Swallow

The first time I realize I am fat, in junior high. I understand my thighs are thicker than everyone else's on my sports team, and when I sit, they pillow out like freshly kneaded dough that's been left to sit on a counter. I compare myself to every other girl, even though they are shorter than me, built differently. My bathroom wall is covered by a giant mirror, and I try not to look when I get out of the shower, illuminated by fluorescent lights. They make everything look worse.

• 
  

When trying on my prom dress, I feel a deep and penetrating anxiety. My stomach has never been flat, so I push at it, squeeze it, try to hold it in. When I close my eyes, and then open them, standing sideways in the mirror, at first I appear normal. As I watch longer, my skin seems to expand, my curves ballooning out toward the edges of the glass. My arms get thicker, and my ass gets fatter, sadder. My posture is poor, so it looks even worse than it should. I start to cry, and put on a hooded sweatshirt. I don't think I will buy anything today.

• 
  

I don't start eating differently until I am in college. When I turn nineteen, I get a job on an island with no cars. I walk up hills all day. I've been prescribed amphetamines, and I take them every day. I don't want to eat. I forget to. I sit with friends at dinner, talking a million miles a minute, gesturing with my hands, a plate of uneaten pasta in front of me. I grind my teeth. 

• 
  

When a friend from home sees a picture of me, she asks if I'm okay. I'm down to 119 pounds. In the photo, my ribs protrude, and my shorts fall off my hips. In another photo, I cover my face with my hands. You can see every bone in my arm, in my wrist. My hair falls out. I don't care, though, because I am finally perfect. I don't think about my body anymore.

• 
  

I experience a hypomanic episode, after I break up with my girlfriend. That week, I don't sleep, I dye my hair black, I get a new tattoo, go home with three different people, and forget to eat. When I remember, I force myself to throw it up. I drink more and more, to try to handle myself. That year, I fight with many friends, and I feel that I am losing control. My life is slipping through my fingers, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I write notes on my mirror, "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." "pizza or a thigh gap?" My roommate tells me she sees them, and that I need to relax.

• 
  

That winter, I am diagnosed with a mood disorder, and attend a hospital psychiatric program. I talk about everything but the food, even as I peel orange after orange in the group circle, my fingers tinged yellow. I throw up in the parking lot.

• 
  

One morning, I wake up to a vomit stain on the floor, tinged with red. I brag when I'm drunk, "I don't even have to make myself puke anymore. I just bend over, and it all falls out." My teeth are losing their enamel, and my voice is hoarse from cigarettes and stomach acid. 

• 
  

But none of this works, and I'm almost a hundred and eighty pounds. I stay this way for almost a year.  I move in with my girlfriend, after we spend a summer in Chicago, where I drank every day. I don't wear jeans anymore, and stick to leggings. I diet obsessively. I lose weight, and I gain it, I eat nothing but egg whites for a week, and then binge the next Saturday, sitting down and eating an entire pizza to myself. I pinch and squeeze my fat, disgusting stomach, scratching it, burning it. 

• 
  

That spring, my therapist and I try something new, called EDMR. I remember things differently now. They are sharper, clearer, and they are worse than before. She helps me put two and two together, and although the edges are fuzzy, I can make out shadows in the background that I never realized were there. It destroys me, and I sit on the couch for days, paralyzed. My girlfriend tries to comfort me, but I can't look at her face. I am dehydrated from crying. I don't want to live in this body anymore. 

• 
  

A few weeks later, the therapist and I talk about food. I tell her I love cooking, and she asks me what I make. I tell her ingredients, measurements, calories, what I love, what I'm afraid of, when it's a good time to throw up. Looking down, I see I have a book in my hands, and I realize she gave it to me five minutes in. Snapping out of my fog, I read the words on the pages. They're a list, and she tells me to check the ones that apply to me. She tells me I have a EDNOS.

Eating Disorder, Not Otherwise Specified. 

Returning to the island, I lose a lot of the weight. I remain at a healthy 140 for almost two years. Become so busy I forget about the stretch marks on my hips, the cellulite and dragging fat around my thighs. 

• 
  

One fall, in the midst of a tumultuous relationship, I sink into a deep, anxiety-ridden pit of depression. I have to be good again. I am afraid of being alone. So I try to be perfect, counting calories, eating kale, praying to some sort of deity that this person will love me, if only I am beautiful enough. 

I remind myself how repulsive this body is, and that it doesn't deserve to be seen or touched by anyone. I dream about sewing my mouth closed, I forget to brush my teeth. I think about taking carpet scissors and ripping them up my torso, so my insides tumble out onto the floor. I fantasize about burning every opening shut into smooth, impenetrable tissue. I don't want to see or feel. 

In the daytime, in the street, in corners of bars, men and women tell me I'm that I'm gorgeous. They buy me drinks, and they quietly tell my boyfriends that they picked a good one. I don't know what they are talking about, as I stare in grimy bathroom mirrors, my eyeliner streaming down my face, my dirty fingernails picking at my skin, pressing my stomach in. When I become afraid that someone will leave me, I pass forkful after forkful of anything and everything into my mouth, and heave it back out into the world as soon as I'm done.

• 
  

Months later, I decide to live alone, in a strange city. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't have any distractions. I'm here for graduate school, and I find purpose. I have a schedule, money, I look forward to living. I buy fresh produce, healthy grains, make my own pasta sauce. I drag out my old food processor, and learn to make hummus. My new kitchen fills with the smell of spices, caramelized onions, sauteed vegetables. I begin to notice my skin clearer, brighter, my eyes not so dull. Not so bloated, I have water flowing through my veins. 

That winter, I begin to have intense, squeezing pains in my stomach. It feels like burning, sometimes, and sometimes like someone punches me in the diaphragm over and over. I go to the hospital, many times. I have tests, scans, X-rays. No one can find out what is wrong. It gets worse, when I don't eat, so I try to keep something in my stomach at all times- bread, almonds, green peppers. I gain weight, but this time, I'm not so worried. I just want to live normally.

• 
  

Every now and again, it pulls me back in. I panic over a tray of brownies, I cry when I eat too much spaghetti. Things to upset me happen, from time to time. 

When things feel out of control, I turn to the kitchen. Watching a movie about anorexia on Netflix, I reconsider returning to before. I feel guilty after a night of drinking, and ending up at a diner. I think about ending all my relationships, quitting my job, neglecting school- focusing on only the food. My diet seems the most important thing.

I squint hard into the mirror, trying to find the thing I'm supposed to hate today. When I close my eyes, I try to think of my reflection as something I've never seen in my life. Usually, when I open them, it doesn't seem as bad. I try to listen when someone says something about me is pretty, and even more when it's nothing about that sort of thing at all.

I keep black in my closet, and drink eighty ounces of water a day. I go to school, order a milkshake, and I stop when I'm full. But I drink vodka on the weekends, and cry when I don't fit into my old jeans. I push it down, swallow hard, remind myself why I'm here, and that I'm more than my skin.

