Your flesh Is turning to stone. You are turning to stone. You are a piece of stone.

"Have you ever been hypnotized? No? Alright, fine. Just relax."

I just quoted a jean commercial. I have an affinity for jean commercials, I've realized. At first I thought I had a problem, but I've come to the conclusion that they just started making some pretty hipster-y jean commercials. It's not my fault, then, if it's bearded men wearing denim and quoting Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman and his sexy farmer pose (and I suppose his words...I SUPPOSE) has seduced far more people than me in these past hundred years.

In the words of immortal Levar Burton, "But you don't have to take my word for it..."

Anyway, so I watched this newly released jean commercial today about thirty times. And that's probably a low estimate. Below any video, where the flotsam and jetsam of sanity known as Youtube comments preside, bitchy people bitching about literature won't shut up about this jean commercial ruining the world. Ruining everything! How dare they use Bukowski to sell jeans! (Because one time they did.) How dare someone be inspired by a jean advertisement and not Bukowski's real literature. Consumerism is ruining the worldddddddddddd!

I get the point, I do. But also, deep down, I just want to dance around wearing jeans. And isn't that my prerogative too? And I read Bukowski in book form, and somehow prefer this. Here I will inevitably wait for the literature mafia to rain down their hate, but it's OK. If someone told me he or she preferred the 2010 Moby-Dick movie called 2010: Moby-Dick to actual Moby-Dick, I would probably just slap them until they died. And even Bukowski might have hated me, but I doubt it. On the most basic level, you always write for people to hate you. And to hate people. Sure there's other reasons to write, but that reason is always the most fun. 

So I've been thinking about jean commercials. Though not so much about buying jeans (sorry, Levi's). And I've also been thinking about my graduate thesis. I'm currently on a research assignment in Sarajevo, which is probably why I've returned to scribbling here. As long as I don't start watching sitcoms, then I won't completely screw this up. It's what I'm telling myself, at least. Luckily, it hasn't been hard, because I've been a lump of flesh all summer and being productive is its own sort of drug.

I had a meeting today. A meeting with one of those individuals that convinces you that conquering the world is easy if you just wear the right suit. It's a talent that I feel I'm a bit too cynical for, but that I wish I could attain nevertheless. I just want to throw money at his face, and let him use it to mold the world to whatever he wishes. But I have no money, so I'll be content just being the Chunk to his Mikey, if we're using Goonies metaphors. (Hint: We are.)

After ending the meeting, I walked out of the front door wanting to high-five every person in Sarajevo. Inspiration these past few years has been lacking (apart from drunken nights and pizza highs), and reaching where I'm excited to read laws translated from Bosnian is a very huge deal for me. Anyone who has ever taken a law class knows the tribulations I speak of, and should now nod accordingly. 

In honor of this....epiphany/wonderful day/holy shit I think I'm inspired, I'm going to tell you some of the embarrassing shit that has inspired me over the years. And not so embarrassing shit. I'm not sure why, because no one asked me to...but I felt the need to expunge all of it after seeing assholes tell me I'm a horrible person for being inspired by a jean commercial. Stop telling me what unwritten rules are expected of me as a grad student, as a writer, as a woman, as a person.

A wise Mary Oliver once said, "You do not have to be good....you only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves." I don't think she's using these words to tell the literature mafia to leave me alone....but I am. 

Anyway, the collection:

Movie Scenes:

• Risky Business Dance Scene
• Obviously. Dead Poet's Society. Cameron was such a fink.
• Pocahontas Finale. That's two Pocahontas references in two posts. You'd think Disney was paying me. Though I'd pay to have leaves and twigs reach out to my loved ones like a phantom extended limb.

Movie Trailers:

• Elizabeth: The Golden Age: All of it is good, and to be honest, probably better than the actual movie. Yet, after 2:58 it's magic. I have a dream of yelling the line at 4:30 to someone who underestimates me. I guess they'll have to be from Spain, though?

Songs:

K7 "Come Baby Come"

Phil Collin's Final Farewell Tour, or, THE BEST CONCERT VIDEO IN THE WORLD. 

With every success in life, I picture this playing in the background. If I'm suddenly silent in a happy moment, I'm doing this. Now you know. Now you know.

JEAN COMMERCIALS:

2013 "Move Your Lee"

If anyone can tell me the source for this voiceover, I will buy you pie.

2009 Levi's Go Forth "O Pioneers"

The best inspiration I've had lately is the view from my terrace (I've never had a terrace!). Aren't balconies wonderful? So close to everything you hold dear yet open enough to wish for more.

Summer From A Suitcase

Here's a free tip of life advice, for those still under the impression that I know what I'm talking about: never be voluntarily homeless for longer than one week. You may think, "Pshaw, Amy! Traveling from couch to couch for two and a half months seems fun and spontaneous!"

