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[Phone] Texts & Voicemail
Nov. 13th, 2021 01:33 pmLeave a message. Or don't.
(no subject)
Nov. 26th, 2019 10:13 pm"What is it you have to do in order to be punished with this detail?" The bus has to be the equivalent of traffic duty to an NYPD officer. I can't imagine any of the doctors at the practice actually volunteering for these trips. I've met them all and enjoy some more than others, but at the end of they day, they're all uppity rich people who have to be forced out of the comfort of their cushy offices and parkview apartments under the guise of charity work. It's unlikely any of them would be caught in this part of the city of their own freewill, without a ton of metal surrounding them and wheels to make a quick getaway.
If I wasn't friends with them, I'd hate them all. Or, at the very least, try to make a regular customer out of one or two.
"And when did your forms get so progressive?" I ask, skimming over a patient registration form. There's almost as many choices for gender as there is for ethnicity. Female, male, trans female to male and male to female. There was even a space for any additional categories not previously listed. I figured that sort of thing was common practice by now for general practitioners, but gynecologists? Seeing it, it absolutely makes sense... I just never considered it.
Some queer I am.
If I wasn't friends with them, I'd hate them all. Or, at the very least, try to make a regular customer out of one or two.
"And when did your forms get so progressive?" I ask, skimming over a patient registration form. There's almost as many choices for gender as there is for ethnicity. Female, male, trans female to male and male to female. There was even a space for any additional categories not previously listed. I figured that sort of thing was common practice by now for general practitioners, but gynecologists? Seeing it, it absolutely makes sense... I just never considered it.
Some queer I am.
(no subject)
Oct. 26th, 2019 05:23 pmPart of me thought there might have been a possibility that 'takeout and crafts' had taken on a new meaning. Perhaps it was code now, a less hip version of 'Netflix and chill'. Much, much less hip, considering the source.
Once inside Danny's apartment, however, it quickly became pretty clear that there was no hidden meaning. There was takeout and there was crafting paraphernalia.
It's been a week and I'm no less confused now than I was then. Maybe even a bit more so right now, sitting here, neither of us having actually acknowledged what had happened. Is he expecting me to play along? Eat and drink and cut construction paper and never speak of it? Is that what he plans to do? Or has he blocked it out? Did he have more to drink that night than I realized? Because there's a whole movement and hashtag now that I would potentially have to answer to.
Maybe agreeing to come was a bad idea. I'm not sure I'm prepared to pretend to deal with takeout and crafts if all it really is is takeout and crafts. I'm not sure I'm prepared to deal with the alternative either.
Once inside Danny's apartment, however, it quickly became pretty clear that there was no hidden meaning. There was takeout and there was crafting paraphernalia.
It's been a week and I'm no less confused now than I was then. Maybe even a bit more so right now, sitting here, neither of us having actually acknowledged what had happened. Is he expecting me to play along? Eat and drink and cut construction paper and never speak of it? Is that what he plans to do? Or has he blocked it out? Did he have more to drink that night than I realized? Because there's a whole movement and hashtag now that I would potentially have to answer to.
Maybe agreeing to come was a bad idea. I'm not sure I'm prepared to pretend to deal with takeout and crafts if all it really is is takeout and crafts. I'm not sure I'm prepared to deal with the alternative either.
[February 29 - one-shot]
Feb. 29th, 2016 09:58 amToday, I'm left with the very distinct feeling that there really is very little left that retailers won't try to capitalize on in this day and age. Today, it's Leap Day. Tomorrow, who knows?
It wasn't even just limited to large chain stores, either. In town, there were very few shops without brightly colored banners or sandwich boards out front, all with keywords in bold fonts, advertising twenty-nine percent off this or twenty-nine month financing on that. Pay $2.29 for a dozen donuts and enjoy those twenty-nine pounds you're bound to put on after consuming them. Luckily, there's likely a twenty-nine day free trial at any give gym in the city to help with that potential problem. Kismet.
Days like today, it's hard to fathom that this city might be located anywhere else but in America.
I limited my time and money to one store and one store only that afternoon, refusing to get caught up in the consumerism more than I needed to. Shopping early hadn't been an option; balloons don't keep. Not that it really matters when the intended recipient will never actually lay eyes on them. Still.
Returning home later in the day, I only pop into my apartment long enough to drop off my things and feed the cat before heading upstairs.
I have no idea who lives in that fifth floor apartment, now, if anyone at all. That doesn't stop me from tying the obnoxious bouquet of balloons, a familiar looking unicorn at its center, to the doorknob.
