You said I must eat so many lemmons because I am so bitter.

The title is simply due to my Kate Nash kick; thank you, Pandora radio.

I'm going to try and free associate some paragraphs, just for fun.

I want to write again; I want to feel lady creativity beat through my veins, cloud my vision, fill my lungs, and rock my stomach again. I miss her. Sure, the bitch punches like Tyson, breaks bones like a car accident, aches like a heartbreak, but she's alive. She forces one to notice the world around her, breathe in the happiness and sadness and indifference of the world by way of covering your mouth with her cold but soft hand.

I close my eyes and wait for her to step into my body, take over my insides and abuse my motor skills. When she's in control, one can taste sunshine. One can smell inspiration. One can shiver in the heat and sweat in the cold.

Something unsnaps. I hear it. The back of my head opens like the red door of a townhouse, easily but with a creak which quietly indicates how old the home is. She slips inside, simultaneously filling me with worry and relief. Her delicate, cold fingers carefully run against the gray walls, and she kisses the backs of my green eyes with her warm lips.

I detect her whispers and feel my arms begin to relax as she begins to take over. My stomach tightens and shoulders roll back; I stand slightly taller and breathe in a sweet scent I could only label as "love."

My hips shift, and I take in a shallow breath. Creativity likes to abuse her powers; she tugs all sorts of strings so one doesn't know whether she's coming or going. A moment of euphoria shakes my body, and I notice Creativity's lips and fingers slowly making their way down the inside of my body, heading for the location where love and wanting confusingly become interchangeable.

I shiver loudly and pull a breath into my throat when her fingers graze my most intimate point. She continues to explore the walls of my stone body until she reaches my feet and tickles them.

I laugh. I open my eyes. I put down my pen.

The first three pages of a love story sit upon my desk, waiting to be reread.

The Phoenix

Rebirth.

Isn't that the metaphor for spring? Then what is the metaphor for summer? Besides hot and sticky? No. Not metaphors. Adjectives.

I'm sitting at work, completing the meaningless tasks part-time employees finish when there is nothing else to do. So, whenever the page that I'm updating loads, I quickly type a line here.

My mind has been drifting away with thoughts of metaphors, absolutes, love, family, and summer.

Brooklyn is an absolute for me. I belong here like I have never belonged anywhere. I feel it in my bones, in the salt of my sweat, in my dyed and damaged hair follicles. But with that absolute comes other absolutes. My right contact will always dry quickly; it's done this since the July day in 2009 I moved here, probably due to the pollution. I will always crave Mexican food. I will always try my best to keep my utilities at a low cost.

But in this transition and assimilation to New York, I've also begun to realize how we react to those souls who come in contact with us and the purpose they serve in our lives.

My roommate. I don't think there are words invented for an unbreakable soul such as hers. She's been the best roommate I've had, and she's been there for me when I needed her most. I've gotten stronger and have learned a lot about myself and about life because of her. I know this seems vague and perhaps a bit cliche, but it's true.

My first love. He was there for the transition, the original move. He was there to break my heart. One day, I should thank him for doing so; I learned that I can survive heartbreak. Unfortunately, my damned Scorpio attitude might never allow me to speak to him again. And that's fine by me.

My new friend. The Russian Jew. She's this wonderful, brightly glowing beauty who managed to sneak into my life and into my heart. Although she has a bit of a cynical side, she is my positive energy. She keeps me in balance, and together we learned how to let go of the past, of the men who no longer wanted us. I'm so lucky.

My new boy. He came out of nowhere like a loud, crazy, blue-eyed, confident cartoon character in an old Looney Tunes airing on The WB. He takes the train 40 min to visit me after he's finished with work at 9:45 PM, even if for only a few hours. He makes me feel beautiful. He makes me feel loved again in that way only a man can. He makes sure to take me from Manhattan to Brooklyn in a cab late at night, even though he can't afford it. I see beauty inside of him. And I think I may love him.