No. You are wrong. Unlike actual, sad homelessness, voluntary homelessness is just a waste of everyone's valuable resources and time. The person doesn't want you there, you don't want to be there, and everyone just wants to be alone to look up weird shit on the Internet. Or sing in the shower. Or...other things. 

I left my apartment in the 17th arrondissement in late June, full of high summer hopes of late night drinks and new friends allowing me to crash for the night. I used to be a pretty spontaneous person, full of delights and crazy ideas and midnight Dr. Pepper's in the woods with my guy friends. Then I changed, worried about bills and taxes and a full eight hours and coupons for instant Ramen. Optimistically, maybe part of me just grew up a bit, but deep down, I think I just became an asshole. I think a big part of this change is city living, where I learned to be on my guard 24/7, and under the impression that everyone is a malicious douche. Yet, under the impression that everyone is a malicious asshole, I, in turn, became the malicious asshole. And when's the last time you saw a malicious asshole being fun and spontaneous?

So this summer was supposed to be adventurous and willy-nilly, where my beds were supposed to fall out of the sky like drops of rain and I'd be that cool, fun hippy that travels with her shit on her back and no worries in her heart. It was my turn as Doc Brown, turning time back to when life seemed better as a 18 year old. God, if only life worked that way.

Being fake homeless is hard. Even when I was staying at a place for a month, and I technically had time to unpack my suitcases and feel adjusted....being fake homeless was hard. I blame myself for being so optimistic, but I was just clinging to the old days so desperately. I understand plastic surgery now, in its own way.

Here is the list I crafted one night in the 7ème without Internet:

Things I Miss Doing Like When I Had a House

Scratching wherever I want, whenever I want.

Ditto for farting.

Looking up stupid shit on the Internet.

Watching stupid shit on the Internet.

Lip-syncing in the mirror to the Pocahontas soundtrack while I brush my teeth.

BEING NAKED ALL THE TIME.

Not caring how long I spend in the bathroom.

Not having wrinkled clothes.

Not having back problems from carrying my shit everywhere.

Cooking. (Though, I did enjoy all the chips I got to eat.)

Skyping my parents. 

Perfecting my Aerosmith howling in the shower.

Not smelling like a ragamuffin because where did I put my deodorant?

Reading Moby-Dick whenever I want to.

Yet, even though my summer wasn't as fun/exciting/spontaneous as my "impossible to achieve happy" summer, it left me with good moments. Good enough moments to not feel like such an asshole: Friends were willing to let me into their lives for days/weeks even though it was probably inconvenient for them. Some even left for the suburbs so I could have a place of my own, if only for a day or so. A couple friends even let me stay nights when I asked them as late as 10:30PM if I could crash, or stayed up way past their bed times because I had social (OK, beer) calls to make. One glorious soul even carried my gigantor bag over ten minutes to my next location, just to be kind and wonderful. I find all types of kindness suspicious, yet all of these friends proved to me that altruism can be real, sometimes.

But don't get my sappy blog post wrong, people. Don't ever do this, this homeless wandering. It is douchey and you start to smell weird and think weird things and forget that people like parents and siblings exist. That emails exist. You start to eat McDonald's a lot because kitchens aren't real and start to spend all your time in Starbucks like actual homeless people because where else can you find such a clean bathroom? Worst of all, you can't even enjoy the rain anymore, and what point is there to anything if you cant?

I guess this blog post--this very special blog post revving things up again--is in honor of those friends who put up with me. If for no reason other than I was such a colossal douche to ask if I could crash your lives for 2.5 months....but I'm so glad you let me.

THE GRAND TOUR, as promised! 

Stop #1: Bougival, France

Mission: To catsit the uncatsittable, Cookie.

Accomplished?: Angry cats pee on a lot of things.

Situation: Alone, so very alone in the suburbs of Paris.

Stop #2: 9ème, Metro: Notre Dame de Lorette

Mission: To read for my thesis and drink a lot.

Accomplished?: Yes for the drinking...eh on the thesis.

Stop #3: 7ème, Metro: École Militaire

Mission: Survive Orientation, Watch Donnie Darko

Accomplished?: Yes, but Donnie Darko took me 5 days to watch because I kept falling asleep after 20 minutes.

Situation: You can hear the tourists cheer at the top of the hour when the Eiffel Tower sparkles. It's annoying immediately.

Stop #4: 7ème, Metro: École Militaire

Situation: My friend has a lot of beds in her kitchen. It was the equivalent of sleeping on clouds of love and sunshine.

View: Don't have one, but I have this memory to equal it? We talked about beards for a while.

Stop #5: 7ème, Metro: La Tour Maubourg

Situation: My friend let me stay in her apartment alone while she kindly spent a few nights with a friend in the banlieue. I thanked her by getting really drunk and barely spending any time in her apartment. (This is one of those not-so-great moments. Though I did buy a lot of people beer that night.)

