moving like sticky platelets through Missoula’s veins. We seared solar flares into our lungs. I let the smoke stun the swarm of words trapped inside my mouth. I didn’t mean to laugh, but we’re constantly straddling the line between tragedy and comedy.

And we laughed, you know, because sometimes you’d rather cry.

Yesterday, holding me like a baby knees to chest and my face pressed into the crook of your neck, I could have cried forever. You asked me why I’ll always choose the rain, and I don’t have an answer except I keep hoping it will make me appreciate the sun. You call me best friend and I call you home but in the end they’re all just different words for “never”. You told me agape. If nothing had ever changed we could still be in this place, drinking coffee and eating sandwiches. Or I’d be dead, or you’d be gone or everything would be wrong. Or nothing would be wrong. Parallel worlds are easier to get lost in than we suppose.

Yesterday, singing “happy birthday” and blowing out the candles in two breaths and wishing for I-don’t-know what. Yesterday, cutting into a cloud of pistachio pudding and chocolate cake. Nothing so sweet could ever be good for you. Nothing has changed, and that will probably always be problematic.

Tomorrow I will leave this town.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it

Imagine me somewhere: on a bus, at my desk, on a bus, in my bed. Reduce me to the essentials of existing, imagine me peaceful. Don’t check in. I’m tired of disappointing you. Tomorrow I’ll go back to the places that gravity feels lightest, where I don’t have to crawl. I’ll remember how to sleep again, remember dreams without you in them. I used to laugh when you talked about going back to Real Life, like somehow we could slip in and out of reality the way you put on a winter jacket to survive the worst of the cold.

I’m not laughing anymore.

-b

If You're Bored Then You're Boring...

You guys. It’s 7 o’clock on a Saturday night and I’m realizing I’ve become a poor self-entertainer. My activities today included oversleeping, drinking too much coffee, donating plasma and eating everything I own. In retrospect that last one was a bad idea. I’m still not sure how commuters manage to grocery shop. Do I make multiple trips? Bring a bigger backpack? Learn how to live primarily on powdered foods? All I know is somehow I need to transport one week’s worth of groceries from the store to my cupboard, or risk starvation.

This weekend ULOL drove to Boise, and Friend is working one of her many, many jobs. Which means I’ve got free reign of the house. What am I doing with my freedom? I could choreograph a nude interpretive dance routine, practice singing Celine Dion tunes for my next karaoke outing or testing how many marshmallows I can fit in my mouth at one time. Instead I’m obvs sitting on the couch, watching Buffy and stalking the grumpy cat.

Although Buffy and grumpy cat are two of my favorite things, I’m suffering through a debilitating case of FOMO (or “fear of missing out”) with a side serving of “decision fatigue”. You guys, it’s a real thing! With a proper label and people researching causes and symptoms! I’d lump FOMO into the same category as babies refusing to sleep and drunk people insisting they need to buy more beer after bar hour.

Build-your-own FOMO:
            1. Compile a list of potential activities.

            2. Add a dash of indecision.

            3. Become overwhelmed

 4. Wish you could be three or more places simultaneously.

            5. While weighing your options, open your laptop and scroll through Tumblr.

            6. Avoid all activities, succumbing to guilt and distress.

            7. Go to bed early, wondering if you’ve missed the best experience of your life.

This is the face of FOMO.

My current lack of transportation aggravates the FOMO. Sure I could pay $5 for a bus pass and spend an hour commuting across town for a poetry reading. Or I could eat an entire pound of ground beef in my sweatpants and watch My Drunk Kitchen until I get sleepy. Am I wasting my youth? Maybe. Should I be out there drinking too much and smoking too much, meeting all the people and having all the feelings? That’s open for interpretation. Maybe where I am is exactly where I’m meant to be, but I still feel uneasy.

What happens next? I mean, what happens next in our lives? When do we get a car? And a boat. No, wait, I don't mean a boat. I mean a puppy, or a child. I have a list somewhere…Just, we have to get going. I don't have time just to let these things happen…There's a hurry, Xander. I'm dying... I may have as few as fifty years left!

                                    --Anya, Buffy the Vampire Slayer

I think FOMO runs rampant in the twenty-somethings because for the first time our lives are unstructured. Listen, self-determination is daunting as fuck. We could do anything, be anyone. The decisions we make now could impact the rest of our lives. Afraid of making the wrong choice, we just avoid choosing. I feel caught in the in-between, waiting for some indication of what comes next. And in the meantime I work my 40 hour weeks, read good books, watch bad television. I sleep too much or too little, eat whenever I get the chance. I internalize obscure quotes, walk my roommates’ dogs in the rain, spend too much time on the internet.

