The line between life and death for me is so blurred, so precarious, a gust of wind would loosen my soul’s grip on its vessel. Still, though it would be very easy, I urge you not to murder me.
But how are you supposed to accept that you’ll just never see this friend for the foreseeable future, and on the rare occasions you do, have to share her with a guy who once discovered there were ashes in his beer and continued to drink the entire thing? You can’t.
I won’t slam my office door; I want to but the last thing I need is you all gossiping about me in the company kitchen. I’m more than aware of what we collectively think about door slammers. I don’t need that strike against me, not today.
I feel like a used car salesman whenever I try to make contacts. Whenever someone gives me their card within two minutes of meeting me, it’s as if I’ve been fondled inappropriately from underneath the table. I feel silly because I have nothing to give them in return (business cards were made for me months ago but I never picked them up because I can’t bring myself to be on that Patrick Bateman tip) so I just smile politely and make plans for a follow-up, which usually never happens.
At the fresh, nubile stage of 17 weeks knocked up, here’s what I know about pregnancy and Facebook: people expect you to announce that your womb is occupado, get your 87 Likes and ‘OMG Congratz!!!!’ comments; then sit down, shut up, quietly grow a human being, and don’t mention it again until it pops out.
Brad Pike is an important historical figure.
Chelsea is a writer living in Paris.
Stephanie Georgopulos is/was/forever will be from Brooklyn, NY.
Ryan O’Connell is a 25 year-old writer based in the East Village, New York.
Jessica lives and writes in Atlanta