Stop #6: 3ème, Some Hotel? Metro: Rambuteau

Mission: Not walk home for an hour and a half.

Accomplished: Yes, thanks to my friend Laura.

Situation: Laura and I went to an Indian Food Party and stayed out too late having fun. Her hotel was in walking distance and had shag carpet...therefore it was shangri-la.

Stop #7: 15ème, Metro: Convention

Mission: Eat tons of leftover Indian food that would spoil without a refrigerator.

Accomplished?: Yes, but with hilarious consequences.

Situation: Slept on some couch cushions even though my friend offered the bed, had the best night sleep of my life.

Stop #8: 17ème, Metro: Place de Clichy

Situation: My friend lives in the coolest part of the Batignolles and lives next to bar whose counter is made out of stained glass. She also fed me real NYC bagels, and I wept from the nostalgia. (Here my computer autocorrect Batignolles to Buttonholes and I lost it completely.)

Stop #9: Back to the 9ème, a welcome homecoming!

Stop #10: 7ème, Metro: Invalides

Mission: Have a midnight Dr Pepper

Accomplished?: You tell me.

Situation: Asked my friend if I could stay with him at 23h00, and he said yes. To make him sound even more impressive, he gave me a midnight Dr Pepper!

I guess even when you're old and worry about too many things, late night Dr Peppers with good guy friends still occur very organically.

**To end this very long post, I have a home now....at least, temporarily. Maybe.

Ticks

Wouldn't it be great to know the number of times you thought about one person? It'd be a little green tally that would pop up in the bottom right corner of your brain, letting you know with little dash marks the frequency of every person in your mind-ramblings. Think of the format of the show 24, but less ever-present, and more of a fun pop-up like during the 90s fad "Pop-Up Video!" These ticks would serve two functions, both wonderful and disasterous: showing you how often a person you might have considered unimportant enters your thoughts, and how infrequent those you consider important do. 

These little green dashes would instigate a world of decision-making that we would otherwise leave to our hypothetical worlds. If I think about this guy so much, what's the harm of taking the leap? (Eventually those tick marks will decrease if it goes sour, at least, hopefully.) If everything in a corner book shop reminds me of my father, why don't I call him more? Maybe I should finally stop talking about Herman Melville, whose tick marks are in the thousands and rival those of my own mother.

Maybe you could even color-code the marks to emotions, with green denoting happiness, red sadness, and blue expressing a lonely longing for an old friend. What if, after 50 blue marks, an automatic email is sent to the blue mark maker--letting you know that even though you don't speak to me anymore...I miss you. One of you would be getting hundreds of emails over the years, emails that would leap over the fields of pride that plague our present and past and gulf any hope of reconciliation. Another one of you would receiving the first one, much to my annoyance. It will be the first of two, probably, but a third might arrive thirty years from now because every so often you'll be like an eroded groove in my conscience, reminding me of your sense of humor and horrible communication skills that are actually so ridiculous they border on hilarious, but not quite. Some wild cards would be getting e-mails because sometimes I'm just a little creepy, and I hope you welcome them because we all possess a mutual creepiness? Maybe?

It would be nice to receive emails too, I suppose. Nice to know I'm not crazy, that you think of me too, or that I'm not the only one replaying bad decisions.Or good decisions. Or bad decisions that after ten years turned out to be good decisions. It would be difficult to never receive emails from those I suspected or hoped would send them--but the silence would help me all the same. Nothing is as eloquent as nothing. (David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas)

What if, after these fifty blue marks, your mind sent flowers to a grave? I'd think about entire cemeteries so everyone at once could be loved, even if only for one last time. 


Not so serious addendum:
Take it a step further and imagine if there were tick marks counting how many people found you attractive when you entered a bar? Imagine the self-esteems saved, all those lonely girls who just don't see how attractive they are; then imagine all the cocky self-esteems built even higher, because the assholes are still pretty attractive at first glance. 

I'd like tick marks denoting the number of writers in a room, so I could be make sure to avoid them at all costs. Writers and poets and poker players and people who describe themselves as "foodies." 

I Feel Nothing, Part 1: Dunkin' Donuts and a Bloody Toilet

I feel nothing, usually. Emotionally I'm the opposite, and cry at every single movie that ever elicited any sort of emotion. But physically...I am a lump of flesh. Things ache, I feel hunger. I have a nervous system. I just seem to not really react as much as other people do to bodily functions and the like.

(There are some exceptions of which the closest of you know and I feel no need to express here. Ha.)

See, I have a fairly high pain tolerance, always have. I wasn't the greatest fan of vegetables growing up, and I never actually ate those Flintstone vitamins I was implored to take by my mother. By all intents and purposes, I actually have a horrible bone structure and I'm probably going to die of a heart attack at age 30 because of too much curated meat.

This is practically Polish people porn.

