A guy named Reuben messaged me on OKcupid a couple weeks ago. His message was not creepy, it was very friendly, and it was interesting enough to warrant a response, even though he lives in Lancaster and I am not remotely interested in driving from Baltimore to Lancaster to hang out with someone I met via okcupid even if my profile does say I am interested in ‘activity partners’ to do activities with.
Also I could never date a guy named after my favorite sandwich.
I don’t even like sandwiches, so kissing a guy named Reuben when I would prefer to be eating corned beef with sauerkraut and thousand island dressing (I don’t even like dressing) is a really big deal. He would have had more of a chance if his name was BLT. Like if his name was Brendan Littlefoot Tomato, and all his friends called him BLT. I would have kissed him and not even thought about bacon.
Reubens are important. Reubens are god’s gift to his little world full of sinners, like, here, you were born a sinner, you’ve all sinned multiple times since birth and will burn in hell for eternity unless you accept me as your lord and savior, but while you’re deciding, enjoy this perfectly assembled sandwich that is warm and piled high with thinly sliced meat, regardless of what your current religious faith is, even if you are an atheist or Buddhist and never plan on joining me in my kingdom, you can taste this sandwich and take part in its edible pleasure. God is great, all the time, all the time, god is great.
i would go by Ben
if i was named Reuben cuz
i’m not a sandwich
HI today I found a half eaten can of stuffed grape leaves that I forgot I bought at 3 a.m. last Sunday morning, and I know I haven’t put out my zine of sad poems yet but I am working on a new writing project called “I really am 24: Human thoughts on disappointing your friends, not being a real adult, finding yourself attracted to cartoon characters, and an essay on the intimacy in grocery shopping with a stranger.”
-date of 10,000 day birthday
-how to make a baked potato
-sarah jessica parker foot
-words per minute test
-ryerye 21 jump street
-how to address a letter to scotland
-ms paint online
-natty boh ingredients
-hands itch is someone thinking about me?
-is natty boh vegan
Everyone says I seem to be doing a lot better
about the fact that you left me when I asked you to.
I always refer them to the obvious clues:
the warmest winter I’ve ever felt,
or the fact that I’m eating a lot less without you around,
and that maybe now I’ll finally weigh what I did when I was
a freshman in high school; I’ve always wanted to be skinny.
I’ve kissed 3 boys since you’ve been gone.
I only remember 2 of them
and I only liked one.
I’m trying to remember what kissing you feels like,
but every time I think of your mouth,
my stomach turns, and this makes me want to eat less.
So yeah, I guess you could say things are looking up.
You won’t find anyone who will listen to your stories like I did,
even if sometimes it seemed like I wasn’t listening at all,
and playing with your hair and poking at your cheeks instead,
I was listening, I swear I was.
I can remember what you said to me before we fell asleep
the last night we spent together,
I can remember the words you traced on my back
(“I love you,” 5 months before you ever said it out loud),
I remember the conversation we had at 3 a.m. after we fucked
and then couldn’t fall asleep, so we fucked again and said,
“thank you” to each other and finally closed our eyes.
I remember how your older brother makes you feel,
how you feel about your drug addict cousin
and how you drove to my house at midnight
when I thought my cat ran away and you told me
“everything’s going to be okay, really.”
I remember all of those times and the words you spoke,
I remember your mouth and the gap between your teeth,
the way your lips formed words and I listened every time, I swear.
You said my eyes were beautiful,
and I knew you were a liar.
Anyone who has really spent time
studying my body would never open
with, “Oh wow, those eyes.”
You could try starting with
the expanse of flesh
that is my back.
Scar-free, long and wide,
you could’ve rested your head
on the curve of my spine,
if you never would have
complimented my eyes.
Or maybe the mole behind my right ear.
Tiny, brown, non-cancerous.
No one ever notices, or at least
never remembers, the smallest
creases of the tiniest part of my body.
I’d rather you compliment
the frequency of and honesty in
my smile, than
my actual smile itself.
Next to my eyes, my smile
may be the most average
aspect about me,
but at least I have straight teeth.
You could even venture so close
as to compliment my eyelids,
with their thread-like veins
patterning over the thinnest skin
on my body, remnants of the headaches,
squinting, crying and tension
resulting from too many people
trying to fit into my too small life.
But the eyes– “Oh wow, those eyes.”
Almond-shaped and worried.
Wrinkled and always darting.
Mascara gathers on the outside corners
and the sleep I don’t get
finds its way to the center.
Mud colored, tree bark textured,
the two single least beautiful
coordinates on my human.
I’m a brown eyed girl in the simplest of forms,
“Sarah, plain and tall,” tired eyes and all.