Continuous

2025/03/12 :
A peaceful life comes with the acknowledgment of joy’s inconsistencies.

2025/03/12 :
I need to stop listening to the purple mountains album.

2025/03/12 :
What are the physical repercussions of putting your heart into everything you do.

2025/03/12 :
Once the coffee is done, I want to roll back into bed.

2025/03/07 :
It starting to feel like spring. Like when my parents opened all the windows and let in the new air, taking it large breaths of optimism.

2025/02/21 :
Your big day nonna, I love you.

2025/02/15 :
How surprising sadness can be.

2025/01/28 :
If you can’t see, don’t ask someone what they’re writing down. It’s probably really good and they don’t want you to steal it.

2025/01/28 :
Today, I spent 11$ on a tropical smoothie to reassure me I won’t get sick this winter.

2025/01/24 :
Wool socks <3

2025/01/24 :
The struggle between wanting to wake up to sunlight but not letting the sunlight wake me.

2025/01/24 :
I’m starting to believe that constant whispering is just as annoying as constant yelling.

2025/01/18 :
Bath, Broth & Beyond

2025/01/16 :
I want to feel that you’re human—that life’s burdens haven’t stripped you of your joy. And if they have, I want to feel that too.

2025/01/15 :
A word I’ll never be able to spell ‘‘nauseous’’.

2025/01/13 :
How many butterflies are there left for me to chase.

2025/01/13 :
The metro is crowded with faces begging for either a hug or direct sunlight.

2025/01/12 :
I want to be like Ryan Gosling in Drive, but my mouth won’t allow me to be that enigmatic.

2025/01/11 :
If buying books and not reading them was a sport.

2025/01/05 :
I just want to write in the narrow nook of my apartment, sipping coffee while picking at the funny thoughts in my mind.

2025/01/04 :
You can build yourself up just by turning things down - Mos Def.

2024/12/30 :
I’ll keep that rock in my shoe to remind me I’m alive.

2024/12/30 :
Today, I did something terrible. I walked down my street and passed the schoolyard where two kids played soccer. One of them kicked the ball over the fence and it was my duty to return it to them. I flipped it off my boot and kicked it with the force of 100 folks. The ball flew over the fence and the schoolyard and landed on the roof of a house. Their jaws dropped and all I could do was say sorry and walk away. I ruined their day and somehow, that simple moment made my day a little more interesting.

2024/12/27 :
Some words only make sense once you feel them.

2024/12/25 :
I can only do what my mind allows me.

2024/12/21 :
Snow is Rain’s more handsome brother.

2024/12/20 :
If I don’t love an object, I’m bound to lose it at some point.

2024/12/20 :
I could count on my hands the times I’ve had a good night’s rest.

2024/12/18 :
Gift wrapping today started poorly but I was wrapping everything around me towards the end.

2024/12/15 :
My face is made for two small windows.

2024/12/08 :
With my middle finger behind my glove, I waved hello to Harold.

2024/12/03 :
You heard it here first, unibrows are hot.

2024/11/30 :
First light snowfall in Montreal, dust really, but still worth noting.

2024/11/29 :
I must have fallen in love with 7 people today.

2024/11/27 :
I have two plants competing for who can die the fastest.

2024/11/24 :
I feel something.

2024/11/24 :
The cold metal was placed upon my forehead, using it as a coaster for the gun he just drew.

2024/11/22 :
There’s no graceful way to pass someone
walking slowly on the sidewalk.

2024/11/20 :
At what age do we stop losing socks in the dryer?

Cassius

He sneezed, and like a grenade, mucus sprayed out of his nose in every direction possible—a 360-degree fuckery taking place right in front of my eyes. The train was full, and I was being held up like a candlestick between five strangers, neatly snuggled. The five of us played ping pong with the morning air coming out of our defrosted nostrils. I glanced at my watch as if the hands would somehow move back and save me from being late for work.

There was an old man two bodies across from me holding onto a pole with a grip similar to that of an erotic dancer. One hard brake from the driver, and his wrist would detach from his body, sending him flying. A punk sat at eye level with the old man’s waist, scrolling on his phone. I watched the glare bounce off his bloodshot eyes as he remained oblivious to the frail man clinging for dear life. If he didn’t have earphones lodged into his skull, he might have heard the man’s knees pop in and out of place with every subtle turn. This kid sucked. If my hands were free, I’d unbuckle my wristwatch and chuck it at his stupid head. But I couldn’t—my right arm was neatly tucked between a man’s ass crack, while my left was in the pocket of my ironed trousers, still damp from the morning’s press.

