24 Jul

That night we decided on a whim to have a mini adventure. Headlamps, sleeping bag, snacks, tent, weed, kayaks, and a lot of love for one another. We packed it all up swiftly and off we were, quiet in the darkness, paddling toward the island. We skinny dipped in unbelievably warm water, watching the cars go by the highway, hearing them faintly and feeling so far removed from the concrete. You were inside me as I floated on the water, feeling free like a bird, lucky, and loved. We talked all night. We slept under the stars and awoke to the birds. It was a coming-of-age summer for me, to be wrapped up in a kind of love that seemed to have no beginning or end; we just were, together.

So many sunny weekends have passed since. And so many clouds over our heads.

Last night I remembered us, if for a fleeting second. I was standing at the edge of the Mass. Ave. bridge, in a bra and panties, with Adonis next to me. We had met at a bar, he with inflated cactus in hand and gorgeous smile on lips, and our souls came together like good old friends.  And now, he stood next to me at the edge. The adrenaline of a 3am jump into the Charles River, thanks to this chance encounter’s daring suggestion, coursed through my blood, along with the alcohol. I looked down, unable to gauge the height of the jump in the darkness. I looked to Adonis, and he kissed me. He ran his fingers through my hair, down my shoulder, hip, thigh. I couldn’t tell if I felt more horny or anxious of the jump and this mix of feelings generated only more euphoria. I looked out to the cityscape, the lights beyond the river, and I felt so fucking alive. “I’m gonna scream so much, you have no idea,” I told him.  “That’s all right,” he nodded, “scream all you want.”  He smiled, counted to three, and we jumped. I love that dirty water. And I didn’t mind it as we swam to the rocks, water so warm, inviting bare skin. His grip on my body was strong, and we were both on a natural high, floating together for what seemed like an hour, under the bridge, below the city lights, absolute fucking bliss.

This has, by far, been the best summer of my life.

Nite Writer does online dating

25 Mar

Scandalous pictures. Over 200 messages received. Here’s a sample gem from a 21 year-old whose profile shows residence in Las Vegas. I had to respond.

boy:   fat cock here for ya butt baby

nite writer:   yes, let me get on a plane for it, right away.

boy:   haha It just says vegas because i’m visiting for a week there start wednesday. I live on the south shore in mass :p

nite writer: this is awkward.

End of romance.

Nite Writer returns… dear diary style

19 Mar

ImageEvery day I’m hustling. I’m a small business owner now. This means I quit my job, and said goodbye to predictable paychecks at the end of each month. I love the butterflies in my stomach that come with knowing nothing is guaranteed, and I alone am responsible for my financial success.

If you didn’t think I was badass before, you should now. You should also ask me for my number and send me two pictures of your face; one smiling, one not.

But the butterflies and autonomy I’ve created for my future haven’t prepared me for the blessed curse that is having the freedom to create my own schedule. Take yesterday, for instance. I did not have to “go into work” but I certainly had plenty of work to do from home. And I did… after a bowl or two, and a hike with the dog at a local trail, and three loads of laundry washed, and the hour spent looking at pictures of myself and my friends on facebook, and the two hours spent analyzing the definition of douche bag.

Douche bag is a term I’ve had at the tip of my tongue lately. I say what brilliant re-purposing of a stigmatized yet rather utilitarian word! Merriam-Webster defines it as “an unattractive or offensive person”. For the level of embeddedness the term has in our culture today, I was unpleasantly surprised by how much this definition leaves to be desired, in quality and accuracy. I hereby take the time – a quick break from work – to put henceforth available to all who seek truth and accuracy on what a douche bag really is. And while I’m at it, I’ll do the same for the up-and-coming variation, douche baggery.

douche bag     noun

  1. one who sleeps around on his/her significant other, denies it, gets caught, gets dumped, and skillfully refuses to ever make mention of the entire incident;
  2. one who starts inventing relationship problems right around the time he decides he wants to start having sex with his ex again, particularly if this is an ex that has cheated on him in the past;
  3. a teacher who texts his student at 11pm two nights in a row to say she was “impressive” in class, and kicks her out of the school 5 days later, making the office manager, her friend, place the unprofessional call, banning her from ever returning to the premises;
  4. a teacher who holds school membership over a student’s head as a way to force her to “be friends”


