When I was six years old, my school hosted a monthly International Day to celebrate world culture and give students a taste of ethnic flavor. My first exposure to International Day came when my first-grade teacher Miss Cox announced to our class that we would be “visiting Moscow tomorrow.”
My best friend at school was a black girl named Iris Anderson. I only note her race because even in the 1990s, race was still a deciding factor in which lunch table you sat at in South Carolina. Iris had a troubled home life, and typically my concerns seemed silly and vacuous in comparison to the melodrama that would nonchalantly pass between h
I loved you. In dark, sensuous, volatile, exclusive and loyal promiscuity. You were my story, and together we would recount the chapters in languid svelte heat, toppled upon the spent sheets.
You were my never-ending summer. I got to know you on a roller coaster and then you and I turned into a roller coaster. We fought. We kissed. We fucked. We fucked some more. And more. And more. I cried. You stormed. I grabbed your hand in the dark alleyway off Avenida del Marques de l’Argentina. You ripped away. I grabbed. You grabbed. We fought. We kissed. We fucked. We fought. We kissed. We fucked.
I drowned in half-
In fall 2013, I briefly lived in Mexico City for about a month and a half. I never got the chance to write about it, mostly because I was too busy and it felt like every moment I was about to have the opportunity to sit and write, some new, odd, and unusual thing was happening.
I was in New York City when I made the decision to go. Why Mexico, I'm not really sure. I had no home. No plans. And I had a matter of days to figure out where I was going next. Where I end up is often arbitrary and decided on a roulette of whim. Sometimes, it's answering to the question of "where I will get the most of my money?". Other times, it's "where will I live