The fear will come and go, I was told. Take care of this body, she said, you won't get another one. You cannot fix everything, and doing any of this certainly won't help.

You won't be perfect, nobody ever will.

Give Me A Sign (fiction)

It's a Monday. I don't want to go out on a Monday. But Tim said we had to go out tonight, because he needs to meet some girls.

I mean, we do work for an IT company, so to be fair, there's not a lot of girls for Tim to pick from.

"Danny," he says, turning to face me as I sit in the passenger seat of his Prius, "You haven't been out since you broke up with Alex. This is gonna be good for both us, okay? You have to do something besides sit in the dark and play Minecraft."

I tell him I went out this weekend, to a brewery that just opened by my house.

"Yeah," Tim snorts, giving me a look, "you went with your parents."

Ok, fair.

There's no parking on Commerce, as usual, so we park about half a mile away and walk. Tim fires up his vape as we approach the Pyramid Scheme. You know, I'm actually getting kind of excited to go to this place; maybe I'll just hang out and play pinball for the next couple hours.

"Don't just sit in the corner and play pinball, like last time," he says, exhaling a cloud of fruity vapor.

I sigh.

"Come on, dude, it'll be fine. You remember what it was like being single. It was a good time. Chill out."

Inside, we find a couple of our friends from work, sitting at a table close to the bar. I ask Tim what he wants, and he demands a Soft Hearted- it's a blend of Soft Parade and Two Hearted, which I find disgusting, but he insists is the nectar of the Beer City gods.

The bartender is a crabby dude with a neck tattoo, and he always seems to be working whenever I'm here. I don't know his name, but Tim does. I'm bad with names. Fortunately, he already knows me well enough to know my drink order, so I don't have to try to talk to him. He slides me a vodka Red Bull.

As I walk back to the table, I smack myself on the forehead. Fuck, I forgot Tim's shitty drink. I turn, and wave to get Neck Tat's attention.

He looks my way. "Yeah?"

"A Soft Hearted, please."

"What?" he snaps, furrowing his brow.

I sigh, and do my best to enunciate. I forget that it's hard for people to understand me sometimes- if I've been drinking, it's way worse.

"Soft. Hearted."

"Oh. That weird thing that Tim drinks."

I nod. Neck Tat gives me the reddish-brown beer in a tall, frosted glass.

Heading back to the table, I do a scan of the bar, to figure out how the night might go. It's still pretty early, around eleven, and the bar isn't terribly full. It normally attracts the hipster crowds, but tonight there's a good mix. The music isn't too loud, and I can't feel the vibrations very easily in my bones. A group of drag queens and partygoers stands around the table next to us, and they ogle me as I walk by. I smile back and wave. I think I recognize a couple of them.

I know a couple of the guys at our table fairly well, but there are another two who I'm not too close with. I think Tim was just desperate to rally a party together so it wouldn't just be the two of us. One of my coworker acquaintances turns to me, his name's Jared.

"So is this weird for you, ever?"

"Why?"

"Just must be hard, with all the people talking around you- trying to focus on one person, it would drive me nuts."

"How is that any different than your experience?"

He shrugs. "I guess you're right."

I take a sip from my vodka.

Jared begins to roll into some canned conversation about work, something about an account we're working on, for which I'm project manager. So I figure I should at least pretend that I'm listening. Unfortunately, it's hard for me to fake it, because I normally have to be looking at someone to understand what they're saying.

In between cursory glances at Jared, I notice that there's a group of girls, three or four, eyeing us from a few feet away. I flash an obligatory smile at one, whom I make eye contact with.

Of course, that somehow gives her the signal to gesture to her girlfriends, who then make their way towards our group.

I slurp my drink.

The girls start making their introductions, and Tim is thrilled. He makes a dumb joke, and they laugh. One of the girls, a tall blonde, wearing some weird green shirt with the shoulders cut out, keeps looking at me.

While everyone else is talking, Tim leans in towards me.

Looks like you've got an admirer, he signs to me.

She's fish, I reply, rolling my eyes. You know better.

Tim grins. I know, I'm just fucking with you.

Blonde Fish must be intrigued by our conversation, because she comes closer, till she's right next to me. She smells like the inside of a Hollister store.

"Hey, that's so cool!" She says, heavily enunciating her words, drawing them out slowly.

"What?" I counter.

She gasps. "Oh, shit, you talk too? Sorry, I just assumed you were deaf. I saw you guys signing."

"I am Deaf," I reply.

Blonde Fish's brow furrows.

"But, like...if you're deaf...how can you speak? Like, how do you know what I'm saying."

Oh god. It's gonna be one of these.

I shrug. "I can read lips. And I had speech therapy when I was a kid."

She laughs, "Oh my god, that's so cool. Science is so amazing."

"I mean, that's not really science, but okay."

Blonde Fish ignores me. She leans forward until she's right next to my face, presumably to whisper something in my ear.

She pulls back. "Did you hear that?"

"No."

"Oh. Then how come you have hearing aids?"

"I can hear a little, mostly higher pitched sounds, but they're very faint. Definitely can't hear a whisper, though."

She giggles. "Oh, then maybe it's a good thing you didn't hear what I said." She winks at me.

"Uh." I swallow the rest of my drink.

"You want another?" she offers.

"Sure."

As Blonde Fish slithers away to grab us another round, I look at Tim exasperatedly.

Dude, I sign.

What?

Get her away from me. You take her home. Give her your jacket! She must be cold without her shoulder sleeves...pads...things. Did you see her shirt? I make a disgusted face.

Tim laughs. I'll make a move later. It's fucking hilarious watching you two right now though.

I throw my hands up.

I'm just going to let that go on a little longer, he signs, an over-exaggerated smirk on his face.

Blonde Fish returns. She hands me a vodka soda. I did not want a vodka soda, but I go with it. A girl is buying me a drink.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name before," I say.

She says something that looks like Mitch, but that can't be it.

I touch Tim's shoulder, I gesture to Blonde Fish.

What's this chick's name?

"Sorry, he didn't catch that, what's your name? Oh, and uh, I'm Tim, by the way," Tim says to Blonde Fish.

She tells him her name, and he signs it to me. M-I-C-H-E-L-L-E.

"Oh, Michelle. It's nice to meet you, officially," I say. "I'm Danny."

"That's so awesome! Can you teach me to sign my name?" Michelle says excitedly.

"Well, they've got some great courses at GRCC for that," I reply.

"Oh, cool!"

I swallow as much of my drink as I can. When will this nightmare end?

The crowds have begun to thicken, and as people's voices presumably get louder, so does the music. I can feel it in my teeth, and hear a bit of the bass. It doesn't seem like any of the music I like, but I tap my fingers against my glass to the beat anyway.

