I am out late tonight. I think about my kids, tucked in bed. I think about Grace, about her perfection, that echoed itself in our two daughters. I feel bad, sorry, like I should be there to kiss the girls goodnight. But I can’t come home yet.
I find her. The one, at least for tonight. She is walking home. I wish she had taken the earlier subway. I follow her into the apartment complex, and up the grey stairway. Has she noticed me? I do not know, nor do I stop to consider. I remember the time one did notice. I took care of her, and she was the last that noticed. This one’s hair is loose, flowing. Pity, I think bitterly.
How I wish I could turn around, descend the grey stairway, exit the apartment complex. I long to walk the ten blocks to the subway station. I wish with all my strength that I could take the A train back to Brooklyn, where I would get off at the stop before the bakery. I remember how my daughters love doughnuts. I wish I could stop at the bakery, where Mr. Vivio stays late to work on taxes. I imagine myself taking the fresh doughnuts five blocks down the street, where I would unlock the blue townhouse door and set the bag on the table. I imagine kissing my wife, and watching my little girls eating their breakfast the next morning.
Bitter reality shocks me, as I come back. The green carpet on the floor, colored like slime, casts a new series of memories upon me. The girl walks to her door, and begins to reach into her bag for the key. That’s when instinct takes over; predator versus prey. A black sheet is laid upon my rational self. I no longer think.
I find myself home, early the next morning. I have a bag of doughnuts in my hand. I kiss Grace. She thinks nothing of my absence, or at least says nothing of it. Used to it, I think, feeling a pang of regret. “How was work, honey?” Innocent. Our daughters wake up not long after, enjoying my affection towards each of them. They smile and eat their doughnuts.
The morning news comes on. The usual stories appear: a new building is being built; someone lost the key to the city; an election is coming up. Grace has a comment for every story. Then I see it: “Rebecca Thalmor, pictured onscreen, from the upper west side was killed in her apartment last night. She was a college student, originally from Pennsylvania. She is remembered by family and friends from all over the world. One thing was missing from the crime scene: a gold promise ring that those close to her say she never took off. If you have any information about this tragedy, please call your local police station or the number on your screen,” the reporter says, emphasizing her plastic sorrow, like they do.
Grace looks at the television, frowning. “A real shame,” she comments. I nod and match her expression, as I twirl around in my pocket my new token, golden and shiny. I wait for the pang of shame, but this time it never comes.
Before I Go to Sleep by S.J. Watson
Review by ueijasuie
Creepy and suspenseful, S.J. Watson’s debut novel is definitely a page-turner. You never know who can be trusted in this book, and that adds to the spooky feel of it. The book is fairly short, as it took me just two days to read. The ending was predictable, and I didn’t feel the satisfying sense of closure at the end, but the content was grasping and intriguing. The beginning was very thought-out and excellent, but it slowly slipped away, ending up feeling rushed. It seemed as if the author decided that the closing mystery would distract the reader from the down-hill writing techniques. Overall, 3/5 star, good debut novel and an entertaining read. I would consider reading another novel from this author, but I’m not sure I would necessarily recommend it to anyone I respect as a writer or reader, as the book feels slightly juvenile.
This is a great video about asexuality. Humorous and educational.
I realized I am probably asexual a few days ago because of awareness week, and since then I’ve been trying to find a (non-online) community to get involved with because I’m feeling really alone at this point. I live in one of the most liberal cities in the US, but there are not any groups that I’ve found that even mention asexuality. I’ve been involved with LGBTQ groups for years as an ally. I knew that I wasn’t homosexual, but I’ve always felt… different. I am friends with people that run said groups in my area, but I don’t feel comfortable asking them about asexuality since I’m not “out”. I want to join the LGBTQ group at my university, but their website says nothing about asexuality and I don’t want to have to explain it to them (at this point, since I’m still confused and trying to figure everything out, I don’t want to have to put myself through something like this yet).
I’m just really upset that there is so little information and communities dedicated to asexuality, or that at least mention it. I’ve been trying to find info in books about being LGBTQ and just about sex, but there is very little. I even read in a (LGBTQ) book at the library, “If you think you’re asexual, you might want to contact a medical professional or psychologist because you may have experienced childhood trauma.” It really frustrated me and made me feel even more isolated.
Warning: the following video is a very offensive interview by “The View”, an American talk show. The ladies that are interviewing David Jay (AVEN founder) are extremely offensive and their attitudes and many of their statements are completely uncalled for and rude. Watch at your own risk.
This is an amazing poem about transgender youth. The only thing I don’t like about this is that the title says “transgendered“, which is a very offensive term for many transgender people.
My mind, idle and unchallenged,
Resorts to other, more evil, means of entertainment.
An involuntary and unwelcome act.
I think of you.
For anyone else, this would be fine; joyful, even.
But my mind twists the original, beautiful thoughts,
Into something malicious:
I am hated by the most important person in my life.
I have finally been given up on.
I’m just unwanted.
My thoughts tear me up.
I can no longer breathe.
I know they’re untrue.
But I don’t think so.
I’d just rather be alone.
But my solitude and isolation creates the illusion that I don’t need someone.
I always need someone.
This is my problem.
(Maybe I should find some homework to do.)
It’s all me, my mind, my heart.
So fragile, destructible.
Easily shattered in an instant.
That’s why I need you.
You won’t hurt me.
Then, I think,
What if the evil thoughts just increase as our relationship does?
What if you’re just better off without me?
Originally written Dec 2011