1) In no way was I saying that I was model. It was a joke!
2) Um. If you had a camera connected to your computer you would take the same sort of pictures.
3) It was a joke!
4) Seriously.
5) Josh, seriously. It was a joke.

In the city, you have a few ways to get around.
Taxi’s are expensive. The public transportation in this city has become as unpredictable as Britney Spear’s next move, owning a car and trying to find parking is like plugging two leaks with one finger.
So many of us resort to our feet.
Walking in to the city has always been one of my favorite things. If you know where you’re going, you can discover streets you didn’t know existed and houses to envy.
And you have plenty of time to think.
Last night I took the long way home from Websters Wine Bar. The streets were quiet and it was one of those warm November nights where you are teased in to believeing that this winter just won’t be as bad as the last. Home was about an hour away and lately I’ve been in no rush to get back. So a walk seemed great.
I plugged my ipod in to my ears and started following streets lights and sidewalks through neighborhood streets that were off the beaten path. I started to just think. About anything really. I thought about everything that had happened recently. I thought about how in almost a few weeks I have to start Christmas shopping and how all the tourists in the city at that time make Christmas shopping not that fun. I thought about how I needed new sheets and how I want to go to Europe sometime soon. I thought about how, as I passed three story homes that could be found in Dwell Magazine, my apartment is so little in comparison. I thought about all the mistakes I may have made in the past months. I thought about all the people I may be angry at when it comes to being forgiven for the mistakes I made.
And as I rounded a corner to cut through an alley. Surrounded by garages on one side and and brick walls after brick walls on the other, the yellow of street lights lit the alley with a yellow so bright it was as if the sun was closer to the the Earth. I thought about how life can be tough in so many ways.
And then I saw her. A woman probably in her early thirties. She was wrapped in what looked like blankets that had gone through a paper shredder. She was wearing a winter hat and sleeping in between a dumpster and a brick wall.
She wasn’t alone. She had a little girl with her. At least eight or nine.
When you live in the city you have options for getting around. Taxi cabs are a treat once in a while. The public transportation isn’t as bad is it could be and driving a car would be a dream if it could happen.
And sometimes you have to walk. And no matter how you get around you have to realize at least you have these options. And sometimes when you walk you realize that options aren’t as hard as they can be and worries can be so self-involved.
And sometimes, you can change perspective all in flash. You can decide that the options you have are better than other’s options. Christmas shopping looks fun. Even having the possibility of going to Europe is refreshing and the idea that home– even if there is no one there waiting for you like there used to be–is there waiting for you… and you can’t wait to be with it.

Today I am going to brag about my new computer I just bought. If you can’t handle that you should look away. If you can handle it then look what I can do!

That’s right. Not only will I efficiently accomplish all my work on this thing, I can also indulge in the fact that my computer totally allows me to be a model any single moment I call for it.
In a really important meeting. MODEL!

In a really not important meeting. MODEL!
During someone's explanation of the Theory of Relativity. MODEL!

During a really sad episode of Grey’s Anatomy. MODEL!
Ok. Maybe not the last one. You shouldn’t model during the super important things in life.

I have this calender on my fridge that I color code with markers. Red is for teaching. Cyan is for 2nd Story. Purple is for Boys From Jupiter. Light Blue is for New City Magazine. Orange is for this photo studio I work at once in a while. Green is for other performances I am doing, magenta is for deadlines and yellow is for my personal life.
Today I poured water in my favorite mug and leaned back on the counter looking at my calender from afar. The dates sort of blurred and all that was in focus where all the different colors.
Sometimes it’s a reality check seeing your life hanging right in front of you. Sometimes, when you think you’re having a bad day or a bad week or a bad month, you can see something like a filled calender with stuff you have worked so hard to get in to your life and remind yourself how pretty your life really is. Quiet colorful, really.

Josh and I are in the car going to IKEA.
When you live in the city this is a big deal. This is like road trip big deal. This is like you are going to bond on this experience of going to IKEA big deal.
Josh, he’s a good friend. He’s been there for me through all of this. Plus, he’s a business partner and we have this synergy. You know, that energy that is created when two people just get each other perfectly. We finish each others sentences. We tell jokes only the other gets and we make each other feel better in times of need. He’s pretty much the perfect boyfriend.
Except he’s straight.
So, we’re in the car listening to the radio.
“So, I was thinking.” I say. “I think you would be my perfect boyfriend.”
Josh is silent. (He doesn’t mind these conversations. He’s a cool guy.)
“I mean. Look at us. We don’t fight. We get each other’s humor and we don’t need to fill silences with something. Plus we can go shopping at IKEA together!”
Josh is silent.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He says.
“What?”
…well… I just don’t think we are like a relationship.”
“WHA??!??!”
“See, you do some things that, if I were seeing you all the time every single day, I would totally hate which would most likely cause us to break up.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno…”
“Like what? What do I do?” I shriek while making a sharp right turn on to the interstate.
“Nothing… I’m just saying… being friends with someone is different than being with someone…”
I sit and sulk for a second.
“Like what!? What do I do that bugs you?”
I realize this. Josh is a smart man. A real smart man. He will not tell me the things that annoy him because then I would apologize about those things or dwell on those things or quiz him on instances about those things.
I also realize this. IKEA is even farther away when you try to figure out what it is that drives Josh nuts enough to faux break up with you.

