A Week Later

Saturday, June 4; 8:42 PM

Just landed, my love.


5 minutes.

That's all the time it took after landing at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago to start missing you. I dragged myself across the familiar terminals to the baggage claim area where I stared blankly at the unmoving conveyor belt for far too long. There were too many people, too many kisses and hugs and smiles. It was irritating. I had just flown nearly 2,000 miles away from the one person I wanted to be with, our next meeting will be 3 months from now, it's taking nearly 40 minutes to get my luggage, and I'm surrounded by canoodling couples and screaming children. Can't the world pause for a second to give me break? Of course not, you brat.

Life stops for no one. Move along.


Sunday, June 5; 3:07 PM

Call log: Outgoing call, 36 min 0 sec


There is something calming about chores and running errands. Grocery shopping, laundry, folding, sweeping, rearranging. The steady pace of it, the concentration on one task then the next helps me forget how much I don't want to be here. 

I call you to break the silence. 


"Herroooo, love!" you say in the usual fruity, singsong tone you use to cheer me up. You know I'm not entirely okay and you came prepared. I keep my tone animated enough to seem highly optimistic. You are surprised to see that I'm not "debilitated like usual". Cue cheerful chuckle and reassurance that I'm A-OKAY. 


I cried myself to sleep. 


Monday, June 6; 5:30 AM

Do I really truly need this job?


On some magical, miraculous, magnificent mornings, I am able to happily hop out of bed, throw on a cute outfit, style my hair, put on makeup and be all set to go by 6:00AM.

On other mornings, I wake up at the ungodly hour of 5:30AM, pull on my default outfit (black pants, black flats, random work-appropriate blouse), rush through my makeup routine, and groggily wait for the bus by 6:20AM.

Guess which one today was. 


Tuesday, June 7; 10.48 AM

I hope you burn.


Brock Turner was found sexually assaulting an unconscious woman behind a dumpster by two students. A few days ago, he was sentenced to 6 months in county jail and 3 years of probation. 6 months. 

His victim will spend the rest of her life trying to wake up and find the strength to get through the day, picking up the pieces of what he destroyed. She's going to spend the rest of life questioning her worth while Brock's father laments that his son isn't enjoying his steak and is no longer his happy-go-lucky self. 

I am furious. In this day and age, we still let the privileged white male athlete walk away with a slap on the wrist while black males are thrown in jail for the rest of their lives for petty crime. In this day and age, we still we still blame the victim and her consumption of alcohol, we still say "well none of it would have happened if she didn't drink so much".

NO. None of it would have happened if he didn't sexually assault her. END OF STORY. No amount of alcohol, lack of clothing, or flirting makes rape acceptable or justifiable. She could be wearing the shortest, most revealing outfit and she wouldn't be asking to be raped. She could be flirting heavily and still be completely right about saying no at the end of the night. Hell, she could be completely and utterly naked and she still would not be asking to be sexually assaulted. 

I hope you burn, Brock Turner. 


Wednesday, June 8; 

"I'm sorry I was being such a downer" 
"I'm sorry I wasn't supportive enough,"
you reply. 


A few years ago, I went with my mom to drop off my dad at the airport. Another goodbye, another year of missing him. We both cried as he walked away and continued to do so in the car. From the backseat of the van, I asked "Mom, does it ever get easier?" and she replied, "You'd think it would, honey. But it doesn't. You just get stronger

We're getting stronger. 


Thursday, June 9; 7:11 PM

Highlight of my day: Listening to all 46 songs on the Hamilton Original Broadway Cast


Cramps are horrible. The aches fluctuate between sharp and dull, intense and mild. Up and down, up and down. I whine and you listen, replying with comforting messages and commending me on my strength. 

"If I was there, I'd give put a warm compress on your tummy and cook you scrambled eggs," you say. "I make decent scrambled eggs, right?" 

"Yes, my love. You do" 


Today I am so grateful for you. 


Friday, June 10; 3:24PM

"One plank of European meats and cheese, one salmon poke with jasmine rise and avocado, one plank of goat cheese and honeycomb, and two bottles of Samuel Smith strawberry fruit ale. Thank you" 


Good drinks. I'm a beer drinker. To some it was not ladylike to drink beer, a man's drink. To some it's impressive, almost rebellious. I drink for the buzz, for the tingling. 

Great food. I am an amateur foodie. Not the pretentious food snob kind, not the food geek with odd food facts, not the cookbook foodie who religiously follows the Food Network, not the obsessive dieter, or the wanna food critic. I enjoy good food and I look for new food experiences when my budget allows. 

Phenomenal company. I needed that. A drink, great food, and a lovely conversation about anything and everything. It was a chance to unwind after a week of battling my own emotions and crying myself to sleep. Nothing quite like a night out with my girls. 


It's past midnight here. I groggily change out of my clothes and plop myself down onto my bed. I call you but I'm too sleepy to maintain a decent conversation. You smile and say "Sleep, my love. I'll keep you company