Hit.

There's that moment. That moment you realize you're fucked. Your wheels are skidding across pavement. You know you've cut it just a little bit too close. A hunk of blue steel is barreling towards your small body and the breaks? They aren't working. And you're one the ground with unexpected people around you asking questions. You stand. Even though it's difficult. You breathe. Even though it's hard. And you start to pick the pieces up from the concrete. A piece of broken plastic trembling in your hands. Do I need this? A woman with a bad pony tail screams you out off this reverie.
"Call the police!"
I look at her. I look at her jeep. I ask, "Is your car alright?"
“CALL THE POLICE!"
I always do what I'm told. So I did it of course. The woman. She wasn't very nice. But I suppose she did hit me with her car. But I felt she could have been a little more forgiving. She did hit me with her car.
A fire truck arrives full of nice firemen. Questions are asked and answered. They try to call an ambulance. I decline. Ambulances are so expensive these days. I sit on the curb in rain. Calculating expenses and trying not to throw up.
The policeman hands me a ticket. My fault. I don't have the wherewithal to argue.
You would think people would try to be a little kinder in these situations. Not so.
As I wait for Rachel to pick me up from the curb I don't know how to feel. Sad I guess. Hurt I suppose. I don't know what to do. I don't know where to stand.
Rachel arrives her car is warm and she shows just the right amount of indignance toward the police man and lady driver. I still feel sick. I'm still shaking and I try to tell myself everything is fine. The night falls quickly. The rain doesn't stop. I find myself at home with an indistinguishable pain pervading my abdomen. I'm okay. I'm not okay. I'm ok. Ok? Ok. I'm not okay. I need to go to the hospital.
Hospital lights and more questions. Internal bleeding? High blood pressure. They are more worried than I am, but at least they're nice about it.  Strange shows on Spike tv about terrible tattoos. How many times are they going to put needles in me? The strangest sensation of having your insides on display.  That injection.
"You will feel warm all over and you will feel like your peeing yourself. But, don't worry your not"
Oh my god! She's totally right!
Waiting, waiting and more waiting. Trying not to feel sorry for yourself. Trying not to worry about what will happen. Your heart is beating too fast. You can see it on the monitor.
Cat scan says your fine. But doctor wants you to worry first. Like someone announcing the Tony's he adds suspense to his diagnosis.
"We were looking for...we almost had to do surgery...you could have had....(drum roll please) But you don't. Miss Bailey you can go home!"
Great! Unhook me from these strange wires, give me that prescription, and let me stumble home. I need some tea and a good distraction.

Free Will Tango

I’m being dragged by the ankles into the unknown by a brooding giant named Expectation. And even our loftiest thoughts can be consumed by laziness.

As I clean my kitchen and listen to the Phantom Tollbooth on audio book I am reminded by the reader’s droll voice of the Doldrums. The Doldrums is a land full of napping and quiet ascete. No one is allowed to think, make loud noises or feel happiness in the Doldrums. Thoughts swirl in my head of what my Doldrums would look like. Cozy caution in a world that never changes. Predictable grey landscape. A steady, reliable job perhaps?  Certainly no more writing. I must tell you that for a moment it all sounds so nice. Imagine: to know where I would be on every single Monday morning for the rest of my life. But, I also wonder. How long would I be able to stand it?

Arthur Schopenhauer, a philosopher with a focus on the concept of free will,  believed that, “human desire was futile, illogical, directionless, and, by extension, so was all human action in the world.” 

Basically Schopenhauer is the guy at the bar that has had so many drinks he’s decided that nothing matters anymore. Don’t lie, you’ve all been there. But, for Schopenhauer there is one saving grace.

Art.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen this sullen man from Frankfurt with excellent hair believes in the power of art! 

He states,
“Aesthetic contemplation allows one to escape, albeit temporarily, this pain because it stops one perceiving the world as mere presentation. Instead one no longer perceives the world as an object of perception from which one is separated; rather one becomes one with that perception”

Great. Now we have a reason to put ourselves through the suffering that is art so that we can temporarily end the suffering that is life. Is anyone crying into their pillow yet? But, it at least feels good to have a reason right? No. Actually. Not really. Schopenhauer is settling. 

 Do we do art because we have to? Or is it because we want to? Maybe we have to have to want to.

What is my purpose in this nonsensically sensible world? Society has standards for how long it is acceptable to work in a crepe shack underneath the convention center. My task is to find a career. Which seems impossible. And while I want to lounge in the cushy comfort of a career at the creperie my animalistic senses rebel. It’s time for some adventures. I need more stories. Uncertainty makes us free. Can that freedom even exist in a world of schedules? And what is this idea of freedom anyway? I find that when have have too much freedom I end up watching Bridezillas until 2 in the morning and eating cheez-its for dinner. What happens when there are no more schedules? When the only person I have to depend on is myself? I need someone else to depend on, you know someone more...dependable. Can I depend on you? I’ll let you depend on me. We can be accountable for each other. Just try not to fuck it up okay? I don’t know whether or not there is free will, but if there is I definitely don’t want it to do a number on this life. 


We had better keep our bases covered.

Sellout.

I think marriage is for sellouts and overweight people that want to multiply. The last wedding I went to was for my 300-pound cousin Sara. When my (very Christian) Mother saw Sara outside the church in her wedding dress, she leaned over to me and whispered, 

“I didn’t realize we parked our mini van on the lawn.” 

The phrase escaped her mouth before the good lord could censor it. She let out a gasp as her hands flew to her mouth while my brother and I ruthlessly laughed on her behalf. 

When I saw a receipt for a ring in Jordan, my boyfriend’s email my stomach dropped. What the fuck am I going to tell him? I probably can’t get away with a lie on this one. Our anniversary drew nearer and I waiver between stomach dropping fear and anticipation. 

The day arrives. He suggests we take a trip down to the water. I agree, my teeth clenching, knowing that this is the place he intends to commit the heinous act. He purchases me some macaroons from my favorite French bakery and we proceed to the park next to the water where all the homeless people and tourists blur together.  We sit…and sit…and sit. All of the sudden my palms begin to sweat and my mind races. What if I just saw a receipt for something else. What if it was all a dream that my sick mind created. You didn’t see any receipt Sasha, you blind fool! What were you doing rummaging through his email anyway? Have you no respect for the man’s privacy!?  I sigh like a totally normal person and walk toward the garbage cans to throw away my tea bag. I was hoping to buy a few minutes to regain composure. But I hear a strange rustling behind me. I turn to see Jordan struggling with his pocket. Strange. But not out of the ordinary. I sit down and Jordan leans over to me.

“Do you want your anniversary present?” 

“Yeah, sure, what is it?” 

A few moments of pocket struggling produces a tiny box. I open it. 

“Huh…it’s a ring” 

“Yeah” 

“What kind of ring is it?”

“OH! ….uh…Will you marry me?” 

I snort. I laugh in his face. We silently stare at each other and the ring. Jordan’s eyes are panicked. He finally speaks. 

“But seriously. Will you marry me?” 

I look at him a moment longer. His eyes are the same color as the water.
“Yes Jordan of course I will marry you.”