One of my students is due to have her baby any day.
She has been out of school on bed rest. She’s fifteen.
I just discovered this week that three other of my students are freshly pregnant and in nine months will be three more fifteen year old mothers.
As I tell the kids to open their journals and start jotting down anything they have on their mind(I call this the “burp-up.” The stuff you have to get out of the system before you start writing the good stuff)the kids are feverishly writing. As they do this I notice the empty desk where the ready to give birth girl usually sits. For the previous three weeks she had been sitting there with a belly the size of a watermelon and getting up to pee every seven seconds.
But in my mind, she’s still there.
A week ago we were chatting in the hall when I asked her if she knew what the baby was and if she was excited to have it.
“It’s a boy and no.”
“You’re not excited to have it?”
“No. I don’t want it.”
“You don’t! How come?”
“She looks at me and I swear I see her answer in her face. The way she still looks like a little kid that doesn’t even have her driver’s license. Her eyes just said: “Dude, you know I’m only fifteen and about to have a baby boy and have to take care of it while doing my homework and that’s even if I decide to stay in school.”
“I dunno.” She says as she heads out the door to go home.
When people ask me how teaching is going I smile and tell them it has changed my life. Those who have never taught say to me: “Wow, it must have. I mean, helping all of those kids trying to get somewhere with their lives must be so darn inspiring.”
But those who have taught will know the real answer. Teaching is selfish. Sure, it’s about passing your brains on to someone else. But, these kids are learning half the stuff that they are teaching me. Sometimes when I get home after the long day and I am in my apartment I imagine, I try to imagine, their lives as my life. I imagine having a baby that I have to pick up from a babysitter. I imagine having to figure out dinner for a little mouth. I imagine having to dodge the gang banging streets and taking the long ways to avoid the drug dealers. I even try to imagine being fifteen and having to deal with all these things.
And I can’t.
And what I am learning is that what I am trying to be is not a teacher. I am trying to be a super hero. In my dream world I would swoop in and scoop up all the kids and start them fresh. Show them they don’t have to have a baby to prove to a guy that she really loves him. I would erase their beliefs of what their futures should be and replace them with dreams and aspirations. I would be a different type of teacher. I wouldn’t teach them how to write a poem. I would teach them how to live the best life they could ever live.
But what these kids don’t know: They are the real superheroes. My superheroes. They must have powers up their sleeves to survive all they have to live through. That’s the only way I can imagine being in their places because that’s the only way they have to be able to make it…because…
I don’t know how they do it.
I just don’t know how they will do it.

When you are freshly single you also want a fresh start. New sheets. New smell. New life.
There is no way better to do this than to go shopping.
There is no better place to go to than to a bookstore.
You can peruse every section all the while being inspired by books and covers and titles you stumble upon. Your next path in life.
“Maybe I’ll take cooking classes somewhere.” I say to my friend Michele while skimming through a cookbook section at the bookstore. Bright pages of food photographs make me think this is a good place to start. Learning how to cook as the new me.
“Yeah. No. It might be fun, but it’s more fun to just eat.”
My friend Michele, she’s my party girl. The feel good friend. Beautiful, out-going, will never leave you behind. She will also tell you how it is.
“You should do something insane. You should just pack up everything and go to some exotic country where you can live with a tribe and just totally chill out. Michelle says to me as we turn down the foreign language aisle.
“Or, um, I could, you know, enjoy running water and just learn a language. How about Japanese!” I pick up a Japanese book set that screams that I can learn the language in two days with no problem.
“Eh, tribes and exotic countries make better stories.” Michelle says as she starts paging through a French book.
I start to imagine a life that she suggests. Cashing in my life savings and giving up lattes and busy streets and debit cards and nights out until four in the morning. I imagine myself in some quiet savanna at night with crickets chirping, stars blinking and a soft warm wind blowing over my body. I would be lying on my back looking straight up to the stars and hearing nothing but moving grass.
I could even be that kind of writer. One of those writers that disappears for years and writes while gone. He comes back with a million different stories about skinning zebras or cleaning water for tribes that have been desperate. I would journal by candle light and sleep in a tent made by palm leaves. Every once in a while I could send a bit of mail back to the states where my mom and close friends would pass the news that I am doing well and enjoying the delicacy of insects for dinner.
For a moment is sounds so perfect. I can see myself boarding a plane and turning around waving to everyone from my life mouthing “I’ll see you soon!”. And as the plane would take off I would watch as Chicago’s skyline would disintegrate in to a little model town, like a train set, and await what is ahead of me.
Some sort of new adventure. A fresh start to life.
“But, really, you can’t do that.” Michele says as we take the stairs down to the magazine section. “I would miss you too much. You’re needed here.”
We page through art magazines and then fashion magazines and then which ever magazine have the prettiest covers. And life goes on without crickets. Without any exotic tribes. Without any soft warm air. Without some adventure across the world.
Because I still have adventures waiting for me here or at least people who want me here. Plus, running away has never seemed to work for me in the past. I hate running away. It gives me blisters.
And, really, I’m not sure how long I really could live without a latte and good magazine. Really.