"Can you hear the music?" Michelle asks.

"I can feel it, sort of. I don't really like this stuff."

"Yeah? What do you like?"

"EDM, mostly. Sometimes really heavy metal."

Michelle scrunches up her nose. "Yuck."

I shrug. "They're just loud."

By now, everyone's good and drunk. Jared has failed miserably with one girl, and sulks in the corner, lamenting his persecution by the female race. Not my fault he's a fuckboy, though.

Tim seems to be successful with a curvy Asian girl he's talking to, but he keeps glancing at Michelle's ass.

Michelle is talking at me about something, and I yearn for another vodka Red Bull. Perhaps a line of, shall we say, Colombian White. I yawn.

"Hey!" she shrieks suddenly, so loud I can feel it in my ears, "Let's do a Snap! We gotta do a Snap."

She pulls me in next to her, and I can smell her breath- someone ate Buffalo Wild Wings earlier tonight, Mango Habanero, I believe. Michelle hands Tim her phone, and he turns it to take a photo.

"Wait, wait. Danny, you should teach me a sign, we can do it for Snapchat. What's a good one?"

I give her the finger.

Michelle laughs. "Oh my god, you crack me up, no really. Teach me one!"

Jesus Christ.

I teach her a short series of signs, a couple times over until she has it down.

"What does it mean?" She asks.

"Um...'party time,' basically," I reply.

"Oh man, that's awesome! Okay, do it now," she says, gesturing for Tim to take the snap. He does, as we both sign to the camera.

"Thanks!" she says, looking down at her phone to type a caption.

Michelle turns to show it to her friend, and Tim looks at me. He smirks, and turns so that she can't see what he says to me.

"Dude," Tim says, "What did you really teach her? I didn't catch the last couple words."

"'I love anal sex.'"

He snorts into his beer.

Thankfully, Michelle is now engaged in conversation with beautiful Asian girl, so I decide to buy the guys and myself some shots. I order six Jamesons, and bring them back to the table. Tim excitedly pounds his, not caring to wait for everyone else. I sip mine tentatively, but I'm not really a whiskey kind of person, so I sort of let it slide cautiously down my throat hole.

The amount of liquor that so far flows through my friends' blood distracts them from the fact that I am inching further and further away from them, slowly. It also helps that Tim is essentially, at this point, gunning for a three-way with Michelle and her friend.

I make my way over to the pinball machines. Perhaps this night can be salvaged after all. I pick my favorite one, the AC/DC machine, and go for it.

I know I look kind of pathetic, playing an old game by myself and drinking alone.

I guess I kind of get why Tim made me leave my dark basement apartment tonight. Breaking up with Alex really sucked, and I've been feeling like shit almost constantly. Alex didn't want the burden of dating a Deaf guy, learning ASL, finding out what it means to be a part of this community. I took it pretty hard. Someone dumping me because they're not looking for a serious thing, or moving away, or just having different ideas about life, that's not so terrible. But this felt like an affront to who I am as a person, and that really hurt.

Alex made me feel bad about myself, about something I had no control over. In a last-ditch effort, towards the end, I even starting researching Cochlear Implants, something I swore I'd never consider before. Just so we could be closer, so it wouldn't be so hard for him.

I'm just ready to find someone who loves me for who I am- or who isn't going to treat me like a novelty of some sort. I know, it sounds lame, but truthfully, that can be hard sometimes.

I think about this, and I take another swig from my vodka. I try to concentrate on the game, take my mind off all the bullshit.

I'm aggressively snapping the levers and doors to the machine, getting super into the game, when I feel someone slide up beside me.

Looking up, I see it's a random guy. He's tall, with dark hair, and gorgeous, cerulean eyes.

He smiles, and to my surprise, he signs to me.

Hi! How's it going?

I give him an impressed look, and sign back. Pretty good now, I think.

He flashes me a pristine white grin.

I don't think we've met, I thought I knew all the Deafies in GR? I sign. The gay ones at least, I think to myself.

He waves his hands a little nervously.

"Whoa, sorry. You'll have to slow down, my sign isn't that great yet," he says, looking at me sheepishly.

I wave him off. "It's all good."

"I really wanted to be cool though, I saw that girl giving you a hard time." he explains.

"Thanks. "

He extends his hand to me.

"Danny," I offer.

"I'm Patrick," he says, suddenly pulling his hand back, "Oh wait..."

He fingerspells his name, screwing up the 'K' at the end.

I take his hands in mine. "No, that's 'F', 'K' is like this." I show him the proper letter.

Patrick smiles back at me. I wait a moment to take my hands from his own.

"You're not so bad, really. How did you learn?"

"Ah, just a couple semesters in college. It was forever ago, though, obviously."

I see that he's cradling a nearly-finished Oberon. I gesture towards the bottle. "Can I get you another?"

He shakes it, and turns around to look towards the other side of the room.

"How about we just go chill at the bar for awhile?" he asks, turning back to me.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll show you some more of my terrible ASL." He signs ASL, once again, improperly.

I laugh. "Fair enough. Lead the way."

Patrick turns to head to the bar, and following him, I gaze longingly at an ass that rivals any of the finest I've ever found on Grindr.

The Pyramid Scheme is full at this point, hipsters, millennials, businesspeople, and college kids milling around, getting to know each other, making friends, maybe even finding someone to take home for the night, maybe even finding love. I can feel the energy in the room, and the despair I felt from earlier seems to dissipate with the clouds of vape smoke in the air. As we walk by, Tim gives me a knowing smile, and raises his glass in approval.

Maybe tonight won't turn out so bad, after all.

"The Gift of Fear": Why I'm Thankful for Hypervigilance

A while back, I read through the comments on a post in a forum- I think it was r/LetsNotMeet, where people share stories of true close encounters they've had with dangerous people- about a book called The Gift of Fear. It sounded incredibly intriguing- especially to me, with my rampant anxiety struggles- so I hopped on Amazon Prime and snatched it up immediately. 

Written by security and violence prediction expert Gavin de Becker, its purpose is to help readers avoid potential trauma and teaches us to recognize precursors to violence. de Becker stresses that although the world at times can seem unpredictable and chaotic, the fact is, violence is inherently predictable, and by recognizing pre-incident indicators (PINS), we can try to avoid it.  The author focuses mainly on situations that one may encounter day to day- at home, at work, in public places.

de Becker, at the beginning of the book, stresses that although violence can be perpetrated by anyone, women are more often the victims of structural violence. "To be politically correct," de Becker says, "would be statistically incorrect." Essentially, he's saying to put aside the #NotAllMen argument for a second, and consider the situations that are really happening to women- what women do you know who hasn't been intruded upon, violated by, or made to feel threatened by a man in her life? 

If it's hard for you to think of an example for yourself, consider this: these things happen to us so frequently that it's socialized, at times, to feel completely normal. "Not taking no for an answer" is one of the PINS. How many stories have we heard or told about a guy who accosts us at a bar or some other public place and won't leave us alone? 

