I know I haven’t written much in the past month or so, but there are very good reasons for this, I think.

This is a good summation of my adult life right now:

Once I get in the writing mood, renew my subscription to WordPress, and get a better hold of my shit, I’ll get to writing a bit of an update.

It’s a good thing I’m rather difficult to kill.

I’m Crumbling…

I’m really stressed out and I’m not quite sure why.

I feel like the walls are closing in. No. It’s worse than the walls closing in.

It’s like a horde of vicious people clawing at me through a chain link fence who want to do me harm. Flay my flesh. Peel off my eyelids. Rip off my lips. Drag my forehead across the asphalt and jerk the scalp off my skull. This would all happen before or after a brutal gang rape. Perhaps during if the mob were particularly rabid.

I’m ready to just stop. Run away. Real life hasn’t even started for me. I have a feeling real life is that horde and the chain link is slowly bowing in, unraveling at its rusty kinks.

Jesus Christ, I need help. How do people survive this shit?

I need to know the secret or I’m not gonna make it.

Large and in Charge Barge

I almost died in a horrific manner today. Holy fuck, that was scary.

I arrived at the boathouse for practice and found that we were terribly short handed on rowers. There were only five rowers, myself, and my coach. I typically don’t row as I’m better at being loud, steering, and nitpicking people’s forms and techniques. The boat we’re racing seats eight, so even if I were rowing, we’d still be two people short. My coach and Danielle decided to sit out so we could take out a smaller boat, the Foard. One coxswain, four others moving the shell. Perfect.

The water was nice, the breeze was lovely, and the set (whether the boat leans/rocks from side to side) was fine. I decided to take the boat out into choppier waters, beyond the Hanover bridge. Things were going well. Form and technique were great, everyone was chatty and laughing… and then I saw a small boat about 200 meters out. I thought it was a tug boat at first. Tug boats are kind of bad news. The wakes a tug boat makes can splinter a racing shell, so it’s better to steer clear of them.

The wide craft started to turn. I told my boat to “weigh ‘nough” (that’s “stop the fucking boat” in land lubber speak). And then I saw that it was a barge, not a small tug boat, its long, nasty profile presenting itself to me. And it was moving very quickly. Towards us. I called out a few commands to turn the boat and move us out of the barge’s way. “Starboard pressure! HOLY FUCK! STARBOARDS GO!”

The barge turned with us, coming right after our asses. The current was against us. It was closing in, only 100 meters out. We were just a piddly four boat in the choppy waters with a big ass boat that obviously couldn’t see us on our tail. “ALL FOUR AT YOUR RELEASE! FUCKING BOOK IT AND GET US OUTTA HERE!”

The barge was now at my back; that meant my four rowers, Nicole, Drew, Cannon, and Juan, could see the impending doom over my shoulder. Nicole started to ramble nervously, Drew was silent, Cannon’s flashy smile was now a thin grimace, and Juan, my silent stroke seat, kept muttering “Oh God, it’s gaining on us.” I glanced over my shoulder. The behemoth was 50 meters away and encroaching. Best not to look, Jess.

If a wave from a tug boat can split a racing shell in half, impact with a barge would certainly turn our boat into drift would. We’d be sucked under the barge and spat out by very large, fast propellers. Even if we survived the impact with the hull and miraculously missed the blades, we were out in the middle of the harbor with heavy winds, strong currents, and no safety launch. I wondered who would show up to our closed casket funerals.

I think Poseidon or some deity was watching us this morning. Actually, no; I don’t think that was the case. My rowers knew it was sink or swim, do or die. And my goodness did we fly through the water. The set was perfect. Everyone’s handle heights were on point. There was no check in the boat. The stroke rating was phenomenal. And the Foard was angled in such a way so that the barge just missed us.

Oh, and then we had to keep fucking rowing like madmen because the wake from the barge chased us for a few hundred meters.

We made it back to the Hanover bridge and stopped the boat. I think the magnitude of the situation struck home. “…dude, we almost fucking died.” I looked at my teammates and was so glad they hadn’t panicked. They were gods among men to have gotten us out of that hot mess.

We ended practice early. I think everyone needed to be on solid ground. I took a look at my rowers’ hands. Most had blisters that had popped. Pinched skin the size of quarters had erupted on their palms, a tell tale sign of death gripping an oar. Coach Paulo checked my pulse to make sure I wouldn’t pass out… And then we all decided to eat breakfast at a Double T Diner. I didn’t know diner coffee could taste so good. I had three delicious mugs of it.

I wanted a life or death experience to clear my mind; I certainly got one today. My thoughts in those moments… very curious they were. 


It’s about 2200 and I’m about to go into Baltimore on a bus.

I’m wearing shorts and a hoodie. My phone and card are securely tucked into my sports bra. Shoelaces tight. Knife at my hip.