1. manipulative jerk, insensitive bastard, lying cheater

douche baggery     noun

  1.  telling other people your significant other is crazy, and a bitch, while you send her emails telling her she “influenced [you] to be better” and that you “often look at an imaginary version of [her]”, and you miss her, that she’s “the most courageous and confident girlfriend [you’ve] ever had” and that you hope to still have “someone who [will] help you through everything”;
  2.  having all of the means and potential to be the greatest guy on Earth and acting like a douche bag


1. arrogance, selfishness, idiocy

There you have it, friends. A couple of better defined words in this crazily misinformed world. Don’t mention it ;o)

Coping with my disability

19 Apr

I believe in honesty. I like receiving it. If it ain’t so nice, I try to find a lesson in it. And when I don’t, I cry a little, but I’m always fine. And I appreciate knowing.  I like telling the truth too. At least I try to do it. Then if it fails, I try again a different way.

It would be fair to say that I’ve been feeling rather heavy and unwanted pressure lately. Pressure from work, pressure from my mother who wants me to be perfect, but it ain’t happening. Then she guilt-trips me with her sadness and somehow I end up the bad guy. Top that with the fact I decided to skip the placebo birth control pill week and jump right into another pack, and sure, I might agree I may have been going through a short phase of insanity for the past few days.

Given the circumstances, I decided to take my own advice and self-medicate. Problem is – as with anything – the more you do it, the more you need to get to where you wanna be with it. You follow?

Come home from work, change out of work clothes, roll a spliff, and smoke it while walking the dog: my routine for the past 4 or so days. We walk around Allston/Brighton with the Russian grandmothers strolling arm-in-arm down the wide, Spring-blooming-lined sidewalk. And the hipsters, and the homeless, and the school kids sneaking off to Ringer Park where they get high and fool around; where the homeless will soon set up camp, mattress and all, come summertime. With the middle-aged Asian men who crouch down on the building steps and chain smoke. I’m high, rather smiley, wearing a hoodie, and have the habit of looking at everyone and… keep looking. I smile at them, squinty-eyed and genuine, and never take for granted the happiness they shine back at me. Sometimes they’re a little older, pudgier, and Mexican, in which case, they might smile AND raise eyebrows, uttering a deep, masculine “Hhhelloo!” Mmmm… si, papi.

All is peaceful and friendly, breezy and sweet during our long walk, until we arrive at CVS.

Last Friday I was feeling particularly drawn to a pint of creme brulee Haagen Dazs, or a  Mango Tango Odwalla, or maybe crayons, markers, colored pencils and drawing paper so I can draw and color late at night. You just never know. CVS presents limitless possibilities. As such, if I were to – as I did – combine a long walk with Tori, being high, and going to CVS all cracked out to look at crayons, I might be in there for 10-15 minutes instead of 2-3. I believe it is perfectly fine for a dog to be tied up at a safe place outside of an establishment while its owner shops. So I exercise this reasoning, tie her outside, and walk in. She’s barking. I’m telling myself to hurry up. And she’s barking. But the birthday cards I just decided to get and the crayons are all the way in the back, where I can’t hear her. So I browse and browse, until I hear the store manager on the mic:


A guy is standing outside, taking the last drag off his cigarette and tells me, “just bring her in. If they ask, tell them she’s a service dog.”

I generally bring her into to the liquor and convenience stores in the neighborhood, but never CVS, with its very legible SERVICE DOGS ONLY ALLOWED sign. And I generally, when I can, like to play by the rules. This, however, seemed rather unreasonable; you only let my dog in if I’m disabled, and you won’t let her sit outside barking either.

Drastic measures must be saved for drastic moments. On Monday night i found myself back at CVS. High as I was, eyes squinty and red, I came up with my truth:

I’m disabled. This is my service dog. I smoke too much weed and I lose track of time, and I overspend on crayons and ice cream, so she’s here for my health and safety.  Protection as well. Try and kick me out, see what she does to you.

