Open Letter Series: #3

"It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace."

-Chuck Palahniuk

To the girl who writes the way most people bleed:

Silly creature. You spend so much time memorializing your sorrow, living your life like an act of catharsis. Like your heart is an apology. Like your knees were made for bending. For groveling. You have carved regret into the soles of your feet so everyone you meet can see where you came from. You wear your body like a tombstone. You write love stories like eulogies. You imagine your pulse as an unwinding clock but, darling. You are not a machine. You are neither simple nor precise in the way of clocks and engines. Your heart is a clumsy cog: it flutters/sinks/breaks/swells/races at every slight provocation.     

Don’t let your sorrow diminish your dimensions. Please. Write your joy.

Remember the lattice of steam on the window, your lover hoisting you onto the kitchen counter. Autumnal downpours beating against the skylight. Tangling your fingers into the soft, straight hair hidden under her curls.

Remember the simple luxury of mozzarella, fresh basil, and sweet tomato. Thick-crusted bread dripping balsamic vinegar. Cheap red wine and mason jars. Touching a stranger’s hand for the first time. Settle into a loose circle, shuffle the playing cards. Watch Dali masterpieces snap together in new arrangements.

Bullshit is a game for liars. I mean, it's an educational game.

Deal the deck. Read these new humans. Study their body language, learn their ‘tells’. Derive meaning from a crooked smile or a tightening around the eyes. Memorize their names and signs.

Scorpio, Scorpio, Libra, Leo, Sagittarius, Scorpio, Leo, Piscean Aries, Capricorn…

Analyze your own behavior, the way you can swagger lies into the circle but furtively sneak in truths. Strive for neutrality, mask your deceptions. That’s the name of the game. You are grateful each time you are caught in the act. Assume this says something positive about your character. Allison is an open book; soon she’ll hold the whole deck. You love her for the way she prefers the truth. You love her for the way she smiles apologies when forced to bluff.

Remember the quiet after everyone disperses. How loudly fire chatters against a backdrop of silent camaraderie, stretched on your bellies filling in crossword answers. Outside the dark gathers momentum. Outside the wind sounds like every cliché wind sounds. Outside the rain tests the parameters of physics and metaphors. It’s raining buckets/sheets/cats and dogs.

Remember swathing yourself in shades of blue, folding yourself into her long/lean body. She is a study in planes and angles. You have never been such a dedicated student; you have never loved geometry so much. Write your joy. Write her mouth across your sternum. Write the sound of rain on roof. Write body heat coalescing on the window panes of your bedroom. Write the walls yellow. Write your breathing easy. Write your heartbeat steady.

Write your joy.

-b  

Understanding bus culture (AKA how to avoid getting shanked during your daily commute...)

­­Hello kittens.

My thoughts exactly, Confused Goat

Sometimes, when you go from biking zero miles per week to biking nearly 90 miles per week, 1) your legs threaten to fall off or 2) your bike begins to crumble beneath you. My swollen knees, frayed brake cables, and the inevitability of autumnal monsoons have me riding the bus for the time being.

As some of you know, I first experienced the ups and downs of public transportation last winter when Biscuit’s flirtation with trouble first became problematic. This time around I felt much more prepared. You guys. I don’t know if I forgot (AKA blacked out) how strange the bus can be, or if things have just gone to shit since my last commuting stint. Regardless, I feel like Constantine stepping into the strange and nonsensical recesses of hell every morning and afternoon during peak commuter hours. 

To keep myself entertained/thwart commuter depression I spent this week documenting Bus Culture. The following conversations are 100% factual, especially the ones I made up.    

Lessons from Bus Culture

1) Economics:

Woman #1: Don’t even get me started on Nikki. I don’t know how that bitch thinks she’s broke all the time. I don’t even have a cell phone because I can’t afford it. Her mama pays all her bills and gives her a damn allowance!

Woman #2: Mhm, and I know for a fact her mama owns like 25 McDonald’s, but she never even tried to get a job there.