With every stop the train made, more people marched in, and fewer marched out. Bodies started to mesh together, swaying left to right in unison with every turn. There was a beautiful woman standing two inches from my nose. “Where am I supposed to lay my eyes?” I thought, avoiding eye contact for fear of falling in love. I felt her eyes on me, like a spotlight shining on a brick of butter. I began sweating. I winked at her—or at least I tried to. What came out looked more like a muscle spasm.

She stepped forward, and the tips of our noses softly touched. The glare bouncing off her wet lips made me want to put my sunglasses on. Through my peripherals, I noticed a man with the nicest mustache I’d ever seen staring right at me. Did I know him? Or was he just another commuter bored out of his mind? I didn’t know who to give my attention to anymore. This metro ride was taking unexpected turns, convincing me I was caught in some sort of nightmare. The three of us stood there; a weird love triangle was playing out right in front of me, both of them seeking my attention. I was two stops away from work but decided at the last minute to step out of the train before both their eyes engraved an unpleasant memory in my psyche.

The train stopped, and I squirmed my way through puffy jackets and cheap cologne. The pressure of air coming through the doors blew the flaps of my trench coat back as if it were being controlled by a puppeteer. Why did I feel the need to walk faster than everyone else around me? What was I racing toward—misery? I walked up the steep steps, and the bright light coming from the fresh white snow painted my silhouette. At the top of the stairs, I bent over, hands at my waist, as though trying to kiss my toes. I took a deep and long breath, filling my lungs with cold air and whispered almost sarcastically “New York can be so pretty in the winter,”. The sun was bright, the sounds were familiar, and my mood was unpredictable. I took a mint from my coat pocket and cleansed my mouth from the humid air in the metro.

My feet directed me toward the office while my mind convinced me to book a flight and start a new life somewhere in Europe. The sky was shy from any clouds, and cars filled up the streets, cabs were being called by people who were just as late as I was. My breath was as short as my patience, and the city started feeling like a giant circus act. I stopped to catch my breath, sensing that a panic attack was developing at an alarming rate. While in a state of fear, I looked to my left and watched a man with shotgun holes in his pants eating a bologna sandwich. His eyes were glued to yesterday’s paper, opened wide enough to cover half his face, exposing a cheeky grin, the sunshine sat snug in the dimple of his cheek. He looked at me and winked, and I gave him a thumbs-up and quickly noticed my gloves had no thumb entries, so my thumbs-up went undelivered; it must have looked like a sideways hello. He patted the empty space on the bench, inviting me to sit down. On any other day, I’d decline with a smug scoff and a “yeah, right,” but today was different.

I sat down on melting snow, and the moisture quickly seeped through my pants, penetrating my boxer briefs. The thought of hemorrhoids began to preoccupy my mind. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, as if we’d known each other for over a decade. “I think I’m having a panic attack,” I replied with squinted eyes. “Breathe,” he answered back. I turned my head to look at him, and he was stuck on the newspaper, a deep grin—a grin that said, “I have all the answers; what other mundane problems can I help you with?” I faced forward, closed my eyes, and tilted my head back, letting the rays recharge my brittle soul as I took deep breaths in and out.

The passing pedestrians and cars covered and re-exposed my eyelids to the light, making me feel less alone. I enjoyed being still and watching at what pace life continued to move without me in the way. We move to the beat of the drum, but as the years pass, that drummer keeps playing faster and faster.

By now, it must have been 9:30 a.m. My boss was probably walking past my office to see if I had arrived. My phone began to ring, and without missing a beat, the man next to me grunted, “Turn that shit off,” resembling a fatherly command. I closed my phone and asked him where this anger was coming from. “Listen, kid, do yourself a favor and throw that piece of junk in the trash. Carry a pen and notepad, and whenever you want to talk to someone, write it down and tell them in person.”

“If I wrote down everything I wanted to say, I’d have no energy to actually say it,” I thought to myself, wondering if I even owned paper. “Let’s walk,” he said to me, getting up and starting before I could even reply. Naturally, I followed. What else did I have to do that day—show up to work? I don’t think so. He rolled himself a cigarette and sparked a match the size of a pencil, which caused an S.O.S.-sized flare. He was no stranger to the neighborhood; we stopped a handful of times as people waved him down from balconies and patios. Women, men, young, old—it didn’t matter; everyone knew him with a familiarity you only get from knowing someone your entire life.

“How are you so buddy-buddy with all these people?” I asked.

“Living,” he replied philosophically. I had no idea what he meant, but it didn’t matter. He said it with such confidence that questioning it would have made me appear dense.

“Where are we going?” I asked, looking around, trying to familiarize myself.

“I don’t know where you’re going, kid, but I’m going to the bookstore.”

