Optimistically Misanthropic

Absolution

2008-08-04T19:43:50Z

My first short story :)

Absolution

“Close your eyes and think about your happiest memory.”

I’m sitting here at the Suicide Prevention Hotline office, trying to counsel a kid who just took an overdose of barbiturates. He did this intentionally, and drank seven shots of vodka to top it off, but as he realized he was dying he panicked. He wanted to die but the moment he finished swallowing the vodka, the moment he realized this was for real and he didn’t have much time left, he got scared and called us. For peace. But how do you give peace to the dying?

“What do you see? Describe it to me.”

This kid, let’s call him John. John is close to the end right now. His voice barely audible, his words beginning to slur and his thought process slowed, he tells me his happiest memory.

“I’m at the beach, with my girlfriend. I’m 15, and we’re lying on a blanket together, looking up at the clouds. We’re trying to find different shapes.”

“Okay,” I tell him, “what was the weather like?”

He says, “It was really warm, but there was a nice breeze.”

I can tell he’s only got a short amount of time left, and he keeps fading in and out of consciousness.

“John, are you still with me?” I ask. When I hear him murmur a response, I continue. “Keep picturing that moment, John. Remember the way the sun felt as it beat down on you, the way the ocean sounded as the waves beat against the shore. Now reach next to you and hold your girlfriend’s hand, hold her close to you and tell her you love her.”

I’m in tears by this point, but I try to give this kid as much peace as I can. He’s really scared of dying, so I tell him this:
“That memory will always be there with you. When you die you’ll get to go back there, to that beach, and relive that day for as long as you want. Your girlfriend will be there waiting for you, and you can spend forever in that perfect day. Don’t be afraid, everything will be alight.”

Before I even finished that last sentence, I heard the phone drop from his hand as he slipped away. He was dead by the time the cops arrived at his place, but they told me he was lying in his bed, clutching a picture of himself and a girl at the beach. He looked peaceful, and died with a smile on his face. John was 17.

That night as I drove home, I thought of John. I wondered what happened between him and his girlfriend, and what drove him to suicide. I thought about the people who would miss him, and wished he had known that there were people who loved him. It was my second night working at the hotline, but this was the first person to die on me. Most of the people who called were desperate, lonely, and depressed. Some had guns or razors or bottles of pills close at hand, but John was the first person I had talked to that had already committed suicide. For John, there was no talking him out of it; the pills were already in his system, and there was no turning back. He was dying before I even got on the phone with him, and there was no way to save him.

Three years later, John is still the person I think about before I go to sleep every night. He would’ve been 20 this year, and with every passing day I wonder if things would’ve improved for him; if he had just waited one more day, one more week, one more year even, would things have still been so bad? I wonder if, wherever he is now, he can see the life he left behind, and if he regrets killing himself. I don’t believe in the afterlife, but I wonder.

When I was 13, my mom committed suicide. I came home one day to a note on the door, with instructions to go straight to the neighbor’s house and call 911, then my grandparents, and finally my aunt and uncle. I didn’t know what to think, so I did as the note said. After what seemed like an eternity, the ambulance arrived. What happened next is a blur, but I watched as the E.M.T.s wheeled my unconscious mother out on a stretcher and into the ambulance. The cops were there as well, to look around and ask questions I was too young to know the answers to.

I was curious, and wanted to go into my house to see what had happened, but the neighbors held me back and made me stay in their house until my grandparents got there. When my grandparents arrived, they took me into the house to gather some of my belongings so I could stay with them. What I saw has stuck with me ever since. Atop the plastic tablecloth on the dining room table, she had left bags of pills of every color. She had also slit her wrists, and the chair, table, and nearby stairs were covered in blood. The blood on the tablecloth had dried, and there were razor blades stuck to the congealed blood.
Because my grandparents lived an hour away, they let me stay with a friend so I could still go to school. This friend, Jessica, and I went back to my house to get more of my clothes a few days later. Nothing had been cleaned up; instead, I was the one left cleaning up her mess, one final time. I was too afraid to do it alone, so Jessica helped me as I gathered up the plastic tablecloth, with bags of pills and razorblades stuck to blood still on it, and threw it into a garbage bag. Together we poured bleach on the bloodstains on the stairs, and together we wheeled the blood-soaked chair out onto the patio and covered it in a sheet.

I never set foot in that house again. My dad flew me out to live with him in Utah a few weeks later, and my grandparents hired a cleaning crew to finish cleaning the house so it could be sold. I still think about Jessica, and wonder if seeing my mother’s mess left her scarred in any way.