At the very least, they're annoying. At worst, they're terrifying. 

While reading The Gift of Fear, I'm reminded of instances in my life where I've felt threatened and been in situations that if it were not for my hypervigilance, I may not have gotten out as easy.

Sometimes it's hard to explain why I feel uneasy in situations, especially to people who cannot relate. I once had a creepy encounter in a vast, darkened parking lot in college which left me pretty shook up, so later that night, I told my boyfriend at the time about it. He didn't really understand why something so simple as a man walking extremely close behind me in the dark, for longer than he should have and then repeatedly asking if he could talk to me, would freak me out. I'd get a lot of the same responses from guys when I told them about pickup trucks slowing down to talk to me, people approaching me in carparks, being present in situations that turned violent, or where I left before something bad ended up happening.

At one point, de Becker discusses how on occasion, when people feel threatened, or plan on threatening someone, they'll make a joke about it, which might come out of nowhere, but really is a result of their subconscious picking up on clues- or a clue that reveals their true intentions, if it's someone intending to perpetrate violence. 

When I read this, I had a flashback to a previous relationship. About halfway through that year, I started sleeping with a knife under my pillow. My significant other happened upon it one night, and said, "Oh, is that for me? Are you afraid of me?" 

I didn't think much of it at the time, but then again, I didn't really know the entire reason why I felt I needed to keep something around to protect myself with. And I wasn't sure why they would ask me that.

A few months later, I broke up with this person. The day after that, they told me that they had been violent towards a previous girlfriend. I won't go in to the details, but it's definitely something I'm glad didn't happen to me.

There had been other signs too, other things that happened that I now understand could be classified as physically and psychologically abusive, but none made me afraid for my life. I'm certain I dodged a bullet, but some people aren't as lucky, and their situations become far worse.

These are only a couple examples of things that have happened to me where I'm certain fear played an important part in saving my life. But another thing I can thank my anxiety for is that whenever I'm in a crisis, I'm so used to needing to quickly solve a way out of the situation, that I'm confident in my abilities to make the right decision under pressure. Adapting to panic disorder means adapting to time-sensitive situations: assess the problem, identify your options, make a plan, and carry it out. Nowadays, I'm rarely ever in a situation where I'm not prepared, because I've imagined all possible outcomes, and I don't make decisions lightly. 

As I've learned to adapt to my panic disorder, I've gotten better and better at doing this more quickly. Most of the time, it involves relying on pre-incident indicators and assessing my surroundings. Gavin de Becker essentially tells us in The Gift of Fear to embrace our intuition, the signals that our subconscious relays to us based on our surroundings, because most of the time, it's right. 

This is not to say that we should be going about our lives afraid, or that women should walk about the world with a victim mentality. But the truth is- and I've said this before- the threat of violence never really goes away, because it's everywhere, no matter where you live or your economic status or how old you are. We should simply be smart about the situations that we encounter, because there's bound to be one sooner or later. 

The Gift of Fear has its flaws, but it's certainly thought-provoking, and I think it's something that everyone, especially women, should take the time to read. I'm positive that there's information in there that anyone can take to heart. The concept of embracing fear is strange, but it can really be useful. de Becker instructs us to trust our fear: trust it to carry you up and out of the room to safety, trust it to help you assess your surroundings in a split second to figure out how to extract yourself from a threat. Essentially, fear- and I don't mean the idea of cowering, shivering panic and despair, I'm referring to our inherent animal reaction to external threat- is something to harness and glean power from in dangerous moments and guide us to self preservation.

Why I'm Mad, and Why It's Not Just About Me

OH BOY.

I was going to pound this out in a little Facebook status, however, it became rather long so I thought I'd transform that nugget of anger into a blog post. Grab a snack.

As almost all of you know, yesterday was the Women's March on Washington, to support the continuation of women's rights, and to protest a misogynistic campaign, and now, administration. In addition to the March in D.C., many others were held in cities across the nation and around the world in solidarity, with unprecedented turnout. I couldn't go to the one here in Grand Rapids, but I am happy to say I know lots of people around the country who attended marches in their respective cities. It's awesome to see so much support for women and I think it's a promising look at what's to come in the fight against inequality and injustice.

In these past few weeks of increasingly polarized social media opinions in the midst of our new president's transition to power, I've had a few people inquire to me about how I am personally oppressed by inequality or certain legislation (or lack thereof), or why I care, if I'm white, educated, and middle-class.

Well, briefly I'm a woman. And I got like 1 or 2 problems that I'm mad about.

HOWEVER, my staunch support of progressive legislation does NOT come exclusively from the fact that I myself am a woman with 1 or 2 problems.

It's because I know that there are plenty of other people besides me who feel worried, uneasy, and afraid as well- way more than I am. White women experience sexism, but women of color are subject to both sexism AND racial prejudice. I care about their equality, even though as a caucasian female, I don't share their experience. I care about people that come to this country in hope of finding a safe place to live with their families, no matter where they're from. I support the fight for equality for ethnic minorities, and people who are transgendered, even though I am not representative of either of these groups. I support people who are physically and mentally disabled. I'll gladly allow a portion of my wages to go towards welfare, because I don't think it's so terrible that because of that a disadvantaged family gets to buy the food they need to survive- the same idea applies to if there were legitimate universal healthcare in the States, if part of my taxes go towards someone getting free access to lifesaving medication, I'm not going to be mad. Like...good! I'm glad I could help!

My point here is that most of the reason I feel so strongly about this is not because of what may happen for me, but what might happen for so many other people in this country. The rhetoric, proposed policies, and political appointments of this administration threaten so much of what we have worked hard to eradicate, and are still working towards. Don't get me wrong- I wasn't born woke, none of us were- and I've become educated over time, like everyone else. I believe everyone has the capacity to learn empathy and gain a greater understanding of the struggles that other people might experience, and I hope that the fight for progressive causes will help other people to work past their ignorance.

It may be a revelation to those questioning support of pro-equality causes that altruism plays a large part in many of these ideologies. Care about other people, regardless of any benefit for yourself. It doesn't matter if you haven't witnessed prejudice or hate firsthand, that doesn't mean it doesn't happen and shouldn't be addressed. Just because you may not understand someone else's religion or lifestyle (provided it's not harmful to others, but that should go without saying) doesn't make it unworthy of respect. I don't know, if I had to simplify it, I'd just say, think about something besides your own self-interest. Understand that people feel afraid, and do not gaslight their fear as being invalid just because you can't relate.

Essentially, what I think it boils down to is that it is important to acknowledge that there are other people besides you, with issues different from yours and struggles that you may not understand, who need things that you may not. We do not all experience life the same way, and we NEED to acknowledge this. We aren't all blessed with the same abilities in life, and we need to support equity and equality until it's a reality for everyone. 