But, I'm graced with some sort of nerve tolerance of the highest standard, because I've been sliced, diced and broken and I barely flinch. Shots are fun, and I ask to hold a mirror when they remove every atypical mole (which is practically over a dozen at this point, another Polish tradition). Regardless of how this gift was bestowed upon me, it has created two very awkward moments in my life, which of course I will explain now, since self-deprecation is the highest form of art, in my opinion.

#1 Dunkin' Donuts and A Bloody Toilet

It was December 2010, and I had arrived home that afternoon for my senior year Winter Break. I had just had a fight/discussion with a friend about what sort of precipitation was worse, snow or rain? My friend swore that snow was not only the lesser of two evils, but actually a good thing. She was from Texas, so I can allow the ignorance. I severely disagreed, as anyone who has fishtailed on a hilly country road along a wooded abyss knows that snow is the devil. THE DEVIL.

This is how snow angels were actually invented.

Anyway, the fight ended at a ceasefire of nonagreement, and I had driven back to Pittsburgh in a blizzard of white confetti shit known as snow. It was early evening after my arrival, and my father and I were lounging barefoot in his bed, watching either a generic space show or a Morgan Freeman narrated space show. My sister had just stuck her head into the door, saying goodbye. Her friend Tara was picking her up to go the bar. I had the late afternoon coffee pains any coffee addict sports, so I asked my father if I could borrow the car keys to drive to Dunkin' Donuts. He searched for a minute, through his pockets and nightstand. The keys weren't there.

They were on my sister. My sister who was currently being picked up by a friend outside, at the end of the driveway. I had to move quick; my caffeine happiness depended on it. I sprinted, barefoot still, down the hall, down the stairs, and out the door.

I made it three steps down the sidewalk before my barefeet hit some black ice, and I slammed to the ground with the grace of a cartoonesque Three Stooges character, arms flailing and a deafening sacrum-crush. My sister saw from the car, and rushed to my aid (a grand improvement from the 1999 fracture, but that's a story for another time). Blood was....everywhere, a winter carnage scene; yet, my eyes focused on the car keys. Danielle and Tara offered to walk me back inside, but I shushed them away to the bar. With the dangling car keys in my hand, I shuffled my way back inside. I limped up the stairs, down the hall, and into the main bathroom, a blood trail slowly dripping from my foot (or, truly, the limb formally known as foot, because that shit was unrecognizable.)

I sat on the toilet, silent and overwhelmed. My foot hurt, but it didn't hurt any more than it usually did. In my history, feet existed only to consistently ache. Still, I couldn't move. I applied pressure with some towels, and chilled on the toilet for a bit.

I was going to find a funny google image of some girl chilling on a
toilet seat. Don't google that. Here's a baby buffalo instead.

Enter my father, the only man in a house of women: two recently teenagers, and one currently menopausing. The man hates when any bathroom activity is shown out in the open, and encourages self-segregation of the sexes. I can't blame him for that. But from the hall, only my legs were visible, and all he could see is that I was sitting on the toilet.

"Jesus christ, Amy! Not again! Close the fucking door, jeeeeeesus!" he yelled, and slammed the door shut. I tried to call for him to help, but he didn't hear. So I worked my wall towards the sink, a nice seven foot floppy-leg dance that resembled Ace Ventura running with the numbing darts in Ace Ventura 2: When Nature Calls. Not familiar? Fear not my friend.

I reached my phone, called my father only a room away. He apologized and rescued me from the bathroom. He cleaned up the bloody, beige carpet and kindly drove me to Dunkin' Donuts. We spent the rest of the night watching movies and icing my foot. I called up said friend and provided evidence that she was wrong and that snow was still, in fact, the devil. I was walking on it the next day, and never thought about it ever again.

Sounds like a happy ending, right? WRONG.

That summer, I was having some feet problems (Morton's Neuroma, which predominately happens to old people...go me?), and went to the podiatrist. If there was a punch card for the podiatrist, I would have a free x-ray by now...but I digress. Looking at my x-rays, he asked for the previous doctor's opinion about my healed broken foot.

My...what?

Turns out that ice fall broke my foot. And I walked with broken metatarsals for six months. Huh.

No lasting damage, except for the fact that I can neither ice skate nor regular skate because my foot can no longer fit into a tight, plastic-y shoe without screaming.

This is a Nancy Kerrigan metaphor.
Who would have guessed you'd read one of those today?

Stay tuned for tomorrow's story: A Finger Condom in Saint-Germain-des-Près. A riveting tale, featuring stupidity (on my end) and a moderately attractive Algerian.

"Was that your limb?"

In what seems to be a sprint of productive activity in an attempt to avoid writing a paper on Canadian Aboriginal Law, I'm going to deliver on the promise to post a story I wrote a couple years ago. (In regards to delivering, my R.Kelly tome will be the only thing I accomplish this winter break, if I have my way.) The story isn't very good, mostly for reasons that will be explained in....