I walked in, head held high, doggie at my heel. Quiet, subservient, alert; service dog in her pink harness leading disabled, cracked out young woman, as she tours the pharmacy, snacks, and magazine aisles. We are harmless. We bring joy and smiles. The manager says nothing. We stroll on back home.

Except today. I skipped the weed, went boxing, and decided to try a little more writing. This feels good too. Maybe I’ll give it another go tomorrow.

Casual sex

18 Apr

Her dress was of lycra, short, with open back; a floral second skin. Her hair was soft and wavy, silky dark strands reflecting the summer moonlight.

He was tall, massively strong, skin dark as the night, gorgeous smile and black eyes. He never approached her, yet she could feel his eyes on her body all night.

Eventually their arms touched, and after catching her friend talking to his, she found it difficult not to look at him and smile. They went home together. He grabbed her by the thighs and sat her on the bathroom countertop, his hands moving to discover her round, ample ass. His large fingers slid the skintight dress off her body in one swoop, revealing her completely nude, sensual.

She smells him still, this morning, his scent strong on the lapel of her jacket as she strolls to the park with the dog. The memory brings her to smile wide, and after that smile comes the thought of… him. And no matter how hot and spontaneous the previous night may have been, it was not one with him.

Because with him, she would’ve spent the entire night either on or off underwear, from 11pm to 5am, feeding him ice cream, helping make snacks, packing his bowl, talking about everything and nothing, wrestling in bed, listening to reggae, making out.  With him, she would muffle her own screams as he bit her, hard, and she would squirm in pleasure each time. He would slap her across the face too, while she laughed, arching her back and riding him even harder. Always a good girl, always obedient, always smiling.

And he’s not here right now. And he was not there last night. It’s only casual sex with no emotion, and no playfulness.

The First Time

20 Dec

The night is replayed in her mind as disjointed flashbacks; the wait for it to come, the absolute feeling of trust that time, place, and people couldn’t be tweaked to be made more perfect. “More perfect” seems an atrocious, meaningless idea, in fact, only thought of by someone unfortunate enough to not have partaken in the moment. Her sight, hearing, and sense of smell were aligned with her heart – beating strong and happy – attuned to perceive the slightest change in her body. She wasn’t sure whence the change would first appear: would her toes tingle first? would her knees give out? would her chest burn in heat, her heart too fast to be contained? would she feel sick before she felt great? A slight worry emanating from her hardened, dark subconscious – the part of the brain bred for telling her how wrong and dumb she is – was flicked into nothing after a careful look into the eyes of her accomplices. They were with her in anticipation, holding on for the moment they’d thoroughly and carefully tried to predict so many nights before.

It came to her first. She may have been more spiritually open, a better listener of her own flesh, or maybe just physically weaker and succumbing. Whatever the reason, or combination thereof, it came to her first and she knew it right away. She saw dear faces, felt a pleasant if forgettable breeze that circulated the clear, starlit September skies. One blink later, and her arms were raised, her knees bent, her eyes shut. She bit her lower lip. The tingling feeling did come, but it stopped not at the toes, calves, hips, or abdomen. It was everywhere simultaneously, and there was nothing left for her to do than to part her lips into a beautiful, wide smile. Yes. Yes! Hahaaaaa, YES! She found her fingers on her neck, providing the caress she craved and now refused to deny herself. She wanted to touch her legs, her arms, her hands, her own face, lower back. She wanted to meet herself via these fingers so mindlessly used, so rarely appreciated. But before she embarked in this rediscovery, she looked to the others. I want you to feel this. I want you to have what I have. You deserve it. I love you.

Words repeatedly suppressed for fear of rejection, fear of misunderstanding, fear of embarrassment, fear of the silence… Fear now was not part of her vocabulary. She hugged them tightly, noticing her forearms and fingertips extend to touch as much of the loved one as the embrace physically could. What she didn’t reach by limb, she hoped to touch by spirit. Eventually they would all be with her, she knew it.

As she waited for them to join, she felt the necessity of turning to the sky, and opening her ears. Everything that should be there, was. The breeze was gentle on the skin of her face after a day’s hard sun. The melodies intertwined with the oxygen she breathed, and she felt them equally important to take in, equally vital for the maintenance of her system. Suddenly every part of her was alive, every action, however slight, sparkled like the millions of stars lighting the sky that night. She had complete trust in the love she felt inside, the hands of her partners, the smiles of strangers.