What bothers me most is that we still have to wake up and fight for this shit. I haven't been on this godforsaken garbage ball for very long, but in my years I've seen so much pushing and pushing and pushing just for everyone to have a fair change at a good and pure life free of fear, and it's crazy to think we still aren't there. Three years ago when I was working in Chicago with organizations like the SPLC and HRC (I know I talk about this a lot, but it's really these experiences that made me so passionate about this stuff today), it seemed like we were almost at the top of a buttery smooth slide towards safety and equality. I never thought that we'd get to a point where we had to pick up and start again, but here we are. But if there's one thing I know, it's that we've sure as shit got the strength and ability to fight for as long as we have to, until we're finally where we wanna be.

I don't own anything that isn't black, so I would have probably been out of place anyway

Nooch: A Vegan Tale (fiction)

The Fresh Market is dead this time of night. Most people complete their grocery shopping early in the morning, or shortly after work. Of course, many grocery stores do not have windows to the outside world, so if you were stuck in the aisles for many hours, you may lose track of time. When you finally leave, it may be days from when you arrived.

Tonight, I am not wearing a watch, and my phone is dead, so I'm left to judge the passage of time from the cycles of my panic attacks that have spun for at least an hour. I'm in the dairy aisle, and I am panicking because there is nothing here that I can buy.

I have recently become a vegan, and it is today that I finally realize the true tragedy of this lifestyle- the prohibition of cheese.

The majority of my life has been spent consuming bountiful amounts of grilled cheese sandwiches with avocado and provolone, homemade macaroni and cheese, cheese eggs, pizza, warm goat cheese salads, fettuccine alfredo, mozzarella sticks- the list could go on forever. Few days have gone by in my life where I have not consumed cheese of some kind at least once, but for the past couple of weeks, this constant pattern in my life has been cut short.

Right now, in front of the frosty, neon-lit case of sealed bags of cheddar, pepper jack, provolone, and havarti, my eyes begin to well with the profound feeling of loss. A single tear falls from each eye and lands with a quiet splash on the package of neufchâtel I am holding.

Out of the corners of my eyes, I see fellow shoppers staring at me with looks of pity, or amusement. They do not know my plight, how dare they judge me.

"Vesti La Giubba" begins to surround me, perhaps from another dimension, or perhaps from the store Muzak stereo. How fitting the song is for my despair- the notion of smiling on the outside, but weeping bitterly within. Pavarotti's aria fills my ears with sorrow as I understand that I cannot continue this life much longer...the portrait of happiness, pure plant-based health on the outside, but in my heart I am devastated by this loss of my truest joy.

As my breathing begins to shake with the inevitable sobs that will overcome me, I feel a gentle touch on my shoulder. I am startled. Slowly, I turn around to face this person.

It's Joaquin Phoenix.

Bearded, wearing a red flannel and his sunglasses, and holding a small goat under one arm. My brow furrows as I stare at him, perplexed.

"Joaquin," I say, "What are you doing here?"

The goat bleats, and Joaquin smiles. He places a finger to my lips.

"You need to follow me now, child," he whispers. I nod, speechless.

He reaches for my hand, and I glance down at the basket I'm holding, which so far, contains avocados and lentils.

"Can I....can I bring this?"

Joaquin shrugs. "If you want," he says, "But know that far greater treasures await you than dried beans and overripe stonefruits."

I look down at my avocados. "How do you know they're overripe?" Does he have X-ray vision?

"You can tell by checking where the stem has been broken off...if it's green there, then you know it's ready. If it's brown, you've waited too long. Yours are brown, as far as I can tell."

Shit.

I place my basket on the ground next to the cheese cooler. Then I take Joaquin's hand, and follow him  and the goat down the aisle.

We weave through various aisles of Fresh Market. No one seems to notice us or the goat. Where could he possibly be taking me? Finally, we arrive at the world foods aisle. Mexican, Asian, Mediterranean, and Dutch delicacies line the shelves. I want a bottle of Jarritos, but Joaquin cautions me that I cannot touch anything in this aisle, not yet.

We stop walking.

"Wait a moment," Joaquin says. "Hold Rutabaga." He holds the miniature goat out to me. I take Rutabaga, who looks at me curiously through sideways pupils.

Joaquin fumbles through his pockets for something. Out of nowhere, he produces a tinfoil hat, and hands to me. I exchange the goat for the hat, and place it securely on my head.

"Is this one of the originals from the set?" I ask.

He looks puzzled. "Hmm?"

"You know, from Signs?"

He chuckles. "Oh no," he says, "I made that one at my house."

Joaquin picks up a bottle of Sriracha, and hands it to me.

"Now, I want you to turn around in a circle three times, and then place it back on the shelf."

"Um..."

"It's very important that you spin exactly three times. Slowly."

I take the Sriracha from him, and do as he says. Then I put the bottle back on the shelf from which it came.

Joaquin smiles lazily, and I swear, so does Rutabaga.

"Now, my child," he says, "We are going home."

Okay...

I follow him towards the end of the aisle. I can't put my finger on it, but something seems different about the store now. The lights seem brighter, yet softer, less fluorescent. The air no longer smells of bleach, but of freshly baked bread. I hear the sounds of happy chatter, of laughter.

We emerge into the open part of the store, and I am astounded by what I see.

Rows and rows of organic vegetables, their shiny skins glistening in the large windows in the produce section. Hipsters in flannel and vintage leather, mulling around the bins, examining enormous heads of cauliflower. Joaquin leads me to the produce.

"See?" he says, pointing at the avocados. "All of them are perfect, every single one." And they are. I pick off some of the stems, and they are all bright green.

The fruit section is full of strange and wonderful things, starfruits with a waxy yellow skin, dragonfruits that are fresh, bright pink. The bananas are all perfectly underripe, and the oranges are all flawlessly round and unbruised.

We make our way to the bread section. Fresh crispy baguettes, plump loaves of sourdough, and pillowy rolls. The baker standing behind the counter smiles widely with beautiful ivory teeth, her dreadlocks falling over her shoulders, as she hands me a slice of organic, vegan banana bread. I taste it, and I feel euphoria engulf me.

Where the speciality cheese and deli should be, there is a hummus section, and it stretches as far as the eye can see: beet, white bean, roasted red pepper, black bean, edamame, as well as many other flavors I've never seen in my life.

"Where are we, Joaquin?" I ask.

"The D&W Fresh Market on Knapp street," he answers.

"No, but really? What is this place? Why is it so different, and so perfect?"

He smiles wisely. "This is the way every grocery store should be. Plant-based, free of the remnants of animal slaughter. Tell me, do you see any fresh meats? Chicken? The lobster tank?"