THE PROLOGUE:

The story of why and how this story was written is definitely better than the story itself, so it's a worth a mention. It begins with a pizza place, and a weekly Wednesday night special called Ladies Night. I was a senior RA, and the new hires were being welcomed into the NYU Residential Life system. Kudos to them...whatever. To the seniors, it was the one Wednesday night we would have free all year, ergo the only night we could enjoy ladies' night, and I could drink unlimited wine a mere five blocks away from my dorm.

It's only ten and the world is spinning. It didn't matter, because the next stop is Josie Woods, the typical undergrad hangout that we were all obsessed with because we could get there without crossing an intersection. It's the little things in life that make it grand, you know. NYC may be my home, but Josie's was my best friend. It's seen my best, my worst, and mostly nights in-between,thanks to its powerful Tequila shots and its jukebox filled with Fleetwood Mac. (And pineapple malibus, I won't lie to you. Judge all you want, but that shit is like a tropical splash of goodness in a wintry shitty mix of springtime NYC.)

It's underground so it's extra awesome.
It's also the in the building where Bhaer lived in Little Women.
Stop judging me for knowing that.

So it's 3am, and I'm at least four tequila shots and ten drunk texts deep. I'm a big drunk texter; I somehow think it's clever, or edgy, when in fact it's just obnoxious. (I'm still a keen texter years later, as the shame from the next morning can be as much fun as the drinking itself.) With this particular night, there's four of us, and we're having one of those nights where the world seems so cruel to the University twenty-something, especially the drunk girl twenty-somethings. We're all in tears: we love each other too much, love men too much, ate too much, drank too much. Too much too muchs, in a nutshell.

It's in this emotional overhaul that I realize I have a story due at noon that day: a four-pager of concise, controlled writing. My professor is demanding, and admirable, and if I turned in that stupid carnival story I wrote the semester before my self-worth will decay to a rotten shell of a human. This story must.be.amazing. But I can do this, I say, it's only four pages.

Note: At this point I'm so shitfaced I can't even be sure if I'm wearing pants. So I run to the nearest bodega, (which I miss every fucking minute of every day, so picture is included):

One time Space Market caught on fire because someone threw a cigarette on a pumpkin display.
 Or something. It happened multiple times.

and buy myself three bottles of Vanilla Coke. It's crunch time, and I work until morning (two hours later) when the NYU café opens up. I'm barely alive, slouched against a corner wall in this dorm lobby as sober, dedicated freshman swarm around me for their daily large mocha. My only concern is fighting gravity, as I'm on a wobbly stool at least four feet off the ground. Suddenly, the sweetest, kindest girl from my floor pops up beside me, with the agility of a whack-a-mole. The conversation went something like this:

Her: "Hi Amy! Can I join you for breakfast?"

"Urrrrgggggggggggh."

Her: "Great!"

At this point, I resemble this:

I try my best to hid my drunkenness, as overt public intoxication* will result in my firing, which is vitally important as I am already on probation at this point. One more strike and I'm fired, and a boss finding out that I'm having a drunk breakfast on University property with a freshman would not be in my best interest. (This is the moment in the story when you realize I'm actually a huge fuck-up, but still decide to be my friend because I make funny faces sometimes.) I stuffed a muffin into my mouth, hid my tequila breath, but it's pretty apparent I'm not a resident of the sober world. She quickly wishes me adieu, because, you know, she had class to attend and a productive life to live. I found out months later she knew I was, and I quote myself, "madddddddddddd fucked up," but was nice enough not to say anything to anyone.

I turned in my paper a minute to noon, and we workshopped it a week later. It was one of the more well-received stories I had written for that class, which still worries me to this day. The plot is literally nonsensical, as not one ounce of me was remotely sober while writing it. The grammar and syntax prove it. But whatever, we're all friends here on the internet. I literally have no shame left to offer you. It is below, in it's unadulterated form.

*You may ask why I was eating at the café publicly intoxicated to begin with, but I've already given evidence of my lack of rational decision making, haven't I?**

**Also, they had really good pain au chocolats, and a cool Haitian woman worked there.

Evidence of my inability for shame also present in the
2011 New Years Celebration Hair Massacre, pictured above.

Was That Your Limb?

By Amy D.

A loud screech of brakes traveled up the subway stairs. Susan rushed as fast as she could to the platform, careful not to spill her mug of coffee. She focused her concentration on the feet in front of her’s--she liked the guy’s shoes. They were some clean brown Oxfords that didn’t really match his black suit. His light brown hair was fluffed, like dad hair. She reached the bottom of the steps seconds behind the Oxfords. He was sprinting to make the closing doors when he smacked into the rusty, yellow beam that was blocking the subway. Instead of hearing a smack, a hollow thud echoed through the empty station.