It was my mother’s suicide, and the impact it had on me and my family, that left me with the desire to work for the Suicide Prevention Hotline. I don’t know what my mother’s reasons were, or what her final moments were like. She left a note, but I was never allowed to read it. I wonder if she called the hotline, scared and alone; I wonder if someone gave her the peace I was able to give John. And, like John, I wonder if she can see the life she left behind, and if she regrets killing herself.

How to look stupid when writing an essay:

2007-10-31T03:42:38Z

The following is a list of metaphors compiled by a college writing professor, taken from students' essays. Aside from any grammatical or spelling errors, these metaphors are a quick, easy way to turn your essay into a piece of crap.

1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two
sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances
like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience,
like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse
without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around
the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking
at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli, and he was
room-temperature Canadian beef.

5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog
makes just before it throws up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

7. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated
because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a
surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a
bowling ball wouldn't.

10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag
filled with vegetable soup.

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an
eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another
city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30

12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when
you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced
across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains,
one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the
other from Topeka at
4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket
fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds
who had also never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was
the East River.

18. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap,
only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike
Phil, this plan just might work.

21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not
eating for a while.

22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck,
either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping
on a land mine or something.

23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one
slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around
with power tools.

25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard
bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

I'd love to slip one of these into my next essay, just to see the expression on my writing professor's face...

A Game of You and Me

2007-10-04T04:51:57Z

A game gone wrong,

Lines blurred and rules ignored,

All for a destruction disguised as a coveted trophey.

An ego, worshipping false idols of manipulation and control,

The upper hand hung in the balance, but only for a moment.

Twisted, contorted, and taken away unnoticed, without protest.

A lifetime passed in minutes, an eternity in hours.

A heart, a soul, left in the wake,

Overdosed on apathy, forgotten until now.

A mind, fractured,

Protecting the present by hiding the past.

And so the game of you and me begins.

Naked

2007-10-04T04:50:42Z

I'm in the check-out isle at Fred Meyer, picking up a few necessities-bread, milk, eggs; nothing out of the ordinary. As I hand the money to the cashier, a quick look of recognition flashes in his eyes, and once again I find myself asking the now-familiar question, "Has this guy seen me naked?" Ever since the release of the two adult magazines I posed for, that question has found a place in the back of my mind, among the more common questions I ask myself daily, such as "Do I have something on my face?", or "Did I remember to lock my car doors?" Modeling has changed not only the way I look at myself, but it has effected the way others view me when they find out, and has taught me both the personal, and the societal, consequences the porn industry can inflict.
    Growing up with an eating disorder, I held myself at a much higher standard than anyone else ever could have. To me, the only real measure of worth, value, or beauty, was in how attractive or sexy other people thought I was. I had always wanted to model but had never thought it possible, until this past summer. I had just turned 18 and a whole new world of opportunities was now open to me. I had then weighed less than I had even in seventh grade and was a bit more pleased with my body than I had been in recent years. The idea to do the magazines first came to me as a way to make enough money to get my own apartment, but later became, in a sense, an act to prove to myself that I was worth something. Being in the magazine meant that I was finally good enough, and became a reward for all the years I had spent battling the mirror, and the scale; proof that the battles had not been fought in vain. Here I was, at long last model-material, and it was one of my proudest moments. In the short run, modeling gave me the confidence and self-acceptance I had so desperately craved and sought out for years. I didn't realize until later the effect it would have on me in the long run.
    There is a certain stigma, if you will, that society maintains when it comes to adult film or magazine stars. Most girls, out of jealousy or some other source of cruelty, stereotype females in the adult entertainment industry as "sluts." Guys, in my experience, have varying standpoints: some think it's no big deal, (these are the good guys); some cross themselves and either avoid me or try to "save" me, (these are the ones I run away from); but most simply assume that I just love sex and am therefore easy, and are usually disgustingly cocky in their assumptions, (these are the ones I slap). This is exactly why I usually save the conversation about my modeling experience until at least the second date, although I must admit it makes for one hell of an ice-breaker. Seeing if a person's opinion of me will change after I tell them about the magazine is always fun; I can often see the different emotions flash across their face as they struggle to comprehend what I've just told them.
    It was not until months later that I came to fully understand the repercussions of posing for an adult magazine and what it really meant for the world to see me naked. It goes beyond the constant questioning of who's seen the photos; the silent wonder of if my father, or grandfather, or even one of my teachers or employers has seen them, but never daring to ask because if they haven't, then I have to explain myself, and if the have, they probably won't admit to it because admitting to seeing me in those magazines would first and foremost require an admission to looking at the magazine itself. There's a certain vulnerability in exposing your entire body for the world to see. I was naïve in thinking I could show my body to the world and still keep the same innocent outlook on the world. I realize now the deeper ramifications the porn industry has on society. It objectifies women, and exploits them in a way that can't be denied. Just as runway modeling sets unattainable standards of beauty, the porn industry sets unattainable standards of sex appeal. It gives many men the idea that women are sex objects. It trivializes promiscuity and leaves men with high expectations when it comes to sexual performance as well. The porn industry, as it becomes more mainstream every year, has left America desensitized towards sex in general, and has helped it to become as meaningless to most as walking the dog or taking out the garbage.
    I don't think the porn industry is all bad, nor do I look down upon those involved in porn. I don't regret posing for the magazines, either. It was a fun experience, and I learned a lot from it. I feel that while pornography has had a negative effect on society, it has also helped create a more liberal atmosphere and has shed light on what used to be a taboo subject. It's always better to know too much about a subject than not enough, even if you become jaded as a result. I will always wonder though, when I walk into a room, if any of the men in that room have seen those magazine issues, but perhaps that is not such a bad thing. After all, immortality is living on in the memories of others, through writing, acting, modeling, etc. Perhaps this will be my source of immortality (or my infamy).

