November is for Nostalgia

[Note: this one time I wrote a thing, and promptly got distracted without posting it. So, Throwback Thursday: unseen post edition. Cheers, lovelies!]

I am trying to feel how I feel without breaking. Breaking down, breaking open, breaking through. November is for nostalgia; memories coiling tightly around themselves like a writhing knot of snakes at the center of a tree. Lately I have been lonely for people I don’t know. Lately I have been lonely for the people they can’t be anymore. The cells in our bodies replace themselves every seven years, and someday I will be a person you have never seen. I’m learning to be ok with that.

It's fall now and I am in love with a girl who fits like well-worn flannel. When I feel lonely I remember night time, and my body against her body against dirt. Bark cracking like sinew and tendon, the fire’s noisy meal a product of hasty scavenging. Hard-won flames gnaw noisily. Wet logs crumble into ashy pillars. When I lay my head in her lap I’m not cold. Above me, her mouth makes words and above me the sky hangs dense like something primordial and above me three stars call themselves Polaris, dancing cheek to cheek so my eyes can perceive them.

Stars like pinpricks in the elasticity of the everything.

Stars like flecks of sand in black tar.

Stars like marshmallows bobbing in black water on the lake where I fished with my father.

Stars like powdered sugar sprinkled across asphalt.

When I feel lonely I think about two months ago. How we slipped out of our clothes and scrambled naked into clear, cold water. Cold knocking against our lungs, locking up limbs while traffic grumbled behind the sparse trees that can’t hide naked bodies, perched indelicately on sun-warmed rocks. Sleepy, yawning, stretching rocks. Rocks just beginning to wake up. Sunlight illuminates flecks of moisture caught in the fine raised hairs of her arms and backs as wind coaxes goosebumps out of hiding and the clothes huff in an impatient heap.

I want to unfold like something that unfolds slowly. Slip back into this business of breathing. I am more Me now than any version of this person. I am only lonely when I let myself be. I write letters to myself, all the words nobody else will say. I say:

"Here's the deal: you might not die this year… Maybe one day you will be old. You can say that now, right? Like you used to say 'Maybe one day I will be happy' and look: you wake up every morning, and you're grateful."

All my love, dearhearts.

-b

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Dog Owner**

The reactions varied from amused to horrified when I informed people I was getting a puppy.

“A puppy? What kind of puppy” they’d either demand suspiciously or squeal excitedly, depending on how they took the news.

“A Doberman puppy! 7 months old!” I’d exclaim, exclamatory, hoping to assuage their fears and stoke their excitement. At this point Carly almost always felt obligated to step in with a “But really the term ‘puppy’ is kind of misleading. She comes up to here.” Holding a hand flat near waist-level.

“Well yeah” I’d concede, “I mean sure. Mila weighs like 65 pounds. But she’s the sweetest little thing!”

Several years ago I reached the conclusion I wasn’t really a “Dog Person”. Hold the horrified gasps and let me state for the record: I love dogs. Hell, until I was twelve I wanted to be a dog. I’d lumber around the house on hands and knees, diligently sniffing every houseplant and burying the remote control under couch pillows.

I spent hours memorizing dog breed encyclopedias, fantasizing about Rover’s Rescue Resort: a giant parcel of land where I would grant society’s outcast dogs a second chance. I imagined dogs lifted from hopeless and meaningless existences transformed into doting canine companions under my stern but gentle leadership. I figured thirty dogs was a good place to start, after that I might need to hire help.

I grew up with dogs. Big dogs. Rottweilers and Labradors with their blocky heads, guileless slobbering smiles, and boundless energy. When I left my parents’ house for college I longed for nights curled up by the woodstove with the dog and a book. I missed long, rambling walks with nowhere to be but everything to discover.

Then I worked in a Doggie Daycare. Every day I was surrounded by dogs. Herding dogs, hunting dogs, companion dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, and everything in between.  Barking dogs, humping dogs. Dogs that ate poop, and dogs that ate puke. To say nothing of the dogs that puked up the poop that they’d eaten. There were dogs obsessed with tennis balls, and dogs obsessed with dogs-obsessed-with-tennis-balls. Now, I loved my job 90% of the time. But there was always immense satisfaction in closing up shop, biking the five miles home, and spending a quiet evening with my cat.

(Sidenote: or not spending a quiet evening with my cat! Turns out that’s the great thing about cats. If the food bowl is full and the litter box clean, they frankly don’t give much of a damn what you do after work. Try explaining that to a dog. “I’m sorry I delayed coming home to dote on you, I just wanted to grab a quick drink! You know, unwind with coworkers!” and his unconditional love and forgiveness will burn a hole in your guilty, booze-sodden soul.)

This peculiar tension between being a Dog Lover, but not quite a Dog Person culminated in what I call the “Deejo Incident”.

Deejo was a regular daycare attendee, a 4 yeard old Australian Shepherd/Pug X who vaguely resembled the lovechild of a mastiff and a baby seal. His owner was in the process of relocating from Missoula to L.A., where she intended to pursue a career as a singer/songwriter. She mentioned her intention to rehome him one afternoon, while Deejo trotted happily around the room inspecting every dusty corner for biscuit crumbs.

“”Poor little fella” I thought, “being uprooted and sent to live with strangers.”

In what I considered a magnanimous display of generosity, I offered to adopt him. I’d recently moved into a house that allowed dogs. I’d also recently taken to having organic vegetables delivered to my doorstep, and re-paying my student loans. With these steps in the general direction of adulthood, I was hungry for more. A lingering part of me suspected dog ownership was nearing the pinnacle of Responsibility. Likely in the realm of marriage, and childbirth.

Fast forward six months: sunrise on a weekday. I’m lying in bed, staring hard at the ceiling while Deejo burns guilty holes into my booze-sodden soul with his unconditional love and admiration. The second I woke up I could feel his eyes peering over the edge of the bed, begging me to love him. This had become a point of contention between us, his need to constantly gaze at me. For months I’d been shifting my knee, or book, or laptop to break the direct line-of-sight. And for months he’d been subtly, creepily shifting his body weight to reestablish it. That morning, waking up to his horrible, penetrating gaze the thought crossed my mind: I’d rather kill myself than deal with you right now.

I know it sounds dramatic, but it was a real turning point. Two weeks later, Deejo was uprooted and living with strangers. I mean, a nice family on a farm. Don’t worry! I didn’t kill my dog. There really is a nice family, and they really do live on a farm. A mastiff farm, where they bred giant working dogs. Deejo was the perfect fit: a miniature mastiff more easily coerced into a 4 year old daughter’s princess tutus and tea parties.

Three years since the “Deejo Incident”, the memory of his probing gaze and unwarranted affection still haunts me.

But when my Work Wife approached me with her dilemma, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to dip my toes into dog ownership. As a newly enlisted police cadet, she would be training in Salem for several months. Though her family supported the career change, they were less than ecstatic about the prospect of caring for her 6 year old child and a rambunctious 65 pound, 7 month old Doberman puppy.

