In my time waiting in line at the DMV, I have come up with a number of ways the state government can fix the broken DMV system:
1. Build more DMVs
2. Hire more DMV employees
3. More comprehensive online services
4. Better website
5. Stop sucking
Problem solved. Why has nobody thought of these things? How many years of bad DMV jokes must we endure before we start seeing lasting change???
• 3 April 2014 • 1 note
It’s Not All Too Often
The concert was all the way across town, so Lukas and I had a good 45 minutes to make it past the small-talk stage. The distance was especially helpful, given that his words tended to get muddled by his thick eastern European accent and excited stutter.
“Katherine,” he began as we passed the old video rental on Turl Street, “Wh-what is hooking up?” I laughed, put my arm in his, and began to take him step-by-step through the basics of hookup culture. He nodded through my insights on serious relationships, one-time things, on-the-regular’s and so on, but he stopped me when I mentioned the term ‘friends with benefits.’
I turned to face him. “You’ve never had a close friend that you don’t really want to date, but decide to sleep with… just because?”
“No, I have never had that… Why do you want to do that?”
I didn’t have a response.
Lukas told me that he had never considered sleeping with any of his female friends, but he did want to find a wife soon. Preferably one from his home country, “so we can get married after I graduate, and start a family.”
I smiled at him and quickly shifted my focus to the little pub across the road. “Should we stop and get drinks before the concert?”
Later in the week, I lay awake in a friend’s bed, keeping my eyes fixed on a dark spot on the ceiling.
Our recent conversations consisted of detached texts, always after 11pm. You going out tonight? or When are you heading back to college? That night, we barely opened our mouths on the way back from the club, save to lament about upcoming exams.
In bed, I kissed his neck, his cheek, his nose. But my body tensed thinking about having to make conversation with him in the library or the dining hall the next day.
His breathing began to slow. I propped my head up and reached out to tap him on the shoulder. Yes, I thought. I’ll just say, “…what I mean is that I can never tell how you’re feeling in those stretches in between our, uh, nights together. Do you… really… want this?”
I coughed. I opened my mouth. But the words hid in my throat.
Now his body turned to face the wall, so I lay back down and found the dark spot on the ceiling again. I felt his spine press against my fleshy arms, but I kept them pinned to my sides. Slowly, silently, my sweaty feet searched for a cooler patch of duvet.
The room was still, except for his breaths. I dozed off eventually, and when I opened my eyes again, the duvet felt just slightly softer, his naked chest warmer against my face. I wiggled into my miniskirt and heels from the night before and kissed his cheek before heading out the door.
The next morning, I munched my way slowly through a plate of fried meat, fried pie and fried potatoes, all the while staring at the unopened newspaper in front of me.
After some time, I saw Lukas bouncing towards me out of the corner of my eye, a bowl of fruit salad in one hand, and a small piece of paper in the other.
“A love letter!” he said, dropping the fruit salad on the table and pulling out the chair across from me.
“Really?” I dropped my fork and edged closer. “Ooo, can I see? Is it private?” I teased, trying to pull it from his grip. He held it high above his head and read through it once, twice, his grin growing larger by the minute. I leaned forward out of my chair and managed to grab a corner of the card, but he pulled back and I ended up spilling my water all over my breakfast plate.
As I sopped up the spill with a few starched napkins, I continued to plague him with questions. “What does she sayyy?” I raised my voice an octave: “Lukas, I love you very much. I miss you a lot.”
He put the postcard face down next to his bowl of fruit salad. Turning the newspaper around, he began to flip through the pages in a slow rhythm. “It’s a letter, from a girl I went to school with.”
His grin reappeared as he flipped through the newspaper. After some time, he picked up the card again.
“It is just… really really…”
“Nice?” I asked.
He put it down and chewed thoughtfully on a large piece of grapefruit.
“It’s not all too often—”
“No,” I said, and our eyes met. “It’s not all too often.”
• 24 March 2014 • 1 note