This weekend the universe wanted me to learn a lesson and that lesson was this: You are not nearly as awesome as you think you are, Roxane. I received this lesson, and it was a valuable one, by way of three rejections within an alarmingly brief period of time. I got a fairly form rejection from elimae, where the work in question was not found right but it was a polite enough note. I’ll live. I then received a rejection from 52 Stories but this wasn’t really a rejection as much as it was a, “this story reminds me too much of something else, but we would love to publish you so send me something else” message. I sent something else. Finally, I received a rejection from We Are Champion where the editor said, “There was such a matter of fact, surety of authorial voice, it made for a smooth glide-by.” I honestly have no idea what that means, the second part, but I am guessing it means, “I didn’t like this story at all.” I’ll try again in the future. Interpreting rejections is the tea leaf reading of the modern  age of letters only the leaves say the exact same thing every time–NO THANK YOU GO AWAY. I would tell you what I did this weekend but that would imply I did anything worth mentioning other than toiling helplessly and discussing my concerns about Shark Week. That’s what a fancy doctoral education will get you. Now you know. Embrace the magic. Actually, I did one lovely thing this weekend that made the world feel a little smaller, that made you feel a little closer. I am going to be on two panels at AWP, one about hint fiction and one about the state of the book review. If you want to hear me blather, I’ll let you know when those panels will be happening. I will also be at the bookfair quite a whole lot toiling away at the PANK table with my co-editor and there are readings and my book might be out and maybe I will sign it or something, so look, if you’re a stalker, show up in D.C. and if you’re going to cut me into a million pieces, use a drop cloth. Be considerate. I have two extra copies of Mary Hamilton’s We Know What We Are. I am giving one away here. If you would like this copy, just comment and let me know, first come, first served.  I have misplaced a very important piece of jewelry and suffice it to say I have nine days to find it. I’m trying to quell my panic. I know it’s in my apartment. I only take it off when my hands are interacting with water which narrows the possible locations where I set this jewelry aside yesterday considerably and yet, where could it be? I have also misplaced my cellphone which could be in my office on campus and if that’s the case, I reckon I won’t find out until tomorrow.  I got a frantic e-mail from J asking why I wasn’t responding to texts. I downloaded Skype and called and reassured him all was well. Yeah, I just downloaded Skype. I’m rocking 2004 like it’s 1999. I had downloaded Skype a long time ago but never understood it. The gods of technology shined upon me today. I finally unpacked my desktop computer so I can listen to music on something other than my iPod. I’m sure my neighbors are thrilled but I have decent taste in music. You’re welcome, neighbors. I’m thrilled by this trend to say you’re welcome in advance of being thanked. Unlike many word trends, this is one I can live with. To refresh your memory, “full of win” and “fail” are on my LIST.

I had to attend a benefits orientation. It was a mini-session with one other new hire and it was, as you might expect, excruciating. I learned that opposite sex unmarried couples do not qualify for domestic partner benefits which is… kind of ironic but in the grand scheme of things, no big deal. The best part though was when the benefits lady gave me the phone number of someone I should get to know. In my head, I had a sneaking suspicion the situation was heading in an irritating “I have a black friend” direction and I was right. The phrase “I know some funny black ladies,” MAY HAVE BEEN USED. She pulled up the first of these women, swung her monitor around, and showed me the smiling face of a black lady who I’m sure is nice but here’s the thing–having the same skin color does not make us automatically like one another. That’s strange, I know, but we are a mystical people. For further reference, please consult The Souls of Blackfolk by W.E.B. DuBois. Oh wait… that’s not what that book’s about. Alas. You’re on your own. Or you can watch BET. OH WAIT. That won’t work either. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. As an aside, the theories of Foucault lose their charms after two years and “Foucault” starts to sound, in your mind, like “Eff You.” Say it three times. You’ll see. That People of Walmart site now has me paranoid about going to the store in my adorable plaid pajama pants. I take pictures all the time but I don’t take many pictures of people because it’s really kind of rude. I struggle with laughing at the Walmart site and wondering what it must feel like to be the butt of the joke but damn people wear the craziest things in public.

