Karyn Spencer

I’ve been perched in front of a dating slot machine this past year; pulling the lever over and over again, encouraging myself to keep going out because I might be just one spin away from the jackpot. A “win” for me would be to meet someone who I want to spend two or three nights a week with. I’m not looking to get married or preggo or even split my rent.

I read your blog. You’ve been blogging for a long time. It became apparent to me that you are a computer genius and have always been ahead of the technology curve. You are also an impressive, insightful writer. I drank your words like they held magical powers, like a celebrity drinks a five-dollar bottle of Kabbalah water.

I felt a surge of excitement when she looked happy with my suggestion, and a preview flashed before me of Kate, later telling everyone how cool it was that I drove her through campus on the hood, like the punk version of a Thanksgiving Day parade float.

Make a joke after a few moments of peace, one of those jokes that isn’t funny because of its sharp wit, but funny because it’s a comment on our current state, designed to make both of us ease further into the bubble of each other that we’re currently floating in. You could say something about how I’m as pale as the sheets, or how your pet is staring at us from the corner, or how the lady upstairs is walking like an elephant. And we’ll laugh together.

I’ve been single for a year now, dating one to three times a week. I’m pretty tired. Here are my top ten worst, ranked, in my opinion, from least tragic to most.

Well! Turns out the most important thing about Ambien is that once you take it, you should immediately get in bed, turn the lights off, and close your eyes.I can’t stress this enough. If you don’t do that, parts of your brain turn off, but your body keeps functioning. Literally, the lights are on but no one’s home.

There was no uniform required at school; no need, I guess, since everyone already dressed the same in Duck Head shorts and Polo shirts.  The boys wore loafers. The girls wore pristine white Keds. I never uncovered the mystery of how they kept their shoes so clean. I suspect they bought a new pair every week.

At the end of the ninth grade, I snuck out of my friend Ashley’s house during a sleepover. We put Cabbage Patch Kids in our beds, covered their faces with sheets and left their hair sticking out on the pillow. We left a “Sounds of the Ocean” CD playing because we thought the waves sounded like breathing. Ashley had met two Marines at the beach the weekend before, and they were waiting in their car for us down the street. I was terrified.

My cat liked my ex-husband more than she likes me. She misses him and she blames me for our divorce.  Blasting my kick ass music that my ex hated and never let me play does not sway her one bit. She communicated this by throwing up in my satin Badgley Mischka heels.