Few people know that I wanted to be a teacher at one point in my life. I tend to live my life in a very black and white way, so teaching children really interferes with the lifestyle I want to lead. (Being pious has always been difficult for me). I am so passionate about the literary arts, I don't know quite where I should put all this energy. Teaching at one point became one of my options.

I finally read Alice in Wonderland and Treasure Island this last week. I wonder where these books were when I was in elementary school? Why weren't we forced to read some of these classic greats? Why am I finally getting to them now?

I had this amazing teacher in second grade, Mrs. Besch. I have always felt that she was some kind of revolutionary teacher. She read us Uncle Tom's cabin (what a brave move, looking back) and it was literally from that point on that I developed this passion for books. She influenced my love for writing, telling my Mother to frame one of my first little pieces of writing. Her teaching style focused developing our reading and writing skills, or maybe that's just what I remember about her class because that was my favorite subject. She was an absolutely brilliant teacher.

She was also so incredibly compassionate, a rare find in teachers that I have had throughout my life (from elementary school onto college). I remember the morning I woke to find our family dog had passed away. I broke out in tears during the first hour of school. She hugged me so hard, what seemed like an hour until I was calm enough to return to my desk. I loved her. I really loved her.

I've been dying to see the documentary, "Waiting for Superman" about our failing public school systems (my pirated copy should arrive next week, thanks IT guy!). I discuss this for hours- from feeding our kids minds with crap, and then feeding their bodies with crap during school lunches. It's no wonder that the general public makes me afraid for my country. We are raising mindless uneducated creatures, who just get by. I take public transportation, I witness the aftermath on a daily basis.

My children will attend private schools, for sure.

We saw De’Mar off last weekend. We drank to his departure to London. I asked Kevin if we could watch him play Letterman in New York, to which he swiftly replied “no” to. I have never been to NYC and what better excuse is there to go than to watch your friend play in front of an audience of millions. Apparently, we can watch him any time in Chicago. It looks as if my vacation to east will not be happening soon.

I’m dying to go to New York, just to visit. She told me it suits me and she can imagine me living there. Chicago is the mid-size version of New York City, and I’m satisfied with that. If I were to choose another city to live in, I would probably either go east coast Boston or west coast San Fran. I lean sharply to the west, however.

Last weekend was so brilliantly good. The three of us eating mashed potato pizza at Piece and drinking beers, while chatting about artists who stray from their bands and venture solo, we debated over who made it and who didn’t. We drank shots of whiskey and Miller Lite in a wood clad pub, where he bought me a rose, which tied perfectly around my wrist.

The weekend seemed to extend forever. We shopped for hours on Saturday, buying little to nothing, except for the extra items that fit nicely in my bathroom. I like the placement and the smell of men’s soap that sits on my bath tub ledge, the extra toothbrush in my medicine cabinet, and the reserved towel in my linen closet.

I ended my weekend, with the homework that seems to consume my life; reading Alice in Wonderland in nothing but my underwear, and writing a little bit more. I stumbled upon a writing contest through the Chicago Reader, and I think I’m going to make a go of it. I have little expectations, or any real hope that I will actually win, but I still feel the need to give it a try.

Life is good.

It's early afternoon on Saturday. I can smell your intoxicated breath through the phone. It's thick with the whiskey I recognize so well, it's the same smell, the same taste, that rests on my palate when I need to disappear on a late Friday night.

You cannot call me when you are in a state of awakening. You cannot call me when things are clear, when your words fit imperfectly together in a nervous state, a sober state. It's convenient for you. It's convenient for me, because I cannot handle the truth of it all.

You tell me about my Great-Grandfather and ask me to write about his opposition to the war. You fumble for the right words and tell me I am the next Capote. All the while I'm thinking about sitting alone in front of my birthday cake when I was ten, and watching how the storm you created made all the candles flicker as you slammed the door. It is a silly thing for a child's birthday to ruin your afternoon and I was terribly selfish, and for that I'm sorry.

I hadn't heard your voice in nearly a year. I try to decipher if you had aged. My ears hear the familiarity of the sound, but know nothing of the words, that lack such precise meaning. The words dance and I trip over them. I can't follow them, I can't move with them, it's a beat I cannot recognize.

And I fall back. I'm any age. I'm 30. I'm 16. I'm 4. I'm 11. I'm afraid to speak. Each word that I illicit from my lungs, each syllable from each breath, is reserved, because I know the consequences and I know the motions. It's a false move. It's a land mind. It's me having to filter. You'll be gone again, if my feet move too quickly.

The implications are unwavering. And I wonder if you ever have thought about what you created, as I wander through this, afraid of each word I spell out, each word I utter. I'm afraid of the doors that close. I'm afraid of the sounds of latches, of my own and of theirs, of his. So I step lightly, speak lightly, and I breathe lightly; and watch as the doors swing hard and shut tightly and I wonder, ever so slightly of your remorse. The non-existent remorse.

I moved out of my parent's house THE day after graduation. I then rented out my first place (a little party house). I then moved a few times to various cities in various states before settling in Des Moines where I had my first apartment when I was 19. I've then lived in a few small Iowa towns, where I've either rented or owned a house. Then I moved to Chicago, on my own. I had no roomies (except for a couple of girlfriends who needed to stay with me after breakups or job losses), it's been just me. I've been independent, on my own, since I was 18. No parents to financially support me through life, through college, through anything. I've done this on my own, people. (It's hot, I know).

So here's the thing...

Stop sending wedding invitations to me at my parent's house with my name as a side note... as in To: Mr. and Mrs. Blah Blah Blah..... (and Lindy).

The word "girlfriend" rolled easily off of his tongue this weekend. Every time he said it, it took everything inside of me not to turn around and latch onto him and hug him. I didn't think it would feel this good.

