I Can Cry if I Want To


Last year was my first year of college, and I needed to insure that my birthday wouldn’t be a flop. I needed to know that I wouldn’t cry all alone in a corner.

So what did my mom do?

She put lots of money on my debit card, and I took some friends to an Indian restaurant, all expenses paid by me, or my mom. There. Instant friends. Instant birthday. Instant smile.

Now that sounds like a quick recipe for success, right? Wrong. There’s more to it.

One friend lied to me and somehow got me into her room thinking she needed to retrieve her computer before we headed to the library.

When we opened the door, there were a bunch of friends gathered, all singing, all with a card, all with a cake that they bought from the bistro.

Best birthday ever.



Are You Kidding Me?


All I hear is Freud, Freud, Freud, and I’ve never taken a psych class. Here’s my angry poem.

Freud all day,

Freud all night.

I’m not a Psych major,

And this is my plight.


Jokes about slips

And lots of dicks.

Penis envy extreme!


College Corner II-Weekday Edition


Typical College Day–we’ll get to the weekends later.

Wake up. It is somewhere between 10:30 and 11 AM. I am still safe–I have not missed any of my classes.

Go to gym. Shower. Put my contacts in. Get ready. Try to look okay.



This is casual. I don’t need friends to eat lunch with. No one makes a big deal out of it, but if I have a lunch date, that’s always nice.

Waste time. Look at old quizzes. Try to understand my homework. Give up eventually.

Class. Snooze. Class. Snooze.

Depends on which class.

It’s approximately 5:30, and dinner plans are up in the air. Who will be my lucky dinner date?

Sometimes we solidify plans for dinner during the day, other times we confirm at 6. Going to dinner alone is never a good thing, so it’s always great to make plans beforehand.

And alas, I am going to dinner with my usuals, the big group, the ten of us.

We stay for hours. As many of us have put it, “The cafeteria is a vacuum. We can’t leave!”

We chitchat, then remind ourselves we have work. We then go to the library until the new day approaches, and we press Repeat.


College Corner


First semester of college, I had questions. We all did. Some of which included: who’s my roommate, where are my classes, should I do the unlimited meal plan or have dining dollars?

Some questions were more important than others. One question got me hung up the entire first semester. Should I have chosen another school?

I was almost tied between my current school and Bates College, a small liberal arts school in Lewiston, Maine. It’s a preppy school with preppy kids and sports, yet they seem to possess community values.

It wasn’t until second semester that everything turned around, this indecisiveness. I found me. I found clubs, leadership, and other cliches!

Sounds too good to be true? Now I’m spending the summer wishing it was the fall.


Hooray 4 Rae


Submitted at midnight the night before it was due. No, I’m not a slacker. It wasn’t a homework assignment, just a job application.

I applied to be a blogger for admissions at my university. And after several weeks of waiting, I got the position.

I believe part of why I got this job was because I linked my application to a previous blog on WordPress. So whatever you do, don’t stop blogging! You never know what will happen.

(It’s graduation season, so I’ve been practicing my self-righteous speeches.)


Reclaiming Loss Part II


Anger, vengeance, freedom, emancipation. Declaration. Should’a gotten a four on APUSH. Oh well, Teacher liked me.

I got new Beats! They are turquoise. They define me. They are me, hip but not a hipster.

College comes, and concert band rings. Concert band sings. Suave saxes sound and trombones glide—they slide. I shine, and I play, and I’m fine that way. It’s A-ok!

College comes and an A+ in music theory. Suck at piano lab. Can’t sight sing. But that’s all right. A+ for the rest!

Lost: faith in humanity. Regained: a niche, a place to feel loved and be loved. Some friends, even vegans.

Toms ate dry foods so he could poop. Good for his weakening bones. Calcium tastes yucky.

Lost: childhood. Gone, down the drain those days when you got a required nap. Miss those days. Miss finger painting and drawing, “relaxing all cool and shooting some b-ball outside of school when…”

Recess went bye-bye. No more naps. More class. Let’s add STEM. How ‘bout that? Oh, and that Writing Section of the SATs that I did well on, caput!

Systematic control freak. Theatre geek. Nap time.

I found myself! I got myself. $2.99 at the car wash. Diesel.

No, but really, I found myself! And I made a typo; I’m really $299 from the farmers’ market.

I’ve reclaimed myself.

Seasons change, an old cliché. People change, maybe true.

But we all need people.

There are people, people I argued with, blamed, and critiqued. These people have names: Mom, Dad, and Brother.

But there are more: Nana, Papa, aunts, uncles, and…this is getting boring. There are more, and I have love.

I need to love.

I was young. I am still young.

I was nervous. I am confident, or on my way.

I have new turquoise Beats, but I have no Toms. He was my blanket, but now I need a scarf.



Reclaiming Loss Part I


People used to call me Shirley Temple, but the star is dead.

I was five at the time, with hair in curly ringlets. I was five when we ventured off into a whole new world—the Canadian McDonald’s.

The blanket was fleece. It came with a matching coat.

I brought the coat and blanket inside the McDonald’s café. I enjoyed my French fries and chicken nuggets, but this Happy Meal didn’t have a “happily ever after.”

I abided by Kid Code: sipped my soda, played in the play-place, and tinkled. But Mom didn’t abide by Mommy Code. She forgot my blanket at McDonald’s.

Left behind. No child. ‘Merica. Fuck yeah!

The blanket, now in the arms of some Petite Prince or little girl or let’s throw in a twenty-eight-year-old college grad paying off her loans. Doesn’t matter. I miss my blanket.

Toms. Toms was his name. Is his name.

I confuse the past and present.

I’m trying to avoid turning this essay into something sappy about my dog. Pets are traditional, normal. You have one for any given amount of time, and then it dies. Then you grow up.

But Toms was more than a dog. He was my blanket.

Bred in Athens, Maine, Toms is/was a shih tzu. Sixteen years of age upon passing. Died in the kennel lady’s lap.

On the road in the car on the way to the vet. He was acting strange that day. But where were we?

Just returned home from a trip to Jersey. About to pick Toms up from the kennel. But there was no pick-up. All we have is the past.

Two cheap headphones, a pair of Bose from my cousin Matt, and Beats by Dre. I lost them all.

Somehow I don’t lose the “important” things, like school assignments or my glasses, but 2014 was the Year of the Missing Headphones.

Beats are big in college. Beats define this nonconformist (possible) conformity. But everyone has a different color, so I guess it’s okay.

Until recently. I had a pair of black Beats, and then I lost them, as usual.

Music, talent, potential. Losing the competition. Fingers shake. Tremble. Trill. Triangle solo. Audition.

Cold room. Damp air. Rain clouds. Old lovers and ex-friends. We all use the same facilities. We all sing, dance, play, read poetry.

Fingers shake. I lost my Beats. Earthquake. I’m gonna throw up.

“Scales. Let’s see, d minor.”

“Okay.” But no, it was more like “O..oh…oh…k,” insert extra o’s. Nervioso.

Señora, stop beating down on me with stern looks and faux sympathy. Señora, I gotta parar.

I gotta leave. Pardon me. First stall on the right.

The zit that pissed. High school. Bullshit.

In the bathroom, on the phone. Mom, why aren’t you picking up?

I tried to pop it, but it explodes!