Woman #1: [Audible sucking on front teeth, followed by loud lip-smacking] Damn. That girl could be a CEO in like a year! 2 weeks, boom, training. 2 months, boom, manager. Bitch.

Woman #2: Bitch.

2) Communications & Settling Disputes:

Man #1: Nah homie, you don’t need a knife. You can make plastic just as sharp as any switchblade. You gotta melt it down, then coat it in baby oil (that’s key. Keeps it from sticking). Press it between some books and you’re good to go. It won’t stab well, but you can cut a motha’fucka’ deep.

Man #2: So did he go C.O.?

[note: I am assuming C.O. stands for correctional officer, but that’s just speculation]

Man #1: Hell no! He knows who owns that bunk. And I made that bitch buy me a new radio clock since he bled all over mine.

3) Health & Hygiene:

Woman #1: Man, I hate when parents wipe their kids’ snotty-ass faces and try to hand me the soggy tissue, I’m like oh hell no, no you don’t!

Woman #2: Right? It’s like, ‘Oh no your kid can keep their damn Ebola!’.

4) Recent Legislation:

Teenage Boy #1: What you do, when you want to carry more than an ounce, what you do is… no seriously, listen man. Split it up into a bunch of different one ounce baggies. Then when the cops are like, up in your face be like ‘Nah, these are all different strains. I’ve got an ounce for anxiety, an ounce for back pain, an ounce for anxiety…’ You know? I have a buddy that does that.

Teenage Boy #2: Or we could just go to Washington where that shit’s legal.

Bus Driver: Language!

Teenagers (in unison): Sorry ma’am…

Most teenage boys remind me of Thug Pug

5) Foreign Languages:

Teenage Boy: Is that place really called Teco’s Tacos? Isn’t ‘teco’ just Mexican for taco? Seriously, what kind of name is Taco’s Tacos? They weren’t even trying…

[note: speculated aloud to the seemingly homeless man dozing in the seat next to him]

6) Politics (Time/Space Continuums?)

Stephen: I don’t even care who he is, I’ll sue him! I’ll sue the whole world straight to Mars! It’s like the Twilight Zone. If this were the Twilight Zone, you’d be President. Are you the President? It’s almost over at least. I can’t wait until we get there. I’m tired of all these surveillance cameras and people following me. Do you ever have people look at you like you’re a complete weirdo?

Stephen’s Ladyfriend: Where is it?

Stephen: Close.

This is a gratuitous llama picture

All my love, you bunch of weirdos.

-b

Open Letter Series: #2

To the girl eating Cheez-Its while working the front desk at my gym:

I don’t know how to explain this, but I think I love you.

Let me elaborate.

My relationships with food and exercise have always been complicated. I’m not a “happy medium” sort of person. Feast or famine, marathon runner or couch potato, strict veganism or fast food binge fest. I have a hard time practicing moderation in anything let alone all things. I oscillate between clean eating and eating nachos in bed, simultaneously worrying about my waistline and mentally incapable of giving any more fucks.

The night you were working the front desk I was mid-manic obsessive phase. No gluten, no dairy, no meat. At least 15 miles of running per week, preferably closer to 20. I had just finished running 6 miles. Legs trembling, knees creaking: I was hungry, and tired in a way that sleeping doesn’t fix. I don’t know whether I’m running to or from something when I have these fits. Maybe both. Maybe I’m running away from myself and towards that ever-receding Ideal. Trying to sweat out my guilt and regrets, trying to run faster and farther and out of my own body in a way that’s never going to be possible.

You were perched on a stool, one hand blindly groping into that gaudy red box of salt and fat and preservatives I can’t pronounce. And you didn’t eat them daintily or one cracker at a time. You ate them by the handful, shamelessly. You inhaled those greasy orange squares, savored the traces of salt and grease on your fingertips. We made accidental eye contact as I left, and you shrugged unapologetically, smiling slightly as if to say Well? What about it?

