5 Places Where You Should Never Be On Your Phone

[This post was originally published by Thought Catalog at on March 23, 2015. To see the post in all of its Thought Catalog-y Glory, you can click here. Or just read on…]

I am consistently appalled when seeing someone on their phone instead of interacting with the person next to them or enjoying the scenery. Apparently, you are allowed to stare at your phone while you are out to dinner. This is socially acceptable now. Fine.

There are some spaces that should remain sacred. These should be the cell-phone-free corners of the world, places where it is always inappropriate, unnecessary, pointless to be looking at, talking on, texting with or even holding a phone.

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A certain mood strikes me on a regular basis. I start scanning the house for things I no longer want. I check my closet for a nubby sweater or the basement for a dusty decoration. I put it in the Goodwill closet.

Giving it away feels good. Not the “giving” part, but the “away” part. Proving my detachment. If I can choose to relieve myself of things I am attached to now, perhaps that will ease the transition when something is ripped from my hands. Something or someone.


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Death Grip

A prose poem for you! In response to Writing 201’s Poetry Prompt: Fingers.

That bar has an air of annoying superiority. An unnaturally violent reaction surges. Digit by digit, I press her cocky windpipe. My thumb closes around her black rubber. Choked. The floor drops from my feet. Dangling on hope. I start the swift ascent, exhaling out spongy lungs’ weight, fears and failures. Fresh found lightness lifts my chin above a lifeless bar. Ah! There’s the victor’s view. A moment on the top. Now gravity, my enemy. Muscles trembling, chlorophyll-less leaves in an autumn breeze. I am grabbed and grounded, releasing grip. The bar revives, she breathes and taunts, asks to be choked once more.


Breakfast for Dinner

My car groans as I turn into an empty and winding drive-through around 8:30 on a Wednesday night. An amiable, male voice filters through the speaker.
“Welcome to Starbucks. How may I help you?”
“Can I have one Sausage Breakfast Sandwich, please?”
“Let me check if we have any left.”
I wait some seconds, considering my coffee order. The speaker clicks.
“Do you want one or do you want nine? We have nine sandwiches left. You can have them all.”

His playful question with a serious tone made me laugh with my dorkiest of laughs. Mouth open, teeth showing, nose scrunched kind of dorkiness. A regularly programmed thought snapped to attention: He is funny slash nice. I wonder what he looks like. I hope he heard a smile as I lean towards the speaker.

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Dear Low-Rise Jeans, We Need to Talk

[This post was originally published by Thought Catalog at on February 26, 2015. To see the post in all of its Thought Catalog-y Glory, you can click here. Or just read on…]

Dear Low-Rise Jeans,

A few weeks before my 29th birthday, I was asked to turn to page 29 of the nearest book and use the content to write a blog post. Amy Poehler’s Yes Please just happened to be sitting next to me. Page 29 just happened to be about the different kinds of pants that were popular in the eighties.

The use of italics here is purely ironic, my love handle extenuating friend. None of this just happened. It is fate. As is this letter to you.

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On the Edge of Thirty

IMG_2442I’m turning 29 next week. I might as well be thirty, since it’s the same thing. After you are twenty-five, you are basically thirty.

I find new gray hairs while examining a pimple. This doesn’t seem quite fair, but it is ironic in an Alanis Morissette kind of way.

I’m done with friendship and relationship drama. If you’re interested in getting mad or arguing over pettiness, I’m not interested in being around you.

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