Just by looking at him, you could bet your money that this man had read triple his weight in books. He wore an afghan around his head that reached his knees, his boots were loosely tied but never became a danger—the laces sat still, perched an inch out of the d-ring eyelets on his tan Danner boots. He smelled of a fully lived life. From the front, you’d guess he was in his 70s, but from the back, the way he walked with such certainty, you’d think he’d just graduated high school.

We reached the bookstore, and a lady leaning by the door smiled and wrapped her arms around him. They both smiled from cheek to cheek.

“Claire, this is… what’s your name again, kid?” he asked with his infectious smile still present.

“Cassius,” I replied, extending my hand.

“Do you want me to shake your hand, Cassius?” she replied charmingly.

Before I could answer, she gently pushed my arm down and gave me a hug I hadn’t felt since I was a kid. I didn’t want to let go. I felt wrapped in the world’s warmest blanket.

“I see you made another friend, Elias,” she said. Both of them together made the cloudy and cold weather feel like I was standing by the Mediterranean Sea with warm sand between my toes and a breeze gentle enough to lift the curls off my forehead. Claire held the door, and we both walked in, individually. The staff greeted Elias with warm smiles and perfectly timed winks. He introduced me to everyone as “Cash,” a nickname only my parents used to call me.

I watched them pace through different aisles, picking up paper that carried words—words that held more importance than the text messages I received on my phone. I didn’t know where to put my hands. Every book I picked up felt forced, and I didn’t know which section to read. Reading the back seemed obvious, but clearly a rookie move. “Do I read the first three pages and nod my head after placing the book back down?” I thought to myself, feeling the employees’ eyes watching the back of my head, waiting for my next move.

I looked over the aisle, and both Claire and Elias were at the register, paying for their books in cash—no card, no tap, just wrinkled, crisp bills. I followed them outside. Elias looked at me and, without saying a word, handed me a book. “We gotta go, kid. Maybe we’ll run into each other soon.” Claire gave me a smile and extended her arm. I almost shook it but quickly realized she was testing me. I smiled and shyly opened my arms for a hug. She stepped into my embrace, and Elias gave me a warm grin. They didn’t hold hands or cross arms; they walked as individuals who both had their own story, their own way of living.

I flipped through the book, and each page was empty—no words, no lines, nothing. Blank as the feeling I had before meeting him. The first page read: “I hear your thoughts from a mile away. For someone who barely says a word, you sure think a lot. - Elias.” I reached in my bag for a pen, opened the first page, and tried to decipher the chicken scratch that was Elias’s address. Under that, I filled in a quarter of the page and wrote: “It’s 11am on a Monday morning, and instead of being at work, you’re filling in a book that was given to you by a complete stranger. It’s cold…”

Just as I was finishing up my sentence, some tall man shoulder-checked me while yelling, “Keep it moving, asshole.” I continued: “It’s cold, and some offensive lineman just dislocated your shoulder. What a day.” I clicked my pen shut and stuffed it in my bag, followed by the book. “There’s no point in going into work today,” I thought, letting out a deep breath on my cold and wilted hands, warming them up for whatever may come my way.

Right then and there, smiling into the abyss while businessmen and women shuffled their long jackets and briefcases through peaceful pedestrians, I made a decision to make that day memorable—one for the books. I looked down at the briefcase I was chained to, holding it with the same grip as the old man on the metro. The weight of it pulled my shoulder down toward the concrete, the burden of my life neatly organized in this Italian leather briefcase. I saw my reflection in the shiny gold buckle keeping the front panel closed.

I worked in finance for a shithead boss who occasionally did bumps of cocaine in the ladies’ room and took two pumps of caramel in his oat milk-filled latte. I wanted what Elias had. For that hour or so of knowing him, I felt like a child discovering that melted cheese tastes way better than solid cheese. When you finally decide to jump off the swings and you can feel your ankles almost break from the shock, an invigorating feeling quickly follows—a feeling of being able to take risks.

I reached back into the bag and pulled out the book and pen, stuffing them into the long pockets of my trench coat. I merrily skipped toward a busted-up trash can and swung my bag over it like a wrecking ball, getting ready to release it into the sea of empty beer cans. My pocket vibrated. Whoever was calling didn’t matter. I slipped it out of my pants, placed it gently on the concrete, and with the heel of my boot, hammered down on it like a jackhammer, watching as sheets of metal and glass shattered into a kaleidoscope of fragments.

I stood there, letting the sun stand in front of my squinted eyes, my face introduced to warmth. I closed my eyes, and like a trust fall, I tilted slightly. Like the world’s biggest drop of rain, a pigeon flying overhead dropped a care package of shit on my right shoulder, and with the help of the cold, the paintball-sized turd began solidifying. Luck never smelled so sour.