Gym culture is predicated on a delicate charade, dependent on two basic premises:

1. People’s dissatisfaction with their current state of being.         
2. The belief that they can attain a coveted Ideal if they work hard enough.

Where that dissatisfaction stems from, and what physical ideal serves as inspiration varies from person to person. But the overarching message stays the same: “You need to change. We can help you”. You need to get bigger, or smaller, leaner, or more flexible. Fold, bend, lift, stride, strive, drive through the pain. If you work hard enough, one day you will be happy. If you work hard enough, one day you will not have to be you anymore. Sleep more. Hydrate. Avoid carbs, avoid fat, avoid alcohol. Avoid, and avoid, and avoid.

Food is such a strange and heavy topic. History and heredity taught me to measure my worth by the depth of my emptiness. The outcrop of collarbone, concavity of ribcage, precise angle of scapula arching away from the spine, the deep pelvic basin. My brain perceives these as signs of order and self-control. Every indulgence comes laden with comfort and guilt like a string of lost battles in the war for perfection. The fact that the words “food” and “indulgence” are so integrally connected in my head says something about our relationship.

I don’t really know how to say what I’m trying to say here, except that it was perfect. You were perfect and perfectly timed, because I was trying so hard to control, control, control myself and failing. I know you didn’t mean to, but you gave me permission to be human. You gave me permission to crave salt and fat and weird preservatives. You entered the holy temple of The Ideal and unapologetically ate something so familiar and comforting I could have cried.  

So thank you for existing. Thank you for being unapologetic. Thank you for not sitting there, drinking a protein shake like obvious product placement in a low-budget movie. I think I love you, and I know I love Cheez-Its. And I’m trying to love this body, with all its impulses and strange cravings.

-b

(P.S. if you haven’t tried the Tobasco Hot & Spicy flavor yet, you aren’t living life to the fullest.)

And when Sister Laurie says "Amen"

We won't hear anything. The ten-car train will take that word.

That fledgling bird. 

One year ago my grandmother died and I’ve spent the past twelve months trying to figure out exactly what that means to me.

This is what I remember: sitting in the car. C buying cigarettes. My mom calling to tell me my grandmother was dying of lung cancer. She passed away three and a half months later. Still, some vital part of her disappeared when I heard the word pneumonectomy. No. I never heard the word pneumonectomy, that’s something I googled afterwards. After the rose garden/coffee shop/arcade/break down.  

What I did hear: cancer, radiology, surgery, terminal. I wondered about the lung she had left. Did it swell to fill her chest like carnival goldfish grow into their bowls? Or did she just feel hollow; maybe her heartbeat echoed like her chest was an empty cathedral. I couldn’t call her, I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t realize there were so many things left to say.

Three and a half months later in a California hotel room, it took me thirty minutes to listen to a voicemail from my father, while Lucy was downstairs or in the shower or standing right next to me but far away. I don’t remember, but I do remember knowing before I knew.

Let me back up. When you tell people somebody you know has died, they want to know if you were close. And we weren’t. Not anymore. I last saw my grandmother in 2010 the weekend I graduated college. I was sweating out too many rounds of beer pong, while designating a special corner of hell for the person who invented black graduation gowns. We talked about taking a trip together, New Zealand or Australia. Instead I used her graduation present to pay my rent the month everything changed.

I last spoke to my grandmother Christmas morning, 2011. I was driving to work because our conversations needed built in escape-routes. I’ve never been the best at silence. She asked me to visit soon. I asked for her address, told her I would write.

Our last interaction was via Facebook. That fact makes me sick with guilt.

Three nights ago, I had a poetry reading on the anniversary of my grandmother’s death. I’d like to say I wrote her a tribute poem but that would be a lie, because I try to write honestly. And honestly, I didn’t know Mary Taulbee well enough to memorialize her. I didn’t know the woman who backpacked through Tasmania, or the 911 dispatcher; the city VIP, or the woman whose favorite musical was Mama Mia. I don’t remember how she liked her eggs, or if she liked eggs.