I like the word. It's a simple word. I had never thought that I would. Something had scared me about it for so long, for the first 10 months we were together. Maybe because what I felt for him was nearly indescribable and scary. Or maybe it was because every relationship I have witnessed growing up has been consumed with control, pain, mistrust, and abuse. I still associate commitment with those feelings. I had assumed that once a relationship was formally established with us, that instantly everything would change and that's when the bad things would begin.

I'm trying hard to let go of those feelings for one of the first times in my life. I realize that only you can control what comes into your life and what you allow. Being in a relationship isn't about taking things away from the person you love and intentionally hurting someone. Maybe what I have been taught growing up stops here with me.

While I never believe that someone else can make you happy, but that it is your job to fulfill your own needs, I am infinitely happier with him in my life again. I have been walking around for the last two months wondering where the intelligence in Chicago was hiding, where all the wit had gone, or people with any real talent, and if I'd ever feel as connected to anyone as I did with him. I'm so content right now. I feel like there are so many good things just coming back into my life.
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About a year ago I was turned on to this Chicago fashion blog that will go unnamed. I was obsessed with this blog, I thought it was brilliant. It was composed of street photos of well dressed Chicagoans, and even sometimes Des Moinesians. I had found out who the creator of this blog was and had this image of her for so long: driven, ambitious, self-respecting, confident, secure, creative, classy, cool. The kind of women I admire, the kind of woman I want to be.

I met her in person last night for the first time. She was nothing I hoped she would be, in fact she was the complete opposite of everything I wanted her to be. I found myself disliking her with such a disdain, that I could hardly tolerate her company. She wasn't rude to me, she didn't talk to me, and maybe she could sense my energy I put out. I was so disappointed in her behavior, and I saw her talent being wasted with such disregard because of the way she was acting and the way she represented herself, and I think that's why I couldn't be near her. I'm not a woman hater, but I get so annoyed when girls give women a bad reputation.

I hate watching talented women looking stupid by throwing themselves at men, talking about who they've had sex with, making dramatic scenes, hitting on other people's significant others, getting loud and obnoxiously drunk; and I hate how I hate my own kind for acting this way. I get so disappointed in women sometimes.

“Do you want to smoke?” He says.



It’s been years and I haven’t been this tempted until now. I’ve had too many drinks and everything feels good at the moment. I get distracted by the way he looks; I mold one figure into another. I replace hands, and arms, and eyes and hair, until it’s familiar, until I am comfortable with the image.


We try to talk about the existence of God, but it’s a struggle. It’s nothing but a time filler without any substance. And I breathe and I breathe and I breathe.


I begin to wonder about God, and the idea of perfection. I wonder about skin and its subtle imperfections, a placement of a mole, the softness of one spot and the roughness of another. God is fallible.


I morph my bar mate’s image again, and this time I’m sitting across from him and watching him interact with his new love. He turns to her, and then looks at me and says, “she leaves, she leaves, she just leaves”. The green chartreuse sits thickly on his gums and I can smell the memory from this distance. I leave when it’s best, before you can realize it. I left long before I sat on that deep red couch and tucked myself under the quilt his Mom had sent him, before the air between us hit my lungs. I left before he had told me not to come back.


I trace my fingers around the edge of the glass. The condensation feels cool to the touch, and I form an escape plan. It’s what I know best. It’s the door behind me, a quick exit out. Two steps and I’m gone, it’s what I do best.


And what I think best, is no longer wondering. I just come here and sit and soak up your time and submerge in sour taste of one sublime drink after another. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.
I’m no longer there.

I've been considering revising this blog, or creating a new one. It's been on mind mind, since I started it a year ago. I've wanted a more honest blog, a more open blog, but that comes with consequences.

I've been reading Birdykins and have been feeling more and more jealous. What draws her readers in, is her pure and honest posts. I have this capability, if I wasn't so fucking scared.

I'm finding that I hate coming here. I sit down and want to write about it, but I won't because I can't.

I've been writing more "real" pieces, but cannot pull the trigger on posting them. Sometimes I will post them for two minutes and take them back down. I'm just tired of writing about my job, my classes, my meals and my other daily boring activities, when life is happening. This had initially been a blog about my experiences in Chicago, and I'm pulling away.

Life is a mirror.

Last year, I wrote a blog about Mr. South Korea Teacher. It has been hands down, one of the most honest things I wrote here. When I wrote it, I had a moment of thinking, I don't care who reads this, I don't care if he reads this. It's real. What I wrote, wasn't for him and wasn't for you, it was for me. I was vulnerable for a brief second.

I confuse vulnerability with a lack of confidence. I want to be vulnerable, but there is such a fine line (from my thinking) between the two. I haven't fully understood it yet, because I never let myself feel that way, even though I want to.

And the reason I haven't been forthcoming with anything is because I am so afraid. I try to walk through life with a confidence that I have not found in my writing yet. I hate being wishy washy about my writing. I hate that I keep writing at a distance.

I try to tell myself lately, nothing you say or do will actually make a difference, nothing you write here will change anything about the situation, so why not be honest about it.

But what holds me back, is weakness. I'm so stuck on maintaining composure, that many times I lose a sense of emotion. I adhere too tightly to the narcissism my Dad passed down to me, and the stoicism my mother ingrained in me, and the hardened person I strive to be. Some days, rare days, when I am overtaken by any "feeling", whether it be sadness, anger, guilt, happiness, when I have a surge of creative momentum, I take advantage of it, it lasts momentarily before I put those feelings aside.

What good are writers without the emotion you can pour into words? How can I really even evolve, without being myself here?

I'm at a crossroads here. Life is changing for me. I want my writing to change as well. I have to remind myself, nothing I say here will change how things are.