I quickly realized that I needed caffeine. I’d usually take out my phone and spend 15 minutes or so figuring out which cafe would have the least amount of people, but that option was still shattered on the outsole of my boots. I walked straight ahead, for taking a step back would seem counterintuitive at this point in my life. I left the shit on my shoulder, reminding the birds flying around that I’ve already been marked. I made an effort to smile at the next person I crossed paths with, so when I saw her walking toward me, I began reciting, secretly, so as not to look deranged.

She stood as tall as the streetlights, wearing a red fur coat, giving the impression of a moving stop sign. A navy blue Yankees cap hid her pumpkin orange bangs, and her face was painted with splatters of light brown freckles. We were getting closer, and even with the cold air stinging our nostrils, her scent became apparent: cigarettes and too much fabric softener. I sent the signals on my face to commence the construction of a warm and inviting smile, but just as my face started getting to work, she looked right in my eyes and blurted out, “Hey man, do you have a gum I can borrow?”

How does someone borrow a gum? I thought. Was she planning to spit it back into my mouth after she sucked the life out of it?

“I have mints?”

“What flavor?”

“Mint” I mumbled.

She stuck out her hand and I opened the metal box of mints that sat in my coat pocket.

“You’re not trying to drug me, right?”

“With mints? I don’t think so, no.”

She looked at the array of mints as if they were all individually chanting to be picked.

“What’s your name?” she asked as she took a mint from the middle of the tray.

I thought about it for a second; a question that requires zero effort began to turn the gears in my mind.

“Cash,” I replied, with a question mark hanging from my eyebrows.

“I’m Lucy,” she said, eyeing me from top to bottom.

“Do you usually leave bird shit on your jacket?”

“Not usually, no.”

“Today must be a special day for you.”

“I’m starting to think so, yes,” I replied, trying my best to embody the swift and charismatic tone of Elias. We stood there for a few seconds, looking at each other, both wondering who was being more elusive.

“I’m going to get coffee if you wanna join me,” I said, breaking the silence.

“I’m late for an interview. That’s the reason I asked for gum. I want my words to smell as professional as they sound.” I didn’t know how to respond. My armor of confidence began showing spots of weakness. The thought of what to say was becoming a burden. I winked at her uncontrollably, as if the same bird had shat in my eye. She laughed, seeing right through my facade.

“I gotta go… but we should get that coffee sometime. Take down my number.” I reached in my pocket without taking my eyes off her smile and took out my notebook and pen.

“I don’t do phones anymore,” I replied, waving the pen and notebook like they were prizes on the Wheel of Fortune.

“What do you want me to write then?”

“How about a place and time?”

She took the items out of my hands and began writing down underneath the entry I had made earlier. She placed them back into my hands, and it read: “Jan. 12 - 10AM - Usagi - Be There or Be Square.”

“Thanks for the mint, Cash,” she said softly while walking away. I winked again, this time isolating the movement of my face to just my left eye.

“Great wink, Cash,” I whispered.

Snow Table

If I don’t produce anything decent between the time it takes for my coffee to get cold, my day might as well be ruined. If I could afford a new phone every night, I’d shatter my phone on the wall every morning. It was 7:30 a.m., and I lay there on the couch, my blanket pulled up to my nose. I watched the snowflakes fall, landing one by one on my Toyota Prius. The car looked back at me, but there was nothing I could do. There’s no blanket ugly enough to cover the disgrace of that vehicle. I hate everything about it. That day, I wished the snow would swallow it whole.

I grabbed my mug from the floor and perched my lips against the rim, letting the coffee course through my veins. I looked over and saw the remnants of my computer desk lying on the floor. Last night, like an ogre with a fork and knife, I had rained down with both fists on the weak wooden table that supported my computer, and I watched it tumble like a stack of cards. Looking back, it might have been an overreaction, but losing that chess match to some 13-year-old boy from Finland made me sick to my stomach. I don’t regret smashing the desk. If I had another one lying around that night, I’d smash it down as well and use the wood to start a fire big enough to engulf the entire house.

“What the fuck am I doing with my life?” I thought to myself, scratching the sleep crumbs out of my eyes. I reached and slipped my laptop from under the couch, firing up the old bastard, and began browsing Facebook Marketplace for a new desk that could withstand my fists of fury. I scrolled for an hour, opened 38 tabs, and somehow ended up on a YouTube video teaching folks how to dominate any room with charm and confidence. I bookmarked it.

Looking through the rolodex of tabs, I found a table I wouldn’t mind looking at every day. The legs looked sturdy, like a track horse in its prime. The wood was maple, and I could smell the Danish oil through the screen. I drafted up a message: “Hi, I’m interested in buying your desk. Would I be able to pass by today, and would it fit in my miserable Prius?” I moved some words around and hit send.

