ROUGH HANDS, NO TACT

The month of November was spent as solemn as a prayer.

I speak in past tense because I’m no longer here. I’ve slipped into another plane of time. I’m not even sure it’s still 2024. I’m on my period which makes all of this perfectly explainable and feel a million times worse.

I want to introduce myself as Public Enemy #1 when it comes to my boss. I’d love to stab a pitchfork into his bloated abdomen and slowly watch the air release. The hiss would be low and strict. It’d probably smell like a tonsil stone. Last week, he grew increasingly frustrated with my constant bathroom visits and finally sat me down to ask what my deal was. I was annoyed that he was annoyed. Once I explained that I was checking to see if my tampon overflowed and began to leak, he left it alone. Truthfully, he cut me off the moment the word “tampon” left my mouth. If he wanted me to explain that my PCOS went into overdrive, leaving me dry for the past two and a half months, I’d be delighted to let him know that this long-awaited return of blood was basically my body’s way of overcompensating—and, naturally, exceptionally heavy. I think he was ok.

November taught me that dysfunction rarely exists in isolation. It depends on domino-like cascades. An unassuming weekend, sparked by a Halloween night visit to the only Chili’s in New York City, was ruined by food poisoning. That was fine. Food poisoning left my internal fragile, making me more susceptible to catching the full-blown flu. Also fine. I should’ve known. My handwashing habits have really gone downhill. The morning I woke up with a dry, aching throat, memories of my childhood began to wash over. I remembered how my mom would always instruct my siblings and I to wash our hands as soon as we got home from school. “You know the drill. Find a sink! It doesn’t matter—just wash up!” Her voice echoed through the house. I considered shooting her a text to share the memory, but decided against it. My phone then broke. One morning, as I brushed my teeth with Blood Orange blaring from my speaker, the music suddenly cut off. Confused, I walked over just in time to see the screen flicker a few times before going completely black. My beloved iPhone 11 that I was in no financial condition to pay for its repair, let alone replace. I spent five days without a cell phone in New York City, cosplaying as Amish to pass the time. I started to wonder if this was karmic retribution, the universe’s way of punishing me for some unseen moral failing. I hop the turnstile every morning on my way to work—but when I’m there collecting bills and tips, I never pocket a single one for myself. If that doesn’t even the score, I don’t know what does. A few weeks ago, I was checking out a woman who moved and spoke so slowly, I was worried someone had slipped her a Quaalude. Her total came to $808, and she handed me $908, proudly announcing she’d finally paid with exact change. She snapped her Prada wallet shut and was halfway into the elevator when I took a deep breath and called out, “You gave me an extra hundred!” As I shuffled toward her, handing over a month’s worth of groceries, I came to the conclusion that I’m virtually Mother Theresa and that I have no idea why life keeps serving me this brand of absurdity. I’M A SAINT.

It took longer than expected to recover from the flu. I spent three consecutive weekends holed up in my apartment. Even after my symptoms subsided and I was no longer sick, cleared for human interaction once more, I let notifications and phone calls pile up, unanswered. Friends, family, job interviews—none of them got through. I’m always aware socialization is the cure, but I can't deny how comforting isolation feels. It’s like scratching a bug bite. I experienced a lapse of déjà vu, bitterly reminded of a particularly rough week during my exchange program in Seoul. All my classes were online, so there wasn’t a particular need to go to campus. I spent six days in the tiny bedroom of my female-only sharehouse. I barely ate. I didn’t shower. On the seventh day, I woke up at 4:00 AM, scrubbed down my room, did my laundry, washed off all the dirt and wine that can accumulate within a six-day span, and met my friends for coffee. Why the fuck am I still exhibiting behaviors from when I was 20? Why is there tangible evidence of regression? I’m 25. 25-year-olds are not supposed to act like this.

I was in no condition, mental or physical, to crawl out of the abyss and show face. My apartment was a mess. My hair and bedsheets were unwashed. I still hadn’t cut my cuticles or cleaned out my fridge.