He would have hated it, and knowing that makes me smile.
Tonight, when I drink, I tell myself that it will be in celebration, not sorrow. Maybe the alcohol will even be twenty-nine percent off, too. Or, at the very least, maybe I can find a twenty-nine year old to pick up the tab.
It wasn't even just limited to large chain stores, either. In town, there were very few shops without brightly colored banners or sandwich boards out front, all with keywords in bold fonts, advertising twenty-nine percent off this or twenty-nine month financing on that. Pay $2.29 for a dozen donuts and enjoy those twenty-nine pounds you're bound to put on after consuming them. Luckily, there's likely a twenty-nine day free trial at any give gym in the city to help with that potential problem. Kismet.
Days like today, it's hard to fathom that this city might be located anywhere else but in America.
I limited my time and money to one store and one store only that afternoon, refusing to get caught up in the consumerism more than I needed to. Shopping early hadn't been an option; balloons don't keep. Not that it really matters when the intended recipient will never actually lay eyes on them. Still.
Returning home later in the day, I only pop into my apartment long enough to drop off my things and feed the cat before heading upstairs.
I have no idea who lives in that fifth floor apartment, now, if anyone at all. That doesn't stop me from tying the obnoxious bouquet of balloons, a familiar looking unicorn at its center, to the doorknob.
He would have hated it, and knowing that makes me smile.
Tonight, when I drink, I tell myself that it will be in celebration, not sorrow. Maybe the alcohol will even be twenty-nine percent off, too. Or, at the very least, maybe I can find a twenty-nine year old to pick up the tab.
[For David - February 29]
Feb. 29th, 2016 08:33 amGo into a store for one very specific thing and leave with ten that you had no idea you needed. It's like some unwritten law of the universe that proves itself true time and time again. Although, wanted is probably much more accurate than needed, but the same strange phenomenon still applies, I think.
It's unlikely that most people experience it in a party supply store, having it hit them instead in places where one can buy a nightstand of questionable quality alongside a tube of personal lubricant to store in the top drawer. But that's their prerogative. And loss.
A boa and a pair of glasses are just two of the impulse purchases from my trip and the ones I decide to leave the store wearing. They don't exactly go with what I have on, but I don't let that stop me.
While they're not impossible to see out of, the glasses are far from the most practical of eyewear choices. Along with being tinted teal, everything is distorted and multiplied a few times over. It's all the compromised vision of being drunk with none of the fun beforehand.
It's unlikely that most people experience it in a party supply store, having it hit them instead in places where one can buy a nightstand of questionable quality alongside a tube of personal lubricant to store in the top drawer. But that's their prerogative. And loss.
A boa and a pair of glasses are just two of the impulse purchases from my trip and the ones I decide to leave the store wearing. They don't exactly go with what I have on, but I don't let that stop me.
While they're not impossible to see out of, the glasses are far from the most practical of eyewear choices. Along with being tinted teal, everything is distorted and multiplied a few times over. It's all the compromised vision of being drunk with none of the fun beforehand.
Look what you've done.
May. 24th, 2015 06:25 pmAs far as strange occurrences in Darrow are concerned, this one doesn't quite rank as high as perhaps a vast majority of the city's inhabitants vanishing, but it's most definitely higher up than a deceased pop star rising from the dead to perform New Year's Eve. Madonna does it every few years and, as a whole, the world barely bats a collective eyelash anymore.
To anyone else coming or going from the apartment building or walking up and down the street, the new fixture is probably nothing more than an eyesore and the subject of a complaint call to some city official's office or another. To me, however, it was home. Or it used to be.
I recognize the trailer instantly and it draws me in just as quickly, despite not knowing why or how it is suddenly taking up entirely too much space outside my current address. There are dozens of questions swimming around in my head, and with absolutely zero answers to any of them, there's barely a sign of hesitation as I reach for the doorknob and step inside.
And back in time.
There are lines of freshly laundered clothes hung through the trailer's interior, a half empty drink and a guitar lying on the far end. It's sunny outside, so I know it's just in my head, but I swear I can hear the sound of rainfall against the windows and on the roof. And urgent footsteps running over wet grass.
Running away.
None of that is out there, I know it, or the logical part of me does, but now that I'm inside, I'm too scared too look out to confirm it for certain.
The footsteps fade in the distance before long, but there's still the rain. Steady, calming in a way, a white noise that drowns out the fact that every fiber of my being is screaming for me to leave, and I can't.
To anyone else coming or going from the apartment building or walking up and down the street, the new fixture is probably nothing more than an eyesore and the subject of a complaint call to some city official's office or another. To me, however, it was home. Or it used to be.