I walked into the kitchen to pour myself another cup of coffee and heard, “BING!” “Yes! I have many messages, but it is still available. Here’s my address: 7431 Av De L’Epee. I will disassemble it for it to fit in your car.” I looked out my window and saw the beauty of a car dressed in a white dress, waiting to be stripped naked and taken for a ride. I dressed myself accordingly, using my winter gloves and arms like a human windshield wiper to remove the snow from my car. With my big boy boots, I kicked and dragged the chunks of white and yellow snow, releasing my tires from the chains of Mother Nature.

I got in, pushed the start button, and watched my car welcome me with the digital letters appearing on the dash. I punched in the coordinates and made my way to the destination. The snow was fresh, making my wheels squeak at every turn, making my Prius sound like it was turning into a large rubber duck.

I parked far enough so the gentleman couldn’t see what I drove in and decide I wasn’t worthy enough of his homemade table. I walked, the wind and snow slapping me in the face like a duo wrestling team, making me catch my breath on every tenth step. The door didn’t have a bell. Instead, a metal ring hung from the middle of the door, waiting for me to slam it down on the wood. From the sound of his footsteps, I knew this was no small man, a real ogre.

The door creaked open, and he stood there, arm extended, waiting for me to shake his meaty hand. He smelled like gasoline and had enough dirt under his nails to start a community garden. The air in his apartment stood as still as his smile, and a bead of sweat fell from his wrinkled forehead and seeped into the skin of my forearm.

“I guess I’ll have to make time for an arm amputation,” I thought to myself.

I shook his hand and audibly swallowed. I retreated my hand and discreetly wiped it on the side of my pants, avoiding any weird infections. “Down the hall!” he said. “Follow me.” With my hands in my pockets, I followed him down the hall and counted the rolls on his neck like logs of firewood. If I lit a match right now, he’d turn into a fireball; his perfume was probably sold at a gas station. His feet were massive, large enough to kick my Prius and have it roll down a hill.

I analyzed the hall. It carried two large windows and picture frames of Marvin Gaye, Jimi Hendrix, and MF Doom, all of them watching me walk through like I was on a runway. He turned right, then left, and then went up a flight of brown stairs with nails protruding from the splints of wood.

“Is this really how I die?” I thought to myself, my anxiety increasing with every step forward. “How badly do I need this table? What does this table mean to me? Am I so obsessed with structure and productivity that I’m willing to put my life on the line for a fix of normal adult life?”

We finally got to the top of the stairs. His breathing was heavy, which gave me the impression I could run away safely if anything were to happen. He opened the French doors that led to a beautiful balcony, clear from snow and noise, a safe haven where you could smash a table down if you wanted to. All the materials needed were neatly packaged in a large bag.

Without breaking eye contact with the table, I took the cash out of my pocket and handed it to the large figure taking up 50% of my peripheral vision. I grabbed the bag from its sturdy handles and led the way out of the house, making Mr. Large Hands follow me this time.

I gave him one final look before leaving. Who is this man? Why does he seem so put together? He makes tables, and what do I do? Break them? I drive a lousy car that can easily be mistaken for a go-kart, and his driveway has four wheels that take up the same square meters as my apartment.

I extended my arm, opened my palm, and smiled. He smiled back. In fact, I don’t think he stopped smiling from the moment he opened the door and let me in. “Why is he so fucking happy?” I thought, admiring his ray of positivity, trying to soak in as much energy through our handshake as I could.

I left with a smile and a bag of wood. I walked to my car, whistling Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together,” looking down at the disassembled desk as if I was convincing it I’d be a happy owner, that I wouldn’t have a child-like outburst and break down its legs. I opened the doors to my Rolls-Royce and neatly laid the bag in the backseat, wrapping the seatbelt around its waist. I pushed start and read the “Hello Louie” that appeared on the dash.

This time, I did something I’d never done before: I got comfortable, smiled, and with a loud voice—loud enough to pierce through those titanium windows—I yelled, “HELLOOOOOOOOOO PRIUSSSSSSSSSS!”

Hugh

Hugh woke up that morning on the living room couch. His fingertips smelled like the bottom of an ashtray, and his eyelids were bound together by the dread of starting the day. It was Sunday morning, but you could have told Hugh it was Thursday evening, and he wouldn’t have batted an eye.

At 7:35, the wind blew tree branches against the living room window, scratching at the glass like a housecat. I watched from the kitchen as he grunted and squirmed on the couch like a worm burrowing through dirt. How could someone look so good even at their worst? I thought to myself. Why had I let him in last night, and how was I going to get him out before Tiff came home from her trip? How does one unlove a person like Hugh?