So here I am. It’s now 9:30 on a Saturday night, and I’m no closer to leaving this couch. But you know what? I think for now that’s just fine.

Many miles of love. I adore you all.

-b

The City Bus is Swimming Past...

I’m happy just because. I found out I am really no one.

Hello creeps! Welcome to another week. I have a bad case of the Mondays. I also have a dead car, a crusty computer and soup in my shoe.

As you know, last week I was stalwartly avoiding conversations about politics and pregnancy. Tuesday, while taking a lunchtime nap in my car I noticed my fuse box making menacing clicking noises. That night leaving work there was a delay when I tried to start the Biscuit. But obvs since it started nothing could possibly be wrong. Then my stereo started shorting out. Mostly this was troubling because I was trying to enjoy my first birthday present of the year: the original soundtrack for “Once More with Feeling”. Every time we hit a climactic musical peak the stereo cut out, ruining Anya’s bunny-ranting momentum.

[Note: “Once More with Feeling” is the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and I would appreciate if you watched it immediately so our friendship can resume. Please and thank you]

I’ve had alternator issues before, so I know the slow fade and fizzle of a car. I also know the excruciating agony of limping said car home at dusk with a police escort while the headlights get dimmer and dimmer. Fact: the Biscuit is the first car I’ve owned that’s younger than I am. Trust me, I’ve had a junker or two

This issue was not that issue.

Listen. I have zero car sense. This March I had to ask the fella at O’Reilly’s how to put oil in my engine. So instead of addressing the fact that my car was having issues, I did what I usually do with problems I can’t solve and completely ignored it. The Biscuit got progressively harder to start. By Wednesday I had to turn on my dome light, crank the engine twice, toggle the battery on and crank a third time for the car to start. By Thursday morning my battery light was on and my gauges surged on and off every other minute. 6pm Thursday, Biscuit wouldn’t start without a jump.

This is about when I started admitting something might be wrong.

Luckily I have amazing roommates willing to schlep me to and from work despite whiskey hangovers, terrible weather and rush hour traffic. I resolved to troubleshoot my car troubles Saturday. I even recruited a gaggle of knowledgeable queers to peer under the hood and diagnose my issue. You guys, you’re not living until you’ve stood in the street in your slippers while five lesbians look at your car. After some battery terminal scraping Biscuit started without a problem, and everything seemed ok.

Until this morning. Luckily, I left the house early planning write before work. Unluckily, Biscuit tapped out after the first attempt to start him. Thus begins my first hellish experience with commuting. I’m going to share some valuable life lessons I learned today.

Commuting 101:

1. Don’t spill soup in your backpack, especially if the soup happens to be precariously perched atop your work clothes and laptop. While in panic-mode you may decide that shoving a Tupperware of soup into your backpack is a good idea. It’s not. Carrying a container of soup is preferable to wearing a container of soup.

2. If you disregard the advice from #1, you’ll be forced to make a terrible decision: salvage what’s left of your lunch, or leave the half-full soup container at the bus stop? I sacrificed a quality Tupperware today. I’m still not sure it was the right decision.

3. Don’t miss your bus, or you will most likely be late for work. Also, you’ll have to stand outside longer, covered in soup and probably freezing your ass off because you underdressed.

4. Don’t make eye contact with the probable heroin junkie sitting across from you at 8 o’clock in the morning. Or do. I’m torn on this one, because I think she probably had some good stories to tell.

Somehow I made it to work almost on time, despite my complete lack of public transportation know-how. God bless you, google maps.

Once I got in the building, my coworkers swamped me with kindness. You guys, I’m blown away by how great everybody was. They helped me mop bits of potato out of my backpack and get it in the washer. They helped me daub soup out of my computer speakers, and called me too skinny and shared their lunches. They even kicked me out early so I could catch the 6pm bus, instead of the 6:12. You guys, despite the aspects of my job that make me want to punch myself in the face, I think I’ve found a community of people that genuinely care about me and each other. Yes they bicker like siblings, but that commitment to rivalry is impressive in its own right.

