I love Adrienne Eisen’s work. She is my hero. She is also the reason why I have had extreme writer’s constipation for the past two weeks prior to this narrative’s creation—next to hers, filled with the antics of long term intimate lovers, my life is frankly, very boring. It really irked me, how pathetic my life is, for those torturous two weeks despite how I kept telling myself that it’s how you view what happens and how you tell it and not what actually happens that is important and that the littlest things are the best stories because they happen to everyone only not everyone knows how to express these memories with such light and humor.

Dirty Underwear

Like, for example, there’s one story where Adrienne Eisen was talking about how she went to the gym and forgot to bring a quarter for the lockers so she rolled her wallet up in her dirty underwear “with the yellow part facing whoever might be considering stealing her stuff.” Now I consider myself a fairly open person, but for a while I just couldn’t bring myself to write about my mustard stains and the like. I’m not saying that I’m above mustard stains or anything—I just like to pretend to myself that I don’t have them. Well, I don’t actually—not visual ones anyway. I make a point to buy only dark colored underwear precisely to remain in self denial that I am not just as disgusting as everyone else.

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