Terror

2007-10-04T04:47:31Z

Words can have an amazing effect on people. One simple word can start a war, or save a hundred lives. Abstract concepts, such as gloom, excitement, or pain, all have deep emotional ties and immediate connotations that differ for each person. For many, the word "terror" might bring about an image of a horror movie, but for me it paints a much more vivid picture. I see a mask of a man, young and handsome, with a charm George Clooney would envy, and the face of the monster that lies beneath, evil and cruel, with a sadistic nature that mirrors the devil.
   Terror is the slow realization, after getting everything you wanted, that you've sold your soul to the devil. It is the precipt of pain, the feeling in the pit of your stomach when you know something terrible is coming. It is the calm before the storm, the look in his eyes when you can see Hell reflected back at you. Terror is a desperation, when you frantically search into someone's eyes, silently begging them to break the code of silence and save you, but know deep down that they will only turn away and feign blindness when the final blow sends you reeling to the ground. His friends will sit there on the bed, watching TV and eating the food you prepared, and turn up the volume should your screams interfere with the music on the screen.
   Terror is the instinct to duck, to coil into fetal position like a child playing dead before a bear. That instinct becomes increasingly intense until it leaves you flinching every time he raises his hand, even when he only means to hug you. Terror is the anxiety of never knowing what will set him off next but knowing all the time that the next punishment will be worse than the last. It is in the broken bones, and can be found in the bits of cartilage and puddles of blood upon the objects in your path as you fall; it is in the bruises as they slowly fade away, awaiting another to take their place. Terror runs down your face with every tear you cry, begging him to stop, and it is there in every tear that grazes your cheek as you beg him to stay. The fear of being alone becomes stronger than the fear of being hit, and you become comfortable in the violence the way a prisoner becomes institutionalized.
   Terror is woven into the isolation he has blanketed you in, and it's what keeps you from getting help. Terror lies beneath the irony of how, when you finally get the courage to go to them, the police refuse to help you. The disbelief, frustration, and finally humiliation of having the officer look you straight in the eye and call you a liar, despite the broken nose and bruised, swollen face, all compound into terror when you realize that you are completely alone, that even those who are meant to "protect and serve" will not save you from him. Instead, they are more to blame for the harm that will come to you, and every girl after you, for they have sent you back into the hands of a monster, and have sentenced every other girl he chooses to the same fate.
   Terror drips down your forehead and forces your heart to pound faster as you run away in the middle of the night, taking back streets and alleyways until you're clear across the county. It is knowing that you'll never be free, that five months later and 3,000 miles away, you're still under his control. Terror is what you feel when you worry that each car passing is him coming to kill you, that every man you see in "ghetto" style clothing is him hunting you down. The most terrifying experiences are the flashbacks that leave you curled up crying, and the nightmares that leave you gasping for air. Terror is mirrored by seething hatred when you realize that even this essay is testament to the control he still has on your life, even though you know the bastard doesn't deserve so much as a second thought. It is the fact that he still owns a part of you, and you don't know how long it will be until you can say otherwise.
    Terror is the skeleton in your closet, the monster under your bed. It will always be lurking in the dark. And terror will mean something different to each person asked to define it.