Riding the bus home I let myself bask in the novelty. Even while it was happening I realized that soon commuting will just be another thing I do, just another part of my day. But today it was new; today it got to be fantastically chaotic. I saw two kids sprawl across the seat using their dad as a pillow, all three sleeping while mom watched for their stop. There were people getting off of work or going to work, going to parties, going home with their groceries… Just people, everybody out there living their separate lives existing momentarily in the same space. We were all just people with places to go, and in that moment the act of simply moving forward was enough.

So I’m officially a commuter, at least for now. Tomorrow I’ll pack a more sensible lunch, leave the house 10 minutes earlier and actually know how to get where I’m going. Today started hellishly, but it also showed me I’m not as alone as I feel sometimes. None of us are, and for that I’m eternally grateful.

All my love, you weirdos.

-b

P.S. After a week of success, I broke my sugar fast on Sunday. But you guys, pumpkin pie waffles! I’m back on the wagon, with no regrets. YOLO, bitches. 

Sugar, We're Going Down Swinging

Hello kittens! 

Tonight was election night. I hope you were all good citizens and actively participated in the electoral process. I failed, mostly because I’ve been supremely apathetic the last month or so. I barely mustered the energy to clip my toenails. Registering to vote was out of the question. As a result of my non-participation I had to buy Lucy lunch. I’m not complaining though, things appear to have turned out just fine without me.

Recently, the hot topics at the Boulevard have been politics and pregnancy, both of which I try to avoid. So I obvs spent 6 hours researching kale in an attempt to avoid all conversation. You guys, kale is a super food! Did you know it’s full of Vitamin K and iron? Did you know it only costs $1.39 per bunch and is super filling? I want to eat it for every meal. I also learned that hemp hearts are an excellent source of Omega-3 fatty acids, and I might live to be one million years old if I start eating more broccoli.

This healthy food kick stems from an article I read last week discussing sugar consumption, alcoholism and depression. As most of you know, I’m currently a desk surfer. The beginning of October meant staring down a tub of bite-sized chocolate bars eight hours a day, five days a week. Keep in mind I’m not generally a sweets person. I’ll eat a bag of potato chips in approximately one minute, but candy has never held the same appeal. Until the phones start ringing off the hook and the doctors are yelling about missing charts and the clients somehow believe you personally caused their dog to consume an entire box of allergy medication. Then those candy bars start to look like little bites of straight dopamine.

Just one more Milky Way...

I’m not proud of my actions, but I’d say I’ve been averaging about five butterfingers and three snickers a day. Plus the random sliver of ice cream cake, or pumpkin spice cupcake with my lunch. So I decided to cold turkey refined sugars.

You guys, this shit is hard! Today was my second full sugar-free day, and I was a basket case. I felt rundown, cranky and battled some wicked cravings. Before today I’ve never felt the urge to shove at least ten candy bars into my mouth at one time. But the fact that this is all so hard confirms my suspicions: I’m an addict. Only my addiction is socially acceptable, which makes it even harder to kick. Please bear with me. I’m hoping by the one week mark the desire to tear my own face off will subside.

On a completely unrelated note: I’ve spent a lot of time recently trying to decide how I’ll wrap up my recaps. A-Camp happened almost two months ago, and I’m still trying to organize my thoughts. All I have left to say is this: I left that mountain feeling capable of achieving. I felt quiet and capable, like I’d just survived a particularly grueling yoga session; I was centered. My problems were still the same, I was still the same me with the same regrets, but they seemed somehow more manageable. And I guess that’s really all there is to say about it.

A-Camp didn’t change my life, but it showed me my life isn’t beyond changing. I met my heroes, and they turned out to be real human beings, which only makes them that much more heroic. I made new friends and remembered that I’m capable of being a social creature even if that’s not my default setting. Better yet, I learned it’s ok that social isn’t my default setting. I’m not the only introverted weirdo who would rather ogle cat pictures than go clubbing. Most importantly, I found other people who understand my obscure Buffy references. 

Speaking of Buffy, did you know this is a thing that happened? Aren’t you glad?

So here I am. Everything has changed and everything is the same and I still have no idea what I’m doing. But I think that’s ok. I can feed myself and pay my bills and I’ve kept a kitten alive for two years now. I read books and smoke cigars and watch too much Netflix. In the end I just need to remember--

I am a lover without a lover. I am lovely and lonely and I belong deeply to myself.

It’s raining in Portland, and somewhere someone is celebrating the election results with fireworks. Tomorrow at the Boulevard the hot topics will still be politics and pregnancy, and I’ll do my best to avoid chocolate and confrontation. Please be kind to yourselves, I need each and every one of you.