When they all came, she was ecstatic. She could feel their love, she watched as they moved closer, touched, gifted her with warm smiles, eyes overflowing with kindness. For the rest of the night they danced, talked, cared for one another, so aware of what they shared together.

Stuff and things

14 Dec

When you’re working 10 hour days, at a new job – for which you interviewed extensively and brilliantly, leading your then-prospective employers to believe you are god’s gift to their professional lives – and you suffer with an irrational, seemingly ever-growing phobia of mice; creatures that are concurrently inhabiting your kitchen, leaving fecal evidence of their trespassing, you MAY enter a short phase of self-doubt and/or hate. Whether it lasts three days or three weeks, this emotion drags your confidence down to 100 year-old, mother of 7 breast levels, and thus the suffering seems dreadful and eternal.

But it’s OK. Somehow, I have not (yes, I was just using the third-person singular, and have suddenly switched to first, when I was indeed speaking about myself the entire time. I can do that, this is only a silly blog, you’re lucky I’m not misspelling shit all over the place) fucked up at work, and not only am still employed, but am rather well liked by said employers, who believe me to have powers similar to those of Super Woman. I don’t have her boobs and I certainly don’t possess a magic golden lasso… but I do possess other ASSets that enable me to stay afloat, and actually help me believe that I may, in the coming weeks, surprise myself and become all that I can be.

A huge presence in my daily doses of self-esteem recharging has been friends. I see mine on a weekly basis – Chillout Tuesdays (and sometimes Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and once in a blue moon, Mondays). The dogs join us, as do yummy paleolithic diet snacks with sides of pizza, DJ Leo’s uplifting mixes, and marijuana. She’s there, helping us relax, laugh, discuss ideas, tell stories, and draw inspiring pictures while competing in Pictionary.

I’m no artist to begin with, but under the influence of weed (a fantastic little plant that helps me let go of my self-imposed absolute concern with time and to also thoughtfully evaluate every aspect of a decision, thought, occurance with utmost care), getting Marx Brothers as a subject to draw in front of equally altered friends who must then decipher my modernist hyerogliphs, is like, a joke. I knew they were directors, but I also knew my teammates would have no fucking idea who these guys are, and as such, we were doomed to lose with me frantically etching crude stick figure-like representations of a crowd inside a movie theatre, that my two comrades would fail to interpret. What I did instead was start with a very clever idea; I decided to draw Karl Marx. I drew a round face with a double-helix-style head of hair and matching long beard, sticks for a body, and a prominent, large book sitting at the end of its straight-line arm. My frenzied pointing at the “Karl Marx” and “movie theatre” drawings ended when the last drop of sand finally reached the bottom of the plastic timer.

“It was the MARX BROTHERS!” I shouted.

“What. the. Fuck. Juliana!! Are you serious? The Marx Brothers? What the fuck is that,” asked my sore-losing teammate, pointing to my post-modernist, no. 2 pencil on recycled paper rendering of the father of communism. “You could’ve drawn BROTHERS, for starters. You can’t just draw something that looks like what you think this thing would look like if someone who knew what you were thinking were guessing it.”

At this point I was laying on the couch, hands covering my shamed face and hushing the sound of own my laughter at my pre-schooler illustrating strategies.

Whatever. What I lacked in drawing powers, I made up for in guessing abilities. “A thesaurus,” my friend called me. I don’t believe it true, but I enjoy having my ego inflated.

Pictionary is fun, as is the game Mafia. We play that a lot too, and I’m usually doctor or peon, never the killer. So it’s not always as fun as it could be. One of my fortes is, of course, telling stories. My friends are kind enough to let me hijack their ears for extensive high-decibel recreations (with occasional physical interpretation) of my true-stories. Like the time I had a bat in my apartment, or the the time I thought I’d lost my keys and had to spend the night at a friend’s house. I should tell you guys about these too. And maybe even share my story of being fondled by a teenage Cambodian and my thoughts on sex with Asians… I should share all of this.