My dad and grandma on the last day they spent together

What I do remember:

Fresh nectarines and summer vacation. Monterey Bay aquarium, petting the rays. Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. Country music and cotton blouses. Counting pennies. Into the Wild, Heidi, White Fang. The smell of coffee beans and coco powder.  Ginger Ale on airplanes. Fresh mangoes and the sticky jungle heat of Nicaragua. Disneyworld, leaving the Orlando airport like walking into a sauna. Raspberry soda with a splash of cream.

After the funeral, I spent hours poring over the obituary, eulogy, collecting information about her. I wish my grandmother and I had more opportunities to know each other as human beings. I wish I’d known her as a mother/wife/widow/woman. In the end I miss the things we didn’t have more than the things we did. I’m mourning the stories I never heard, the experiences I never learned from. I’m grieving for the trips we never took, the late night phone calls I never felt compelled to make. Here’s what I know: despite the distance, losttime, and weight of our history I loved my grandmother, and she loved me.

That’s not an easy truth, but it’s something.

-b

[Note: as part of her trust, my grandmother founded a charity benefitting Appalachian-area orphans, the Fred & Mary Taulbee Charitable Foundation. There are plenty of volunteer and donation opportunities available.]

It's Like a Jungle, Sometimes it Makes Me Wonder

[Note: my coworkers are lovely human beings, and the following content should in no way suggest otherwise. They are some of the kindest, most generous people I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. The following observations are purely anthropological and do not reflect negatively on the character of the lovably strange people I work with.]

My job is frequently a strange and confusing place where there are no rules governing social interaction.

There are two types of people drawn to the vet industry: people who love animals and people who dislike and/or are terrified of other people. Also people who are addicted to narcotics. But we’ll save that for another day. Much like these dogs who forgot how to dog, veterinary workers (myself included) often forget how to social.

For your reading pleasure, I've comprised a detailed account of Veterinary Social Etiquette.

A) Tenets governing the universe.

                                                                                                                                

1. If something occurs more than once, assume it has always and will always happen. Casually comment every time you notice recurring themes.

Based on my coworkers’ worldview I am currently the poor-college-student-super-carnivore-vegan-with-an-omnipresent-cough-and/or-asthma. I’m also the resident expert on twerking. Real talk: I’ve drastically changed my lifestyle just to see how quickly my work caricature adapts.

Example: some of you may recall I was horrifically ill last winter. As a result, I’ve earned a reputation for being perpetually sickly. Unfortunately this means every time I forget my esophagus wasn’t made for swallowing saliva and choke on my own spit, my coworkers ask if I’ve seen a doctor for “that cough” yet. Fortunately, I can attribute a whole plethora of things to my perceived perma-illness, including hangovers. Not that I’ve ever had a hangover at work. That would be irresponsible.

2. Everything should be logical and justifiable. The words “maybe” and “probably” support any theory.

Fact: humans behave erratically. Sometimes irresponsibly. Chaos reigns, things don’t always make sense. 90% of the time when somebody is late for their appointment, they simply have poor time management skills. But what’s the fun in that? Veterinary workers can deftly create hypothetical situations and drop clients into them the way I used to drop Zoo Tycoon guests into the raptor pen.

Me: Our 2:30 appointment is late. We should call them.

Coworker: Oh well, maybe that client owns a whippet. They probably got stuck in traffic.

Or: Oh well, school started yesterday. This client is probably a single mother and had to pick the kids up. Maybe one of them got in trouble today for starting a small fire in the lunch room and the talk with the principal took longer than expected.

Occasionally I’m tempted to offer my own alternative scenarios. For example:

Oh well, the sun rose at 6:23 this morning, so judging by the length of the Continental Divide… they probably spilled their coffee. Or maybe had to hand feed a baby leopard shark? That could put anybody behind schedule.

Sometimes I think they’re dicking with me, testing how far they can push the boundaries of reason before I call their bluff. Sometimes.