We walk towards that section, and it is nowhere to be found. No animal graveyards! Instead, there are coolers full of meat alternatives, Beyond Beef, Morningstar Farms, Amy's Kitchen frozen meals. I gasp. This place is wonderful. Instead of sad Italian operas, I hear an angelic piano tune on the Muzak. I feel at home, at peace.

Joaquin leads me to where the dairy aisle should be, and instead of regular milk and butter, there are endless soy and nut alternatives. But then I glance at the cheese section, which looks surprisingly similar.

"Do not be fooled...it's not what you think," Joaquin says.

I walk over to the cheese bin, and behold, it is not cheese I see, but cheese alternatives: fake mozzarella, provolone, vegan cream cheese, Daiya shreds.

I sigh. "These are beautiful, Joaquin."

"Aren't they?"

"But...I'm not so sure about these cheese alternatives, you know. Sometimes they just taste like rubber...or nothing at all. I'm impressed by the variety, for sure, but I cannot stand to make a cheese sauce with my macaroni with these. Believe me, I've tried, and it's just...not right."

Joaquin nods, understandingly.

"Please," I say, "Isn't there something that I can take solace in? Some sort of cheese substitute that truly satisfies my cravings? There must be."

He smiles.

"Well then...let me show you something."

He takes my hand again, and Rutabaga trots behind us as we head towards the dry goods area, the center of the store. As we walk, grocery store patrons smile and wave, and free sample workers hand us tiny cups of fried tempeh, vegan pudding, tiny vegetable kebabs. I'm no longer hungry, which is great, but the craving for cheese has not subsided.

We reach the baking goods aisle, where there is a bounty of vegan chocolate chips and baking additions, pie crusts made without butter. Gluten free flour, which two happy hipsters are holding bags of, laughing joyously. Ylvis' "Intolerant" plays on the speakers.

At the end of the aisle, there are bags and bags of grains, flour, quinoa, all sorts of goods. Joaquin picks up small bag filled with yellow flakes.

"This," he says, "is what you've been looking for."

I slowly take the bag from him, and examine the label.

Nutritional Yeast.

"What is this?" I ask. I adjust the tinfoil hat on my head, which has become somewhat itchy.

"Nutritional Yeast," Joaquin says, in a mystified tone of voice.

"Well, yeah...I can see that. But what is it?"

"Also known as Nooch."

"Okay. But, what does it do?"

"Oh, my child," he chuckles. "It's everything. All that the Nooch touches takes on that rich, umami taste of cheese. It will return to you the joy you have lost, and you will want for nothing in your vegan way of life."

I hold the Nooch in my hands. The bag is light, and I shake the contents around.

"Are you sure?" I ask, "It doesn't look like it will help. I mean, it just looks like yellow dandruff."

Joaquin laughs. "Trust me."

Once again, out of nowhere, he produces a bowl of familiar-looking macaroni and cheese.

"Is that Kraft Dinner?"

He hands me the warm bowl. "It only appears that way."

"Is it vegan?"

"Yes."

"Ugh, I hope it's not any more of that coconut milk cheese sauce. Can't stand that," I mutter.

I pick up the spoon and taste the pasta. It can't be.

The taste of cheese, creamy, and sharp, overpowers my senses. I am overwhelmed with nostalgia for a time before this vegan diet, before I lost the love of my life- forever, I thought. How wrong I was. I This tastes exactly like a creamy cheese sauce that I would make for my pasta. It even looks like macaroni and cheese, if the cheese weren't exactly as smooth. This just seems impossible; to get a flavor of cheese this accurate would take black magic, I'm sure.

I understand now that Joaquin was right. This is, indeed, what I've been searching for for so long. I begin to feel the pieces of my life fall back into place, the nagging panic subside in my chest. I can feel whole again. I don't have to sacrifice flavor and my favorite food for my happiness. The alternate universe of the vegan Fresh Market feels like a safe, warm place, where all my dreams could come true.

I understand now. Nooch is love. Nooch is life. I shall live and die by the Nooch.

"I love it."

"It's a sauce made with cashews, soy milk, carrots, and the Nooch," Joaquin explains. "If you've got a good food processor, you can make it at home. It will be like no Kraft Dinner you've ever had in your life."

I take a few more bites.

"Hmm. So, can I buy it?" I ask, handing the bowl back to Joaquin. He takes it from me, and places it on the floor for Rutabaga to finish off, which he does, gladly.

"Certainly."

I pick up a few bags of Nutritional Yeast, and place them in a basket that magically appears on the floor to my right, half full of organic, vegan treats that I planned to purchase, but could not find in the real Fresh Market.

Joaquin leads me towards the checkout.

"Wait," I say, grabbing his arm. He turns to look at me. "When I leave here, what will happen- will the outside be the same as it was before? Will my life be different? Will the Nooch disappear?"

He smiles at me gently again. "The world outside remains the same. When you leave the store, everything you buy will stay with you. The store will return to its natural state, and you will leave me in this parallel universe." He removes the tinfoil hat from my head, and crumples it, placing it back in his pocket.

I sigh, and stare at him. I reach out to pet Rutabaga, who Joaquin is now holding.

"I'll miss you, Joaquin. I'll never forget this journey."

Rutabaga squeals. Joaquin squeezes my hand gently, blue eyes staring back into mine. "I will miss you too, my young traveler."

"Will I ever see you guys again?"

"If you wish to return, just find the Sriracha, and perform the spell. You will find me."

I smile, and turn back to the checkout. Looking back at the actor and his goat, I wave. "Thank you, Joaquin, you too, Rutabaga!"

They watch me go, and I purchase my groceries.

Just as Joaquin said, the parking lot is the same as I left it. It's around 10:30 p.m. now, and I've only been in the store for half an hour, but it feels like I've been gone forever. I load up the car with my groceries and head home.

That night, I prepare a Nooch mac and cheese, and settle in for a relaxing night of Netflix. After I charge my phone, I check my e-mails for anything I have missed while I was out.

There's one e-mail in my inbox, from Joaquin Phoenix. The subject line reads, "To Maria." I open it, and it's a YouTube link.

Dear traveler: 

Here's the link to the documentary, Earthlings, if you haven't watched it already. I narrated it, in case you didn't know. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and make sure you share it on Facebook and stuff. I hope our paths cross again soon.

Your friend,

Joaquin Phoenix

xoxo

I laugh a little, and return to Netflix. My macaroni tastes wonderful. I have a feeling I will be enjoying grocery shopping a lot more from now on.

I'm Gonna Stop Being a Little Bitch in 2017: You're Welcome

I applaud people that can see their New Year's resolutions through to the end. Maybe I'm just deterred from making my own because of my inability to complete projects that I start, due to my crippling adult ADD and personality disorders? Despite that, I'd like to try it anyway. 

Essentially, my personal goal for 2017 and onward is something less tangible than successfully maintaining a gym routine, finishing a home improvement project, or sticking to a diet (I will never stop eating garbage breakfast). 