The plan was simple. Sunday evening through Friday morning I’d be responsible for feeding, walking, and chauffering Mila to and from daycare. W.W. would foot the bills, purchase the kibble, and supply any tools deemed necessary (ex. treats, chew toys, and the despicable Gentle Leader that made walking Mila even remotely manageable). Friday night W.W. would pick Mila up from daycare, leaving my footloose and fancy-free social life unencumbered. Cadet training would end mid-February, and Mila would go back to her normal life. This timeline guaranteed I couldn’t slip into the helpless pit of depression evoked by the prospect of nursing Deejo into old age.

And really, maybe I’d enjoy dog ownership! Of course there would be hiccups. That Cat’s absolute hatred of dogs, for example. Or the fact that I habitually spent 3-4 nights per week at Carly’s house instead of my own. Perhaps the fact that I’d be juggling the stress of 50 hour work weeks, Sober October, and dog ownership simultaneously. But I wasn’t deterred.

The first week, Mila liberated me from the alarm clock. Who wants a shrill sound when you can have a giant, clumsy paw clobbering you in the head? Or, better yet, a cold damp nose somehow finding your exposed, sleeping flesh? My alarm served as a negligible afterthought. I never had to “set” the puppy. I could rest easily knowing she’d wake me up well before dawn.  

The most interesting mornings were the mornings I forgot to drape clothes somewhere near the bed. Waking up I’d find 65 pounds of unrestrained joy standing between my naked body and sweatpants. Over the course of three weeks I perfected a lumbering stagger, something between a pirouette and an advanced martial arts feint. It’s a sport, really, keeping your bare ass out of reach while an inquisitive cold nose looms torpedo-esque in the dark. 

And that nose. Never underestimate a Doberman’s nose. I swear she could stand with all four feet in the living room, and still rest her nose on my dinner plate in the kitchen.

I would like to see a study proving that dog-ownership hones humans’ perception skills. I can now easily discern the sounds of Mila sneaking from her bed into mine, or tip-toeing up to the cat food dispenser. From my second story loft I can differentiate between when she’s hurdling the couch, and when she’s simply using my roommate’s bed to come off the top rail on an unsuspecting roommate's dog. Walking into a room, I feel equipped to interpret each displaced crumb, unusual puddle, or kitty litter pebble like a seasoned detective evaluating a crime scene.

My foray into part-time dog ownership lasted two weeks, five days, and approximately 12 hours. And, surprisingly, I wasn’t the reason it ended. Mila upgraded. She traded in her 10 hour days of daycare for a 2-acre fenced yard and a stay-at-home girlfriend in Wilsonville. I can’t blame her. In all honesty, I’m a little jealous of her.

This experience has taught me two things. 1) You can simultaneously love something desperately, and still want to throw it out a window. 2) Responsibilities are better when you don’t have to shoulder them alone. I would have cried more than once without Carly patting my head while murmuring reassuring things like, “She’s just a puppy. It’s only going to get worse. Accept it.” And accepting it. Accepting that there’s only so much a human can control, and a puppy isn’t one of them 99.9% of the time.

Unless you have a Gentle Leader.

All my love, darlings. 

-b

**Title inspired by Sherman Alexie's book, which I 100% guarantee you will enjoy. Please go purchase it immediately. 

Dear David Foster Wallace:

Nine months ago I picked up Infinite Jest for the second time with every intention of powering through. I believed my first failed attempt had prepared me for this undertaking. Now, cocooned in my bed on an autumn afternoon, it’s apparent that didn’t happen in the timely manner I’d hoped for.

Let’s start with the physical proportions of your behemoth. Over 1,000 pages with 388 endnotes, and a whopping 3.5 pounds. David Foster Wallace, your book is inconvenient. I couldn’t prop it up on the elliptical while mindlessly churning out miles of sweat, or pace around the house with it loosely grasped in one hand while brushing my teeth. From the start you demanded my full attention, and settled for nothing less. I frequently felt like a child: sitting upright, clutching the book with both hands, reading until my arms ached.

It’s safe to say this book left its mark on me. Literally. Remember the sunny day I vowed to read 50 pages in one sitting? Sprawled on the beach with 32 ounces of beer, a bottle of water, and ample snacks I was mentally and physically prepared. Six hours later, after emerging from the tangled vortex of a 10-page endnote, I hit that 50 page mark around the same time my second degree sunburn started blistering.   

Before now I’ve never read a book and the dictionary side-by-side. I have no doubt you did this intentionally. I’ll admit there were times I resented you for stretching the boundaries of language beyond good old Merriam-Webster’s capabilities. You manipulated the etymology of myth and medicine in ways I may never fully comprehend. Portions of this story read like a lexical temper tantrum. Do you realize there have been whole dictionaries dedicated to your creation?

It’s aptly titled. The joke is that you spend an infinite amount of time reading it.

Perhaps the worst things about reading this book was the inevitable question: but what’s it about? There’s no concise answer. The main characters are a prodigious teenage tennis player, a recovering drug addict/ex burglar, a subversive Canadian wheelchair assassin, and a horrifically beautiful veiled woman. Themes include depression, substance abuse, athletics, marketing and media, suicide, teenage angst, politics, pollution, and familial tension. You also managed to touch on incest, materialism, agoraphobia, love, and genetically mutated feral hamsters the size of Volkswagons.

As isolated as I felt reading it, I can’t imagine how you felt writing it.

David Foster Wallace, human beings are absurd. We’re repellant and alluring. We’re self-conscious and vain. We’re occasionally noble and martyred and affected. We wake up in gutters covered in our own shit and vomit, and still sell our last shred of dignity for another ounce of pleasure. But of course, you knew this. You possessed a concise and poignant view of the human condition, and chose to leave it of your own accord. I know, I know. The only advice I received when I started this book was to avoid reading it through the lens of your suicide. But you unknowingly cast the shadow of your death across every page.  

"Any man can slip out there. All it takes is a second of misplaced respect." pg. 169

I hope you’ve found more resolution than this story. Honestly, Infinite Jest is one of the most ridiculous and horrifying pieces of entertainment I’ve ever consumed. But also challenging. But also rewarding. David Foster Wallace, thank you. I know you’re responsible for this overwhelming and unexplainable feeling of accomplishment. I have to get back to my Real Life.

-b

I'm bouncing off the walls again.

I am 25 years old, and relearning the handstand.

It all started with my knees. This spring, two years post-op, I decided to rejoin the world of organized sports. After extensive googling I found the NetRippers Football Club, Rose City’s LGBTQ soccer club. This May I dug my cleats out of the crawl space, aired out the hand-me-down shin guards I wore throughout high school, and trekked to the Adidas Complex for my first Saturday afternoon practice.

You guys, I loved every minute of that first practice. Sprinting with purpose, letting muscle memory take over, working as a team toward a common goal… I was hooked.

As you may recall, I’m not the best at moderation. I started with Futsal. 44 minutes of high-impact aerobic activity once a week. Over the course of three months, this turned into two indoor soccer teams, an outdoor league, and a weekly Futsal match. By September I was playing 3-5 nights per week, sometimes multiple games a night.

