I Used To Be There, But No Longer

Sitting on the floor of my dorm, crying into the phone, asking where you are. It is voicemail #2.

In the bathroom, with the door locked, wiping away the toilet water that has splashed back onto my face.

Saying goodbye in a nursing home. Quickly walking out.

On line for Space Mountain, with my parents, just tall enough to ride.

The old Yankee Stadium, with my grandmother. She has one large beer and I am annoyed to share my Cracker Jack.

Cleaning up my first New York apartment, where we left one dead rose on the floor and I threw my twin bed onto the street.

Eating one coffee-flavored yogurt and marking in a book: One Coffee Yogurt. 120 calories.

Making small talk at a party to a guy who tries to get me to go in a cab with him, and then calls me a tease when I don’t. I say ‘I’m not a tease, it’s just that I’m tired.’ I feel bad in a way that I cannot untangle.

Drinking wine out of the bottle with new friends, a whole summer in Boston stretched out in front of me like I can be anybody I want—or just a girl in summer dresses who smokes.

On a first date with a guy who says ‘I’ll pay for any check that comes in a cup,’ and the first two places we went to had little white receipts in little glass cups.

My first Negroni, on a dark cocktail bar with a friend who is watching me: peering into the glass, afraid to try it.

The doctor tells me to countdown from ten, and I call him a nerd for listening to Dave Matthews Band during a surgical procedure.

On AIM, I tell my friend I have my first kiss. I tell her it is gross, and I tell her I think I am doing it wrong.

I move my tassel to the other side, hooting in a way that doesn’t make my throat hurt.

'You're beautiful,' he says. 'No, I'm not!'

I won’t ever say ‘No, I’m not’ again.