Masquerade

2007-10-04T04:43:11Z

it's funny how we dance around it,
that question no one likes
so we play our parts and read our lines
in this endless masquerade

but when the chips are set in place
perhaps we'll wonder why
instead of asking what was right
we stood and watched them fall

on to the next, it's time to move on
and all that's left is doubt
the good times fade as the bad ones remain
and still that question persists

we should have asked it long ago
but we needed our status quo
maybe it was a dangerous question
but maybe we could have been saved

and when the chips are set in place
perhaps we'll wonder why
instead of asking what was right
we stood and watched them fall

is it easier to hide our feelings,
to pretend like nothing is wrong?
or are we just afraid that asking it
will make that intuition something real?

and so we keep on dancing
around this growing question
and pray we have our scripts
in this endless masquerade

but when the chips are set in place
perhaps we'll wonder why
instead of asking what was right
we stood and watched them fall

Sex(ism) in Advertising

2007-10-04T04:41:45Z

The women's rights movement was a war waged by our mothers and grandmothers, in generations past. But who is to say the war doesn't still rage on? The cry for gender equality has long since been forgotten or dismissed, swept under the table to make room for the next injustice the media told us to focus on. In a society where a fresh, exciting battle for a different minority group's rights is promoted by the media with every flip of the channel, a society that has an average attention span of five minutes, and is presently so concerned with equality and individual rights that it is next to impossible to be politically correct and not offend an the overly sensitive audience, it is not hard to see why so many people have lost interest in finishing the war for gender equality. Most young people today are either ignorant of or indifferent towards the sexism that, nearly forty years after the first spark of the women's rights movement was ignited, still prevails. But today's war for equality between the sexes has evolved, taking on a much more underhanded and at times almost subliminal form. Instead of fighting for our right to vote, a straightforward and honest battle that previous generations of women fought and won for us, our women of today must try to eradicate sexism in advertising in a time when most don't even recognize it exists. Advertising, be it a commercial or a print ad, is typically sexist and has a bad effect on women and young girls.
   For the purpose of this essay, I will define "sexism" as the objectification, exploitation, and degradation of females, specifically for purposes of profit in some manner, either monetary or simply a gain of power. Before 1925, advertisements focused on promoting the product itself, rather than using sex to sell it. However, marketers soon realized that provocative ads sold their product better, even when the main focus of the ad had nothing to do with what it was supposed to be advertising. Currently, the purpose of advertisements is to promote and exploit the public's insecurities, keeping them dissatisfied and thereby boosting sales when offered a quick fix, such as diet pills as a cure for low self-esteem. The most profitable advertising relates products to real human emotions and desires, and sadly the most attention-getting human desire is sex. Using sex to advertise not only peaks the consumer's interest, it tends to keep it. However, in many commercials and print ads, the underlying message is often sexist. Women are shown either in traditional domestic roles, either cooking, cleaning, or tending to the kids, or they are shown scantily clothed, ready and willing for sex in almost any situation. They are portrayed as sex objects, something to be owned and possessed, used and abused. The body stance of many women in ads is passive and vulnerable, while men are portrayed as being confident, aggressive, and powerful, usually standing with feet shoulder width apart and arms crossed. If women are shown in the workplace, the ad usually trivializes women's work by depicting them in clingy skirts and low-cut blouses, more concerned with sex appeal and availability than actual work. One advertisement for Braeburn sweaters reads, "Phoebe chose to work, not because she had to, but because it gave her a place to wear her Braeburn sweaters." Advertisements also sell "normalcy", values, and ideas to the audience: you must look, think, and act like this to be accepted. They send the message to women that beauty is the most important thing; you must be skinny and gorgeous to get a husband or even a good job. The most disgusting part is that most of the time ads use beautiful women in seductive poses to promote an item that has absolutely nothing to do with the woman. Take for example the ad for Longchamp luggage: a half-naked, skinny, painted woman is put between two suitcases. How does a scantily clothed woman relate to a suitcase? She doesn't. And let's not forget the beer commercials, showing seductive women in bikinis or lingerie that just happen to pop up as soon as you buy that six pack. "Buy the beer, get the girl," is what the commercial is really saying, although it almost never happens that way (sorry, guys). So why do all of these advertisements use women or the idea of sex to sell their products? As Calvin Klein himself put it, "The abundance of bare flesh is the last gasp of advertisers trying to give redundant products a new identity." Sex sells better than any other form of advertising, but it is also a desperation tactic by advertising executives with no creativity or imagination.