The pain started after that first practice as a nagging tightness in the left knee. Not pain, exactly. More like an uncomfortable awareness that I have a knee, when typically I remain casually oblivious to my body’s existence. When Futsal started, the knee ached more acutely. Occasionally the rapid start/stop would cause buckling and sharp pain. After games I’d hobble upstairs to my bedroom and elevate it to reduce swelling. I started bracing the left knee for stability.

Six weeks ago, I was sitting at work while both knees crackled with some sort of maniac electricity. Imagine electrified ice water caught circulating just under your skin. Or the tip of a very small knife inserted beneath your nerve endings. They hurt when I sat. They hurt when I stood. They didn’t hurt when I walked, but they ached dully in a swelling-and-inflammation way. The only thing that alleviated the pain was squatting. Not crouching in a squat. That hurt too. No, the only relief was actively moving my body up and down in a squatting motion, pausing with my thighs at a 90 degree angle to the floor.

A week later I ceded, and dropped out of the soccer world.

Without soccer, I am relearning my body. I listen to the aches caused by miles of running on poorly rehabilitated joints. I’m learning to be strong, not only physically but mentally. Accepting limitations, giving myself time to heal. I am relearning the word grace.  

Handstands don’t require strong knees. Three weeks now I’ve padded barefoot into my loft and thrown my body against a wall. The first step is building strength. Training your upper body to bear weight: palms flat against hardwood, fingers splayed. Strength. How the shoulders ache and burn at every new angle. Heels against whitewash. I walk these hands back, walk these feet up. Hold. Thirty seconds, sixty seconds. Remember how to breathe. Forget how to count. Don’t worry about falling.

Across the city, Camille writes I feel a little Twilight Zone-y. She says The world is upside down. I say I’m learning to do handstands. My world is upside down. I’m not afraid of falling.

I have a friend back home who wears gravity the way airplanes wear sky. The way ships wear oceans. Effortless, like she was made for this; her body inverted and stock still. She has always been flat planes and sharp angles. I am not her. This does not come easy. Heels against the wall. Weight shifting forward, elbows locked. Balance. Breathe. Do you remember the last time you weren’t afraid to fall?

I hope you’re well, dreamweavers.

-b

A Brief & Incomplete List: #4

Things I’ve learned in my adult life:

The word "ergonomic" pertains to my life.

I’ve long considered myself a fairly resilient human. It doesn’t take much to make me comfortable. I’ve used the same pillows since 2008. I rode my bicycle for over a year before replacing the tattered, cushion-less seat. I rarely consider the arches in my shoes, my lack of air conditioning, or the other myriad implements designed to make every-day living painless.

But after two years of slouching at my desk for 40 hours per week, I recently experienced Back Pain. Not satisfying, exercise related muscle fatigue. Not the slightly unpleasant tension associated with marathon Netflix watching. This was pinched nerve, shooting-fiery-agony Back Pain. For three days I prayed a very tall person would scoop me up and aggressively shake me until the pinched nerve became somehow un-pinched.

Due to MacGyver-esque utilization of a large rubber band ball, I can walk without dramatically clutching at my lower back. But the painful memory lingers in the back of my mind. The lesson: posture matters, and not even just a little bit. Seriously, it’s a real thing that you should all consider and probably be a little bit concerned about.

Driving barefoot is not illegal.

Considering my mother spent 95% of my childhood barefoot, I have a strange concept of what humans can and cannot do without shoes. Grocery shopping, hiking, marathon-running? A-ok! Operating a motor vehicle? Oh hell no.

[Sidenote: barefoot bike riding. How often does the toe of my shoe become lodged in my bicycle chain? Never. How often do I worry my toes will be ripped off my foot after becoming lodged in my bicycle chain? Always.]

I don’t know who told me driving barefoot was illegal. I do know the idea became deeply engrained in my brain, influencing my perception of the world and my position in it until approximately two weeks ago. For years I’ve felt a secret thrill getting away with barefoot driving. The same thrill I get from jay walking. Or hacking into my roommate’s Hulu Plus account, which she totally gave me permission to hack into. The little things keep me going.

Anyways. I don’t want to ruin it for my fellow thrill seekers, but driving barefoot is totally not illegal. Strongly discouraged, and considered the tiniest bit reckless. Still not illegal.

Sunscreen.

I’ve been a lifelong sunscreen shirker. When asked if I need sunscreen I’ve historically cocked an eyebrow while raising my arms in an outstretched, who- the-hell-do-you-think-you’re-talking-to gesture.

To everybody I’ve scoffed at: I’m so sorry. You were right. Sun safety is a legitimate concern and I’m sorry I ever doubted you. There’s nothing cool or sexy about weeping sunburn blisters. Or peeling silver dollar-sized clumps of dead skin from your ass and thighs. It’s actually rather embarrassing to raise a flurry of white flakes when picking your pants off the floor. Not a few flakes, a veritable blizzard. A skin blizzard. A blizzard of skin. Human skin. My skin. Human flakes.

I’m sorry to say I haven’t turned the corner on sunscreen avoidance. But I’m ready to acknowledge the validity of sunscreen use. I’ve come to terms with my mortality, and accepted the sun’s undeniable dominion over my pasty, Oregon skin.

Glitter and baby oil are equally difficult to remove from your hair.

And your bed. And your car. And the couch. And any clothing worn 48-hours post encounter.

Keep it real, dream weavers. I believe you too can make it through the night.

-b

Dear Allen Ginsberg: I don't know you but...

In 2006 I bought a little black, spiral bound notebook. 500 sheets of unlined paper, front cover stamped with blocky silver letters. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. It was the winter break before my senior year of high school, and I was visiting friends in San Francisco.

That was my first time in a city, my first time traveling of my own accord. My friends’ apartment: an upper-level studio. Mattress on the floor of the walk-in closet, couch beneath the living room window. Kitchen, bathroom, living room, closet. I could touch every wall with ten steps, but I didn't. I spent so much time being still there, on the couch beneath the window. Watching street lights, listening to street sounds. Laughter, and yelling. Broken glass, and sirens heralding strangers’ tragedies.

Starving. Hysterical. Naked.

Sixteen years old and my first time in a city. Wandering through City Lights Bookstore, running my fingers along spines, and spines, and spines. Everything feeling heavy; feeling meaningful the way you expect things to feel meaningful when you’re sixteen and realize a city could swallow your heart.

The day before, I navigated the slow-moving weave of the line wrapped around a Western Union. Bounced on the balls of my feet, eager to retrieve the emergency funds my parents wired 1,032 miles in the middle of the night. I remember my mother driving 30 miles into town, the babies in tow, after I called and said hungry. After I called and said broke.   

That day in the bookstore I weighed hunger against novelty. I forfeited dinner for two things: the book that would redefine my life and the one that would record it.

Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!

New Years’ Eve and sixteen. In the city that swallowed my heart I wrote:

“Poverty huddles in a corner, wears a blue stocking cap, scrounges up small change. While four gay men flirt shamelessly, and I wonder why I’m ashamed. Life dresses in white, head to toe. He has change in his pocket, liquor on his breath. The city blooms like a cancer you learn to love: a tumble of light and sound cascading down the hills. There’s always rain, some days it just refuses to fall.”