I’m not sure what bus I’m gonna take. All roads lead to Rome as far as I’m concerned.

I feel like I have electricity flowing under my skin. All this other shit in my life doesn’t matter right now because I might have to pay out the ass. These actions could have serious repercussions, and they’re all I care about right now. It’s do or die. No time to think about passing classes, renting an apartment, landing a job… Michael.

Time to focus and get my head in the game.

I think about all the good stuff in life I don’t want to miss. I’m going up to Boston at the end of this month and I’m really looking forward to that. One of my sorority sisters invited me to a barbecue thing that has cornhole (I suck so bad, but I wanna get better). Soft serve ice cream with Matt. Back cracks from Abe. Bullshitting with Alex.

According to this bus tracking app, I have about fifteen minutes before the bus makes it to the stop.

My final destination is in Pigtown. Sam’s house.

Me: Hey, I’m coming over.

Sam: …. Are you running here?

Me: You know me too well. Just make sure you’re by the door so if I knock you can let me in right away.

Sam: You’re fucking stupid and reckless. I’ll come pick you up.

Me: No. I’ll be there by midnight. I’ll see you on the flip side.

If I don’t post something in the next day or so, assume I died.


Sometimes I get into these slumps and I can’t tell people about them. I guess this isn’t just an issue for me. After all, nobody really cares unless if you’re pretty or dying.

I had a conversation with a very near and dear friend of mine, one of the few people I am at complete ease with. She told me I hide behind a mask of happiness and tomfoolery (more so than usual) when shit is on the rocks, and we’re not talking about my alcohol. There are worse ways to dress up I suppose. When things come to a head and I can’t handle being around people and my miserable ass could use some company, I take a walk to the cemetery. With a six pack.

I sit on some poor soul’s headstone and lay it on ’em. I crack open two beers and start mumbling about everything. My grandfather passed away a few weeks ago and I miss the shit out of him. I’m taking on student loans and I don’t even know if I’m gonna land a job after college. There are other things I mention, but that stuff is only for the dead. Funny thing is I feel better after these sessions. I feel better after talking to a bunch of rocks with dead people’s names on them. If I ever decide to get a headstone I’m gonna put some words of wisdom on that shit so it’s interesting. Okay, I don’t have much wisdom at my age, so perhaps a funny story would do.

In a club. Really drunk. Need more drink but I lost bottomless cup because some chick knocked it out of my hand; too lazy to look for it. Came up with plan: I say to man at bar, “My g spot is located about two inches inside your wallet.” He buys me a drink. I run away to dance floor laughing  my ass off.

I think someone could appreciate that story. To sweeten the deal I’d install a bench with a cup holder and Wifi hotspot. I bet all of the graveyard caretakers would visit my hole in the ground.

Actually, here are some words of wisdom that I say when people are stressing:

Y’all need to fucking relax. Take a bath. Eat some chocolate. Fuck with the curtains open. Shit.

I obviously have life figured out.

And I’m on the wagon so I’ll be taking Arizona tea to Beloved Son and Brother, David.

New Kid on the Block

Considering how much I dislike people judging me, this blog seems like a righteously shitty idea. But I don’t care too much at this point because I’m in one of my moods. This is the mood when everything seems like a great idea. It’s odd I feel this way; I usually have to drink like an Irish coal miner to feel this brave. I get into a shit ton of trouble when this wild hare runs up my ass, but occasionally something good will come of it. Fingers crossed in the hopes of my not falling into the ordinary with this shindig because who wants to read about normal shit?

A conversation from today:

Adviser: Jessica, what are your goals in life?
Me: To get by on as little as possible to sustain my happiness.
Adviser: That’s vague.
Me: Fasten your seat belt, old man. I wanna live in sin. I wanna drink my coffee with liquor in it. I wanna wear shitty clothes but smell like a million bucks. I wanna have the option to do bumps of cocaine off a hooker’s ass and have my pick of a husband from already married men. I’ve come to realize that if I don’t plan for this kind of life, I’m in for mediocrity and normalcy. I figured if I can get within a stone’s throw of this shit show, I’ll be right where I wanna be. Can you approve my classes now?
Adviser: You should’ve been a writer. See me in a few weeks; I can approve your schedule then. Anything else…?
Me: Nope. Hell is full and the Devil walks among us. Gotta get coffee with him in five. Tootles.

You know, I think the old codger likes me. He definitely doesn’t believe in me and my endeavors to become a doctor (that old fuck), but I think he appreciates my no-bullshit attitude. Or maybe I remind him of his half Asian children whose photos adorn his walls along with the covers of science-y magazines. I doubt they visit him anymore. It would explain why he seems so bitter. Perhaps my mandatory advisory meetings with him are the closest things he has to visiting with his spawn. God, I hope I never end up in his shoes. He wears worn out New Balance. I bought Nike Free Run 5.0’s yesterday.