My professor is so fucking hot

During my junior year in college I became obsessed with my Philosophy Professor. 

I think it was his voice that led me to believe he was ten years younger than his actual age (34). It was almost whiny, but in a charming way—the antithesis of deep and booming. His spoke like a motherly mouse or an overly concerned therapist. Sometimes it even cracked. Like a teenager’s. 

He was about 5’ 9” and had the body type of a scrawny adolescent who gained enough weight to no longer be scrawny. He was not trim or slender, but simply average: the result of never working out a day in his life (well maybe he jogged occasionally). But generally his physique indicated no conscious alteration to nature’s intention for him to rely on his intellect rather than his (nonexistent) muscles for survival. 

His boyish face was handsome enough that on the first day of class I made the objective observation that he was objectively good-looking. 

His brown hair was sincerely parted and combed. I wondered what he looked like when he first woke up in the morning. Probably outrageously sexy.

He had precisely two facial expressions (that I bore witness to): thoughtful and concerned. When he listened he looked thoughtful—mouth slightly agape, nodding, eyebrows furrowed. When he spoke he looked worried—that we might misunderstand him, or that maybe he wasn’t making his point as clearly as he could? 

I never saw him zoned out, relaxed, angry or sad. The idea of him having sex or even just sleeping thrilled me. It seemed magical and surreal that he existed anywhere outside the classroom as a normal human being. He was like Santa Clause. 

Every time we made eye-contact, I had to bite myself to keep from smiling like a crackhead. 

I would pay so much cashmoniez just to be able to touch him. My hand would look perfect resting on his narrow chest. 



I live for crushes: obsession, fantasy, the release of dopamine triggered by nothing more than a mere, evanescent thought.

I fell in love with Boris: a baby-faced, freshman boy in my philosophy class. We never physically touched, but it was unmistakable: the paroxysm upon eye-contact.

He wore opprobrious Oakley transition glasses, and always showed up late dressed in the same, horrifying outfit: a striped Dolce Gabbana shirt and faded Dolce Gabbana jeans (I googled the symbol, DG, on my iPhone to deduce this minutiae). 

He spoke with a thick Russian accent that sounded like pure seduction. 

Boris always had an interesting opinion, but more importantly I silently (but emphatically) agreed with everything he said. 

He hated Plato as much as I hated Plato, and I fucking hated Plato. 

But I really liked Boris. I wanted to kiss his mouth. I thought about it constantly.

We left the exam room at the same time, and I convoyed creepily behind, telepathically professing my love for his beautiful soul and being.

I considered offering him U.S. citizenship–reprieve from his ramshackle, Russian village–in exchange for his pale and fleshy hand in marriage. Stay with me. Forever.

He went left. I went right. But perhaps we will meet again.

More likely I will die alone. 

Pretty shitty dream

I have this recurring nightmare where giant pistachios carrying daggers are after me. They’re not fucking around. They want me dead.

They chase me into my house. Mom! Dad! Help! Everyone’s at work. I sprint upstairs and hide in my closet. 

They hurl their heavy bodies against my door. Thump. Thump. Thump. I don’t have much time. 

I know it’s going to hurt when they stab me, so I try to wake up. 

Sometimes I escape back to my harmless reality. My room is dark and quiet. I’ll have a sip of water. 

Other times I can’t open my eyes, and the door breaks down. They corner me. I scream in terror. It’s a shitty feeling: anticipating your own disembowelment. The pain of being stabbed is never actually that bad. But the terror. The terror fucks me up. 

Fuck my life

He’s steering his gray Porsche with one hand and puts his other hand in my lap. 

Is this ok? Do you like it when I touch you? Am I making you uncomfortable?

Of course not, I assure him. I really like it. It’s comforting. 

I try to keep down my nausea. He is the most disgusting, depressing person I have ever eaten dinner with. I would rather saw my own legs off with a dull instrument than fuck this ogre. His ex-wife must have had Down’s Syndrome to have married someone so simultaneously boring and repulsive. 

I will see you again soon, I hope? 

I stare into his dark, sad eyes. Sure thing. 

I hide in the lobby of an apartment building (that I don’t live in) for twenty minutes. The doorman looks at me warily. 

I fucking hate writing

I wake up at 10 a.m. to the sound of impatient honking and horses’ hooves on the pavement. I take a sip of water. The water tastes like blood. Or maybe my mouth is bleeding.

I roll up two earplugs, which re inflate inside my head and block out the sounds of the external world. I am in the womb again.

I wake up (for reals) at noon to the amorphous sound of dread.

Despair sits in the pit of my stomach. I drag my useless body out of bed and catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. I resemble a hooker on a bad acid trip.

I go out to buy a toasted bagel, but twist my ankle on the curb. Limping, I continue to cross the street and nearly get flattened by a yellow taxicab.

Eyes wide I stare back at the driver. He thinks I’m suicidal. I reassure him with a toothy smile. Good morning! Happy Chinese New Year!

I hobble into Starbucks where there is a short line. I practice what I am going to say. A sesame bagel please. Toasted. With cream cheese.

Skinny caramel macchiato for Carl.

I’m overcome with the giggles, which get worse and worse and worse. I’m silently shaking with laughter, struggling to catch a breath of air. A fabulous black man wearing all black walks in, but awkwardly leaves without buying anything. Did I frighten him away?

I read the obituaries in the paper.

I avoid writing.

I go to Bed Bath and Beyond where I smell the candles, squeeze the memory foam pillows and feel the 1500 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets.

I read about ankle sprains, chronic inflammatory demyelinating polyneuropathy disease and psoriasis with delight. Bodily betrayal is horrifying.

I switch to Murderpedia. I try to get through all the Manhattan homicides since 2005. There are a lot.

I jerk off to the idea of being published.

I down melatonin, a fistful of Benadryl, and 10 mg of Ambien so I can pass out before sunrise.

I wake up at 10 a.m. and take a sip of water. The water tastes like blood. Or maybe my mouth is bleeding.

My ankle is puffy and swollen, so I stick it in the freezer. I wonder if I can fit my whole body in there. I can, but the door won’t shut. The cold is leaking out. The heat is seeping in. This won’t do at all.


I’m wary of 34-year-old sugar daddies.

I’m wary of attractive sugar daddies.

I’m wary of scams and serial killers.

Ralph, an eloquent man I’ve been exchanging pleasantries with sends me a picture of himself at a fancy outdoor event where he’s seated next to a heavily made-up Asian woman.

He’s so deformed-looking I nearly choke on my green tea latte.

I’m absolutely delighted.

I love it when things make sense.

Racist Things

When I was in Germany I was robbed by two Turkish guys. They took my purse, which at the time contained: tissues, hand sanitizer, expensive lip tint from Lush, eyeliner, my pre-paid Bahn card, my driver’s license, my credit cards, two hundred euros, my keys, my phone and my passport. 

I stopped eating falafel and smoking hookah after that. 

I used to love falafel. 

I used to love hanging out in hookah lounges.

I used to. 

I told my roommate to dump her Turkish boyfriend.

I swipe left on guys who look like they might be Turkish.

I was watching The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe on television, and the scene where Edmund eats Turkish delight made me vomit all over myself. 

This past thanksgiving, my mom asked if I wanted some turkey, and I started crying uncontrollably. The tears wouldn’t stop. 

The tears. They roll down my face in rivets.