From October 2013.
In my basement bedroom I bundled myself in the oversized Catholic high school hoodie from the days when boys called me ugly, taking care with the bud in my palm. Abi was finally asleep, but the drama of the evening still buzzed in my head like static. If I smoked the bowl inside, someone would smell it, so I stepped into the backyard and settled into the wooden lounge chair beneath the deck. Shrouded in nightshade, kept warm from the sharp winter air by the sweatshirt and my dysfunctional thyroid, I lit and inhaled, relishing the familiar sensation of the world slowing down.
I exhaled. Moonlight through the deck floor caught the thick cloud of smoke and showcased it before my eyes in bright stripes. The swirls were beautiful, reminding me of my favorite part of Mass, when the altar boys blow out the candles at the end. Our one-eyed cat appeared in my lap, happy for a visitor at such an unexpected hour. He promptly gnawed on my index finger, his purrs louder than normal. The stars burned, and I couldn’t stop looking, the idea of God melting away unnoticed.
That other-other moment when you’ve eaten the sandwich in bed while watching Masters of Sex, and two hours later you’re still in bed watching Masters of Sex, except that in the episode you just started, they apparently gave someone new the chance to be behind the camera, and they’re using handheld for the entire episode, which feels really weird because no other episodes have been filmed handheld, and the title of the episode is called “Fallout” which makes you think that they chose to do handheld because there’s a lot of crazy shit that’s gonna go down with the characters and goddammit a moving camera makes the people feel it more. Also, you’re not drunk anymore during this. You’re just weird.
Then the other moment where you make a turkey sandwich at midnight because you haven’t eaten since two, and you get into a fight with your mom about the Redskins name change, and she says you’re “being ridiculous” for thinking that it’s wrong to brush under the rug the fact that we committed the largest genocide in the history of the world and then named our nation’s capital’s football team after a racial slur used to describe the culture of human beings we obliterated. But ya know, WOOOOOOOOOO NFL OMG CHIPS AND DIP AND BEER AMERICA
That moment when you’re a little bit drunk from a Fireball shot and a whiskey ginger, and you are undressing angrily because you have to work two bars in a row tomorrow and your ex is making you feel like shit, and then when you rip your bra off and hold it high in the air for extra oomph when you hurl it to the ground, it instead gets caught in your ceiling fan and spins around for a second before hitting your lamp. Thanks, Obama.