   Women have been strongly affected by the way ads have portrayed them. Many women have lower self-esteem after viewing advertisements that tell them they should look like the 5'11", 117lb model they see in every magazine, commercial, and TV show. This leads to eating disorders and extreme dieting for a lot of young women when they try to become the "ideal" woman based upon the standard of beauty the media bombards them with. Lower confidence also keeps women more insecure, submissive, and less likely to lead a public life, say in politics. Ads often show pieces of women, focusing on just their legs, or butts, or breasts. This is a literal objectification of them, glaringly obvious yet ignored. The "piecing" of women, and the message that we are objects, reinforces the male mindset (for some) that women are meant to be possessed or owned, which can lead to sexual harassment, rape and violence towards women. Often times women suffer from decreased feelings of self-worth, and start to accept what the media tries to tell them, and lower themselves and their standards in the attempt to become "perfect", until they become that stick figure, domesticated, agreeable doll who's only interest is her appearance and catering to her man. Ads that depict women in "childish" clothing, or innocent stances, such as having either their finger or a lollipop in their mouth, or acting childish enforces the notion, "Don't grow up; stay passive, powerless, and dependent like a little girl," as well as sexualizing children in the process.
   The consequences of sexism in advertising reach our children at an alarming level as well. Designers, from Christian Dior to Target brands, are making thongs, panties and bras with ruffles and bows for sizes made for six-year old girls. A five-year old girl can now dress exactly like her seventeen-year old sister, in clothing that really isn't even appropriate for the seventeen-year old. Younger girls are dropping their Barbie dolls to apply make-up, and their clothing is getting skimpier every year. Just look at the Mary-Kate and Ashley line of clothing at Wal-Mart, which offers pre-pubescent girls mini-skirts and halter-tops. Perfume, make-up, and revealing clothes, and the sexualization of our children, are all direct results of the use of sex and sexism in advertising. Children see ads in which sex is glorified, and learn to measure themselves by their sex appeal, and begin to see sex as the most important quality in a relationship. This mindset leads to eating disorders, depression, and promiscuity later on, and often begin to see themselves as sex objects. According to a study released on Monday, February 19, 2007, by the American Psychological Association Task Force on the Sexualization of Girls, many young girls have become more focused on their appearance, causing them to do poorly in school. But that's okay, isn't it, since according to the media, the appearances are the only thing that matter, and as long as a girl is beautiful, she will be successful and happy. An adult might recognize the glaringly obvious fallacies in the previous statement, but what else is a child supposed to think when she sees tee shirts in the mall with slogans such as, "Who needs a brain when you have these," plastered across the chest?
     I want a world where women are free to love their bodies, without society telling them they must measure up to an unattainable standard. I want to live in a society where women are more than the sum of their parts, where they are not objectified, demeaned, or sexualized in advertisements. I want my children to grow up at their own pace, without the pressure to dress or act sexually in order to fit in. The sexism that previous generations fought against has been accepted, if not gone unnoticed, by most of today's generation. I don't want the fight to be over, nor do I want my grandmother's battles to have been in vain. Using women and sex to sell products is NOT okay. It hurts everyone, especially women and young girls. I hope to live to see a society in which I am not constantly bombarded with sexually explicit and demeaning images in every product advertisement.

Failure of Romance

2007-10-04T04:39:34Z

This idea just barged into my head as I got out of the shower, so I'm going to run with it before it disappears.