I have to work, and I have much more to say, but I know that this is a new beginning. I know that although we make our own destinies, everything happens for a reason. God only wants to make us stronger. I know it.

<3

Huh.

How soon is too soon to fall for someone?

Whether that be falling in love or not, I don't know.

I find myself wondering about this mystery with a warm and continuous flutter in my formerly broken heart.

And I soon realize that I once again have something to write about.

Thursday

The subway car is packed, crowed during the usual morning commute. This particular Thursday I choose the car of the N express that seemed emptiest only to realize a homeless man is asleep on the center bench, leaving me and my fellow travelers to pile into either ends of the car.

A pretty boy my age rolls his eyes at the man wrapped in the only coat he owns. For a brief moment, I felt sorry for this lost soul after I realize that I had had the same reaction when I boarded the silver train and quietly thanked the Lord that the subway car did not smell of urine and trash. I had made that mistake twice before.

I turned, positioning myself with my feet slightly apart so if I had to take my hand off of the metal bar to turn a page in the book I was reading. When you become one with New York City, you learn these tricks.

Tricks and unspoken and accepted rules. You rarely make eye contact with fellow commuters, unless you're offering your seat to an older individual or a woman with child. Unfortunately, I enjoy people watching -- I observe. I smile at the babies sitting in their carriages, the children sitting quietly beside their parents with their little hands folded in their laps. Usually, the proud parents notice, and they reciprocate the smile in the direction of their child.

My eyes dart to a male, black police officer who pulled his flashlight from his belt just as the conductor stated that we were momentarily detained.

"Hey, buddy," he says as he knocks the heavy flashlight against the plastic seat, beside the sleeping man's head. The man, startled from his slumber, bolted to a sitting position and wipes the sleep from his eyes with his dirty hands.

The officer exits the train. The doors slide shut behind him, and we start to move, our bodies react to the inertia.

I felt sorry for the man. But I admit that I sympathize more for those around me, the ones who woke hours before their colleagues in order to take the subway into Manhattan from Brooklyn; these people work full-time in order to feed their families and pay rent.

I cannot tell you what the point of this little rambling was about. Perhaps this is no more than scattered thoughts of a tired production associate while she rides the crowded Broadway express on a Thursday morning.

Taking Risks

I've decided to quit the job that I've been working for the past 7 months. Although the money was "all right," the hours were not. As a 23 year old living in New York City, I couldn't allow myself to work 60 hours a week for basic pay in a cafe; it's not what I want to do.

So, I'm ballooning for a bit, and I hope this break will allow me to not only learn about myself, but give me the chance to spread my roots. I need to step away from the negativity that cafe brought into my everyday life and relearn what it means to be "Sandy."

So, we'll see. Happy Hunting.

Too Bad

"Don't we all deserve second chances?"
I once asked myself in a pathetic moment of desperation.
At the time, I truly believed it. I wanted nothing more.
I had been denied the opportunity.

When you had returned to me, asking for another chance,
Of course I was wary. But I took the bait.
I thought you'd come to your senses,
Seen how great I really am.

Huh.
I guess you were in it for the sex.
Not the emotion.

Too bad I'm emotionally driven.
Too bad the two go hand-in-hand.
Too bad I was duped.

Amor

Love isn't logical or rational.
It's blind and deaf --
Blind to color and shape; deaf to harsh words and advice.
So how can one plan it?
How does one keep from falling?
Continuously step backwards until Love grows tired of tugging?

No.

Love plays on emotions and takes hold of the heart.
There is no anticipating.
Cupid's stubborn arrows aren't equipped with hesitation.
The arrows aren't easily removed either.
You're fucked as soon as you're hit.

Please don't tell me we're moving too fast.
There is no set pace.
Please don't say it's not what you want.
We both know we've no choice.
Please don't tell me you're scared.
I am to; I'm terrified.
Please don't say you don't love me.
Love only works well with two.