The chair beneath me lets out an obnoxious grunt as I stand up.

I tread lightly across the room, my toes just kissing the floor.

Thump, slap.

Hopeful eyes follow me.

The carpet slithers away and gives way to hardwood floor, its stiffer cousin.

As I approach the closet, I realize my secret is out:

delighted barking has filled the room.

I shake out a long leash, and hear scampering nails on the floor:

barking has become a long, joyous squeal.

“Riley! Come here, boy!”

To him, my call is that of a general yelling “ten-hut.”

He darts at me and clumsily extends his front paws in a too-little attempt to slow down.

He’s learned to stand still as I connect the leash to his collar, but

his unruly tail betrays his excitement.

Ready to explore the neighborhood that has changed mountains in the last three hours, Riley bolts to the door.

I shove open the whining door, and Riley races out, nose to the ground, sniffing the green, green grass.

On March 12, 2011, one day after the Great East Japan earthquake, I stood in a line behind tens

and in front of hundreds

to enter a supermarket in Tokyo.

At precisely 9 a.m., the automatic doors were manually opened by a single cashier, and everyone in line rushed forward to enter the soon-to-be-barren store.

Inside, my brother and I – sixteen and eleven, respectively – were split up, and I ran upstairs to snatch the last bag of rice in the store.

It was 9:01.

My brother grabbed canned goods fresh produce from all over Japan.

Par my father’s advice, my family decided not to consume any goods from the Northeast for thirty years, when the radioactivity levels in northeastern Japan would, by the law of radioactive decay, decrease to half its current toxic level.

The next year, and every year after that, I walked in the same supermarket, my fellow shoppers buying peaches from Fukushima,

large

and

surely delicious.

On March 12, 2011, one day after the Great East Japan earthquake, I stood in a line behind tens

and in front of hundreds

to enter a supermarket in Tokyo.

At precisely 9 a.m., the automatic doors were manually opened by a single cashier, and everyone in line rushed forward to enter the soon-to-be-barren store.

Inside, my brother and I – sixteen and eleven, respectively – were split up, and I ran upstairs to snatch the last bag of rice in the store.

It was 9:01.

My brother grabbed canned goods fresh produce from all over Japan.

Par my father’s advice, my family decided not to consume any goods from the Northeast for thirty years, when the radioactivity levels in northeastern Japan would, by the law of radioactive decay, decrease to half its current toxic level.

The next year, and every year after that, I walked in the same supermarket, my fellow shoppers buying peaches from Fukushima,

large

and

surely delicious.

#earthquake #disaster #peach #food #relief #danger #nervous #japan

On March 12, 2011, one day after the Great East Japan earthquake, I stood in a line behind tens

and in front of hundreds

to enter a supermarket in Tokyo.

At precisely 9 a.m., the automatic doors were manually opened by a single cashier, and everyone in line rushed forward to enter the soon-to-be-barren store.

Inside, my brother and I – sixteen and eleven, respectively – were split up, and I ran upstairs to snatch the last bag of rice in the store.

It was 9:01.

My brother grabbed canned goods fresh produce from all over Japan.

Par my father’s advice, my family decided not to consume any goods from the Northeast for thirty years, when the radioactivity levels in northeastern Japan would, by the law of radioactive decay, decrease to half its current toxic level.

The next year, and every year after that, I walked in the same supermarket, my fellow shoppers buying peaches from Fukushima,

large

and

surely delicious.

#earthquake #disaster #peach #food #relief #danger #nervous #japan

Ha! For all the times I thought their love was real.

That her love was real.

That his love was real.

They all abandoned me.

Reality, they call it.

Real, a subset of reality.

If my heartbreak is not physical, how can it be real?

How can my own love be real?

My so-called brother came home from college the other day. 

Summer break, such a heart-breaking break.

He joined a fraternity this year.

Walked in, smelling like cigs and cheap wine.

Seemed off, until I realized he was hungover.

Hugged me roughly, said he was tired, retreated to his room.

When he left for college (ha! more like a 24/7 party), he was an Honor Roll member.

A scholarship recipient. 

A healthy young man, ready to conquer all. 

Where did he go?

I heard him talking on the phone the other day.

"Yeah man, I'm ready to bust out of here.

When I get back, let's go dig for chicks at that bar. I hear high school chicks are wild."

I'm a high schooler. 

I refuse, 

absolutely refuse,

to join a sorority. 

I will not become a high-five passed around at the fraternity house.

HAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA

They've sent me here, a place I've only heard whispers about. 

They said, as they slowly walked away from me, fear in their eyes,

"it's for your own good."

HAHAHAHA!

If only they knew that I knew that they put me here for their own good.

I could bust out at any moment; the door has a flimsy lock I know how to destroy.

I could bust out and laugh at them, a mad look in my eyes.

I could convince them, yes, I could convince them that I was about to kill them. 

I wouldn't of course, I'm not mad like them.

So sure, send me here, send me into a place that they conceive as hell, 

I'll come back one day.

I won't kill them, I'll be merciless.

I'll bring them here, into their personal hell, I'll let them see what they've been missing out on. 

For if They think that They can escape this inconceivable hell, they're wrong.

They won't be able to escape. HA!

The smell of gas and dirt in the air. The sickening stench of blood above all that.

Your comrades, your friends, who've you've gotten close to, dying next to you.

You don't do anything. Hell, you can't do anything.

You're not a doctor, just a teenager trying to fit a criterion to impress Sally at home.

You hear your friend groan. Shots fired over that.

Stop thinking about yourself, you think. Bill, Bob, Dick, whatever, they're dying.

You know that you will remember this moment forever.

Your friend is bleeding out of their stomach.

Spurting out. There's too much blood to be humanely possible.

Yet it still keeps coming out. It's red. But blue at the same time.

Blood is a color they will never get right in movies.

You chuckle. Giggle, even.

Ha, well now I'll go home as a man who's seen it all.

How morose.

There's a new smell of blood. A new scent. You feel something prickle on your upper lip.

Warm blood. You've got a nosebleed.

Hold your head up high, your mom always used to say.

It doesn't help that much. The blood just pools at your nostrils.

How funny.

You and your friend bleeding together, both with drastically different endings.

You'll go off with your troop, dried blood caked on your face,

your friend going off in a box, back to the United States.

How funny. So funny that you manage another chuckle.

we all bleed the same.

If love and commitment were the same thing, there would be a lot less heartbreak.

If love and commitment were the same thing, divorce law would not be a profession. 

If love and commitment were the same thing, Cupid would be out of a job.

If love and commitment were the same thing, I would be much happier.

I love my tinted moisturizer; 

it hides my acne scars that I got when I was 12 - I scratched too hard at my stress spots. 

I love my concealer;

it hides my dreadfully dark bags under my eyes - I suffer from insomnia and night terrors.

I love my contour palette;

it hides the fat on my cheek and neck after a straight year of binging and purging.

I love my eyebrow pencil; 

it hides the bald spots in my eyebrows after getting scratched by my mother when I was 9.

I love my eyeshadows;

they create a crease in my eyelid that disappeared after restless nights of crying.

I love my mascara;

it detracts from my impossibly red eyes.

I love my lipstick;

it hides the rawness of my lips after they have been bitten into oblivion.

I love makeup; it hides my true face.