a small table of contents:
Reasons for Leaving
The Girly Cup
Is it my ex or my pet betta fish I've considered flushing down the toilet?
The Immaculate Conception of a careful woman (an excerpt from a rejected submission to the New York Times column, Modern Love)
Ugly crying
REASONS FOR LEAVING
I am applying for a job I am not qualified for. I have less than half the experience they “suggest” in order to compete for a salary that I would not be able to live off of. It's worth mentioning that no one in New York would be able to live off of the listed salary without a second job.
I upload my resume through a system that spits out all of my experience into multiple categories arranged by job, date of job, place of job, and reasons for leaving. I am required to fill out these reasons, which is awkward, but I know what this is. This is a test in diplomacy. Here we go.
I left my college newspaper because I finally graduated. It only took five years and six universities, which include three community colleges and dropping out of art school. This may be where my lack of allegiance comes from.
Roughly translates to:
Only students are eligible to write for the student paper and I graduated that December.
I left my first editorial internship in New York because the wealthy woman I worked for in the Upper East Side called her blog “the first women’s health magazine” and that felt weird. I now realize I may have been cat-fished.
Roughly translates to:
The internship was intended to last one semester.
I was fired from my first serving job in New York. Honestly, I wish they had done it sooner, but I was never going to quit because it was a job and no one else was going to pay my rent. I had never been a server before and I used to show up to work with stress rashes. After six months and enough strikes against me, they finally let me go. I just wish they had told be before I changed into my uniform that day.
Roughly translates to:
I wanted to dedicate more time to focus on some personal projects. I have since found a new job with another business.
I left a copywriting job because I began to enjoy peeling the skin off of my fingertips when writing about children's clothing.
Roughly translates to:
Working with this company provided a springboard for new opportunities.
Current position: Freelance writer. I’m riddled with anxiety, check my email every hour, and constantly compare myself to other established writers.
Roughly translates to:
I am in touch with editors and contributing to multiple platforms on an ongoing basis.
THE GIRLY CUP
A man orders a drink and specifies he wants it in a rocks glass—no girly cup please. He’s not just a man; he’s Man Jr. III. A glass with a stem or anything that resembles a hip structure would question his masculinity. He doesn’t scream “I’m a man!” in the bathroom mirror every morning for no reason.
The bartender pours his drink into a coupe glass and slips a slice of lime on the rim. The girly cup is dropped in front of Man Jr. III, but he is distracted with his friend's chatter. He takes a sip from the forbidden cup and trembles. Betrayal. Its tall stem slides up and curves into a wide opening from where he has swallowed. It’s too late. Now he is forced to ask himself if he is a Carrie or a Samantha. Please not a Charlotte. All of his friends turn and look at his curvaceous glass.
“Hey, look at Man Jr. III’s glass. He looks like a Miranda!”
That’s even worse than a Charlotte. Nobody wants to be a Miranda.
“Yeah, drink it, Betty Draper!” They cackle.
Oh no. A Mad Men reference where he’s not Don Draper? He’s never not been Don Draper. Man Jr. III sips his girly drink like the Miranda he is and sheds a tear.
“Whoops! Sorry about that. This is your drink,” says the bartender as she hands him a thick rocks glass full of man fuel.
Man Jr. III was able to reclaim his masculinity that night, but not without nightmares. The image of himself as Carrie Bradshaw in the opening of Sex and the City haunts him each night. He wears the pink tutu every time.
IS IT MY EX OR MY PET BETTA FISH I’VE CONSIDERED FLUSHING DOWN THE TOILET?
We would fight to the death if we were in a close space.
I agitate him, but I can’t tell if it’s just his aggressive nature.
He constantly tries to escape me, but has nowhere to go.
He was enchanting when we first met. Sometimes I feel like he picked me.
Sometimes he spits up food he doesn’t like.
He has become dull and slow.
I think I bore him.
He does not look healthy these days.
I’ve thought about killing him to put him out of his misery.
Based on habitat and diet, will probably only live for another year.
AN EXCERPT FROM A REJECTED SUBMISSION TO THE NEW YORK TIMES COLUMN, MODERN LOVE
The Immaculate Conception of a Careful Woman
We made out in the back of his parent’s BMW next to my leftovers. We were young and actually thought we had to get naked to have sex instead of him just unbuttoning his pants and me lifting up my skirt. The condom broke and we were in a CVS pharmacy within the next ten minutes. I wasn’t even fully dressed before the car started and he went into reverse to pull out, like he wished he had done earlier.
I was not old enough to buy the morning-after pill and when the pharmacist asked for my ID, my date showed his instead. The pharmacist said he needed to see the ID of the person who’d be taking the pill. He inspected my learner’s permit, looked back at me, and then reluctantly handed over our only option. My date swiped his parent’s credit card and his shirt had already pooled with sweat by the time the receipt with multiple, unnecessary coupons printed out.
We read the instructions together in the CVS parking lot. I needed to take the first pill as soon as possible, and then the second pill the next morning. He watched me swallow that pill the way a mother watches her child take medicine. It only took moments to become the one thing his parents warned him about. The next morning, I received several texts from him reminding me to take the next pill. He added a smiley face at the end of each message.
* * * * *
I don’t think parents should be expected to continue the uncomfortable formality that is “the talk” anymore. My parents were too busy figuring out online dating and divorce. Why have an awkward chat with the two people that bumped uglies to create moi when TV, magazines, gossip, and the Internet exists? I do recall one agonizing phone call with my father that ended in, “DO NOT—I REPEAT—DO NOT GET PREGNANT.” That was the extent of our discussion about reproduction. Although it was haunting to hear those words from my father, this was a message I was going to become well-acquainted with, as many women already have. Men continue to tell women to be careful not to get pregnant and you’d think after all this time they’d realize that their words of condescending encouragement are about as helpful as a Slippery When Wet sign.
Ugly Crying