I wonder if the divorce rate in this country could have far deeper roots than adultery or "falling out of love". From infancy we are exposed to, perhaps even brainwashed by, ideas of what love should be. Disney teaches us that we should be swept off our feet by a knight in shining armor. (I'm not even going to touch the sexism inherent in those disney movies; who falls in love with someone after just dancing with them? Not to mention the prince always picks the girl based on her looks alone; what kind of love is that vain?) We learn from childhood that we should look for our "one true love", and not settle for anything less. The movies, magazines, and most other media shows us how love is supposed to look: innocent, passionate, and eternal. So we learn that one day we will meet our true love, be swept off of our feet by kind, gentlemanly gestures and brooding good looks, and spend our lives happily ever after with that one person. And I think that is where the problem lies. Our exposure to the media has given us much higher standards for what love should be than the generations past could have even dreamed of. True, marriages weren't always happy in the past, especially when arranged, but there didn't seem to be so many unhappy or divorced couples. Maybe the media has taught us to want a love that isn't typical, one that very few people actually find. In reality, love is clumsy, and marriages are never perfect, but instead require both partners to put in effort. Good relationships are good because both partners care to work hard in the relationship, have open communication, and go out of their way to do something nice for the other every once in a while; no matter how much two people love each other, a relationship can't survive forever on love alone. Because of our over-exposure to the media, we have higher, unattainable ideals about love
and wind up disappointed or alone because we can't find the relationship we're told we're supposed to have. Perhaps this also can explain why we cheat: we find our own relationships to be less than what we've been expecting since childhood, so we look for someone we think can give it to us, though in the end we eventually realize that they can't.

So I know this isn't very well written, but I'm late for class and am basically just venting a vague thought that came into my mind.

Untitled

2007-10-04T04:38:06Z

I introduced you to your death, or so it will be, ceteris paribus. We were the influence, and we took pride in our destruction. But for your sake, I wish it wasn't so. I wish that I had never done that line, and had never cut one for you. I wish that I hadn't taken all those different pills, and that I'd never offered you your share. Maybe if I hadn't been the first to step outside of the group, you would have stayed within the confines of the little red pills. I was the first to do so many things, but I'll forever regret being the one to introduce you to them. And now I've left you once again, and left you worse off than when I met you. Even though I stopped using everything, I've left you with all of my old habits. All I'm left with are memories of all the fun times we've had, and the regret of leaving you behind. I'll never forget the night I watched you almost die, and I hope you change before you really do kill yourself. I miss you, and there's not a day that goes by without my thinking of you, and worrying about you. But I have to say goodbye tonight. I can't keep watching you disappear. I'll always miss you. Somehow it seems fitting that a Placebo song will always remind me of you.

"You're the one who's always choking trojan
You're the one who's always bruised and broken
Drunk on immorality
Valium and cherry wine
Coke and ecstasy
You're gonna blow your mind

I understand the fascination
I've even been there once or twice or more
But if you don't change your situation
Then you'll die..... Please don't die"
--Placebo