I want to start doing everything I'm afraid to do, no matter how badly I do it, or how big the panic attack. 

Here's a list of times my anxiety has ruined my life- and I'm gonna tell you all of them, no matter how stupid they sound:

• Failing to submit multiple creative writing works because I was afraid of rejection, even though my professors said they were awesome and pushed me to do it.
• Overdosing on Xanax on a plane ride to Baltimore.
• Multiple trips to the emergency room each year because of a "blood clot" and "heart attacks"(spoiler alert: I had neither)
• Not taking a pole dancing class because I'm also terrified to perform in front of people, even though it's something I've always wanted to do.
• Not skydived even though I was given the opportunity
• Finagling my way into the Star Line captain's cabin under the guise of boat nausea, when in fact, I'm terrified of open water- not a total loss, but embarrassing nonetheless.
• Countless nightmare public speaking experiences.
• Buying a ticket to Booze Cruise and immediately before the boat leaves the dock, deciding to get off because I'm afraid of loud noises and drunk people.
• A newfound fear being in the open wilderness, in the forest, in the mountains, even though it is one of the only things that has ever made me feel alive and being in nature is my favorite activity.

It's also caused me some pretty embarrassing problems in my interpersonal relationships, to no end. For example, last year, I failed to make the short 40 minute drive to my best friend's house to celebrate her birthday, because I was too scared to drive an unfamiliar route. 

One time, my hot professor extended the offer for a coffee date (not in a romantic sense, most likely just to cultivate an academic relationship, much to my dismay), and I didn't go, because I was too afraid she would think me awkward. I also turned down a research opportunity with her because I was too intimidated by how cool and smart she was. 

Another time, I didn't meet up with a friend in Chicago I hadn't seen in forever, because I was too afraid to get on the train, and I was afraid to tell her that because I was afraid of what she'd think, so I told her I just had diarrhea instead (somehow that seemed like a better explanation than the truth).

How about every time I've tried to pursue a romantic interest, only to have it crash and burn because I'm too nervous to hook up with them? Oh christ, there were so many times- this could be a whole separate post. When I was eighteen, I had a huge crush on one of my friends (which she knew) and I had multiple opportunities to make a move, but never did anything about it because I'm a bitch and I was so intimidated (which she knew). Once, I cultivated a promising relationship with a taxi driver who was smart and funny and we liked all the same music, but when he invited me to go out I told him I was taking a nap, which as far as he knows, I never woke up from. The next summer I spent four months aggressively flirting with a coworker, so I finally slipped him my phone number at the bar and told him to text me- then when he did I told him I was too drunk to come over, even though I had only drank one vodka soda and was, like, fully capable of walking the 50 feet to his apartment. 

Fortunately, I managed to snag the boyfriend I have now, but the witchcraft of how that even happened is beyond anything I understand. Regardless, I'm so thankful.

Essentially, I'm good at barreling hard and fast towards opportunities in my life, and getting myself into situations where I can easily get what I want, in work, in school, in relationships- and then I just trip and fall on my face. Certainly, I've overcome a lot of my fears: I've flew on planes by myself, survived a year of graduate school, enjoyed a trip on a sailboat without dying, survived a rave, driven long distances without popping a chill pill, and splattered my writing all over the World Wide Web for everyone to see.

These are great successes, but they're few and far between. The amount of times I've come through and lived have paled in comparison to the number of times I've failed to do something fun just because I was afraid.  I could make a list of all the things I want to do, but that would make this post much longer than it needs to be.

Thus, starting now, I want success to the be rule, not the exception. I'm going to stop worrying what people will think about me, I'm going to trust my heart not to give out, and I'm going to trust that the ferry isn't going to capsize. I think I've come pretty far, and I'm proud. I'm just not the best Maria there is, and that's what I want to be.

In the words of Kylie Jenner, 2017 is going to be the year of just, like, realizing stuff.

I wasn't sure what to add for a photo so here's a picture of Dragon Fruit with no context. It tastes like kiwi with seeds that get stuck in your teeth.

Tales from the Call Center: A Night in the Life

At 4:59 pm EST, I shuffle into Data Solutions*, careful to dodge the two middle-aged ladies who stand inconveniently close to the doorway.

"Oh my god!" "Oh my GOOOOOOD!" they exclaim to each other, embracing each other tightly.

"I haven't seen you in weeks!"

"I know, I haven't been working lately, my daughter just had her second baby."

I maneuver my way around the couple and head to the schedule board, thinking, Why would you want to come back here? Go, before it's too late.

A gaggle of Research Specialists congregate around the schedule board, looking up their survey assignment for the day.

"Fuck," one woman swears under her breath.

"Hmm?" I look for my own name.

She points to her name on the spreadsheet, her finger smacking the paper. Oh dear. She's on the West Virginia hospital research survey. It's twenty minutes long, which means hardly anyone gets a complete throughout the night.

"Might as well go home right now," she mutters, walking to her cubicle.

I find my name. I'm on a political survey of residents in Alabama. My cubicle is in the middle of the server room, which distresses me, because I prefer a quiet seat in the back, where I don't have to scream over fellow researchers who do not realize the volume of their own voices. I sigh, and make my way to my seat.

It's 5:01 pm, which means I'm technically late. I pull the office chair out from cubicle 83, and inspect it. A screeching horror movie soundbite plays in my mind, as I gaze upon the tattered fabric, stained with a suspicious brown outline in the center of the seat. I look around for a better chair, but unfortunately there are no open ones in this aisle. I'm not even sure if I'm allowed to switch.

I clock in quickly. Heading to the briefing room, I make sure to utilize the numerous hand sanitizer dispensers posted around the area. That chair has been through something, I think. Something unspeakable. And my germ-phobic, hypochondriac ass is going to be sitting in it for the next five hours.

The conference table in Briefing Room #2 is surrounded by women, about eight to ten, all different races and ages, from varying walks of life. Most of us look like we've just came from work, and we've all got beverage cups from assorted fast food restaurants.

Alan, one of the Quality Assurance supervisors, pulls up a chair beside me, and sits in it backwards, his arms hanging over the back of the chair. He flips through the survey packet.

"Alright, this one's really easy, guys. It's about fifteen questions and none of them are open-ended, which is great. It's a survey of residents of this county in Alabama about their local governments, so people are going to be pretty opinionated, but make sure you stick to the script. When you ask them if they "support or oppose" something, make sure they say one of those, not go off on a tangent."

One older white lady in the back is confused by the questions about trash pickup. Another woman answers her, somewhat condescendingly, implying that this is a really simple question and she should know what it means. Alan is more understanding, and is patient with the first woman and her questions. I could never be a supervisor. And I hope I'm not here long enough to where that becomes an option.

Finally, we disperse, making our way back to our assigned cubicles. I click my way through the sample survey, white letters on a black screen. Finally, I slip on my headset, and begin dialing.