I remember a white suit, and a cane, and a smile. All teeth like something out of a movie, tipping his top hat with a flourish. The streets that smelled like piss and sparkled like gold. Little piles of white powder tediously measured in the back of the city bus. My friend elbowing me, whisper yelling Don’t look like you’re looking, but look. Everything killdeer before I even knew killdeer existed.

This year Portland, Oregon. The summer heat broken like a collective sigh of relief. This morning: my bare feet on wet pavement for the first time in months. Everything easy like suns setting, reflected in mirrored sunglasses. A blur of bridge and city and skyline. The dirty waterfront full of human being stories. Everything easy, like That Girl smiling the smile that makes my bones featherlight.    

Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!

Eight years later there are 15 blank pages in that black, spiral bound notebook. Across the top of one I scrawl I am 25 years old, and I am not sad. And I think perhaps that’s all I have to say right now. Sometimes I hold this book full of loss/regret/despair. There are so many selves caught between these pages. I am 25 years old. I am not sad. Scattered between the journal entries, I find letters to a future self. And tonight (for perhaps the first time) I’m glad I listened to their advice. 

I am a magnificent, fucked up universe.

I am a body of extremes. Too hot to eat, too happy to write. Too tired to sleep. Hunger/nausea, sobriety/intoxication, exhaustion/mania. Teach me the meaning of moderation; this dictionary excluded it.

Tonight: sinking into my bed, with the fresh sheets, and the pillows stacked justso, and the heat that keeps skin from touching skin from touching. Sink into this bed. Sink into that space where the words live. Somewhere behind my throat. I unfold into this pulse. Into this taut and scraped body. Into these knees; into pain like a knife’s edge under the throbbing spider web nerve endings. I have been knitting new skeins of scar tissue, slowing the mechanism.

Entropy (entrəpē) noun:  lack of order or predictability; gradual decline into disorder. See also: the way shadows drape across playgrounds. Our bodies clothed in moonlight, sunlight, the dirty crumbling streetlights. I never trust white sheets. I mean I never trust myself to be clean.

I want to write a poem about your hands, but every word sounds so trite. Teach me to transcribe the language of your forehead. The way your eyebrows says Come hither like my hips (shoulder width and thrust forward, chin to sky and eyes unfocused, kissing horizons.) The river divulging gifts as the sun sank behind my consciousness. 

There’s this thing I do lately where I’m talking. I feel my tongue moving. The vocal cords create a series of vibrations that resonate. Tongue, lips, teeth. The ears register resonations, forming coherent combinations of speech. The brain slips, disengaged, and I don’t know what’s coming out of my mouth until it’s said. Two nights ago the full moon leaned close to hear me say I’m scared. To hear me say I need. Or maybe I didn’t say those things at all. But we left anyways, bare skin and a stolen flower. Remembering daisies, the way bears sneeze, and sneeze, and sneeze. But I held it to my face like oxygen, walking the blocks that seem so long in the dark.

Then your kitchen. Then bones propped against counters and hard wood. Mouths, and hands, and words, and I don’t know how to explain what you mean to me. Let’s disregard chronology because it just makes us crazy. Or sad. And by us I mean me. Three days prior I tell a friend She is a good person to We with. You can wordify anything if you verb it. Friday night: Strawberry Wine and a slow-motion spin. Lessons in physics. Lessons in geometry. Straddling the tire swing, world careening, and entropy taking the backseat to centripetal force. The physics of our bodies stacked together under moonlight.

It’s easier when there are no boundaries, I said. I said, When there are no lines I can’t cross them. The slant of Katherine's mouth calls me chickenshit and I know she’s probably right. I pay her to call me out. I move in circles, and circles, and circles. I don't want to fuck this up. A yellow legal pad, and the words I’ll never see.

But there. Acknowledging the We of us in your kitchen, propped against cupboards and hardwood. Eventually, morning. Eventually wake up, wake up, and Did you know? you say. You say, They call it the thunder moon, while the horizon chafes and I wonder about rain. Memorize the ways yellow light and grey sheets cling to your body. What if you didn’t know what wind was? you say. You say How would you explain the way trees move? A green expanse of trunk shimmies over your neighbor’s rooftop, unexplained.

This is how I say I love you. Sprawled across the tabletop, hands outstretched thinking Hold this, hold this, hold this. Hold the Me of me. Sometimes I am terrified and small, and sorry. I hope you know that some days I have to be invisible. Or a bear. I guess that’s at the heart of this. I was worried that if I started needing you I’d never stop. I don't want to stop. Please, cradle me gracefully. Pour over me like moonlight on a tire swing.

I want to make a meal of your kneecaps. And I don’t know how to write, don’t know how to write, don’t know how to write this out. Or write about kissing hard lines and rigidity. A wrenching in the angle of the jaw. Between us: nothing rigid. Everything animal, somehow soft. Even when you sink your teeth into the meat of me. Fold me into the den of your ribcage. Claim my neck with your side-to-side wobble. Please fill this body’s empty space.

I’ll find words for your hands eventually.

xoxo

-b

Hideaway with me some more.

Homo Hideaway

Room type: Entire home/apt

Accommodates: 16+

Bedrooms: 5

Bathrooms: 3

Beds: 14

This gorgeous home was perfectly suited for the 2014 Tranquil Women’s Overnight Crafting and Prayer Retreat. Nestled in a charming gated community, we rested easily knowing our activities wouldn’t unnecessarily pester the neighbors. The guaranteed privacy also facilitated an unanticipated amount of daytime nudity. The winding mountainous drive past the lake was breathtaking. Granted, we enjoyed the vertiginous scenic overlook much more before the debilitating two-day hangovers.

The two-story, 5 bedroom “cabin” comfortably slept the six of us. The heart-warming sayings and Jesus-chic décor reinforced our already strong sense of integrity. We appreciated but didn’t utilize the multiple bunk beds, upstairs living room, and creepy gender-specific playrooms. Unfortunately our stay was too short to peruse the extensive library of self-help and religious lifestyle books! However, we were able to huddle around the scrapbook and read aloud the Hideaway story. We noticed that somebody-definitely-not-us spilled red liquid in the binding. Grape juice, perhaps? Children are so careless! We thoughtfully tucked it into the bottom of the blanket hamper upon departure. We wouldn’t want it to sustain any more damage.

While we appreciated the house’s rules, the absence of a corkscrew made it very difficult to break the No Alcohol policy. Not to fret! We’re an incredibly resourceful bunch. Through sheer determination and teamwork, we successfully opened 2 bottles of wine before reinforcements arrived. The spacious kitchen was perfect for family-style breakfast as well as shoveling molten hot pizza into our drunk little faces.