I slipped on my boots, threw on his beige coat, and stepped outside. The air stung my cheeks as I scanned the ground. A handful of pebbles caught my eye, almost too perfect to throw. “Waking someone who sleeps like a rock with rocks,” I muttered, tossing the first pebble lightly at the window. “Ironic.” The first pebble landed softly, but by the fifth, I worried I’d shatter the glass and expose Hugh to the frigid air. I knew exchanging words face to face would lead to us fucking on the wooden floors. That’s why I needed to wake him from afar.

I stared at the last pebble in my hand, thinking of the breakfasts Hugh used to cook us on Sundays—pancake stacks with fruit laid out meticulously on the edges of his “Made in Japan” plates. They were good—good enough for me to keep sleeping over on Saturday nights. He made jokes that would fly over most people’s heads, as if they were curated just for me. His chest hair was brown, curly, and played peek-a-boo with the neckline of his garments. He made people fall in love with him without ever trying and was always surprised to discover how much people enjoyed his presence. Despite all the love surrounding him, he always felt so alone. He would cancel plans, make excuses, and fall off the face of the earth for days at a time. It was best to know Hugh from a distance; that’s where he wanted people to see him—that’s where he looks his best.

I broke my gaze and felt the emptiness in my stomach. I couldn’t go back in, so I started my morning. The Counter is a small diner with one cook, Miranda—a 74-year-old woman who always remembered my breakfast order but insisted on calling me Lillie instead of Lindsay. My order consisted of two sunny-side-up eggs, potato wedges, and thick-cut bacon, crispy enough that if someone closed their eyes, it would sound like I was eating a bag of chips. I usually had my latte with oat milk but settled for filter coffee whenever I was there.

The block was quiet that morning. My breath was clearly visible, and the wind whistled like that construction worker on 9th Avenue. Walking to the diner, I couldn’t help but watch people start their day inside their homes. In my mind, these people’s lives were perfect, flawless. The only time they shed a tear was from an overwhelming feeling of happiness or the death of a loved one. There was no in-between. I cried watching a kid laugh the other day. What does that say about me?

I walked into the diner. The bells hanging from the door hinge greeted me at the same time as Miranda did; somehow, the bells seemed more cheerful. I sat down, let out a subtle sigh, and said, “Morning, Mira.”

Miranda looked at me with her small, wrinkled eyes and whispered, “What’s the matter, Lillie? You look awful.”

“I don’t know, maybe I’m depressed, Mira. Do I look depressed?”

“You look like shit,” she said, her hand twitching as she poured coffee the color of used motor oil into the chipped navy mug. “The usual?” she asked, throwing four slices of bacon on the flattop.

“Sure,” I replied, knowing it would be a horrible day to try something new. I pulled out my phone and texted Hugh: Morning sunshine, as much as I enjoyed seeing you sleep on the couch last night, you need to leave the house before Tiff comes home. P.S. What’s your new perfume called? You smelled like a baby’s ass this morning.

I closed my phone, knowing his reply would leave me wanting more, intoxicating me with his wit and charm. Miranda one-handedly placed my breakfast in front of me as if she were a doctor administering medication to a patient.

She smiled and said, “You seem like a person who makes things harder than they need to be.”

I smiled back and told her, “It’s never too late to become a therapist, Miranda.”

She laughed, her shoulders shuffling with each chuckle, and walked back to her wooden chair, starting to knit. Once, she knitted me a sweater that must have been made from 100% ant legs. I wrapped it up and gave it to Hugh, who wore it often. Maybe all that body hair left no room for the ant legs to move.

I glanced down at my plate and saw a smiley face made with the eggs, bacon, and potatoes. “I love your art,” I shouted.

“You should frame it,” she said, never taking her hands or her small, wrinkled eyes off her knitting needles. I ate the smiley face, hoping that it would somehow make me less miserable. “How much do I owe you for the art?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t charge me today.

“Well, seeing that I feel worse than when you came in, leave a 20, and we’re square.” I laughed, knowing what I ordered costed $9.80 and has stayed the same price for over 5 years now. I reached into Hugh’s left jacket pocket and placed a wrinkled 20 on the bar.

I planted both feet on the ground and pushed through the strong gusts of wind that had placed themselves on the outside door. I reached again into Hugh’s jacket, took a cigarette, and placed it between my dry lips. I hate how much I enjoy smoking a cigarette; I hadn’t smoked in months. The taste of tobacco always reminded me of him. His jacket had a small hole in the armpit, so I walked with my hands tied to my sides like a soldier scared of the wind. I got to the front door of my apartment and placed my head on it, not wanting to open and face whatever noise was inside. My head was heavy, my eyes were closed, and a single tear fell from my eye. Fucking wind, I thought to myself while brushing my wet cheek.