B) Techniques and Etiquette for Conversing

1. Signs your coworker wants you to start a conversation with them…

·         They make accidental eye contact

·         They do not make accidental eye contact.

·         They are quietly reading a book.

·         They are working intently (note: this is particularly true if their work looks difficult)

·         They are talking to a client on the telephone.

·         They exist in a room and appear to be conscious.

**Loosely interpret “conscious” to mean “breathing”.

2. Strategies for initiating conversation…

·         Hover near them until they are unable to avoid glancing your direction.

·         If they don’t respond to the hovering, bounce on the balls of your feet.

·         Hum tunelessly. Peer into the middle-distance. They’ll probably/definitely inquire what’s on your mind. (Alternative: sigh deeply and/or chuckle under your breath whilst shaking your head)

·         As a last resort, lean forward and splay your hands on their desk. This will minimize their work space and force them to acknowledge your presence.

3. Notes on conversing…

i. Have a script: saying the same thing at the same time on the same days of the week will be reassuring to your conversational partner. Consistency is key.

Monday morning: ask how your coworker’s weekend was. Every other morning? Inquire about their general state of being. When it is somebody’s designated lunchtime, ask if they are going to lunch. Be sure to ask if their lunch is something yummy. They’re scheduled to be done for the day? Ask if they’re heading out.

ii. Should that fail, comment on other obvious occurrences or states of being.

Staples should include:

·         The weather

·         Recently deceased patients

·         Any variation in your coworkers’ schedules. For inspiration, draw on “hypothetical situations” as outlined in section A2.

**Note: casual gossip occasionally passes as a hypothetical situation.

iii. Conversations should begin mid-sentence, especially when you haven’t talked to someone in over 24 hours.

Just like telling a story, start in the middle of the action! The actual beginning or end of your conversation should subsequently and unpredictably twine into the narrative, Tarantino style. For example:

[…long period of silence]

Oh, I know! I can’t wait for the wet season so I can move my shrubs.  

Or maybe:

[…the second your conversational partner decides to be productive instead of trolling Buzzfeed]

Yeah I agree, so that’s when I decided to call pest control.

iv. All conversations are opportunities to share uncomfortable details about yourself.

The key here is to trick your conversational partner so they don’t see the antidepressants or indigestion coming. Start with something casual; be blasé. People love to be surprised by really intimate knowledge of your personal life. 

Coworker: Oh god, I’m so tired today.

Me: Oh yeah? Rough night?

Coworker: No, my doctor just doubled my antidepressant dose. I’ll be a zombie for at least a week.

[Please note that this conversation, verbatim, has occurred between me and at least three coworkers on separate and unrelated occasions.]

So there you have it! The social interaction gamut I’ve run five days a week for the past 18 months. Considering 14 out of our 16 person staff are introverts, we do pretty damn well forging interpersonal bonds. Side note, our clients are just as strange, if not stranger, than we are. Questions I will never be equipped to answer:

1. How can you tell the difference between a sneeze and a stroke?

2. Will it hurt a kitten to drink human breast milk?

3. I’m not sure what end this came out of… How do I know if that’s a hairball or poo?

All my love, you bunch of weirdos.

-b

Dreams so Real

My eyes are a gravel pit and my head feels like it’s full of the cotton that comes stuffed in the top of pill bottles. Everything rattles today.

I had a dream last night/this morning about a castle in the sky, and a purple balloon from Hillary Clinton, which made me think of you, even though that’s a thing I’ve been doing less lately. I wanted to show it to you but even in my dreams you are far away.

All of the moms went to Tik Tok without us. The moms didn’t bring us fried pickles. I’m not sure who “us” was, maybe everybody. Everybody I love, you were all there. Your moms were all there.

I don’t know what this means, except I’d like to see where you come from. I want to meet the moms and look for you in their faces and gestures. I want to hear That One Story, the one that makes your ears burn. She promised she’d never tell it again but you both know she will.

I love you. I have sharp teeth.

I want the moms to meet each other, like we could be kids again. They could drink coffee or tea at the park while we Red Light, Green Light, Red Light, Green Light our way into becoming. What would they talk about?