The sports equipment in the garage allowed us to participate in all manner of non-homosexual physical activities. Between football, soccer, and basketball we were occupied for longer than anyone anticipated. We also tested the limits of how many balls a human can juggle while holding a mimosa. The property’s rolling green hills were perfect for rolling down, though we might suggest the owners install a safety net at the bottom? Nudity, high velocity rolling, and thorny underbrush made an unpleasant combination.

Our group was also visited by some charming wildlife! Vladimir the toad forever etched his small, slimy self into our hearts and souls.

The real star of the weekend was the hot tub (or the Tepid Tub as we affectionately nicknamed it). The first day we couldn’t figure out the broken heating mechanism. But once we put our thinking caps on/removed several of the clogged filters, the tub reached a comfortable 104 degrees. The hours of naked soaking really cultivated a sense of group camaraderie. We were able to participate in cooperative activities such as hand-feeding each other, and exuberantly singing our unofficial anthem, Fancy. The hardest part of the whole trip was leaving the hot tub. Literally, exiting the hot tub after hours of drinking was a feat! Luckily I had my elbows, shins, and face to catch my fall.

[Sidenote: the mucky human sludge that resulted from forgetting to reinstall the clogged filters overnight made avoiding the hot tub Sunday morning much easier.]

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Spiffy’s restaurant. Their charming buffet included a salad bar, breakfast bar, and a dessert table. The congealed gravy and weirdly sticky sausage paired well with ranch dressing and lemon bars. Several cups of lukewarm coffee ensured our stomachs stayed in a moderately distressed state for hours after the fact.

Overall, Homo Hideaway was an enriching experience in sisterly solidarity and bonding. We left that gated community with our hearts full of love and our cars full of empty bottles, cans, and wine boxes. Our livers and that house may have suffered irreparable damage, but the blurry half-memories will warm our hearts longer than a tepid tub.

Angels on your body.

                -b (+ the Tranquil Women’s Crafting and Prayer Circle)

Tips for a successful Pride weekend:

Start your weekend Friday night. Start at the Queer Lit Happy Hour. Ogle your favorite authors Eat complimentary snacks. When the host asks if you have enough drink tickets, look distraught because you don’t have any drink tickets. He’ll appreciate your honesty, and dutifully keep you supplied with a steady stream of vouchers. After several microbrews, you’ll decide to buy things. Don’t fight the impulse; there’s no way this could possibly be a terrible idea. When you can’t decide which book you want, buy them all. It’s payday! You’re drinking free beer! Why wouldn’t you spend that $57? This might be your only chance to get signed copies from Tom Spanbauer and Lidia Yuknavitch, patron saints of writing!

Around 7pm several things become apparent: you’re out of drink vouchers, the sun is shining, you have $57 of books to begin reading immediately, Boiler Room has $3 well drinks until 9pm. Drop your pen. Retrieve your pen. Ask strangers to sign your Lidia Yuknavitch books, since Lidia left before you mustered the courage to approach her for a signature. The strangers will happily comply because Pride, or maybe alcohol. Drop your pen. Retrieve your pen. Amble approximately one hundred miles south and east into familiar territory. Drop your pen. Retrieve your pen. When you get to Boiler Room, divvy up the books. Order a round of tequila sodas. Read in relative silence until a) the photo booth drives you to distraction or b) your brain can no longer process written words.

After 9pm cheap drinks become expensive drinks. Quiet bars become karaoke bars. At this point you’ll have a critical decision to make: CCs or Twerk? Debate the pros and cons of each while smoking a cigarette with several charming gay strangers. When they advocate for CCs, agree whole-heartedly. Pack up your things. Pack up your friends. Borrow Carly’s belt to cinch your books into a tidy bundle, circa early 19^th century. Borrow Carly’s dollar to coat check said books so you can circle the sweaty, oddly heterosexual dance floor unencumbered. Drink enough PBR to meet the $5 credit card minimum. Cede that Steve and Patrick maybe didn’t know what they were talking about when they advocated for CCs. Exit stage right. Magically teleport to Twerk. Or, you know. Let someone drive you.

Arrive at Twerk at the exact time as the cops. Spot a familiar herd of unicorns milling about outside. Graciously accept their invitation to after party at their house. Load back into the Shleigh-mobile. Stop at Wendy’s. Stop at 711. Stop at Jack in the Box. Arrive at Chez Unicorn with thirty warm PBR, eight Jack in the Box tacos, ten clove cigars, and double vision.

Wake up some time, some place. Be grateful for blankets and pillows. Vaguely remember a wolf smoking cigarettes. Realize you’re in the equivalent of an adult crib: two couches pushed together face-to-face. Vaguely remember a lion and the galaxy. Be grateful you’re not alone. Struggle your way out of the couch crib. Locate phone, water, seven discarded taco wrappers. Vaguely remember Parks and Rec; elbows-out eating with gusto. The eighth taco wilts in a greasy puddle of regret. Ignore the temptation to eat it. Ignore the hot sauce under your fingernails. Ignore the fact that you’re a 25 year old waking up on an island of couches, somewhere in northeast Portland despite the fact that your car slept in northwest Portland.

Loll about with Carly until you remember parking in 2 Hour Pay-to-Park. You parked angrily and askew. You parked with every intention of driving home before sunrise. Don’t panic, there’s really nothing you can do about it now. You’re too sleepy and hungover for that shit. Locate the nearest bus stop. Camouflage the remaining 28 PBR in a paper grocery bag, covered with your $57 books. Loll about some more. Fold the blankets. Thank the unicorns with a drawing of Trogdor.

Approximately three blocks into your walk to the bus stop, remember taxis exist. Blatantly stare at the man in construction orange shambling towards you. Note the man in a business suit closing in behind you. Say “Fuck it all” and call a cab. Regret locking yourself out of Chez Unicorn when you left. Hunker down on the front steps. Split a warm PBR. Listen to Fancy until the very confused cab driver arrives to scoop you both up. Avoid the vomit residue splattered across the back of the passenger seat.

Declare an official Pride miracle when you pull up to an un-ticketed Carrrl, still parked angrily and askew in Two Hour Pay-to-Park. Praise lesbian jesus. Drive straight to brunch, all mussed and sweaty. Don’t worry, your friends only notice because they care. Order the bottomless mimosas, even though every time you say “I’ll never order bottomless mimosas again.” Drink determinedly until brunch ends at 2pm. Chew on Carly’s knee caps. Part ways with your pals. Pretend you’ll see them later.

Make your way back to Carly’s house. Accidentally nap for six hours. Wake up long enough to stumble three blocks for pizza and beer. Guiltily avoid texts from the friends you promised to meet. Briefly consider meeting them. Decide watching Game of Thrones in bed sounds much more appealing. Try to wrap your sleepy, beer-saturated brain around the approximate 2 million characters introduced during the first two episodes.

Wake up Sunday morning for work, still sweaty and mussed. Spend six hours picking up 100 lb. dogs. Regret your existence.

Eventually find yourself hiding from the weather beneath a Waterfront canopy, drinking overpriced red wine. It’s the time of day that the focus softens and expands. Violins and four-part harmony. Eyes like driving through wheat fields. Use the word stunning.  Hands like hands like hands. Mouths and skin and rain that won’t quit. This is what you’ll remember: the smile when she sees you seeing her. Later: tacos and Scrabble and finally sleep. But for now, breathing. For now, use the word community. Sink into the corners of yourself without feeling trite.

