Eleven Twenty-Eight

"Fresh wax paper rolled over the table. Nice. Very clean, like a doctor's office." "Do I remove my boots and socks or just my underwear? I guess I should remove everything below the waist. Otherwise it's just porn-ish. Glad I didn't wear high heels today!" "I wish I wore pants. My folded underwear is sitting on a chair and it feels exposed all by itself." "So, do I sit or lay down? Oh--okay, down, she says." "Lifting up skirt. She said to dress comfortably. So dress it is today." "Butterfly-ing my legs apart. Well, this isn't awkward. Thanks...

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Cocaine. Coke. Rick James' favorite party favor. I knew what it was. Kind of. I have heard of the infamous white powder. I know my friends have snorted it at least one time at some point in their clubbing years. The thing about coke is that it's not a social drug. Even Miley Cyrus agrees. Weed and ecstasy, you can do with friends. But coke? You make a beeline for the bathroom and do a line in a stall. Or do a Kathryn Merteuil and sneak some powder in your crucifix pendant. I know I have a locket...

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I sat in my car on a Monday afternoon, enjoying my lunch break by annihilating a box of Twinkies. I was aware that it was a very unhealthy venture, so I washed it all down with a 1.75-liter bottle of açaí berry juice. The container said it promotes "Beauty and Energy", not like I needed one of the two. My job barely required energy as it was. I did, however, realize that there was something inherently sad about a twenty-five-year-old pigging out on America's favorite snack cake inside a locked sorry-looking maroon Toyota Camry, windows rolled down a...

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Candice was one of those girly girls. You know the type. They wear dresses even during winter and they gather heat from the residual warmth of their long hair that they spent an hour curling in the morning. Candice lived across my apartment unit for a short time. I met her when she was standing out in the hallway in front of her door, her tiny Shih Tzu Bichon trying to gnaw its leash off. "Hi," she said as soon as she saw me. "I'm Candice." I shook the tiny hand that she offered me. "I'm Sam," I...

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When I was twenty-two, I lived in a duplex with two other girls. After having been kicked out of my mom's house (story to follow later) and let back in, I decided that it was time for me to jump out of the nest and explore the world on my own. Without curfew. Also, without a car. So like any clueless, new-to-America, twenty-one-year-old, I hit up Craigslist in search of lodgings. I already had enough money saved up from temping at the polling center that my mom managed, and I also had a bit coming in from unemployment....

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I have reason to believe that I am suffering from narcolepsy. Possibly. Okay, perhaps the best term is not "believe" but "assume". My assumed narcolepsy has not been scientifically proven. The scientific method goes: 1. Ask a question. Am I narcoleptic? Or have I been a frequent target of horse tranquilizer-dipped poison darts? 2. Do background research. There really isn't much research to do except noting the passage of time between my conscious self and my groggy and sober self during the middle of the day. 3. Construct a hypothesis. My despise for midday naps is unparalleled, so...

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I was reading Mindy Kaling's memoir Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) on my phone (thank you, Google Play Books!). I was in bed on a fine Saturday morning while Ricky was beside me, watching American Dad on Netflix. Usually, I would either sleep in or roll around and nuzzle against Ricky like a Siamese cat in heat, but I was determined to reach my week's quota of five books a week. Goodreads does that to a bookworm. And Mindy's book was going to be my fifth. I was on the chapter where Mindy (I'm calling her...

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