Anything. Everything. Or maybe nothing.

I want to see where you come from, who you come from. Maybe where you’re going. Maybe where we’re all going.

That’s all, I think.

-b

Lessons from my first week bike commuting:

1. Always trust your GPS…

Google spent a lot of money and littered our solar system with a lot of space junk to map the entire planet. When they say “take a slight right onto Garden Springs” they don’t mean “take a hard right onto Huber because all roads on the right side of the road will take you to the same place”. No. That’s a false assumption and you will end up cruising 7 miles downhill, only to walk your bike 3 miles up US-43. The fastest way to double your 9 mile commute? Huber Street.

2. …except when it’s untrustworthy

Your GPS is a computer. Google won’t understand why that 80 degree incline just isn’t an option. The space junk just knows that’s the most direct way to get from A to B. That tiny staircase in the side of the mountain? Totally a viable option. 2.5 uphill miles? Easy as pie when you are a machine. I am not a machine. Nothing is easy. 

3. Rain gear. 

Sometimes you bike to work two days in a row and get a little cocky. Through whatever dumb luck the sun has been shining every time you're outside. When A offers you a rain jacket (on three separate occasions) you borrow it to humor her. 

When the sky splits open three miles into your 9 mile commute, you will need to thank her for saving your life. I literally spent 20 minutes wringing water out of my cargo pockets. Unfortunately I donned the rain jacket during the storm, because pride. Waterproof gear is less effective when the water is on the inside of your clothes. But I survived, I’ma say mostly because of that jacket. 

4. Mountain bikes were made for mountains.

Real talk: I love my bike. I love the rusted handlebars, oversized tires, and the fact that one of my gears isn’t really a gear. When I “shift” into it nothing happens, except I feel better because theoretically I’ve shifted into an easier gear. Biking is a mental game. I once saw a homeless man in downtown Missoula riding the same make and model, in the same color. Only his seat wasn’t torn in half like mine was for two years.

I love my bike. But I’ve come to the conclusion that mountain bikes are not intended for long city commutes. First of all, it weighs approximately one million pounds. When I hit a hill I can feel gravity tugging on every inch of that alloy frame. Second of all... ok I guess there is no second of all.

5. Safety first!

I am a proud person. This is not a virtue. I also tend to get hung up on really stupid things. For example, my resistance to rain gear noted above. This resistance extends to basic safety gear (AKA helmets, lights, reflectors). You guys, I don’t even know. There’s nothing cool about being very cold and soggy, or smeared on the side of a windy road, or invisible in the dark like a bike ninja. Ok, maybe that last one would be kind of cool but also it leads to permanent brain damage and/or roadside fatalities. Ain’t nobody got time to be dead.

6. Backpacks become exponentially heavier the longer they are on your back. 

Especially when they are filled with tiny melons. 

7. Squirrels. 'Nough said. 

All my love, weirdos. 

-b

Baby's Got a Fast Car

Hello lovelies. This edition of b Honest is brought to you by Laughing Planet Café, where I am drinking iced coffee and resisting the urge to sleep another day away. Have you noticed it’s been a million degrees outside? I will be sweaty always. 

As some of you know I am madly in love with my car, the Biscuit. Like most everything I love, I have officially run him into the ground. Back in May, I had my oil changed right before a trip to the coast. Like a responsible car owner. While I was there, the manager informed me there was oil leaking into my coolant reserve, which likely meant head gasket problems. I don’t know much/anything about mechanics, but I recognize “head gasket” is code for “death sentence”.

His advice: minimal driving until I got into a mechanic. My solution: ignore the problem and assume it will go away.

Three months later I’m writing to inform you Biscuit is officially on hospice. I’m

restricting him to a 5 mile radius, because I’m convinced he’ll explode any day now.

The trouble started Friday night when I was headed to Them’s Fightin’ Words after work. There is nothing even remotely pleasant about commuting to St. John’s at 6pm on a Friday. I learned this lesson the hard way. He overheated three times before I found my way to St. John’s Bookstore and a safe side street.