Sweet dreams, you lovable weirdos.

-b 

A-Camp Day 3: Gonna Go Crazy On You

The A-Camp saga continues…

Friday, September 14: Day 3

Friday morning Lu and I woke up with Motivation thanks to the Nutrition and Exercise panel. We suited up and braved the altitude for a morning jog. Turns out oxygen is an important thing. Also Alpine Meadows happens to be on the side of a mountain. Between the previous day’s sprinting and my weak little lungs, this jog was mostly pain.

After breakfast I felt equal parts restless and exhausted. None of the morning activities held any real appeal, so I grabbed my book and cycled between reading and popping in and out of various panels. I caught part of Lesbian Jeopardy, but mostly I drank coffee. I was holding out for the highlight of Day 3: Kickball.

Time for some history, guys. Grades K-8 I attended a small private institution known as Christian Assembly Foursquare Academy. The school was inside of a church, the same church my parents still faithfully attend. Every day instead of one recess we got three breaks, and your academic status dictated how long your breaks lasted. Fortunately, little b was a bit of an overachiever. For the majority of my academic career I had two 30 minute breaks and a one hour lunch break. Unfortunately, girls had to wear knee length skirts on the daily, and attend weekly chapels, on top of our morning devotions. Have you guys heard of Bible drills? I was routinely a Bible drills final contestant. It’s a real thing, ask me about it.

I've definitely heard this phrase used non-ironically. 

Anyways, we spent our breaks in the carpeted gymnasium playing basketball, or outside on the “playground”. Playground means fenced parking lot. Since parking lots aren’t conducive to contact sports (tag, soccer, football to name a few…) kickball was the game of choice. Some of my favorite childhood memories are from kickball. Also some of my most painful, like in 4^th grade when 8^th grader Andrew Kost kicked and the ball caught me so hard in the stomach it knocked me off first base.

So kickball was a blast from the past, and also just a blast in general. The teams were Red against Everyone Else, and I’m pretty sure my team lost. Also third base was a piece of bark we found. You guys, kickball is a big deal.

After kickball I more or less went my own way. I took a nap on a bench, ate a cookie and caught bits and pieces of the Coming Out panel, Formspring Friday and the Queer Women of Faith panel. I listened to all these incredible women, and I’m grateful I had the opportunity to hear their stories and experiences. Listen: thank you for your honesty, and your willingness to share that vulnerability. I have immense respect for you.

Post-dinner I needed to check out for a while. Once again with the processing and the feelings. So I headed back to the cabin with Lu to grab reading materials and decompress. When we got to the cabin, most of our bunk mates were there milling around. The big question: capture the flag, or hide somewhere and do introvert things? Our cabin opted out of the competition and into a silent reading group which lasted until well after the sun went down.

Photo courtesy of Christina, who is wonderful

Commence approximately an hour and a half of ladies calling us adorable and/or sneaking pictures of us. Yes, reading is sexy. Or precious. You know, whatever.

The final activities of the night were Fister Spit (the staff reading us things they wrote), and a musical performance by Hav & the Hav-Nots. The staff reading was mind blowing. Some staffers read familiar things. Laneia read one of my favorite posts from her personal blog, and Katrina taught us how to give no fucks. Carmen read to us from her private Tumblr, and it was my first real glimpse of Carmen. The first time I stopped and said damn, this girl is a superhero. Gabby read poetry that made me swoon, and also want to hug a lot of people I haven’t talked to in a long time. Riese read a piece from when she was younger, and poorer and living in New York. When it was over Lucy said “That’s you. You are Riese!” and I think she might be right. I mean, I hope she’s right.

After the reading there was this sort of stunned silence. That’s how it felt to me, anyways. I just sat there and rolled everything around in my head. I tried to find room inside me for all the things. Luckily, shortly thereafter Haviland was serenading us and Stef was playing bass in a captain’s hat. Alex Vega played the drums and Marni played guitar and they looked and felt like a family on that stage. And so yeah, all of the feelings from the reading were still there. But seriously, how can you feel bad when Haviland Stilwell is singing an 80s rock ballad and Marni is doing leg kicks? You can’t. You just can’t.

I’ma leave you with that mental image, because it’s such a good one. All of you who were there, you know.

All my love, daydream believers.

-b

[P.S. Shout out to Valencia! It was good to see you guys today.]

