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(04/16/13 8:30pm)
When I was 18, I learned how to cry alone. Sitting on the edge of O’Hill’s student garden, I silently wept. I started, tentatively, to let my eyes squeeze shut, my nose scrunch up, my mouth fall into itself. For the first time in my life I felt alone in my failure; I found solace in the mulch, the mounds of dirt, the promise of something growing beneath me. Three and a half years ago, I learned my first college lesson: if you must cry, do it alone, in the dark, while pretending to cultivate the ground below you.
(04/02/13 3:03pm)
I am an English major because I love words. I love that, when strung together, words make sentences. I love that these sentences tell stories.
(03/19/13 5:16pm)
I was cashing out at work a few weeks ago when Fuzz, one of my sister’s old restaurant managers, looked up at me from the bar: “Hey Sissy, stay for a drink.”
(02/27/13 1:49am)
I have lived through 21 Virginia winters. For 21 years I have known, for the most part, what my December, January and February will look like. I know that it won’t snow on Christmas and that the roads will ice over a few times in January. I know that no matter how sunny the day is, the bare branches still beg for their missing leaves. I know not to pay any heed to the happy chirping of birds; their singing is as misleading as the sun’s rays. Whether by the sea or in the mountains, I’ve always known that I will only ever be able to stand 21 Virginia winters.
(02/13/13 3:15am)
A friend came by the other day and started talking to my sister about her columns. “Do you take criticism?” he asked. She laughed, “No!” He continued anyway, “Well, I think you said a while ago that you were going to write about me, and I’m just wondering when that’s going to be.” She sighed, relieved he was only joking, and assured him that one of her future columns would be all about him.
(01/30/13 5:39am)
I love lists. I have lists for my lists. I don’t think I could navigate a day if I didn’t lay out my plans for it. But here’s the thing about my lists: They remain nothing but lists. Rarely do they become a string of accomplishments. Hardly ever do they become crossed out words, rewarding me for my productivity.
(01/16/13 6:12am)
I believe that most people have a moral compass. Priests have gods. Cops have laws. Protesters have passions. I have my parents.
(11/28/12 4:27am)
“Your arm looks gross,” my sister said, acknowledging the hot oil burns on my left forearm. “You could write about cooking in your column. Since you had a cooking column first year, it’d be cyclical,” she continued, pleased with her creative assistance. I started rolling ideas around in my head. I have hot oil scars on my inner right forearm, and I’d talked about those in a fried green tomato column first year. Cyclical! Brilliant!
(11/14/12 7:28am)
Today my father is getting a pacemaker. At 21 I never thought I would say those words about my 61-year-old father. I thought pacemakers were for old people with weak hearts. And though I joke with my parents about how old they really are, 61 doesn’t seem like the right age to mechanize a heart. Shouldn’t it still be as strong as the body in which it resides?
(10/31/12 3:59am)
My sister’s room is littered with Hemingway quotes, pictures, books. She drinks Bell’s Two-Hearted Ale because it’s named after one of Hemingway’s short stories — and it doesn’t hurt that it also has a pretty high ABV. Hemingway has infiltrated our house. Even downstairs at my dining table I face a black and white “Ernest Hemingway as a young man” image. We got a kitten mainly because we fell in love with a ball of fur, but also because Hemingway had a thing for cats — please see Hemingway house, Key West. We were going to name her Hemingway, but her SPCA title, Lee Lee, stuck.
(10/17/12 4:39am)
Last Thursday, while waitressing, I started to feel ill. My manager told me that I looked terrible, which would have been offensive if it weren’t true. My eyes were bloodshot and my face was flushed. My whole body hurt and for what felt like the hundredth time in the past few months, I could not take a deep breath. I hurried home and curled up into a ball on my futon, ready to rush to the doctor in the morning.
(10/03/12 5:01am)
Last Tuesday I had dinner at my professor’s house. Earlier in the day I texted my friend who had dined there the night before: “Does he serve wine?” She answered in the negative.
(09/19/12 4:34am)
I walk into my sister’s room on a Sunday morning. She’s left for work in her Redskins t-shirt and baseball cap, jeans and blue tennis shoes. I stand in the middle of her floor, wrapped in my towel, wet hair dripping while I kick through piles of clothes, trying to find something clean.
(09/05/12 5:53am)
I was in Europe this summer. I could tell you what I learned at the Tate Modern, what I realized in Normandy, what I came to understand on the Underground. But we’ll save all that for the next cocktail party. Instead, I’ll tell you what I saw when I came back; a very real and troubling vision of myself among a very real and troubling vision of many selves.
(04/03/12 3:50pm)
I'm never lost. My sister and I
(03/20/12 3:21pm)
Sunday, I smelled
(02/29/12 3:51am)
I've always been an avid people-watcher. I don't just
(02/15/12 1:30am)
It
(01/31/12 4:54pm)
Most people who pursue dreams in Hollywood end up being disappointed, but Christian Lander is not one of them.
(01/31/12 4:18pm)
I'm angry. Tightly knotted under my chest plate there is a writhing, burning ball of rage. I'm not sure why it's there or how long it's been strangling my other emotions. I feel it all the time. It manifests itself in self-righteousness, selfishness and the belief that no one will ever meet my expectations. I'm angry and it hurts.