I recognize the trailer instantly and it draws me in just as quickly, despite not knowing why or how it is suddenly taking up entirely too much space outside my current address. There are dozens of questions swimming around in my head, and with absolutely zero answers to any of them, there's barely a sign of hesitation as I reach for the doorknob and step inside.
And back in time.
There are lines of freshly laundered clothes hung through the trailer's interior, a half empty drink and a guitar lying on the far end. It's sunny outside, so I know it's just in my head, but I swear I can hear the sound of rainfall against the windows and on the roof. And urgent footsteps running over wet grass.
Running away.
None of that is out there, I know it, or the logical part of me does, but now that I'm inside, I'm too scared too look out to confirm it for certain.
The footsteps fade in the distance before long, but there's still the rain. Steady, calming in a way, a white noise that drowns out the fact that every fiber of my being is screaming for me to leave, and I can't.
For Danny - 2/18
Feb. 18th, 2015 07:50 pmI cut through mic cables the way Taylor Swift cuts through new boyfriends. Or used to. Before she turned lesbian of whatever her deal is now.
It's like the cables aren't made to be swung about like lassos, pendulums, propellers or ground upon. Luckily, I haven't had one go tits up on me during an actual performance thus far and I can only hope things stay that way. As I browse the selection in stock there at Rock Ewe, weighing my options and comparing my choices, my ears are assaulted by some spectacularly mediocre piano playing coming from further back in the store.
"Excuse me," I say, flagging down what I can only assume is an employee. Why else would anyone willing wear a shirt with a sheep in full KISS makeup, Gene Simmons tongue action and all? "Do you sell these in bulk?" I ask, holding up a specific cable. My eye twitches when the piano hits a sour chord.
"Never mind, these will do fine. On your way." After dismissing the shop clerk with a flick of the wrist, I settle on two cables and head towards the back of the shop. There's another butchered chord. At this rate I half expect to find and actual ewe mashing the keys with it's hooves. That would have been an impressive sight, actually.
It's like the cables aren't made to be swung about like lassos, pendulums, propellers or ground upon. Luckily, I haven't had one go tits up on me during an actual performance thus far and I can only hope things stay that way. As I browse the selection in stock there at Rock Ewe, weighing my options and comparing my choices, my ears are assaulted by some spectacularly mediocre piano playing coming from further back in the store.
"Excuse me," I say, flagging down what I can only assume is an employee. Why else would anyone willing wear a shirt with a sheep in full KISS makeup, Gene Simmons tongue action and all? "Do you sell these in bulk?" I ask, holding up a specific cable. My eye twitches when the piano hits a sour chord.
"Never mind, these will do fine. On your way." After dismissing the shop clerk with a flick of the wrist, I settle on two cables and head towards the back of the shop. There's another butchered chord. At this rate I half expect to find and actual ewe mashing the keys with it's hooves. That would have been an impressive sight, actually.
(no subject)
Dec. 23rd, 2014 10:37 pmWhat possessed me to agree to something so far out of my comfort zone as attending church is beyond me. Yet here I am. I haven't gone up in flames just yet, but there had to be another, what? Five, six hours left of this thing? I feel like I've been sitting here for four hours already.
Truth be told - because where else should one feel free to be completely honest than inside a church - I know exactly why I'm here. A silly schoolboy crush that I'm fully aware will never amount to anything more than that is the reason why. When Danny had invited me along I could have lied and said I had prior commitments, but I didn't do that.
I had zoned most of what was happening around me out while still remaining present enough to go through the motions of the mass with the rest of the congregation. Standing, sitting, kneeling, standing again, kneeling again, oh good, more standing.
Fuck.
It was when the second hour had rolled around - which was probably closer to twenty minutes in to those running on Catholic time - that I realized there was a much bigger problem at hand than potentially dying of boredom and the calf workout I was being subjected to with all the standing and sitting. I realized I knew the priest, and it wasn't from praying on my knees after a Sunday confession.
By what feels like hour nine, the mass is winding down, the congregation reciting a final prayer and making the sign of the cross. When the procession starts down the aisle, I make a point of turning my back until I'm sure the coast is clear.
We need to leave. Now.
"Have you considered Scientology?" I ask Danny, as people around us being to leave their pews.
Truth be told - because where else should one feel free to be completely honest than inside a church - I know exactly why I'm here. A silly schoolboy crush that I'm fully aware will never amount to anything more than that is the reason why. When Danny had invited me along I could have lied and said I had prior commitments, but I didn't do that.