I’ve been listening to Eminem’s Love the Way You Lie as I catch up on what’s going on with music now that I live somewhere closer to a different kind of civilization. I am a fool for boiled bunny love, the kind of passion so intense boiling a child’s pet rabbit seems like a rational means of garnering your lover’s attention. That’s what he and I have. He’s possessive. I’m possessive. We’re both stubborn and prone to jealousy. Our emotional vices are terribly compatible. He loves to tell me he’ll never let me go and when he does, his voice is raw and open and honest. I know he is serious, that our options are us or nullity. When we fight he likes to use his size to his advantage. He’s not a big man but there’s a deceptive strength, a thickness to him. If he were a different kind of man, that might matter. We do not argue because to argue implies a certain level of back and forth that is reasonable. No, what we do is more intense than that–we fight, we struggle. We are rough and awkward and ugly though never vicious. We respect each other too much to commit irrevocable acts. Twice, I have threatened to walk away. I was very calm in those moments. There was no need for hysterics. My dramatics are muted though still quite… dramatic. Both times, I wanted to push, to test, to see if that which he claimed was unbreakable was more fragile than we cared to admit. The first time I said, “I’m done,” was before we were serious, or before I was serious. He has always been serious. I have always pretended I wasn’t serious. There are lies we tell ourselves. We were having strong words about families and boundaries. We were both culpable though I felt more wronged because the proximity of his family and the degree of their inappropriate intervention in our lives was a real source of friction. After I made my feelings on the matter crystal clear colored by several snide comments, I went into the bedroom and closed the door and paced the length of the room clenching and unclenching my fingers. I heard him in the hallway just beyond my closed door and I could feel the anger radiating from him because his feet fell very firmly as he did some pacing of his own. Occasionally, I heard a door slam and it made everything in the apartment tremble. When I grew tired of pacing, I lay in bed and turned off the light. I waited. I was curious. I wanted to know what happened next, if I had pushed too far. It was a long while before he came to me. I felt him kneeling beside me and then he was straddling my waist. I said, “Can I help you?” He hates when I am pithy during serious moments. He said, “We won’t ever be done,” and then his hands were circling my wrists and he was holding my hands against his sternum. He applied pressure, not a disturbing amount, a possessive amount to create gravity which I felt, heavy and hovering over me, around me, holding me to him. I wanted to say, “You’re not the boss of me,” but I sensed there was pushing and there was pushing.  I decided to act my age. I apologized for the unfair things I had said. He did the same. We were sincere. We never wasted time with meaningless gestures. In the dark, he calmly he showed me all the ways in which we weren’t even remotely close to being done. I was very enlightened. The second time I said, “I was done,” involved me walking out of a bowling alley and stewing righteously in the car while I waited for him to stop making a scene. Before I walked away, I said things like, “I’ve had it” and “This is too much” but I was quiet which, to my mind, best conveyed the severity of my displeasure. I didn’t want to add to his scene with a scene of my own. I didn’t want to be that girl who acts out a psycho drama in public, though at the time I basically was that girl because after my calm, quiet, “That’s it, we’re done, ” I stormed off fathletically with a real huff in my step. A few minutes later, he was standing at the window of the truck, tapping his knuckles against the glass. I could see they were scraped. I gave him the finger and made sure he saw because I used my phone to illuminate my irritation. He said, “Open the door,” his voice rising in pitch with each of those three words. I refused. He asked again for me to open the door, louder, more of an edge to his voice. Finally, he nodded his head three times with a real stiffness in his neck. I could see in his shoulders he was trying to draw his temper back into his bones where it lives. He’s always been very good about doing that with me. Where I am concerned, he is all bark. I must make that clear–he reserves the brightest heat of his anger for strangers. During one of our rare cordial conversations his mother told me he gets it from his father. I shouted, “I’m going home alone.” He threw his hands up and then vaulted himself into the back of the truck. I made sure to find every pothole on the drive home. I parked in front of the apartment and refused to get out. He knew waiting me out would require an investment of time so he went inside then returned, and installed himself on the porch stairs, smoking cigarettes, glaring at me. It was romantic. I lay down as best I could, listening to the radio. It was terrible music because it was his truck and all he has is a radio and the terrible music only intensified my frustration. I rolled the window down a crack and whispered loudly, “You can wait there all night, I’m not coming out.” I said a prayer of thanks I wasn’t drinking at the time, then remembered I was going to the bathroom constantly anyway and began to worry about the logistics of my encampment. I was hungry and had an intense craving for french fries. I daydreamed about fries for a while–the kind you can get at the boardwalk in Atlantic City covered in salt and vinegar. My stomach fluttered and I laughed a little and rested my hands just below my navel waiting for another flutter of movement. I must have drifted off because the gentle rapping of his knuckles on the window again woke me up. He motioned for me to roll down the window, which I did, because I was incredibly tired and I had to use the restroom and my resolve was significantly weakened by the whole affair. He said, “I’ll stay outside but you need to sleep in a comfortable bed.” He gave me paternal look that annoyed me. He said, “You know why.” I hated how he was being the responsible one, as usual. I said, “You can just go back to your trailer,” snippily. He shook his head. He said, “I’m not leaving.” He placed the palms of both hands against the glass. He said, “I’m really sorry, babe,” but he didn’t insult me by saying it wouldn’t happen again. I was exhausted with being angry so I turned the truck off and unlocked the door which he opened for me. He escorted me inside, made me some warm cocoa which was annoyingly sweet. He asked if I needed anything, I shook my head, he disappeared. I changed out of my clothes and washed my face and turned out all the lights. I tried to watch TV but each minute dragged uncomfortably as the empty indentation where his body normally lay next to me amplified. I looked at the clock, then stood near the front door, pulling back the blind covering the window on the door a few inches. I watched as he sat there on the fake green turf covering the porch, his baseball hat pulled low over his eyes, his legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other. We would never be over. I sighed, opened the door and said, “Do you know why I’m angry?” He nodded solemnly. He has a baby face. It is impossible to stay angry with him. I waved him inside. “Come to bed.” He jumped up eagerly and joined me in the doorway. He rested his large, damaged hands against my stomach and kissed my neck. Another flutter. He said, “I felt that,” and kissed my neck again and I leaned into him, wrapped myself around him, felt everything but love drain right out of me. When I pulled away, I smacked his chest. I said, “You don’t play fair.” He said, “Not when it matters.” He said, “Do you want me to sleep on the couch?” I shook my head. My fingers found his. I said, “No.”