My Life After Now

That’s the point. This healthy-feeling time now just feels like a tease. Like I’m in this holding pattern, flying in smooth circles within sight of the airport, in super-comfortable first class. But I can’t enjoy the in-flight movie or free chocolate chip cookies because I know that before the airport is able to make room for us, the plane is going to run out of fuel, and we’re going to crash-land into a fiery, agonizing death.

Listen, I wanted to say, I don't need your judgment, okay? I have enough to deal with without you contributing, so can we just get on with this so I can get out of here? But I couldn't form the words. Dr. Johnson viewed me as a child, and somehow, under his contemptuous gaze, I had regressed to one. I was frightened and shy, and it was all I could do to answer his questions and count the seconds until the end of the visit.

I felt entirely invisible and uncomfortably obvious all at the same time, sitting there in practically nothing in front of this stranger who was ignoring me.

I didn't want this man touching me in those places. It wasn't that he was being inappropriate, it was just more that he obviously didn't view me as a person, let alone a scared person with actual feelings. He just saw me as yet another scientific specimen there for his own experimenting. I squeezed my eyes shut, cringing the entire time.

I'd never wanted to punch anyone as badly as I wanted to punch her right in her perfectly little surgically-altered nose.

Now I know thinking is not your strong suit, but look on the bright side, at least you'll have this little puzzler to keep you occupied for the next hour or so.

There’s something about New York City that gives you permission to just be. There’s no need for pretense, no need for masks. You can be real, without risk. The buildings are your protectors, the streets are your tethers. The people…you will never see them again. Even when they’re right in front of you, you don’t see them. Not really. Just as they don’t really see you. New York is beautifully anonymous.

I checked my phone again one more time before crawling into bed, fully aware that Einstein's definition of insanity was repeating the same action over and expecting different results.

The thing they don't tell you in sex education classes is what to do after. It's all, "Don't do this, don't do that. And if you do do this or that, make sure you do it safely." But what about when you screw up? Then what? Where do you go? Who do you tell? How do you act? Sex "education" prepares you for nothing.