The Master Cleanse: What I Shit For Love

May 20
2013

The request.

“Cleanse with me,” said my live-in lover, Doug. I thought he was offering a sexy middle-of-the-day shower, something we hadn’t done since those blissful first three months of our relationship. That was four years ago in 2002.

I pulled my shirt over my head in record Paris Hilton pout-time.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “I’m trying to talk to you.” He thrust an unassuming little yellow book at me. I sheepishly replaced my shirt while he started in with that crazy Southern California talk. Something about cleaning his digestive system of all the horrible hormone-injected, mucus-filled supposed-food that he’d been shoving into his mouth for most of his adult life. All it would take was ten days and some discipline.

A Letter From 2,800 Miles Away

Sep 11
2011

Ten years ago, I had been living in Los Angeles for just two years.
I wrote the following a few days after September 11, 2001. 

***

Dear Grandma New York,

I wish I was with you now.  I wish I could sit with you and hold your hand as you slowly recuperate. I’m jealous of the rest of the family who was – thankfully – there after it happened. And I am glad that they are there to comfort you as the doctors diligently repair your wounds.  But I am so far away, Grandma.  I can’t hug you and hold hands with all the people who line your bedside. Instead, I have to send my heart from here.

To The Girl I Didn’t Really Know

Oct 24
2010

I’m seventeen and about to do something I’ve never done before.

I’m not a mean kid. I don’t do things just to hurt other kids. I’m the student that always goes to class; when I do miss class, it’s because a friend is in a crisis. I have friends, but I’m not one of the popular crowd. I’m surprised when a boy shows any interest in me. I began to find my voice in acting class, but still know that in the social hierarchy of high school students from 1 to 10 (10 being the most popular), I’m probably a five. Maybe a six.

Dirty Money

Oct 07
2010

High School. Course title: Mass Media. It sounded cold, like a rusty steel gate. It made me think of chewing tinfoil. It just plain turned me off.

But then we were given assignments to create cool logos in colored pencil, write dialogue for clothing commercials or come up with silly journalistic headlines (Walrus Invades School; Becomes Principal!) and my little creative light was fired up. (Anyone born in the 80’s take note: there was no Internet. Yes, I swear. No Internet. Now move on.)