            Something flew from his body. Susan thought it was a boomerang – it certainly glided through the air like one—and she stopped to stare at it hit the ground. It bounced twice before landing palm-up on a grungy tile. It was an arm. A completely prosthetic human arm.

            Her eyes shot to the train car, but the doors were shut. Susan looked helplessly from the platform. She quickly set down her plain white coffee mug and plucked the arm from the ground. Then using the plastic arm, she waved the train goodbye. There was no use running after the train, and she didn’t want to waste an hour waiting for the armless over to return. She walked back to the street.

            Susan studied the arm in the sunlight. It wasn’t one of the new robotic prostheses she saw in newspaper articles. It was a simple plastic fake arm that only allowed the most simple of movements. The elbow bent like a straightforward hinge, but the fingers didn’t move. It was remarkably clean, with a light flesh tint. There was a simple harness attached to the limb, but the white straps were frayed.

            “Oh, that’s how,” Susan remarked to no one in particular. After a few seconds of silence and indecision, she slipped her hand into its hand. With the arm hovering inches above the sidewalk, Susan walked slowly back to her apartment.

Jo, Susan’s roommate, had just woken up. She sat on the living room couch, eating a bowl of knockoff Lucky Charms. She was still wearing her bartending bowtie from the night before, and her blonde hair was matted to her head in sweat. “What are you doing home?” asked Jo.

             Susan simply thrust the arm in the air, grinning triumphant. She laughed. “Thought I’d bring it home.”

            Jo stood up from the couch and snatched the arm from Susan. She held her bowl with one hand, and held the arm by the elbow in the other. “I have an idea,” she said. “Loofah holder. For the shower. We’ve been needing one. “Jo suspended the arm in the air, visualizing it hanging in their tiny tub. Susan imagined mold creeping along the elbow, and turning the flesh-covered fingers black.

            Susan scoffed, and snatched the arm back. “That’s disrespectful.”

            “Says the girl that stole a limb.” Jo crossed her arms.

            Susan protectively hugged the limb and rubbed the back of the hand with her thumb. “I didn’t steal it. I rescued it.” She took a nice long whiff of the forearm, “I think it smells like pine nuts.”

She gave the arm a home in the hallway umbrella basket. She laid it down delicately, and let it grasp Jo’s didgeridoo. Neither Jo nor Susan played the didgeridoo. It was a gift they kept as a decoration, untouched. Susan imagined that Mr. Oxfords could probably play the didgeridoo. She tried to picture herself dancing to the sounds of his didgeridoo tune. Then she realized the sounds of didgeridoo don’t really inspire dancing, so she microwaved her coffee and called-in sick to work.

Susan sat at the desk in her bedroom. It was cluttered with week old soda cans and three cups full of pens that she knew didn’t work, but still never threw away. She grabbed a Sharpie and a blank piece of paper.

She wrote, “Was that your limb?” in capital letters across the front. She put a picture of herself delicately holding the arm like a precious diamond, and wrote the date and time of the meet up in large, bold print—her office building’s lobby, noon. Ten minutes were spent selecting the perfect, relaxed script. She figured Mr. Oxfords wouldn’t be a perfectionist, and she didn’t want to be insensitive. One hundred copies later, the entire 33^rd street subway station was covered in fliers.

It took the entire night to prepare for the switch.  Susan washed the arm with some lukewarm water, and set it on a towel rack to dry. Then she spritzed it with some man’s cologne that Jo’s ex had left in the bathroom. Taking a few steps back, she studied the arm.  It had been clean, so Mr.Oxfords was probably an organized guy.  He possibly owned a business, something to do with bonds. He had to be a simple man, to forgo an expensive model. She remembered him being tall--well, tallish, with such nice hair.

That morning, Susan spent forty-five minutes getting ready. She switched from business casual, which was too business, to a v-neck, which was too casual. Her final choice was a blue button-down and jeans. She made sure it matched the flesh tones of her companion the arm.

At noon, Susan waited near a big fern in the lobby, along a mirrored wall. A giant chandelier illuminated the open space. She shuffled the arm back and forth between hands a few times. She picked up a newspaper left on a lobby bench, stuck the arm between her legs and started to read.

Mr. Oxfords would be right in. This was the moment. She would meet the mysterious owner of her arm. Susan held her breath, and gripped the bicep of the arm tightly. The hard plastic was hot underneath her palms.

            He was easy to identify—he was wearing the same brown Oxfords as before. She wasn’t disappointed; he was beautiful in that not-so-obvious way, like a superhero’s sidekick.  His brown hair was less fluffy than last time, which Susan thought was a shame, but his face looked kind. And his clothes were clean; she liked that, even if he did mix brown and black.

He beelined straight for her and the fern, walking with a bouncy, assured step. But something wasn’t right. This man had two arms, two full arms coming out of his suit jacket.