Sometimes I Just Cry, It's Not A Big Deal

Ok, weirdos. Hold up.

http://blog.bigmouthmedia.com

I’m interrupting the A-Camp recaps to get real with you for a minute. I need to apologize for my inconsistency lately. I hate feeling so unreliable, especially since I set my own deadlines. Maybe it’s ridiculous to imagine you guys sitting at your computers, waiting with bated breath for my words of wisdom and/or fuckery. But maybe not? I think some of you actually pay attention to the things I say. Which is incredible and also utterly terrifying. I think this sums up the awesome/scary feelings, except minus the drinking.

Mostly, I’ve been dealing with some intense heavies lately. Reduced-to-the-basic-functions-of-living heavies. Think eating/sleeping/breathing, but only eating sometimes and sleeping when heavily dosed with melatonin. I’m not sharing this information for pity. Let’s be honest, the sympathy vote never gets you anywhere. This fact is frequently demonstrated on Chopped, where the inner city kid trying to win $10,000 to help pay for his sister’s lung replacement surgery will still be disqualified for overcooked salmon. That’s real life. I mean, that’s technically reality television, but it’s somebody’s real life. End tangent.

What I’m trying to say is: I think the worst of the heavies have passed. Today I didn’t cry driving to work. I managed to eat three full meals, and made it to yoga class. Now I’m sitting here, writing things for you guys to read. Because maybe some of you need me writing things almost as much as I need to write.

For the record, you’re incredible and I love you. Thank you for reminding me that some days breathing is all you can manage, and that’s ok; for telling me I'm not weak or small just because I feel sad. Thank you for your letters and your messages and your unexpected texts when it’s 7pm on a Friday night and I’m already in my bed watching Netflix. Thank you for telling me to pull my head out of my ass and go meet people. Listen, you are all lovely and surprising human beings. I want to be lovely and surprise you too. With that said, I intend to finish my A-Camp posts this week and move on. Because life has been happening this whole time, and we’ve been missing it! I hope you are all well. I hope you didn't cry on your way to work either, but if you did that's fine too. That's fucking human.

Be kind to yourselves, kittens. Please know that I love and miss you.

-b

A-Camp Day 2: Oh Brave New World!

Drunk kitten says writing is easy. 

Hello weirdos! Here’s a thing I’m learning: writing is significantly harder without a bottle of wine. Realistically a lot of things are harder without a bottle of wine. For example, talking to strangers, dancing without looking epileptic and falling asleep at night. Let’s hope my liver and self-respect understand the sacrifices I’m making here. Can you believe it’s been over a month since A-Camp? How about we wrap this shit up so I can tell you about my poetry reading, the apple pressing party and the new love of my life, Doris?

Thursday, September 13: Day 2

I woke up the first official morning of A-Camp sweaty and puffy and weirdly calm. I woke up before my alarm went off, before my cabin mates started stirring. I managed to put contacts into my swollen eyes, tied on my yellow bandanna and slunk out into the California morning with my notebook. Somewhere between my first and third cup of coffee, I started to feel normal again. I propped myself up in a patch of sunshine outside Wolf Lodge and wrote. I wrote until things stopped feeling so awful and my hands stopped shaking and my brain didn’t feel so feverish anymore. When I was done writing, I could breathe again.

I headed back to the cabin for my schedule and map, because Alpine Meadows is huge and my sense of direction doesn’t exist. Lucy was making her bed. She put her arm around my shoulders, and nothing was right but at least things didn’t feel quite as wrong. We headed to Wolf together for more coffee and the first of many “processing” sessions, and by the time the breakfast bell rang I intended to enjoy every fucking minute of A-Camp. Because why not?

My first activity of the day was Music Trivia with Crystal and Stef. This event may have actually been the highlight of my A-Camp experience. Mostly because it combined trivia, yelling and Australian candies being thrown at my head. Also I knew a few things! About halfway through this event it became apparent that Valencia’s gentle, law-abiding nature was predominant in the rest of the yellow team also. We wanted teams to buzz in before shouting answers! We wanted order and structure and fair play! Stef repeatedly professed her love for us, and officially dubbed us Team Polite. We didn’t win, but we gave it a good run.

After Music Trivia, I visited the cabin to plan my next activity and leave a Toblerone on Lucy’s pillow. Shortly thereafter I realized chocolate Australian candies probably constitute bear bait. C’est la vie, right? For the record, no bears were sighted in or around Cabin 5.