There are moments that will remind you that you are freshly single. A chicken breast will be in that moment.
See, I’m going to a wedding in three weeks. It’s back in Wisconsin and it’s for a friend that I have known for years. I got the invitation in the beginning of October and it was addressed to both Dave and myself.
I sent back the response card that we both would be attending and would enjoy the chicken breast.
And that’s fine. It’s cool. I had no idea all this was going to happen in the following weeks.
But then there is that second where you realize: “Holy crap. You are alone.”
“You aren’t alone.” My brother says to me on the phone when I realize I have to either a) find a date to bring to this wedding to not waste a chicken or b) call the bride and let her know that I won’t have a date which would lead to her asking why and then would lead to me telling her what happened which would totally be a weird thing to say to someone who is about to commit her life to someone else.
“But, I am.”
“No. You’re not. You have me.”
I have a brother. A cool brother. A brother that is two years younger than me. We talk every day and we text just as often. We have that friendship people work so hard for with their college roommates or best friends from childhood. He says stupid things that I will laugh at because there is twenty three years of inside jokes that don’t even need to be said aloud. He’ll let me scream in to my phone when I’m mad at the world. He’ll put me in my place when I get over dramatic … just like now.
“I guess.”
“B, you have me and you have tons of people.”
And I know this. I have great people. If you even knew how many great people I have in my life… and who have helped me get through this and so many other things you would be asking me: “What the hell are you complaining about then?”
But it’s not that I am complaining that I am alone. I’m complaining that my future is alone.
This wedding was something I just expected would be with Dave just like I expected moving in to my first house with him. Just like I expected going back to London to show him how much I love the city this upcoming winter. Just like I expected him at my next birthday and the birthday after that…
Everyday I am reminded that everything that was in order and good… things can fall a part.
But two years ago, before I lost my hero of a grandmother to cancer, I was sitting outside at dusk in her garden on a bench she had built out of old barn wood. It was quiet and summer and my bare feet were damp from the night wetness on the grass. She told me to look up at the stars. We both craned our necks to see the specs starting to poke through the almost dark purple sky. “When things were hard when I first moved to this country… when everything seemed so wrong and that I made a big mistake and I wanted to give up and fall apart I would look at the stars and start counting them and…”
I never got that. I never got why she didn’t finish the sentence or tell me why she counted the stars–something so trivial. You could never count every star. It was impossible. What would that do?
But I get it now.
Sometimes things that are so impossible are the things that remind us there are some things we can never control. Wedding invitations. Heart break. Futures.
Especially futures.

The Museum of Contemporary Art has this event called First Fridays. It’s this mess of arty types meeting fashionable types meeting business types meeting hipster types. People come dressed in sleek cuts and drink and listen to a DJ spinning all while checking out the art.
It’s a party with expensive decor.
But this past one was about color. They had MAC computers sitting at a table. You were to walk over and sit down and answer about eight questions. The questions went like this: “Which image makes you feel ashamed.” and out of two very randomly different images you were to pick which one made you feel a certain way. For eight questions you asked to chose one of two pictures for things like “Which makes you feel angry” or “which makes you feel sad.” At the end there would be a screen that told you what color your personality was based of the images you had chosen.
I was blue.
If you went to a chart you would find what each color meant. Blue meant charismatic and energetic and arty. Yellow meant dependable. Magenta meant something and green and red and orange and so on.
But then they identified which colors were compatible with others. Like blue was compatible with magenta.
You were supposed to walk away from the table and step in to the world with a dot sticker on your lapel or chest in search of the color you are compatible with.
I started to think how easy the world would be if we all had colors on our shirts. “I’m sorry. You’re a green. I should be careful with you because greens are not good for blues.” Or “You’re a magenta! Let’s talk.”
Because in a world that never stops it is easy to forget that people do have feelings and, like colors, we all have different values. Some people say things they know you want to hear. Some people lie to protect themselves from their fears. Others are open books who end up being burned. Whether it’s in trying to meet new friends or in dating or in just talking to someone else, you are always putting yourself out there with the possibility of being let down.
Sometimes we all act like we are color blind.

When you computer continues to crash and you continue to try to save files and then continue to be mad at it… do not hit your computer. Hitting your computer is probably breaking some sort of social moral in computer world that will get you in to a whole heap of trouble.
Or it will not want to make your computer to come back on.
And force it to make a “Varrrrrrrrrrrooooop” sound when it turns back on.
Which you imagine is the computer laughing at you.
Or crying… because you hit it kind of hard.
Either or, hitting is just bad.