After the show I limped him 1.3 miles to the nearest 711 where I purchased coolant, oil, and a bottle of bottom shelf red wine because stress. You know what shouldn’t happen when you poor coolant into your vehicle? It shouldn’t come out the bottom of your chassis. It sounded like a pregnant woman’s water breaking in a bad movie. Whoosh, splat.

We made it home without further incident, but shit guys. If he’d broken down in NoPo I would have been helpless. Like, take off my license plates and walk away, surrender. In honor of the Biscuit, I’d like to share my favorite memories. You should probably queue up a medley of emotional 80s rock ballads, if you haven’t already.

Chronological countdown of Biscuit’s best moments:

1. The day I drove him home from Kalispell. On our way out of town, Lucy and I stopped at Border’s going out of business sale. When we hit the road I was fully equipped with Pat Benatar, the Spice Girls, and Eminem. The weather was perfect; two and a half hours of sunshine and windows down and driving too fast through too small towns.

2. My first road trip: Missoula to Portland. Lucy rode down with me for a weekend-long rugby clinic. That was also 1) my first time driving in any traffic, and 2) the weekend Biscuit’s right blinker went out. I like to live on the edge.

3. The winter it snowed four feet overnight and Biscuit was buried until the world thawed. The snow came up over his hood because Biscuit is tiny and adorable, not practical. I eventually used Mo’s tiny, collapsible shovel to dig him out once the roads weren’t a treacherous icy death trap. Lo, E, and a stranger walking her dog helped me push him back into action. Winter’s in Montana are rife with opportunities to accrue good karma. That strange woman was on her game.

4. Tamarack Christmas party, circa 2012. I wasn’t actually at the party, but I did get the opportunity to chauffer my friends (and their ugly sweaters) home from the Rhino. Unfortunately, the majority of my things were already packed into the backseat of my car so I made multiple trips with two people lapped up in the front seat for each ride. There was just so much drunk happening, I don’t even know.

5. The time Lo spent hours tediously arranging and rearranging until everything I own fit into the backseat of a 1999 Dodge Neon. Three concepts that are foreign to me: organization, spatial awareness, planning ahead. I would have shoved everything into garbage bags and stuffed things in until I ran out of space. But Lo is a magician. I have never met a human being so single-handedly capable of thwarting my poor-space-management impulses.

Me: We have to leave room for my little sister [as I set my plant in the front seat]

Lo:[…silence] Is that plant your sister? Should I call it Bobbi? No? Get it out of there. 

6. First trip to the coast: the weekend before I started work. There was still snow in the mountains and a tsunami warning when I got to Seaside. I hydroplaned most of the drive because Biscuit weighs approximately 5 lbs. But I was free and it was raining and I ate a sandwich and drank shitty coffee and felt like myself for a little while

7. My first time driving after riding the bus for two months. I thought I’d killed Biscuit back in December, but really he just needed a new battery. Here is an important thing: having a friend who cared enough to drive 15 miles across the city to jump my car. She sat with me while the CarQuest employee installed my new battery, even though it was dark and cold and late.

8. That night after Blow Pony when everything changed.

9. Night of Kink, round two. C and I sat in my car with the seats reclined and drank box wine and sang at the top of our lungs, dancing across harmonies and melodies until people started trickling out and finding their way home. Sometimes the best outing is staying in.

10. Every morning I cried on my way to work. Seriously you guys, this was like three months of my life. I can’t even imagine if I’d been on a bus or trying to bike. Biscuit is like the therapist I never had.

So, for the time being I’m a bicyclist again. Fact: a woman named Sylvia once talked me into buying life insurance after discussing bike-related fatalities. Because who is going to pay to ship your body home when you cross paths with a semi? Note the use of “when” not “if”. Sylvia knew her game and played it well. Moral of the story, buy American. R.I.P. Biscuit.  

All my love.

-b