For Sale: Interview with a Prostitute

2007-09-21T06:35:26Z

    As you drive down US1 between Young Circle and Hallandale Boulevard, in the cities of Hollywood and Hallandale Beach, Florida, you will probably see a young girl, or a maybe even a few. It doesn't matter the time of day you pass by; they are always out. Depending on how new you are to the area, you may or may not see them for what they are—prostitutes. Some of them are new to the business, some are old pros, and many are there because of drugs, in one way or another. There are girls for every taste and every price range. You can find them in every color—black, white, or tan, and every size as well. Almost all are older than 18 and younger than 40. Most are poorly groomed and have questionable hygiene, a hazard that comes with the job. One way you can tell the new girls apart from the more experienced ones is the way they take care of themselves; the longer they are on the street, the less they care about looking pretty. The newer girls are often more susceptible to being taken advantage of, as it takes a few weeks to gain the assertiveness that is so necessary for the job. Prostitution is the world's oldest profession, illegal in 49 states in the US, including Florida. Yet it is a problem that no one has been able to fix, despite centuries of trying. Society looks down upon prostitutes, but rarely tries to help them, or even understand how they got to the point of selling their bodies. Prostitutes are still human, and have feelings just like the rest of us; they are not just objects to be dismissed and ignored. Many of them are victims of circumstance, since we all know that no girl dreams of selling her body when she grows up. In the hopes of fostering an understanding, I went down to US1, an area known by most for prostitution, and met Anna.
    Anna was 18, and had been there for just over one week when I met her, still new to the game and still "fresh meat" ready to be devoured by every guy who came looking for a date. Contrary to many assumptions, Anna came from a middle class family. She was a high school graduate. She wasn't an addict, either. She wasn't perfect, but she was far from the type of girl you'd expect to see turning tricks.
    Then she met Jake. He was everything she had ever wanted: charming, attractive, and strong. They moved in together almost right away, and rented a motel room weekly while they saved up for an apartment. Well, that was the plan anyway. Not long after they started living together his true colors showed through, and he stopped controlling his temper. "It started out kinda like a game, you know? I wasn't allowed to talk to other guys, or even look at them. I had to keep my eyes down whenever there were other males in the room, and I couldn't talk unless he gave me permission. Otherwise there were consequences. The bad part was that I couldn't control who called me, and whenever any guy would call my phone, even someone I'd been friends with long before I even met Jake, he'd completely go crazy and sometimes hit me," says Anna, completely devoid of emotion. "I just feel so used, thinking back on it. He always promised he'd pay me back, every time he convinced me to lend him the money for cocaine; he completely cleaned out what little was in my bank account, and left me over $400 overdrawn. But he's nicer on cocaine—it's when he's drunk that I wish I was dead."
    With no money, and no way to pay rent or to support his habit, Jake made Anna beg at gas stations, claiming she'd run out of gas and her card was declined. Believe it or not, this worked, mostly in part to how innocent Anna looked. As she recited the little story she would use, "Excuse me, ma'am, I'm really sorry to bother you but my car ran out of gas and I really need to get home, but my card isn't working. Do you maybe have a couple of dollars you could spare? I'd really appreciate it," I couldn't help but admire her sweet charm and angelic mask. Jake's other scheme to make money was to go into a movie theatre before the movie started, ask people to borrow their ticket stubs, and return them at the front desk. "It really wasn't that hard, just humiliating. But the gas station thing was so much worse; I hated begging and felt bad taking advantage of the nice people," she explains. As strange as it sounds, those were the better days. Things quickly got even worse.
    "It all started with James." When I asked Anna what she meant by this, she told me of the first time she was solicited. James was an older man of about 70, who worked the overnight shift at the Shell gas station. He had a foot fetish, and was known to give out a few dollars of gas or a pack of cigarettes for a girl who let him suck on her toes. In need of both gas and cigarettes, Jake sent Anna to see James. "It was alright; I mean, it didn't feel bad or anything, and actually kinda tickled," she says, giggling. "But I shouldn't have mentioned what he asked of me. James offered me $200 for strictly foreplay, but I didn't want to and I loved Jake. When I went back into the car, I told Jake what he said, thinking Jake would laugh about it. Instead he took it seriously and told me to do it. I refused, not only because I loved him, and couldn't understand why he would want me to be with another man, but because I didn't want to sink that low, by selling myself." Jake wouldn't take no for an answer, though, and went into the Shell to talk to James himself. When he came back to the car, he told Anna that she was doing it, and would be at James' door at 11pm in two nights. He also told her to go back into the gas station, because James wanted a preview right then for $40. "I hated it. I nearly cried as I got down onto my knees on the cold, hard tile of the Shell restroom, and closed my eyes and opened my mouth for what would be one of the most degrading moments of my life. That Friday night with James was no better, although the money certainly was. I earned $200 in 45 minutes, but at a price that no amount of money could make up for. I remember writing in my journal, 'Last night I sold myself on my knees for $200. I know this will later destroy me but for now I have to not think about it.' It was strictly foreplay, as he said, but that doesn't make it much better, does it?"
    I had no answer for the girl who had been through so much, yet could speak of it in the same tone she would use to tell me about a book she just read, or a movie she just saw. Anna was telling me her most humiliating deeds, baring her soul with such honesty I've not seen before, and she was doing it without shedding a tear. Maybe she had hardened herself for protection, or maybe she was already empty inside.