I justified staying inside by getting ahead on some freelance work for the next month. Every night, I would fill up my to-do list with a myriad of tasks, domestic and secular. I’d set my alarm for 7:30 AM, giving myself ample time to perform the obligatory scroll and catch up on all the breaking news I had missed. By the end of the day, my only reward was the faint satisfaction of crossing a few tasks off my list—less than five. Some days, less than three. It was always something each day. I had a migraine, I forgot to take my iron supplements the night before, I was hungry but in no mood to eat. One day this summer, I was hopped up on 2 Celciuses and scrubbed my apartment from head to toe, edited two full-length videos, and went grocery shopping across town. The next day, I was so exhausted I called out of work, my muscles sore for days. I keep telling myself I’m able to harness the energy from that day and fulfill my ever-growing to-do list if I just sit down and focus, that all of the success and abundance I dream of is locked behind a wall of superhuman strength and endurance rather than steady, realistic exertions each day. I could not— and still do not—understand why there are days I can do it all and days I can’t even provide 10%. I spent an entire morning fantasizing about how productive I could be if I had medication to fall back on. Visions of myself, fully animated—think the Big Mouth episode where Missy is unsupervised and has refined sugar for the first time—flashed through my mind: eyes glowing, bouncing off the walls, and effortlessly conquering every task and deadline I’d set.

I thought of my twin brother. He’s the only one of my siblings whose emotional and mental struggles were acknowledged and validated by my parents (naturally, because they impacted his academic performance). He was even granted a visit to a psychiatrist and a Vyvanse prescription. He said that he didn’t “need them” and that they gave him boner problems so he suspended use after three days. Ungrateful. All the boners in the world couldn’t compare to a lifeline for my productivity.

I really have no interest in revealing where I work or what I do out of embarrassment and shame from the fact that just earlier this year, I was receiving big girl checks at my big girl corporate job. I work in service. Nothing wrong with working in the service industry, of course. I’m performing my one-woman act of Girl Who Was Fated to Be Hopelessly Dramatic For All of Eternity and all of this feels like a fall from grace. I’ve been working in service since I was 14 and admittedly, I hoped last year would be my… last, marking a clean, decade-long run. I work for wealthy people. Emmy Rossum is a regular. I’ve heard she’s not the nicest, but I always happen to be off when she comes in, so I can’t say from personal experience.

I’ve learned that the secret to subduing rich people is surprisingly simple. You have to say their name. Look them right in the eye and say their name. Even when they’re being a cunt—especially when they’re being a cunt. You can’t forget to smile. “Can I take your coat for you, Mrs. Blank?” “Do you need change, Mr. Blank?” “Are you sure you don’t need a refill, Mrs. Blank, it’s really no problem.” It’s like holding up a mirror. They snap out of it and remember they’re in active participation and engagement with another human being, and that even they—despite their wealth and privilege—must uphold the same standards of behavior. I had the biggest bitch come into work this week. I cracked. She got me.

It was past 6 PM and she was the last appointment of the day. I’d been there since 9 AM and was desperate to clock out. My boss had suggested—though later claimed it was policy—that I cash out clients who book after business hours, or else I’d be left sitting around picking my butt on his dime while waiting for the service to end. 95% of clients never mind, anyway. I gingerly asked her if she minded cashing out first, playing it off as "closing the register" since it’s considered gauche to say, “This place is empty, I’ve been here for nine hours, my soul is dead, and I would like to leave. Please let me leave.”

She looked at me as if I just spoke Latin.

This is the part where I desperately try to re-establish my hardness and resilience to you, the unbiased (and indifferent— You don’t care. I know you don’t care but here I am, still) reader by reiterating that it really wasn’t the fact that she was a bitch that got to me. I love bitchy white womanism. I could write you a thesis on bitchy white womanism. It's satirical. It's insincere, like a sugar substitute. Having the privilege of witnessing it is like watching a sitcom or stand up or realizing that one of the quintessential American entities in films— the ones that foreigners take in astonishment— exists calmly in everyday life, like a yellow school bus. Bitchy white womanism is like a landmark on summer vacation. I wanted to whip out a digital camera and capture the moment her brows furrowed and her syllables began to decelerate.

Huh? What are you even talking about?

Oh my god. This is perfect, can you hold that, actually? I need to turn on the flash. Ok, ready. This is really good stuff. Say cheese!

I had to suppress a shit-eating grin when I realized what was going on. A yellow bus, live in the flesh. “Am I speaking a different language? What’s difficult to understand?” I say, only partly feigning confusion. I genuinely was a bit confused as to why she was confused. I suddenly received a gentle, cautionary tap and rub on the back from an assistant to watch it.

“So what, I should inconvenience myself to make things easier for you?” she sneered.

“It’s an inconvenience to swipe your card before your service instead of after?” I questioned.

That rich cunt doesn’t even pay with her own card. She has her mom’s on file. I think she was just allergic to the thought of making a lowly service worker’s life simpler in any way, shape, or form. I’m sure she was just surprised that I had the ability to go off-script and utter anything other than the expected “Hi,” “Hello,” and “Goodbye.” She blinked, genuinely startled by the fact that it could speak. Narrowing her eyes, she placed her arms on the desk and set her phone and purse down with a quiet thunk.

