The Aftermath

People gawking at you. Children tapping the window with their sticky fingers. Everyone shouting at you to look his or her way. “Do something interesting for Christ’s sake.” Animals can’t understand English. But I can.

“Jesus! Did you see that girl? She just fell!”

Why thank you, sir, yes, I did just fall and really, I was completely unawares that that’s what that was.

It’s snowing and I don’t care because I’m sick of being locked up in my apartment. I’ve been on crutches for six weeks. My left foot hasn’t been in a shoe in more than five months.

I live on the third floor, walk up. The palms of my hands ache. The innards of my upper arms are speckled with popped blood vessels. My knees are kissed with bruised strawberries. My right leg is twice the size of its partner. My left foot is purple, swollen and scarred. It’s no longer the foot I was born with. A metal plate and four screws will outlive me.

“Can we go see a movie?” I ask my boyfriend. “There’s a theatre right down on 62nd and 1st.”

I live on 71st and 1st. Nine streets away, totally negotiable. No avenues required. I’m sick of paying for cabs. I’m tired of going from one inside to another to another. I want to feel air.

“You think you’re up for it?” he asks.

I say yes even though I mean no. I’m exhausted. The day before I had crutched downstairs to get the mail and had trouble breathing because my heart was in my throat the entire trip. I like my teeth. I don’t want to loose them. I liked my foot too.

I broke the metatarsal of my second left toe in September. I don’t know how. I still don’t know what’s worse—not knowing how I broke my foot so I can tell people when they ask or the pain I suffered after I had to get surgery because it never healed.
(more…)

Audrey Kawasaki is an amazing artist whose work I’ve been aware of for years, but whom I only met a short while ago. Matter of fact, I was half-convinced she was imaginary, the figment of my friend Bryan’s fevered brain.

This is not true. She is real. And awesome. So I went and asked her some questions. Here we go: (more…)

This morning a co-worker, Analesia (and for the record, I hereby verbally slap all parents who name their children with a name that starts with “Anal”), turned another year older. In honor of this occasion there was a breakfast feast unfurled upon the coffee-breathed, cubicled masses, still thawing out from the frigid morning commute. It’s fucking freezing outside friends.

Due to the plummeting climes I figured it might be a good idea to pad my fat reserves, so I moseyed on over to Analesia’s department to partake in the birthday breakfast bounty. After surveying the sundry scene, I decided on an “everything” bagel with cream cheese. Pretty tasty, people. But as I chewed this doughy cud I started to question the motivation of my selection, and I realized I’d been duped.

An everything bagel has a lot of delicious, yummy bits scattered upon its circular surface. But everything? I think not. Does it have Twinkies on it? No. Does it have disobedient Schnauzers on it? Thankfully, no. Are there RC Cola bottlecaps placed randomly upon its baked body? Absolutely not. How about an ’82 Chevy Camaro? Sorry, no. Perhaps it’s loaded with Gremlins 2 movie posters or per chance an odd argyle sock? Definitely not. Or maybe a Firestone Credit Card or the steamy droppings of a duck-billed platypus or an Eames era chair? Nope. Or what about a teeming riot of drunken Armenians or a Casablanca Lily stamen or one of Rue McLanahan’s used brassieres? Hell no. Does it house the Sphinx or sheath a sword? Negatory. How about one of them cute Asian babies—it’s gotta have one of them, right? Uh uh. But it must, I mean absolutely must, give rest to at least one Sousaphone or at least one needle-nose pliers or at least one “I Went To Colonial Williamsburg And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt” t-shirt, n’est pas? Actually, yes, it has those. Not!!

Sounds more like a “some things” bagel to me…