Next on the docket was the Introvert Meet-up, which was kind of like Speed Dating. Except Crystal and Laura realized introverts are delicate creatures. So it was more like structured partner speed dating with riddles and word games to keep our minds off actual interaction. I have to admit, I don’t remember much about that hour of my life. I met so many people from so many places with so many stories! I do know almost my entire cabin was present. Also I kept a sketch of a fox, a chicken and a bag of corn drawn by Crystal. You know, for my scrapbook. After that much introverted socializing, lunch was a relief. I’m pretty sure I was catatonic by this point, and spent most of lunchtime staring at a wall.

Post-lunch I headed into the Nutrition and Exercise panel where I learned two things that changed my entire outlook on life. First: Sarah Croce used to be a scrumhalf. You guys, she's a real life human being! After the panel we discussed the game, camaraderie and the agony of trying to lift your head after the first tournament of the season. The rest of the group concluded rugby players are masochists. Second: Haviland Stilwell, who may or may not be the most genuine human being on the planet earth, doesn’t drink. She doesn’t drink because she doesn’t want to. Listen, if it’s a good enough excuse for her it's suitable for me.

After the panel disbanded, Lu and I started back toward the cabin only to encounter an enormous mob of ladies gathering outside of Eagle Lodge. Why were they gathering? Oh you know, just because Hannah Hart was there signing shit and being charming. So obvs we waited in line, watching her make puns and sign underboobs. 

Then this happened:

Also Hannah called me fit. I replied with a stutter, because I’m witty like that.

I needed a little downtime after all the face-to-face, real life human interaction. I donned my swimmy, grabbed my book and towel and headed over to the pool for free swim. Unfortunately, free swim was between 3:30 and 5pm which, coincidentally, are the least sunny afternoon hours. Instead of basking like a lizard on a rock, I spent most of the next hour bouncing from sun spot to sun spot, listening to the Golden Girls talk and booze, and watching braver gays frolic and swim. Mostly I used this downtime to mentally prepare for that night’s group event: Faggity Feud.

[Note: Somewhere in here "Girls Gone Wild" happened, which sounds sexy but mostly it's like stealthy capture the flag. Except we're lesbians, so obviously we were collecting beans. Also you'll be proud to hear my knee withstood it's first adrenaline-inspired sprint since surgery. Two points for Lefty]

Carolyn had already warned our cabin repeatedly that Faggity Feud would be a spectacle, that none of us had to participate, and that it was highly likely we’d be seeing wet breasts. Listen. If cheap tequila and a wet t-shirt contest had a baby, it would look like Faggity Feud. Like Family Feud, contestants had to guess the most popular answers to questions like “What are the most annoying lesbian accessories?” and “Who on the US Women's Soccer team would you most want to have sex with?". Unlike Family Feud, everybody was wearing white. Also, super soakers.

Facts: this event made me want a shot (or six) of tequila, Brandy Howard was an adorably drunk kitten and I saw many boobs. After witnessing plenty of drunken debauchery, my little brain decided enough was enough. Time to shut down. Lucy and I stumbled back to Cabin 5 together in full zombie/mannequin/robot/statue mode, to sleep off the day’s exertions. We curled up in her bunk and spooned another night away. 

Only three more days of California! 

I love you, creeps. 

-b

[For further A-Camp indulgence, check out the official Autostraddle recamps]

A-Camp Day 1: O! Valencia

You guys, this morning I was going to bike to work. Even though it’s dark when I leave the house, and I haven’t biked since June and the directions I googled had approximately four million different turns onto and off of streets I’ve never heard of. I was going to do it, dammit! I suited up, trotted down to the basement and realized my tires were flat. My last air station experience was a debacle unfit for 7am, so I drove. Now I’m sitting in a Starbucks, looking homeless because I’m still wearing all of the layers I planned to bike in. “Transient chic” is actually a look I do pretty well, so don’t even trip.

Wednesday, September 12: Day 1! (Con’t indefinitely…)

After winding, hairpin turns and a few close brushes with a cliff we arrived at Alpine Meadows. The bus driver watched as we gathered our sensible flannels and vegan snacks, helped me climb into the bus’s belly to retrieve our bags and sent us on our way with a smile. Gabby and Carmen led the way to the rickety sound of rolling suitcases and lesbians giggling amongst themselves.

We trundled our way to Wolf Lodge for registration and to claim our gift bags.