    Unfortunately, it didn't end with James. Jake began putting her on the street, making her walk up and down the surrounding blocks until she got customers. "It was only EVER oral. I never had sex for money. I know it doesn't sound much different, but it was the only thing that kept me going—knowing I wasn't like the other girls, that I hadn't sunk that low, that part of me was still mine. I never really thought of myself as a prostitute, either. I'm not sure why, maybe it was because I was new to it. Besides, Jake 'checked' me every time I came home; if he suspected I did more than perform oral, he would beat me. I was to accept no less than $80 per guy, and was to come home with no less than $200 each night." I asked her what she meant when she said he "checked" her, but the answer I got was not one I could print in this report. I asked her if she ever got in trouble, from the cops or otherwise, and she nodded.
    "A couple of customers gave me problems. One guy wouldn't let me leave for almost an hour, much longer than I was supposed to spend with one customer, and gave me a napkin with what he claimed to be cocaine as payment. I was too afraid to speak up, but got beat up when I got home, not only for taking so long, but because what the guy had given me was in fact baking soda. This other guy gave me $70 up front, and said he would go to the ATM when we were done for the rest. We finished, and he drove to the ATM, but when I got out of the car, he locked me out and drove off, leaving me in the middle of nowhere. All I could think of was Jake, and how scared I was because I knew he would really hurt me for being late, and I knew it would take me at least an hour to walk back to the motel. Luckily, a nice older man picked me up, and also became a customer." It surprised me to hear her consider that lucky, but I suppose it saved her from a worse fate. Through the entire interview so far, Anna has remained calm, with a disturbingly flat affect, even as she retells events I could never even imagine. We ended our interview there, and I gave her $100 for her time, mostly to ensure her safety, and gave her my cell number in case she needed help. A month passed before I received a phone call from her, and when I did she was already in Oklahoma. She filled me in on everything that had happened since we last spoke.
    After a week of going out every night, a week of an average 3 customers per night, things came to the breaking point. It was the night after I interviewed her. She told Jake she was leaving him, and when she stepped inside the motel room he grabbed her hair and slammed her face into the corner of the bedside table, breaking her nose and leaving her face swollen and bruised. Afterward he apologized, and made her go to work, broken face and all. Of course, she got only one customer with a face looking the way it did. It was that night that she really formulated a plan to escape. She got back in touch with an old friend who lived on campus at FIU, a university close to a half-hour south of where Anna was staying. Two nights later, after working a full night and earning over $300, she hailed a taxi and went to FIU. "I left with nothing but my purse—everything else was still in the motel room. If Jake had seen me leave, or had known I was planning to, he would have killed me. I know he would have." With a little smirk, she adds, "Besides, I left him with absolutely no money, and rent was due that morning."
    She was left with almost nothing, and her family wanted nothing to do with her. The miracle came when Anna got back in touch with her birth mother, whom she had never met but had spoken to a couple of times. She told her mother everything, and her mother booked her the next flight out to Oklahoma, where she lived. Anna was now living happily with her newfound family.
    I was amazed at how well things had worked out for her, yet saddened to know that not every girl gets out so quickly, and some never even do. Anna is only one of many women who get forced into prostitution by a boyfriend. According to Joel Parker, a registered nurse, pimps often target women who come from families where they have been abused or neglected, who are more needy and vulnerable than other women. The pimp usually starts off by pretending to be the perfect boyfriend, gaining the trust, devotion, and love of the woman. "The boyfriend gradually becomes extremely controlling, and eventually violent. He introduces commercial sex in terms of his pressing need for money, and 'If you love me, you will do this.' He quickly transitions from 'just this once' into 'You are just a whore, my whore!' and requiring daily prostitution." Part of the fault also lies in society's attitude towards prostitutes. Many people assume all prostitutes are there by choice, or because of drugs, and view prostitution as a victim-less crime. Unfortunately, what may be seen as the woman's choice to stay is often Stockholm Syndrome. Stockholm Syndrome can occur when the woman has no chance to successfully fight or leave, and instead tries to form a protective bond with her boyfriend (or pimp). "She hopes that if she can prove her love and loyalty to the pimp, she can 'love' him into being good. This can become such a desperate attachment that she actually believes she loves him, and passes up chances to escape." I hope that after reading this you think twice about judging a prostitute, and assuming they are just worthless trash. They are women, and deserve respect, and perhaps instead of looking down on them, it might be better to find out why they are in that situation, and even try to help them before they become another statistic.

Tin Man's Quest

2007-09-21T06:33:27Z

You left me then, when I was nine
In a room with the tin man,
Over the rainbow.
You left me in the care of a lifeless zombie.
I knew though,
That you'd never really been there at all.
And I have searched for you
Everyday since then
Only to find your ghost.
Every now and then I'd think
I'd finally found you,
When I'd catch a glimpse of you
In someone else's eyes.
But as I got closer, you'd only fade away
Every single time.
You left me again when I was seventeen.
Three times that year you left me
With only the tin man's quest.
Each time the sorrow turned,
First to despair, then to emptiness,
But it never disappeared,
Unlike you.
But I left you, too, when I was eighteen.
I think I wised up.
Twice that year I thought I'd found you.
The first time you faded away,
And I realized you weren't there at all.
The second time you were there,
With all of Nemesis's anger.
You didn't fade, but grew stronger
And I knew I had to go.
I'd finally found you,
After nine long years,
But what I found was a dream
That had long since turned into a nightmare.
I wonder if things would be different
If I'd known then what I know now.
And I wonder if I'll ever find
What I've really been searching for all along.
The tin man gave me his quest,
Long ago, over the rainbow,
While the zombie slept on
And the ghost faded away.