“What are you even talking about right now?” she asks. If you’re confused reading this, all I can tell you is to join the fucking club, I do not know what this girl was asking me.

“You know what? You can just forget it,” I said, waving my wrists dismissively in her direction, a bit too dramatically, as if to prove I CAN BE A BITCH TOO. She couldn’t even harness the energy of a Karen to try and intimidate me, that bitch and I are the same age!

WE’RE PEERS, CUNT HELLLLLOOOOOOO YOU DON’T SCARE ME. YOU’RE JUST IN A DIFFERENT TAX BRACKET.

“Fucking bitch… cunt.” I whispered, just a tad on the audible side. I don’t know why I did that. The cunt part was quieter.

“What?” she demanded, quickly turning around. CATFIGHT! LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLEEEEEEEEE! I need a bell.

The assistant stepped forward, still tenderly stroking my back, and gently told Ms. Cunt that everything was fine, she could pay whenever she wanted, and to head to the changing station to put on a fresh robe. “You can’t let these people get to you,” she whispered, her tone slightly scolding. “And you definitely can’t say things like that. You know that—you don’t need me to tell you,” she finished, quickening the pace of her back rub, almost as if trying to warm me up.

I excused myself and headed to the bathroom. I needed to towel dry my swamp ass. I immediately started performing amateur bilateral taps on both shoulders to try and regulate my nervous system. I filled my obligatory black work turtleneck with so much stress sweat, that it no longer smelled fresh although it was freshly laundered the night before. In a matter of twelve minutes, the underarm and underboob area gave off the same stale smell as if it had spent weeks under utility. Stale. Musty at best. Musky. The novelty had been stripped, brutalized. My beloved Suavitel never stood a chance.

Her name was [redacted]. This article from the Daily Mail UK came up when I googled her. Good for her, I guess. Cunt.

I’ve learned that hardship has a way of blackening the heart. I held a woman’s weighty black AmEx in my hands and fantasized about robbing her. If you dropped it, it would sound like a cast iron skillet. I understand now why people rob banks, scam, and steal. I guess what I really mean is that I see what drives people to commit such acts (I wouldn’t do any of these things. This isn’t a confession or a sign of ideation. I’m simply putting my idle Sociology minor to good use and loosely theorizing— you can relax). I glared at a mother and daughter on the train as the mom went on and on about her daughter’s fresh cut and highlights, equal parts vexed and longing. It bothered me so much that someone could care so deeply about something as trivial as highlights—enough to talk about them for twenty minutes and nine stops—that I lost track of whatever I’d been thinking about before, and spent the rest of the evening in a sour mood.

Although I’ve never considered myself to be a covetous or spiteful person, I’ve never claimed to always cling to the feminine ideals of good, sweet, and kind. There are times when I am callous, self-absorbed, and hard-boiled. I’m jaded, sarcastic, “stoic” (a label given by someone else— I think it’s a bit ridiculous to self-describe with that word) with an unexpectedly light spirit. I consider it my secret weapon. I don’t hold grudges. I’m really good at forgiving. Every hardship that has ever successfully passed through does just that and instead of letting it seep and stain into the grooves and curves of my being, I rule the world with my voice. A voice equally hard and soft, hilarious and nasty, probing and curious that is often all I have at the end of a long and painful day. Whether everything’s going right or my world is falling apart, this voice takes over and my musings bring me back, hastily restoring my equilibrium and ensuring that I can wake up and do life once more, all over again. I laid in bed that night, eyes heavy, nursing a dull headache, and wondered if this month— this string of weekends that turned uneasy, a foul mood that overstayed its visit— existed as part of some greater plan to shift something deep within me. November 2024—the month everything changed, and I just couldn’t figure out how to make things go back to the way they once were. Would it be for the better? Maybe it was finally time to wrap up my apathetic, childlike charade and turn over into adulthood. The kind of adulthood that primes you for things like childbirth, cohabitation, and making an Instagram account for your baby. Maybe I was abandoning everything I knew and morphing into a crueler, more wretched final form—like the kind of person who leaves hate comments on social media, or worse— too cowardice to say it with their chest, so they make a burner account.

The damage was already done, but that night, I dared to pray it wasn’t beyond repair.

If this post makes you feel sane, I’ve done my job and if it makes you feel crazier, I’ve done my job. I need a fucking cigarette. I don't smoke.