I couldn’t have prepared myself to immediately encounter Riese and Laneia. One minute we were being funneled into alphabetical lines, the next Laneia was introducing herself. Also she remembered me from the introductory e-mails. Ok, that’s kind of a stretch. Mostly she remembered I was assigned to her fiancé Megan’s cabin (Valencia!) and that my cat has an unusual/awesome name. Then I was being handed a binder and canvas tote full of goodies, and sent on my way!

Lucy exited the swirling registration whirlpool about the same time I did. Brief eye contact, one deep breath and then Megan was scooping up our bags and walking us to our cabin. Things we learned between Wolf Lodge and our cabin:

1. There had been extreme flash floods over the past few days, so the trails were all wonky and most of the cabins had flooded. Don’t worry, we were in maybe the only dry one. I don’t know. I only went into one other cabin and it was swampy.

2. Our cabin was the very farthest one away from everything. In hindsight, I think this was tactically planned because our cabin of sleepy introverts tended to be in bed by 11pm every night

3. There had already been at least one bear sighting. Also Megan showed us the dents and scratches in our cabin door, which totes could have been bear damage. Also also, one presumably straight male camp manager plus lesbians making “bear” jokes equals priceless. If you encounter a wild bear, don’t make eye contact or try to engage it!

Does anybody know when the zine workshop starts?

We picked our bunks, deposited our bags, and walked back to Wolf Lodge with Megan to store our food and one bottle of Pellegrino that would never be seen again. Our goodie bags and binders told us our Rainbow Gang affiliation (yellow), when dinner started that night (5ish) and what activities were planned for that afternoon (not many…).

Being an Adult in a summer camp setting is a strange thing. There’s this weird compulsion to revert to a 7-year old mentality. For example, wanting to ask permission to do things, feeling like you could get in trouble for being in certain areas, etc. But also you remember that you’re a grown ass woman with agency and you should probably be able to fill unstructured time without anyone else’s permission. Lu and I wandered listlessly around the campground, played on the monkey bars (near the other kids, without actually engaging with them), and had an intense tetherball showdown. When my arms and also my pride were too bruised for any more tetherball, we drifted back to Wolf Lodge to eat cookies and drink coffee.

From this point forward, cookies and coffee would be my go-to when I wasn’t sure where else to be. I’ma guess I consumed at least 45 cookies during A-Camp. I’d rather not even guess about how much coffee I drank.

Valencia bunkmates had been arriving slowly over the course of the afternoon, which mostly meant a lot of avoided eye contact while we tried to feel each other out. Matching faces with the names and life details we’d exchanged via e-mail was a difficult game. Luckily, the powers that be had anticipated our social awkwardness, and facilitated a first-night cabin bonding circle. I only have a vague idea of what happened in other cabins (I’m pretty sure they involved a lot of whiskey), but our cabin had a sit-down and a sensible chat.

You guys, I adore my cabin mates. They are the loveliest little group of introverts I’ve ever known. Unfortunately, being gentle, kind and thoughtful put us at a serious disadvantage in the Rainbow wars. For the duration of the week, Team Yellow would be synonymous with Team Polite. Following all the meeting and greeting we had our icebreaker round of the Rainbow Wars where our non-aggression landed us dead last. But! We played tug-o-war, played with a giant parachute and created an impromptu skit about the meaning of “Autostraddle”.

After the activities, we made our way down to the First Night campfire, where the staff was officially introduced and we got to see all of their beautiful faces. Then Julie Goldman inducted us into the Gay Baby Army and we were all singing and laughing and waving our little Gay Baby hands in the air and everything was just perfect.

After the campfire I hear there was an after party that involved whiskey in paper cups and lots of rave dancing/lesbian kissing. Unfortunately (or fortunately, since this seems to be when most of camp contracted what would affectionately come to be known as the Battlestar Plague), after the campfire I was fucking exhausted. All of the heavies from the past 24 hours imploded, creating this gaping cosmic black hole somewhere in the middle of my chest. I went back to the cabin, along with most of my sleepy kitten bunk mates. After brushing my teeth and donning nearly every article of clothing I’d packed, I curled up in a little ball in my bunk and cried.

I tried to be quiet, but I’m pretty sure it deteriorated into that weird sigh/hiccup thing that happens when toddlers cry themselves to sleep. Lucy was in the bunk above me, because she didn’t want anybody to assume we were together. By “anybody” I think she meant mostly me. Having her close but so far away and feeling so small and empty and far from home… You guys. I won’t lie, that first night fucking sucked. Also, our cabins were heated. Wearing all my clothes, I was a sweaty mess by morning.

