Merchantville, NJ

Sleeping on a couch in a 2-story, 1-bedroom apartment filled with books. My clothes lived in suitcases stored in the dining room. I learned to smoke. I learned to hate my mother. I learned what it was like to have to start over, no friends, just me and D. All the family I ever had or needed.

We walked the 2.5 miles to the mall. We read everything there was, watched inane TV. One day, I got so bored I even cleaned the place. Top to bottom. I even dusted the goddamned books.

Sitting at my father’s kitchen table–it wasn’t a table, really, but a counter made out of milk crates and two newspaper slug drawers covered by a sheet of plexiglass–smoking (trying to smoke) his Black Russian cigarettes. Writing horribly cynical love letters to a guy I had only met once. Moving outside onto the top step of his back stairs to escape the pressing humidity. I tried so hard to pretend my 16 year-old world wasn’t falling down around my feet. Or if it was, I certainly wasn’t going to let it bother me. I bleached my hair blonde, and wished I could bleach my whole body, bleach away my mind, be reborn beautiful and carelessly carefree.

Wrote and wrote and wrote, trying to understand. It’s been five years, and I still don’t understand it all, it may be 15 more before I do. Or never. But at least I’ve finally managed to escape the humidity.