pacing wildly around the perimeter of Bethany’s guest room, a lap circuit almost as long as Columbia’s indoor track.
“Today? What did I do today? I woke up around noon. I ate Cap’n Crunch right out of the box and washed it down with Coke. I looked through the paper and clipped articles that Tyra won’t think are edgy or subversive or
True
enough. I watched
The Real World
for an episode or five, but turned it off when I realized that the soul-baring conversations on the show sounded alarmingly like the same soul-baring ones I’d had with my floormates at school. It made me feel like nothing I said or did was unique, that someone somewhere was thinking and doing and saying the same things I think and do and say. It’s like when I’m at a party and I’m screaming along with everyone else to ‘American Girl’ or ‘Paradise City’ or ‘Sweet Caroline’ or whatever and it all feels so full and real and in the moment, and then I tell Hope about it later and she says, ‘Oh yeah! We love those songs here, too!’ which means that my experience isn’t unique to my group of friends, or even Columbia, but is part of a ubiquitous experience playing out at high volumes on campuses all around the country. And while I used to crave the comfort of knowing there were people out there like me, now I feel generic. . . .”
“You are not generic,” he said, interrupting my rant. “You are you. And I love you for wanting to make this day special for me.”
Other guys would sooner have their balls served sunny-side up for breakfast than say the “L” word. Marcus has never had this problem. I should have hopped on a bus to Pineville right then and there. But I just didn’t have it in me, and I’m not quite sure why.
“Well, happy birthday then.”
“We’ll celebrate the next time we see each other. Okay, Jessica?”
“Sure.”
About a half hour later, I received an e-mail that reminded me that we still have August. In August, we will be face-to-face, flesh-to-flesh. In August, it will be easier.
It has to be.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: July 19th, 2003
Subject: Poetry Spam #22
chromosomal dance oh, heavenly happenstance rare creation, you
—Original Message— From: Ruth Spotnik [[email protected]] Sent: July 18th, 2003 To: [email protected] Subject: you degeneracy fleeing amperage oh
cranny tissue flintlock forum antacid thoroughgoing equal creation salesian annuity buena rare rote gourd mba cocktail bluebush cashier principle heavenly dean murder abovementioned manhole deft impoverish chronicle divorce plausible functional demo cove blessing discriminate meantime contradistinction winch cholesterol familiarly dance sawdust dungeon contrition obliterate gauge olfactory mona homebuild arcing acclimate coulomb cranberry droplet film deportee happenstance synod conjecture ambidextrous aviatrix polity neuralgia chromosomal
the twenty-first
This morning, Tyra threw another salon. Unlike the Shanny salon, which was rather unceremoniously held around the conference table in the very gray, very dingy, very unfabulous newsroom, today’s took place in the dining room, located on another floor of the building and often used for wooing advertisers and other potential money donors. I assumed that the move meant that we were going to be treated to the insights of a legitimate dignitary.
And indeed, the smiling fifty-something woman who greeted us certainly looked the part with her poufy, perfectly groomed hair, shiny lacquered nails, and Chanel suit. The guest of honor was Ms. Toni Sheridan, frequently quoted sexpert and author of
Land Any Man in Minutes (and Keep Him Forever!),
among others. Ms. Sheridan had arrived at
True
to conduct one of her popular sex seminars, the likes of which she routinely gives for margarita-swilling Jersey Shore bachelorettes.
Ms. Sheridan began her presentation by asking us to select from a Birkin bag full
“Today? What did I do today? I woke up around noon. I ate Cap’n Crunch right out of the box and washed it down with Coke. I looked through the paper and clipped articles that Tyra won’t think are edgy or subversive or
True
enough. I watched
The Real World
for an episode or five, but turned it off when I realized that the soul-baring conversations on the show sounded alarmingly like the same soul-baring ones I’d had with my floormates at school. It made me feel like nothing I said or did was unique, that someone somewhere was thinking and doing and saying the same things I think and do and say. It’s like when I’m at a party and I’m screaming along with everyone else to ‘American Girl’ or ‘Paradise City’ or ‘Sweet Caroline’ or whatever and it all feels so full and real and in the moment, and then I tell Hope about it later and she says, ‘Oh yeah! We love those songs here, too!’ which means that my experience isn’t unique to my group of friends, or even Columbia, but is part of a ubiquitous experience playing out at high volumes on campuses all around the country. And while I used to crave the comfort of knowing there were people out there like me, now I feel generic. . . .”
“You are not generic,” he said, interrupting my rant. “You are you. And I love you for wanting to make this day special for me.”
Other guys would sooner have their balls served sunny-side up for breakfast than say the “L” word. Marcus has never had this problem. I should have hopped on a bus to Pineville right then and there. But I just didn’t have it in me, and I’m not quite sure why.
“Well, happy birthday then.”
“We’ll celebrate the next time we see each other. Okay, Jessica?”
“Sure.”
About a half hour later, I received an e-mail that reminded me that we still have August. In August, we will be face-to-face, flesh-to-flesh. In August, it will be easier.
It has to be.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: July 19th, 2003
Subject: Poetry Spam #22
chromosomal dance oh, heavenly happenstance rare creation, you
—Original Message— From: Ruth Spotnik [[email protected]] Sent: July 18th, 2003 To: [email protected] Subject: you degeneracy fleeing amperage oh
cranny tissue flintlock forum antacid thoroughgoing equal creation salesian annuity buena rare rote gourd mba cocktail bluebush cashier principle heavenly dean murder abovementioned manhole deft impoverish chronicle divorce plausible functional demo cove blessing discriminate meantime contradistinction winch cholesterol familiarly dance sawdust dungeon contrition obliterate gauge olfactory mona homebuild arcing acclimate coulomb cranberry droplet film deportee happenstance synod conjecture ambidextrous aviatrix polity neuralgia chromosomal
the twenty-first
This morning, Tyra threw another salon. Unlike the Shanny salon, which was rather unceremoniously held around the conference table in the very gray, very dingy, very unfabulous newsroom, today’s took place in the dining room, located on another floor of the building and often used for wooing advertisers and other potential money donors. I assumed that the move meant that we were going to be treated to the insights of a legitimate dignitary.
And indeed, the smiling fifty-something woman who greeted us certainly looked the part with her poufy, perfectly groomed hair, shiny lacquered nails, and Chanel suit. The guest of honor was Ms. Toni Sheridan, frequently quoted sexpert and author of
Land Any Man in Minutes (and Keep Him Forever!),
among others. Ms. Sheridan had arrived at
True
to conduct one of her popular sex seminars, the likes of which she routinely gives for margarita-swilling Jersey Shore bachelorettes.
Ms. Sheridan began her presentation by asking us to select from a Birkin bag full
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