“I believe you have my arm,” he said to Susan. “But I have to run. Thanks for the arm, yeah?” He flashed a smile. Susan saw the fingers of his left hand—robotic, mindless fingers—adjust his blue necktie. She swallowed. The air traveling down her windpipe was heavy, and a sharp ache hit her lower jaw. He wasn’t going to leave like that, not after all this time, not with fingers with megabytes and a simulated fleshy touch.

Sweat on her palms made the bicep slippery.  She pointed to the mechanical limb. “You already have an arm.”

He sighed. “Yeah, it was getting fixed yesterday. You got my crappy back-up.” His hand reached out and gestured for the arm. Susan locked her grip on the bicep.

“I’m Susan.” she said, sticking out her arm. She tucked the plastic one underneath her armpit.

“Really?” he said, exhaling loudly. He checked his watch, and put his robotic arm impatiently on his hip. Susan swore she heard some beeps and boops, and she felt her eyebrows fold down toward her nose. She stroked the plastic of the wrist with her thumb, and traced the back palm with the rest of her fingers.

 Susan checked if her shoes were tied, because her timing had to be perfect. She looked quickly into the mirror, pushed some hair out of her eyes, and cracked her neck.  She shrugged. “Fuck you, then. I’m keeping it.”

He blinked a few times and leaned towards her. “Wait—what?”

She looked into his brown eyes, and didn’t blink. “Yeah, I like it better than I like you.” She smiled. “Bye,” she said, softly and cheerfully, before running out the revolving door.

“Hell no, lady!” Mr. Oxfords yelled, after the first seconds of shock that kept him immobilized on the marble floor. He ran out into the sunlight, where the avenue was full of cabs. He sprinted along the cab line, forcefully knocking on windows. “Lady! What the fuck!” he screamed.

Suddenly, a car horn blasted from behind him, and he whipped around just in time to see Susan’s taxi pull away, his own arm waving him goodbye.

-A.

The Captains Give Advice, and Tom Jones oils his chest.

I was an RA once. It allowed me to have varying degrees of happiness over the period of two years.

But I'm skipping ahead...

Tonight I had a sad realization that my last creative writing piece was written over two years ago, and it was about a girl who fell in love with a prosthetic arm, Pygmalion-style. (Perhaps I'll upload that tomorrow, if the mood inspires.) In my sadgirl pity mode, I started reading some Cheever, and then some Wolff, and as always, ended with a weird turn into Joyce Carol Oates-ville. I started going over my own work, again with varying degrees of happiness.

I want to start writing again, hence my break my Master's degrees finals and finally a revisit to the blog I miss writing in everyday. I barely have time to clean my underpants, leisure blogging is the least of my worries. Yet, tonight I was taking a stroll through the seventeenth and stopped to see the Christmas lights illuminating every tree on Avenue de Ternes. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, but then again, I am a sucker for Christmas lights. All I wanted to do was to sit down in a loft bed and have a mug of wine, like I used to do in New York. I'd sit on my bed with my feet dangling over my windowpane, and watch the drunk people on University Place. And then I'd write about twenty-somethings falling in love with prosthetic arms.

I never said I was a good writer, though I wrote a pretty rousing Tom Jones musical around age 13.

Apparently a pubescent Amy was really into this.
I have no retrospective comment, pleading the Fifth.

I'm not putting up any work just yet, because a rousing day of edits await me. But, I did find a piece I wrote for a bulletin board on Captains that my freshman just didn't seem to appreciate. Which is a shame, really, because they were fans of the bulletin board I had on the history of the toilet. This captain bulletin board was epic enough for me that I saved it, so it'll do.  It had a crisp, forest green background with a captain in a yellow raincoat and galoshes in the middle, commanding attention.

IMAGINE SOMETHING LIKE THIS:

Yes this is Teddy, but imagine Ron Swanson if you wish.
I may or may not find both equally stimulating.

Around the captain were descriptions of other captains, and what each respective captain could teach you about well-being and wellness. Obviously, I think you want to read it.

Behold:

One Eyed Willy

Lacking in depth perception, Captain. Single-Ocular William, known to by his foes as “One Eyed Willy” made up for his singular view by guarding his doubloons better than any of his peers. Not only did Willy save his earnings, but he guarded them by deadly booby-traps consisting of death spikes and death piano tunes.

What you can learn from Willy: Keep your cash in a safe place, and don’t leave important stuff lying around. and personal information. Or, be at master at booby-traps, so if 100 years from now some eleven-year olds want your money, you can outsmart them. Also, get a savings account and don’t be frivolous!

Captain Ahab

Captain Ahab had his leg bitten off by a big, old cranky whale named Moby-Dick. Instead of being forlorn, Ahab got back on the Pequod and hunted that mother of a whale down. Sounds pretty gangster, right? WRONG. Because even though Ahab didn’t give up, his lust for revenge made him lose his friends, and family. Instead of being an inspiration, Ahab just ignores other people’s needs and eventual dooms them all. He’s sort of a downer, yeah?

