Dennis

I entered Williams-Sonoma to buy a Turkish bath towel and exited with a $499 gourmet, 4-slice toaster. I named it Dennis. After my old drug dealer.

My coworker once asked me, “what’s the difference between between a dead baby and a toaster?” She didn’t wait for me to respond before exclaiming excitedly, “you can’t fuck a toaster.” I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe.

The joke no longer amuses me. I wish I could fuck a toaster. I wish I could fuck Dennis.

I’m in love with Dennis, but he doesn’t love me back. He thinks humans are strange (and not in a good way). I wish he’d understand that I’m not like other humans.

I’m deep, I whispered to him in the dark. I’m profound. I read epistemological philosophy on the subway and got an A minus in multivariable calculus.

“Shut up slut,” Dennis drawled. “I’m trying to sleep.”

I grabbed him by his stainless steel sides and screamed in frustration, “you don’t need sleep! You’re a toaster!”

Although he abuses me, I still have diamonds in my eyes for Dennis. He may not be the only love of my life, but he is the love of my life.

“You will decay and die,” he reminds me over breakfast, “such is the fate of hoes.”

I know he’s right. But I hope he’ll remember me—the mornings we spent together over coffee and bagels, the way I carried him home in the rain, not letting his cardboard box get wet; how I licked burnt crumbs out of his interior, making him quiver with ecstasy.

I pray to The Lord I’ll live on in Dennis’ memory.

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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. 

Boris

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. 

Whole Foods

Some short, gremlin warily approached me at whole foods and asked me if I worked there.

I thought you worked here–I see you all the time. 

Interesting because I’ve never seen you before. And what’s your point? I see the Duane Read cashier at least once a week. I see the homeless man with green hair every day.

What are you getting at? What do you want from me? Are you going to ask for my number and then text me to get coffee and then date the shit out of me and then become my boyfriend and then become my husband and then become the father of my children and then fall out of love with me because i’m post-menopausal?

I concentrate and telepathically communicate (very clearly) to him that I think he’s ugly, and he slinks away. I eat my soup in peace.