That was Hugh, a big fucking gust of wind, tearing everything up and leaving behind a mess I always had to clean up. I rested my head on the cold door for a few minutes. If he opened the door right this instant, I’d be forced to fall into his arms; I simply would have no control over the matter, leaving our story completely in his hands.

Georgie’s Poem

My name’s Georgie, I’m 62,

born and raised in Brooklyn, New York.

I’m writing this in front of Mike’s donut shop,

watching the pigeons run to work.

Instead of turning Mama’s meatballs

into smash bergers, my therapist

suggested I write poetry.

Mama’s meatballs, mmm. Very good.

Garlic thin as the skin on my teath,

they melt in the pan with eese.

If I close my eyes, I can smell the room—

cigarette smoke, my father’s rotting toenail,

and red wine made from those same feet.

Pig.

I’d feed the birds, but who’s gonna feed me?

If I were a bird, I’d probly stay in Brooklyn.

I won’t stand here too long.

Mike’s a good guy,

but his donuts stink.

He makes the holes too big to save on dough.

And they lack the most important quality, charcter.

A lot of people say I’m a charcter.

What the hell am I writing down?

Poetry, right? This is poetry?

I gotta find a new therapist

before I start buying vegan salamy.

I learned a new word yesterday, perplexed.

Duplex, Triplex, Purplex.

I wonder how much a perplex goes for in New York these days.

I wonder how loud I’d have to fart

to make these pigeons take a hike.

I ran half a mile last night

and my knees almost exploded.

I wonder what exploded knees look like in an x-ray—

like shatered glass in a salad bowl.

I should’ve gone to doctor school.

Dr. Georgie. I’d give my patients Mama’s meatballs—

a dish from her can cure anything.

My therapist thinks I’m deppressed.

I told her,

“The only people dumb enough to be happy are morons.”

Happyness always gets ruined;

Sadness is already done for.

My therapist said I need more of a social life,

so last week I started boxing.

I bought the same boxing gloves Mike Tyson used

when he started out. Red leather with shoe strings

zig zaging across the arm opening.

This little adolecent prick Jerry gave me a black eye and blood streamed out of my nose onto my white sneaks.

I bought a skipping rope, but only skip at the park—

the wooden floors in my apartment are so weak

that I’d probably break through to the basment.

I see more people holding phones than hands these days.

Why cling on to something that doesn’t have a pulse?

There’s curly-headed moron in front of me talking a picture

of himself holding an ice cream cone.

The strawberry sorbet is driping all over his shoes.

I’ve reached an age where a sneeze can lead to a hospital visit.

I tried doing halloween last year.

I made 87 nutella sandwiches,

because that’s who I am, generous Georgie.

Not a single kid took a sandwich;

one father even gave me the middle finger.

I guess I’m not everyones cup of Georgie,

but that’s okay, next year I’m doing cannolis

stuffed with mamas ricotta.

The only time I wanted to leave New York

was when Angie died.

She hated Mike’s donuts,

so now, I try to buy one once a week,

look up to her and throw it in the garbage.

She made me laugh without even trying,

a natural comedian.

She would hold me when the day took its toll;

her hair smelled of lavender sheets spinning in laundromat dryers,

and she would tell me that I was the reason

Brooklyn had it’s charm.

On her last days, with tubes running through her

like a soda machine, one of the last things she said to me was,

“Georgie, when I leave, promise me you’ll clean your underwear

instead of wearing them inside out.”

We laughed, and when I got home,

I cried while a rerun of Jeopardy was playing

in the background.

I’m doing poetry like I’m shakes-peer Angie.

My cupboards are overflowed with underwear

and I jump rope at the park while air finds its morning warmth.

You won’t believe me, but kids don’t like nutella sandwiches.

What kind of holy donuts does God eat? Is he Italian?

I gotta run to the print shop

and ask one of those kids to print me

a hundred copies of this thing.

I’m gonna staple them to tree’s

and dump 20 of them in Mike’s mailbox.

Georgie might end up in the New Yorker.

I can see my breath now.

It’s getting cold and my knees are starting to act up.

It’s 6:47pm, the sun and I are racing to the print store.

The pigeons are making marching their way back home.

These pieces of paper in my cold, dry hands

hold words I’ve been wanting to share with you

everytime I come back home.

I stay on these Brooklyn streets as long as I can

for the fear of being cooped up in that house alone.

Out here, I see versions of myself

and versions of you, Angie.

How do poets end their poems?

Am I supposed to tie all the beautiful things I said

into one neat paragraph?