Happy Pride, you bunch of weirdos. I hope you all gayed to your heart’s content.

-b

There are different names for the same thing.

The longer I exist as a human being, the more I comprehend there are concepts of love we never have the opportunity to express. There are feelings that exist with no words, at least in the English dictionary.

The concept of loving something dependent on our care.

Loving a friend with no romantic inclination.

There is a love I feel for novelty. The new experience, the people who fuel my desire to go deeper and faster without reservation. This will not take long. This love is transient in nature.

There are people who inspire you to kiss their forehead while they sleep even if they won’t look at you in the morning.

Or the love you feel for your family late at night when you are alone. Realizing shared experience bonds you in a way words never could. Because history runs thicker than family but not nearly as fast or far. We are scattered together in our cowardly heredity.

Loving someone casually. Is there a word for experiencing someone else’s Personhood in a way that starts to make sense? How do I express the comfort of familiar hands and shared cigarettes? There’s going to come a time I finally notice the light fixture is pink, and has it always been that way or does sunrise have that effect on perception? Leaving in the morning is harder than I expect.

Then there are the yellow birds, those brief and intense eternities. The people who live underneath your skin; whose heartbeats you feel from hundreds and thousands of miles away. When I dream of lakes they taste like your name.

When a friend asks me about love, I tell her May 2013. I was trying to be a new me; a person who slept at night, and didn’t dream about girls with longdark hair. I wanted to be someone who could move on, but I still slept in her bed. My last night in town, in a city that used to be ours, she had a nightmare. Her hands grasping at mine to escape some fresh hell. Or old hell, or the hell she’d never tell me about existing in a place beyond repair.

She was leaving. But nothing felt real or stable the way we expect things to feel real and stable when they’re the right things. That night in her bed she didn’t know how to say goodbye the way I didn’t know what to say the day I left that town and never looked back. Except I looked back.

Came back. For her, and for them, and for myself because I had no concept of myself outside of that space. And maybe that’s what home is: a concept of yourself that exists beyond you. People know your mother’s name, or the first job you had and hated. People in that place see your scarred lips. They know you never gave up kissing bombs.

But that night there was me, and her, and the idea of leaving. There were six months of distance and history pressing heavy into my bones. The night she walked home alone. The night she wore exhaustion like a badge of honor. We tried to be anybody but ourselves in her kitchen over free soup and crackers.

Here are the facts: she had a nightmare that woke me up. Pressed hard into me like an animal escaping its own skin, curled into my body like salvation. And I held her the way I’ll always hold her. Which is to say like a last breath. Or maybe nothing like that at all.

She didn’t remember it in the morning. But her chest against my chest, me pressing hard into the smell of her. I read once that pheromones are expressed through the scalp and her hair against my face felt like timelessness. That’s the closest I’ve come to salvation. Holding her for the last time, knowing it was the last time; the everything of me converged in the back of my throat demanding acknowledgement.

Months later I retell the story under the purple-orange glow of god and streetlights, feeling small in a way I didn’t know was possible. She doesn’t know what it meant I say. I say My favorite memory will never be remembered.

The longer I exist as a human being, the more I know no loves are the same. The rush I feel when I see your name flash across a screen is not the same as your hand tracing the constellation of my shoulders. There are heartbeats beneath my skin I can’t begin to comprehend. But I keep trying. I keep existing. And if there are words for many types of love, I hope mine resembles patience.   

Angels on your body.

-b

Let's talk about sex, baby.

Sometimes you find yourself sitting in a dark theater with your friends and several hundred strangers watching amateur porn. This is your adult life. Don’t ask questions.

What I mean to say is HUMP! passed through Portland last weekend. In case you aren’t familiar, HUMP! is an annual film festival aired in Portland and Seattle. The festival, which first kicked off in 2005, features submissions by amateur porn actors, directors, and producers. They’re allowed up to five minutes to showcase their talents and audience members vote for their favorites. With a $5,000 cash prize on the line, these movies aren’t fucking around. I mean, technically they are.

I heard about HUMP! several weeks ago through the co-dependent Facebook group chat my friends and I have maintained since January. Listen, sometimes winter is long and you’re all sad vegans and constant communication is the only logical coping mechanism. The group chat also enables lightning speed communication should you need to discuss recent political rulings, socially-relevant Buzzfeed articles, or the existence of this raft:

  

The group chat also helped us develop Pusheen emoji-utilization skillz and coordinate outings, ala HUMP! Having survived a handful of group porn nights in college, I felt pretty confident in My Ability To Handle this event. Nothing could possibly be as daunting as pizza night with Grannies, Fatties, Pregnant Bitches (And a Midget to Boot) running on a loop in the background. Just in case, I pre-gamed with my pal Jose to fortify my courage. When the lights dimmed I was loose around the edges and ready for anything. Well, almost anything.

The three rules of HUMP! per Dan Savage:
               1) No cell phones

               2) Don’t be an asshole (they belong on screen, not in the audience).

               3) Have fun! Because sex!

This particular viewing was the “Best Of” tour, meaning we privileged few witnessed the most popular films from years prior. The featured films included Pie Sluts, Fun with Fire, and D&D Orgy. But the breakaway hit was a little doozy called Mythical Proportions. Imagine pornographic claymation centaurs and improv fetishist interviews. Solid gold. HUMP! also destroyed my childhood memories of E.T. with the animated sequel, Dark Territory. Turns out E.T. and Elliot grew up to be more than friends.

I don’t really know where to go from here. What I do know is I laughed, blushed, and winced through 90 minutes of incredible material. I’ve entered post-HUMP! life with the knowledge that bodies are strange and people are stranger. Sex is a funny thing that can be done about a billion different ways; you’re only limited by your own creativity. Unless you’re a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Then you’re limited by your arm span. Womp womp.

Above all remember: safety first! And don’t ingest motor oil! It might seem like a sexy lubricant, but probably it’s dangerous.

Sex on, kittens.

-b    

A Brief & Incomplete List: #3

Things I’ll Never be When I Grow Up:

A dog owner, probably.

I’ve always considered myself an animal lover. I grew up with a veritable menagerie of critters. My childhood was populated with cats, dogs, horses, chickens, ferrets, rats, fish, and one temperamental cockatiel (who we found scattered across the front lawn after she  “got out of her cage” following a particularly hostile encounter with my father).

I volunteered at the Humane Society. I watched hours of Animal Planet, convinced I would grow up to be an emergency vet. I frequently imagined living on a vast tract of land with my 30+ rescue dogs. We would take long walks, and spend evenings sprawled across various pieces of furniture, basking in the rosy glow of companionship and unconditional love.

As an adult, I have been responsible for the physical and emotional well-being of exactly two dogs. Kenzii, a 45 pound ball of neurosis and skin allergies lives in Colorado with my ex-girlfriend. I follow her on facebook and send tennis balls for Christmas. Deejo now lives with a nice family on a farm [Note: this is not code for euthanasia, he really does live just outside of Hamilton, Montana!].