What you can learn from Ahab: Don’t get wrapped up in the bad. Sure, your leg gets chomped off by a monster…don’t dwell! Instead, focus on the good. Maybe get a hobby. If Ahab spent more time doing watercolors, perhaps he wouldn’t have caused a bloodbath in the middle of the Pacific. Remember, your actions affect others, and no one likes a roommate bloodthirsty for revenge.

Georg Von Trapp

Captain Georg Von Trapp was a Navy man who had a strict routine for him and his children. There was no singing or dancing allowed; it was a 1930s version of Footloose. That is, until a nice novice nun arrived and taught them all to sing and dance and be merry. Instead of growing old and cranky, Captain Von Trapp fell in love with the nun and allowed happiness in his huge mansion once more. That is, until the Nazis came, but they all survived that too, so he’s still a boss.

Actually his name is Captain Sexy as Fuck.
My mistake.

What you can learn from Georg: Sure, a routine does make certain tasks easier, but without spontaneity, would life be any fun? Take a break from homework and enjoy NYC. A little break once and a while will do wonders on your mood. Remember: optimism is key. No one can accomplish anything—especially fleeing a fascist state—without optimism. Also, learn some Austrian folk songs, it charms the ladies.

Captain Nemo

Captain Nemo was a genius, and invented an amazing submarine (called the Nautilus) to do some deep sea exploration. He was resourceful, smart, and innovative; he impressed all that came into contact with him. However, Nemo was a little misguided. He believed the human race was a hateful and spiteful one, so he attacked ships that promoted imperialism. He ended up killing loads of people. Smart dude, but twisted logic.

What you can learn from Nemo: Okay, listen. The world has some big problems, but you have to use your brain. Learn all the facts before you start attacking people/ships/civilization. Like Nemo, if you think you’re above rules and regulations, you’ll eventually be destroyed (or, yelled at. Life is a lot less dramatic on land.)  Remember: even if you disagree with someone, hear him or her out before attacking. The other side always has some valid points as well.

Skipper Jonas Grumby

Skipper Jonas Grumby was only planning on a three-hour tour, but the weather started getting rough. The tiny ship was tossed. If it wasn’t for the courage of the fearless crew, the S.S. Minnow would be lost.  Eventually, the ship set ground on the shore of this uncharted desert isle. The Skipper led six idiotic castaways to a civilized existence on this tropic island nest where there were no phones, no lights, no motor car: not a single luxury. Plus, he looks good in blue.

What you can learn from the Skipper: If you’re put in charge of a group and some things go haywire, just keep on keepin’ on. A three hour tour could turn into three years of hijinks. Probably everyone’s being an idiot, but keep to your morals. Delegation and a cool temper are the best tools to survive a tough situation. Unless you’re on an island…then a boat is probably the best tool. Also, preparation is always important. Maybe check the weather, Skipper. A tempest doesn’t just happen, OK?

Jack Sparrow

When you think of trainwrecks, you think of Captain Jack Sparrow. Buddy, pull it together. You’d be a good captain if you weren’t constantly under the influence of drugs, alcohol, or lust. Instead of being a champ, you drunkenly stumble over everything and through luck, eventually end up OK. Though, you mess it up for everyone else too. Spend less time reminding people you are Captain Jack Sparrow and more time being a leader. Why is the rum gone?

What you can learn from Captain Jack Sparrow: It’s not always about yourself. People depend on you. Alcohol and other vices may be fun, but they might make you so numb to the world that you end up bartering your soul or getting eaten by a sea monster.  Hard work can be a good thing, and you’ll be proud of yourself when you succeed. If you only care about yourself, no one will be willing to save you when the time comes.

Blackbeard

The pirate known as Blackbeard may seem like a bully of the seas. He did pillage, rob, and steal from numerous ships throughout the West Indies. But, Blackbeard only used theatrics to get his point across. He seemed scary--he screamed and threatened every one of his victims—but Blackbeard never harmed a soul. To me that doesn’t sound like a pirate, that sounds like an innovator. A very ferocious innovator.

His smoking beard brings all the booty to the yard. Except this is Pirate's booty.
And not the snack kind, which is unfortunate, really.

What you can learn from Blackbeard: Appearances are not always reality. Get to know people before you judge them. Blackbeard looked outside of the box. He wanted to be a pirate, but didn’t feel like murdering…so he molded the job description to what he felt comfortable with! Look for solutions where they don’t seem possible! Blackbeard also teaches us that beards make people seem scary, so if you want to seem frightening, grow a beard. Also, get a nickname. The name Ronald isn’t scary, but BLACKBEARD THE PIRATE is.