I had zoned most of what was happening around me out while still remaining present enough to go through the motions of the mass with the rest of the congregation. Standing, sitting, kneeling, standing again, kneeling again, oh good, more standing.
Fuck.
It was when the second hour had rolled around - which was probably closer to twenty minutes in to those running on Catholic time - that I realized there was a much bigger problem at hand than potentially dying of boredom and the calf workout I was being subjected to with all the standing and sitting. I realized I knew the priest, and it wasn't from praying on my knees after a Sunday confession.
By what feels like hour nine, the mass is winding down, the congregation reciting a final prayer and making the sign of the cross. When the procession starts down the aisle, I make a point of turning my back until I'm sure the coast is clear.
We need to leave. Now.
"Have you considered Scientology?" I ask Danny, as people around us being to leave their pews.
“Lift up your hands.”
Yitzhak-- No. Krystal, now, in all of her unfettered glory, finally released from the chains that bound her. My chains.
Krystal and the band sing on, even as I remove my in-ears, set my mic down and start for the rear of the stage. They’re urging the audience to join in solidarity, to be represented, united. Just to be in that moment. With them. With me.
“Lift up your hands.”
And they do. People in the orchestra, the mezzanine and balcony, even the poor fucks that opted for standing room only at the back of the house. More and more hands go up each time the band implores them.
“Lift up your hands.”
I pass through the curtain of falling, metallic magenta confetti, ascend the stairs and head toward the wall of light in front of me. I can’t recall the last time I felt so unbound, so free. Being stripped down to next to nothing might have played a small part, but it was more than that. It’s as if the crushing weight of years upon years had finally been lifted. All the hurt and rage. Gone. Luther and Tommy. My father, that doctor.
The wig.
I leave it all behind and I don’t dare turn back, even as I wonder if all of that pain and anguish has possibly manifested into something tangible behind me as it all fell away. Was it all there, scattered on the ground for the audience to see? Twisted and jagged and black. Still, I don't look back. There’s nothing for me there anymore. Nothing worth keeping onto, anyway. The now, the next, what lies ahead – that’s what matters.
“Lift up your hands.”
The chanting continues, though it somehow sounds distant now. I can feel the warmth of the bright lights on my skin as I approach, but, then, suddenly that’s gone, too. The band, Krystal, all of it.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from still seeing intense orbs of lights from those bulbs, and when they do I find myself outside. In an alley, more specifically, and definitely not one behind the Belasco Theater, but that’s where the specifics end.
The heady daze I can’t seem to shake doesn't help with my bearings. Perhaps I should be in a panic, but I’m not.
What I am, however, is fucking cold, which is much harder to shake than the notion of potentially being lost.
Yitzhak-- No. Krystal, now, in all of her unfettered glory, finally released from the chains that bound her. My chains.
Krystal and the band sing on, even as I remove my in-ears, set my mic down and start for the rear of the stage. They’re urging the audience to join in solidarity, to be represented, united. Just to be in that moment. With them. With me.
“Lift up your hands.”
And they do. People in the orchestra, the mezzanine and balcony, even the poor fucks that opted for standing room only at the back of the house. More and more hands go up each time the band implores them.
“Lift up your hands.”
I pass through the curtain of falling, metallic magenta confetti, ascend the stairs and head toward the wall of light in front of me. I can’t recall the last time I felt so unbound, so free. Being stripped down to next to nothing might have played a small part, but it was more than that. It’s as if the crushing weight of years upon years had finally been lifted. All the hurt and rage. Gone. Luther and Tommy. My father, that doctor.
The wig.
I leave it all behind and I don’t dare turn back, even as I wonder if all of that pain and anguish has possibly manifested into something tangible behind me as it all fell away. Was it all there, scattered on the ground for the audience to see? Twisted and jagged and black. Still, I don't look back. There’s nothing for me there anymore. Nothing worth keeping onto, anyway. The now, the next, what lies ahead – that’s what matters.
“Lift up your hands.”
The chanting continues, though it somehow sounds distant now. I can feel the warmth of the bright lights on my skin as I approach, but, then, suddenly that’s gone, too. The band, Krystal, all of it.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from still seeing intense orbs of lights from those bulbs, and when they do I find myself outside. In an alley, more specifically, and definitely not one behind the Belasco Theater, but that’s where the specifics end.
The heady daze I can’t seem to shake doesn't help with my bearings. Perhaps I should be in a panic, but I’m not.
What I am, however, is fucking cold, which is much harder to shake than the notion of potentially being lost.