Deejo came into my life at a strange junction. I had recently graduated college, lived in my first dog-friendly house, and worked at a doggy daycare. I’d managed to keep That Cat alive for over a year, and felt like dog ownership was the next step in my development as an Adult Human. I knew Deejo through the daycare, and when I heard he needed a new home it felt like the stars were aligning. It was fate! Adopting him was the only logical thing to do.

I realized my mistake almost immediately.

First of all, Deejo and That Cat couldn’t be left alone together. Nor could Deejo really be left alone at all. Every time I left the room his hellish wailing would follow me. He’d mastered a particularly heart-wrenching, high pitched death knell. Something akin to a baby seal that has just been bludgeoned. Our second problem: Deejo loved me. Unconditionally. Endlessly and obsessively. This proved to be our undoing.

I hit my breaking point five months in. Waking up before my alarm one morning I could feel Deejo’s adoring gaze boring into me over the edge of the bed. He’d been watching me sleep. He wanted to be the only thing I saw when I opened my eyes. Staring at the ceiling, my first cognizant thought of the day was I would rather kill myself than deal with you right now. Second thought: Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? I can’t do this anymore. 

It took a lot to swallow my pride and admit I wasn’t cut out for dog ownership. But re-homing Deejo was one of the more responsible choices I’ve made in my adult life. Someday I may have the emotional capacity to unconditionally love and be loved by another living thing. Until then That Cat and I will continue peripherally respecting each other.

A sea otter, a lemur, or any other carefree, non-human critter.

This notion sneaks up on me with surprising frequency.

Throughout middle school my sister and I spent summers visiting my grandmother in Gilroy, California. Annual traditions included the classic car show, rollercoasters at the Santa Cruz boardwalk, and a day at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I was infatuated by the sea otters. Otters spend the majority of their day sleeping, grooming themselves, and eating. They hold hands while they sleep to keep themselves anchored. If I were an otter I’d have to eat 35-40 pounds of food per day to maintain my body weight. As a bottomless pit, this fact is the most convincing argument for otter-dom anybody could ever present me.

I unearthed my previously hidden desire to be a lemur fairly recently. While scrolling through Tumblr I stumbled across a photoset of these big-eyed, arboreal freaks bounding through the treetops, chowing down on fresh fruit, and sleepily sunbathing the day away. I was distraught enough to text a friend. I’m not sure how I would go about comforting an adult friend after receiving this text on a Tuesday afternoon: “I’ll never be a lemur :(“ Should the opportunity present itself, I hope I handle it with even a fraction of her poise and compassion.

I’ll never leap majestically from tree to tree in the rainforests of Madagascar. I’ll never float languidly in a sheltered ocean harbor, eating shellfish freshly harvested from the ocean floor. I just won’t.

These realizations are predictable, and perfectly devastating.

Source: http://wildlife.ucsc.edu/

A former child star.

I am frequently baffled by the concept that I am a full-grown, adult human being. I work as an administrative professional. I own a car, and pay its registration and insurance. I’ve kept a plant alive for over five years. I have friends with spouses, children, and retirement plans. This probably signifies some sort of accomplishment; the business of keeping myself alive. 25 years and still going strong!  

It also means I’ve successfully managed to dodge certain bullets. For example, I’ll never be a former child star. I’ll never be on a “WhereAre They Now?” top 40 list. Nobody will mindlessly flip through my Before/After pictures wondering what went wrong. They won’t shake their heads and mourn my lost innocence. If I end up in rehab, it will be the regular kind. My recovery won’t be exploited for public consumption.

I’ll also never be a prepubescent millionaire ala Macaulay Culkin… I guess you win some, you lose some.

 I love you, weirdos. 

-b

Come take a trip in my airship and we'll visit the man on the moon.

I breathe and no words come out because they have forgotten what it feels like to human. Coming home at the end of each day, puddling into purple sheets where strangers’ lives unfold strangely. Or not strangers, exactly. Somehow more familiar; so trope. You don’t connect with people because you are creating them she says. She says You use them to propel your story and the words resonate somewhere hidden in the synopsis.

Leaving Seattle for the second time takes too long like I wasn’t meant to leave. The city circles in on itself. Like a labrynth, like the inner ridges of an ear or seashell. I drive successively smaller circles until the hills take my breath away. I migrate closer to the vibration of the center. The interstate plays hideaway games. It stays lost forever if I forget to keep seeking.

There will always be bridges and bridges and water. Lights stretched across liquid like mirrored cities. We could skinny dip if it weren’t for the cold. The blue t-shirt shares my bed when she can’t. For three days I hold it to my face to create her scent. Imagine warm water drenched in pink petals, or the way light tastes at sunset. The cards say Stay the cards say Go. When I go gravity evanesces and shimmers like grease over a hot skillet. In a gas station bathroom neither here nor there my hands look too alive gripping the sink. Outside there is too much sky so I hide and pray for clouds.

When she goes gravity fractures and lodges in my chest. I can’t swallow around the splinters so I stop trying. I am growing new skin beneath the burn. I am giving this time to heal for once without rushing. My fingertips are their own pulse. I can feel your heartbeat she says. She says Vou pensar em você com freqüência. Não. Eu vou pensar em você sempre. The night before. Her bottom lip pulls out and down every time she swallows something important. She means to speak but can’t yet. But ice cream and candles and the people behind us more in love with their own voices than each other. The man in the corner is writing himself. We are all characters. And the wage of sin is death he says. He says Hey do you know what time is it? and we don’t.

There will always be bridges and bridges and water when the city zigs and zags across itself. Seattle all circles, Portland all lines. And yesterday. Rain falling on wind chimes while earthquakes echo through these bones; chemicals leech from the marrow. The body trembles so strangely. I migrate closer to the center of the vibration, sluice sour sweat from sick skin. I show her picture to strangers in bars. I tuck tightly rolled love notes between black bricks, in a café on the other side of water and water and bridges.

These are the adjectives I give her: exquisite, timeless, beautiful. Pulse like a slow river swollen with spring. Everything feels so trite on my tongue. I breathe with no words and remember how to human.

Angels on your body.

-b 

I See a Bad Moon Rising

In 2010 a friend gifted me the book Sextrology by Starky and Cox. This book lived next to my bed for two years. Every time a new human entered my life, their astrological sign was quickly assessed, the book was consulted, and the course of our relationship predicted accordingly.

Intellectually, I recognize this is probably not a foolproof method. But has it served me well on occasion? Oh yeah, ya betcha. I know humans are complicated, multi-faceted creatures shaped by their environments, experiences, and so on. But astrology is so goddamn fun!

So, for your reading pleasure I’ve put you all into behavioral boxes based on my limited exposure to each of the twelve signs. Enjoy.