The average completed survey amount for this project is two per hour. I get my first complete within five minutes. It seems fairly easy. I relax.

I dial the next number that pops up on the screen.

A scratchy male voice answers on the other end. "Hello?"

"Hi, my name is Marie, I'm calling from Data Solutions. We're conducting a survey of residents in Baldwin County about issues that affect your community. I promise we're not selling anything, we just want your opinion. Are you a registered voter?"

"What the fuck? I don't live in Baldwin County."

Oh good.

"How did you get my number?"

"Our research company provides us with them." I reply.

"Well they're idiots. I don't even live in Baldwin County. I live in Jefferson County!"

"My apologies sir, have a good night." I end the call quickly.

It turns out a lot of these numbers are incorrect, so I get this response more than once, albeit not always as irate.

The next couple hours are spent listening mostly to peoples' voicemails. I get a couple completes an hour, and soon I grow tired. My tailbone hurts from sitting, and this chair isn't the kind you can lean back in, it's incredibly uncomfortable.

I pop an anti-anxiety pill. Let's try to make this night just a little more enjoyable.

The med just makes me more sleepy.

I dial a number.

"Please enjoy this Verizon playback tone while your party is being reached."

Oh fuck. OH FUCK!

Sooner than I can react, the sounds of a Bruno Mars tune blast through my headset and effectively destroy what hearing I have left.

Disoriented by the cacophony, I fumble for the keyboard. I code the call as "no answer," even though it's only been connected for about five seconds. My heart pounds, Bruno wails through my headset, and a moment later I successfully end the call.

Why in the world do people have that on their phones? It's a nightmare to listen to. I'm traumatized.

On my next call, I successfully get another complete. I'm happy with my average. It ensures that I might someday end up rising in the pay matrix and make that coveted $11 an hour.

Moments after that, Alan the QA visits me at my cubicle.

"Mariah?"

"Maria."

"Sorry. Anyway, here's an evaluation from your last call."

I look up in the corner. It's a 4.0 out of 5, a bit lower than I was expecting.

"So, good rapport, very good delivery. You always sound very polite. A few problems with reading the script verbatim, though, you changed some words and made a couple sentences shorter. Just try to work on that next time."

"Okay."

"Oh, and uh, you sneezed."

"Excuse me?"

"You sneezed, and you were sniffling throughout the survey after."

I blink at him. "I sneezed."

"It just sounded unprofessional."

"I'm getting marked down for sneezing?" Which, of course, I cannot control.

The QA hands me the paper to sign, and I reluctantly scribble my signature. Whatever.

"Good! I'll let you get back to it."

I slide my headset back on, and pull my hood up. It's freezing in here. The monotony of survey interviewing envelops me again like a grey, fuzzy cloud, as I continue my torture.

"Hello? HELLO?!"

I'm startled. I glance to my right; it's Wendy. She's been getting lots of completes all night, which I don't fully understand, because her delivery is very sharp, almost rude. I wouldn't want to be on the phone with her very long, but some people must, because she's got five completes an hour at this pace.

"Sir. SIR. My name is Wendy. I'm calling from Southwest Research. RESEARCH. We're doing a survey." She continues with the script.

I probably would have hung up on her by now. People hang up on me all the time, and I'm usually very polite, but it's normal. It doesn't bother me. But I'm confused by Wendy's mysterious charm.

She ends up getting another complete. Damn, she's gonna hit that maximum hourly pay for sure. I peek around her booth. Wendy sits in her FedEx uniform, tapping her long, red nails against the desk. She glances back at me, raising an eyebrow.

"The fuck you looking at?"

I quickly jerk back behind to my cubicle.

I dial countless more numbers in the Jefferson County area code. I am aware of the pungent smell of Doritos emanating from somewhere in this aisle. I want Doritos. I glance around, but the culprit cannot be located. I suspect it's a girl with long, greasy hair and a grey flannel a few seats down, as I hear her belch once or twice, but I cannot be sure.

I sneak a peek back at her every so often, watching her converse with her neighbor, a guy with a beanie and blue jacket. Neither of them appear to be dialing, and from what I can hear, the conversation may be a potential drug deal.

Beanie Boy leans in conspiratorially to Grease Flannel. "You know, I got that loud if you're interested."

"Yeah?" Grease Flannel says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Give me your number," she hands her phone to him.

Beanie Boy keys his number in. "Or, you know, we could just go blaze in my Jeep after work."

A supervisor walks by, somehow ignoring the cell phone openly being used in the server room and discussion of "loud," whatever that is.

I'm perplexed.

I'm dialing and hanging up all this time. Mostly answering machines, as the night wears on.

Suddenly, "Yeh-llo?" from the other end.

I launch into my script.

We get through a few intro questions.

The respondent interrupts me. "What's your name again?"

"Marie."

He chuckles. "What are you wearing, Marie?"

I groan. "Really, dude?"

The respondent laughs.

I end the call. Will I ever escape this Hell?

About an hour later, I get a complete, despite a fumble where I accidentally skipped over a couple questions.

A purple-haired QA comes to my cubicle to give me another eval.

"Hey, Maria?"

"Yep."

She leans over, showing me the paper. 5.0. Nice.

"I just listened to your last call. Great job, you did really well, you stuck to the script, didn't take no for an answer. Good control of the respondent."

"I accidentally skipped a couple questions in there."

She hesitates, then laughs. "Oh, well, thanks for being honest! I came in about halfway through, but it sounded great to me!"

A wave of relief floods over me.

"You're doing a really good job. Keep it up."

I sign the paper, and she leaves.

I feel better about this situation. Maybe it's not so terrible, working here. Maybe this situation was attracted into my life for a reason. I think of the things I could do, the freedom I can have, with eleven dollars an hour. Possibilities flood into my mind; expensive food, better internet, a motor home. Joy fills my soul, and I thank the Lord for my purple-haired angel.

I hear a fart from the cubicle on my left. The scent emanates from the booth, sneaking around the wall.

Maybe not.

Around 9:50 pm, I finally rise from my chair. Lots have people have gone home by now, but I opted to stay until ten, as usual. I'm excited to go home. I'm hungry, and the stench of Doritos in my aisle has not dissipated.

I clock out, and avoid looking down again at my stained chair before making my way to the restroom before I leave.

Opening the restroom door, I hear singing. I lock myself into the handicap stall (the best one, in my opinion). It's Wendy, in the stall next to me, and I can't tell if she's on the phone or just insane.

"Thank the Lord, this night is over," she sings.

Ah, Wendy. How naive you are. There will be another, tomorrow. "Indeed," I say.

A couple minutes later, I make my way out through the emptying server room. The sensation of walking towards the door is glorious; I feel that I am strolling down a red carpet, into freedom. I stick my fingers under every hand sanitizing dispenser I meet, as though I am shaking the hands of my admirers.





*Names and details have been altered

Very accurate visual representation of me at work.