All my love, you weirdos.

-b 

A-Camp Day 1: California, Here We Come!

Hello kittens! Listen, I have something very important to tell you. I am an addict. Seriously, Breaking Bad has derailed my life. I took inventory today, and realized something’s got to give. I haven’t done laundry in a month, Murphy’s starting to look like a neglected meth baby and you’ve all been patiently awaiting my A-Camp stories. I’ve learned the hard way that addiction hurts everyone involved. Also, I’m pretty much convinced drug cartel assassins are secretly monitoring every move I make. Everybody on board? Let’s get back to it.

P.S. Thank you to everyone who relentlessly hounded me. This one’s for you… Ok all of them are for you.

Wednesday, September 12: Day 1!

Wednesday morning I dragged my body out of bed after two hours of not really sleeping. I stumbled around gathering last-minute camp supplies, mumbling and trying not to step all over Lucy, who appeared to be doing the same. My eyes were swollen and my brain felt like one of those weird growing bathtub toys. You know those sponge animal things that kids soak overnight and they swell into giant, slimy creature blobs? That was my brain.

ULOL came bouncing through the front door, fresh from the dog park and packed us into her car, because she’s wonderful and voluntarily chauffeured us to the airport.

Things I remember: delirium blur and tunnel vision. Airport security patting down my hair for razor blades. Lucy looking anywhere but me. The biggest quad shot americano, clutched between my sleepy hands. The woman behind the counter, like a young Meryl Streep. I wondered what she wanted to be when she grew up. I wondered if she ever wanted to be anything other than a woman behind a counter making airport breakfast sandwiches; if her friends ever told her she looked like Meryl Streep, and she laughed but also agreed. My hands shaking; thinking how big the veins looked, how close to the surface. Me looking anywhere but Lucy, rereading the same sentence over and over. Five minutes straight: The poet’s life is just so much crenellated waste, nights and days whipping swiftly or laboriously past the cinematic window.

90 minutes later, outside our gate: We haven’t lost anything you know.

      We haven’t lost anything?

      No, we didn’t have anything in the first place.

On the airplane and I’m curled into myself next to the window watching one giant wing flex, ready for takeoff. I pulled up my hood, made myself invisible and finally slept.

One ginger ale, a bag of mixed nuts and an indefinite amount of time later, we touched down in overcast Los Angeles. Lucy made it through the flight without hyperventilating and/or having me slip a Xanax into her drink. We taxied to the gate, listening to one very disgruntled man complain about how long it was taking to get off the plane. Personally, I could have stayed there another hundred years. My social anxiety levels peaked when the doors opened, and didn’t drop again until early Friday.

We gathered our things and also our courage. Lucy patted me on the head (literally, like a child or a sleepy puppy), asked if I was ready. I said yes, even though I wasn’t sure because not being ready was starting to feel exhausting.

The Autostraddle demi-gods had told us to gather in baggage claim to await our shuttles. You guys, I’m going to be honest with you. No amount of mental preparation takes away the inherent shock of encountering a sprawling group of lesbians. Lucy spotted them the first time we walked by, but it took three more passes for us to actually join them. I’ve never seen so many styles of flannel. Ukuleles littered the area. I felt out of place with my non-alternative lifestyle haircut. We perched on the perimeter of the group, trying to subtly observe everybody. I could identify at least three different types of mohawk from where I was sitting.

And then Gabby, Laura and Carmen were there! And they were real people, who wore clothes and had hangovers and wanted another cup of coffee just as much as I did! I’ve been reading Autostraddle for about a year now, following and admiring the fuck out of these women. Sitting in the Los Angeles airport, just existing in the same place as them felt surreal in a way I’m not sure how to explain. But there they were, taking our names and helping gather our things and shepherding us to the bus. You guys, I just can’t even.

Several hours, one coffee stop at Karen's Donuts and a dangerous, winding mountain road later we were thanking our stunned bus driver and climbing off the bus. Alpine Meadows greeted us with hand-drawn A-Camp signs and the first patches of California sun.

I promise I won’t leave you guys in the lurch like last time, but that’s all for now… I need to have a staring competition with the pile of laundry on my floor.

I love you, creeps.

-b

[Note: If you need more A-Camp, check out the official Autostraddle recamps]