special thanks to the window I check myself out in after work,
the white sneakers that look better dirty,
the weight gain during relationships.
special thanks to Thomas- who set me off looking for signs,
to the 4 people at the open mic who were not listening
and to the blast-toothed host who said to try doing it for the money.
special thanks to the hotel room I cried in and to Angelica who made me.
special thanks to the hotel room of the heavenly blowjob.
special thanks to the parents’ room downstairs.
special thanks to the early erotic dreams. an orange bikini. sex in swimming pools.
special thanks to Carol the truck driver, who delivers books by force.
this work would not have been possible without the heartbreak, the
punchpillows and the sobpillows. this work would also not have been possible
without the irrational hatred, the grudges, the letters slipped under doors, the forgiveness,
the admitting that the forgiveness was fake.
special thanks to Adam’s first girlfriend Sarah, who he broke up with the first week
of college, but who was very nice, and who gave Eliza and I great gossip.
special thanks to Tara, who I lied about in poems before and after I loved her.
special thanks to Andrew, who will never think I am right.
I would not be the person I am today if it were not for the night I locked myself on the roof and thought I was stuck, until I learned that I could actually climb up the building.
special thanks to the man with the perfect mustache and harsh eyebrows and the two girls with the matching outfits, all of whom ride the subway at 6:34 with me. I always imagine he refers to them as his girlfriends.
specials thanks to books with photographs inside.
special thanks to Minneapolis.
special thanks to the self doubt and the god days and the days I was telekinetic. to talking to myself out loud. to g-strings. special thanks to not breaking a bone. to waking up at 2 in the morning and making quesadillas. to sweating when sad. to knowing exactly when my parents will cry. this could not have come together without a few nights of 8 hours panicking. a roof to pace on. special thanks to the words “juniper” and “fickle”. black skinny jeans. hardened asphalt. to 9:25 AM.
special thanks to always thinking about what is ending, to being afraid of what is next, to nostalgia for what has yet to come, to deleting photographs of birthday parties, to every room starts to look the same, to a pair of jeans that just became cool again after 5 years, to long hair for men became cool again after middle school, to wondering what it is that I am getting ready for, to thinking “why shouldn’t I get the job and the apartment,” and then getting the apartment, to falling in the same love, special thanks to missing the point for five years, I would not be the same without