Aries

Pros: Independent, Generous, Optimistic

Cons: Self-involved, Impulsive, Moody

These lil’ fellas are the babies of the zodiac. As such, they can be a little impulsive. Of the twelve signs, Aries is the second most prolific tequila-drinker. They enjoy physical activities such as rugby, yoga, and drunkenly wrestling at parties. 85% of Aries will sleep with you, but they will not cuddle afterwards. They’re chronically flaky, but we don’t judge them for that. Aries may invite you to their house, feed you dinner, then leave you on their couch watching movies while they go to a party you weren’t invite to. It’s fine. You’ll probably get over it someday.

Famous Aries Quote: When asked why she never married Gloria Steinem replied, "I don't mate well in captivity."

Taurus

Pros: Dependable, Persistent, Loyal

Cons: Stubborn

Most Taurus hail from New Jersey. Because of this they pronounce certain words strangely. For example, “far-estry” where you study trees, or the color “are-ange”. They’re not proud of this, it just happens. Taurus people enjoy ridiculously large dogs, long distance running, and alternative lifestyle haircuts. They’re easily over-caffeinated, and shouldn’t be allowed to drink Sparks. The Taurus’s natural habitat is a garage, where they enjoy doing physical labor type things. Pissing off a Taurus is about as fun as hugging an enraged moose.

Famous Taurus Quote: "Carry the battle to them. Don't let them bring it to you. Put them on the defensive. And don't ever apologize for anything." - Harry S. Truman

Gemini

Pros: Energetic, Imaginative, Witty

Cons: Restless, Indecisive

The self-proclaimed lone wolf, Gemini is determinedly independent. They won’t hesitate to abandon you in Canada should you become too inebriated to stand. They possess superior dance skills, and have been known to Charleston with the best of them. Gemini folk can talk circles around mere mortals. They pride themselves on snappy one-liners, quoting entire movies, and knowing Ludacris’ rap portion in Justin Bieber’s hit song Baby. They typically subsist on an all-cheese diet.

Famous Gemini Quote: "Conformity is the jailer of freedom and the enemy of growth." - John F. Kennedy

Cancer

Pros: Caring, Responsive, Dependable

Cons: Clingy, Oversensitive

When you are sad, a Cancer will give you their bear lighter if you promise not to lose it. Then when it becomes lost they will blame you for years. Once it surfaces again, they’ll feel chagrined, but only mildly so. They’ll buy you your own bear lighter as an apology. Cancer folk have a lot of feelings and spend the majority of their energy masking this fact. As such, they are hilarious conversational partners and pun masters of the universe. When called upon to perform, most Cancers can drink a PBR in less than 3.5 seconds. Hobbies include being topless, watching lesbian television, and operating heavy machinery.

Famous Cancer Quote: "I love people. I love my family, my children . . . but inside myself is a place where I live all alone and that's where you renew your springs that never dry up." - Pearl S. Buck

Leo

Pros: Confident, Ambitious, Encouraging

Cons: Stubborn, Vain

Gregarious Leo deftly makes their conversational partner feel like the center of the universe. Only less dense. They enjoy physical activity and demonstrative feats of strength. Leos born without a majestic mane of curls are culled like deformed Spartans. These noble critters pride themselves on moderation and self-control, but when they decide to cut loose shit gets real. Walk your Leo 2-5 times per day for optimal performance.

Famous Leo Quote: "Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself." - George Bernard Shaw

Virgo

Pros: Observant, Reliable, Precise
Cons: Skeptical, Inflexible, Fussy

The Virgo is a mythical creature akin to the unicorn. They feature prominently in Germanic folklore, where they excel at woodsman sports. If you capture a wild Virgo, it will grant you three wishes in exchange for your firstborn child. Virgo women are capable of licking their own elbows.

Famous Virgo Quote: "The intelligent man finds almost everything ridiculous, the sensible man hardly anything." - Johann von Goeth

Libra

Pros: Diplomatic, Idealistic, Hospitable

Cons: Indecisive, Unreliable

Never predict a Libra’s next move; they will go out of their way to prove you wrong. Hobbies include last-minute RSVPing, and honing their already exceptional card skills. Fiercely competitive, Libra knows how to make you feel like you’ve lost a game. Even if you won. Libras possess freakish upper-body strength, but won’t use it until provoked. Behind the mask of cool reserve, Librans are inherently nurturing. They will feed you and let you sleep in their bed when you are too drunk to get home.

Famous Libra Quote:  “Do you really have to be the ice queen intellectual or the slut whore? Isn’t there some way to be both?” - Susan Sarandon

Scorpio

Pros: Loyal, Passionate, Resourceful
Cons: Jealous, Suspicious

Sagittarius

Pros: Enthusiastic, Spontaneous, Inspirational

Cons: Irresponsible, Restless

The word Sagittarius also serves as an antonym for moderation. If a Sagittarius wrote an autobiography, it would likely be titled “Sitting in my 8am Poetry Class the Morning after I Accidentally Smoked Crack at that one Party: A Sagittarius Manifesto”. They are the last people to leave social events, typically calling for one more round as they stumble out the door. Sagittarians fall madly in love with everyone they meet. They are enthusiastic, and frequently overcommit. All Labrador Retrievers are Sagittarians.

Famous Sagittarius Quote: "Why not seize the pleasure at once?"- Jane Austen

Capricorn

Pros: Ambitious, Tenacious, Constant

Cons: Dictatorial, Inhibited

Sweet baby angels! Capricorns win the zodiac. These list-making, itinerary-shaping folk are endearingly tenacious. Their skillset includes making travel arrangements, creating Facebook Event pages, and going to bed at a reasonable hour. They typically surround themselves with a few close friends, whom they protect like Ford tough mama bears. If you forget to wear your coat on a rainy day, Capricorn will loan you theirs. After stern chastisement. Capricorns like to offer unsolicited life advice. That’s ok, just let it happen. It’s usually good advice and you should really stop ignoring it.

Famous Capricorn Quote: "I saw the errors I had made and assumed full responsibility for everything." - Henry Mille

Aquarius

Pros: Outgoing, Independent, Eccentric

Cons: Aloof, Sarcastic

Aquarians love macaroni and cheese. They typically possess very shapely calves, and can seduce you with a flash of their perfectly proportioned ankles. Aquarians born after 1984 can quote entire seasons of Friends, and expect the same of their closest companions. Eccentric Aquarius enjoys New Age activities such as divination, energy healing, and opening their chakras.

Famous Aquarius Quote: "Hell, there are no rules here - we're trying to accomplish something.” - Thomas Alva Edison

Pisces

Pros: Compassionate, Devoted, Intuitive

Cons: Oversensitive, Impressionable

Pisces are skillful pastry chefs, and can infuse alcohol into any sort of cake. Their hugs are capable of triggering euphoric endorphin release. Pisces are tender humans, though they prefer to hide their emotions behind sarcasm and disillusionment. Hurting a Pisces’ feelings is like drop-kicking a kitten. It’ll haunt you for the rest of your life. Their thoughtful acts of friendship are generally performed anonymously. Pisces won’t judge you for being the biggest shitshow in the room. Or they will, but lovingly.

Famous Pisces Quote: "Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” - Albert Einstein

I adore you, beasties.

-b