Georgie does things differently.

So, I’m ending this poem here.

Untitled

This morning, the birds outside my window woke me before my alarm. I’ve never enjoyed hearing birds chirp; their tone always seemed so condescending and arrogant. I’ve stopped saying “bless you” every time someone sneezes. I did the math, and if I quit cold turkey, I can add a few months to my life.

I often don’t enjoy being right, so I willingly watch other people be wrong. Someone winked at me today, and I didn’t know what to do, so I gave them a thumbs-up and walked away. I almost slipped in the shower while hitting a high note on Adele’s “Melt My Heart to Stone.”

Maya slept in my bed last night, and I read her a few pages from Alphabetical Diaries from Sheila Heti. She said I read well, and now all I want to do is read for people. I sneezed the other day, and no one blessed me—people can be so unoriginal. I’ve made a vow to never jaywalk in front of kids.

I added my downstairs neighbor on Instagram, and he never added me back. It’s been a month now. I’m obsessed with light. I have five lamps in my dining room, and my curtains are always open. Maya also enjoys light; she has four lamps in her room, while I only have three. She is winning.

On occasion, and always during the day, I like to honk at pedestrians walking on the street and wave hello. They usually return the wave but then quickly try to piece together how they might know me. None of them know me, but for that second, we make eye contact and move past being complete strangers.

I put my alarm in the closet, so I’m forced to stand up to turn it off. I don’t know how to act during funerals—where do I put my hands, and why is everyone so flirty? My dad thought it would be a good time to ask me if I was gay while driving 120 km/h on the highway.

I’m grateful that my sister is dating a good person. I’m also grateful that she still lives at home so my mom isn’t left alone with my dad and brother. Lila said I seem a lot calmer and at peace since I started taking Vyvanse. Hearing that made me both happy and sad. I haven’t cried in almost a year, and I blame it on my SSRI medication.

Maya and I held hands for the first time today, and I felt my entire body tingle as if we were both lying on top of a washing machine during its spin cycle. Why do I question the validity of my happiness every time I start to feel it?

When I was a kid, I hated orange juice with pulp. It was as if little ant legs were racing down my mouth. I have a deaf grandfather in Italy, and every time I visit, we sit outside his house—two wooden chairs and a wooden table—and play Italian card games until one of us gets fed up. Seeing a deaf person get fed up is quite amusing; a lot of huffing and puffing on his end.

My dad and I used to fight a lot when I was a teenager. I made him cry once, and it made me want to rip my eyes out. I never felt like more of an asshole. We got closer in my early 20s, and now we greet each other with a kiss on the cheek and a hug.

I once farted on someone while doing jiu-jitsu. My opponent had me in a weird position, and there was a ton of pressure on my stomach.
I farted on him and blamed the mats we were fighting on. I don’t think he believed me.

I haven’t seen my best friend in over a year, and he lives 20 minutes away from my house. We FaceTime almost every day and talk about nothing and everything at the same time. We got into a huge fight when we lived together and went from being angry at each other to trying to hide our tears. Seeing your best friend riddled with anxiety and stuck in a position that leaves them no room for growth is gut- wrenching.

I made business cards when I got laid off, and it took me almost a month to design them. I also created a website, and that took me close to three months, and I’m still not happy with the way either of them look.

I enjoy looking at myself in the mirror, so I made sure my room has no mirrors. I don’t want to be vain. I can’t be friends with people who support fast fashion and have been arguing with my sister to stop shopping at Shein. You really can’t beat those prices.

I didn’t like my name growing up, so I told people to call me Joseph. This led to confusion when I told people to start calling me Giuseppe in my 20s. My close friends still call me Joseph, Jose, or Joe, which makes me feel like I have two identities. Giuseppe is more patient and charming.

It took me two years to get good at winking, and I still don’t know when the appropriate time to wink at someone is. I have small staring contests with people I lock eyes with on the metro and usually lose due to my dry eyes. I have 20/20 vision and feel the need to let people with glasses know this.

I tried stand-up comedy twice and felt like the audience wasn’t ready for my material. I must be too comedically advanced. I don’t write as much as I would like to. I’m scared about what might come out if I sit down and completely let go. While writing this, I’ve held back a number of times. I rarely enjoy the things I create, but that doesn’t stop me from sharing them on social media and creating a website with all my work.

I enjoy seeing parents let their kids be who they want to be—letting them explore and be whimsical. I enjoy seeing parents care for their children and take pride in being a parent. I don’t want my kid to be an asshole, but I don’t know how much control I have over that. Is being an asshole bad genetics?

I keep my back against the wall when I’m waiting for the train because you really can’t trust anybody. I sometimes wonder how often I do that outside of the metro station.