Monica is the author of The Girl Who, a blog you can find at www.thegirlwho.squarespace.com. She is currently working on turning some of her blog entries and stories into a book.
It began as a way to entertain myself. Iíve kept a journal since I was very young. Recently, instead of journaling, I began typing up vignettes about my dates, relationships, acne drama and the like while bored at work. I would compose an email in my Yahoo account then send it to myself.
Very soon I had amassed ten short stories. And there they sat. After I moved from Utah to New York I sent out a few stories as a way to keep in touch with old friends. The response was encouraging so I continued writing again, this time with the intention of creating a book comprised of stories chronicling different experiences over the course of my life.
I quickly realized I had lugged suitcases full of unresolved issues from my childhood into my adulthood. I was now jamming my adult issues into the luggage, trying to secure the zipper. But it wasn't working. Despite my struggle to lock them away, my issues were bursting forth.
I know, BOR-RING! Who doesnít have issues? As I wasnít interested in boohooing my way through expensive therapy sessions, my writing took on an interesting twist. I reminisced on the tragedies of my youth with a saucy, irreverent and sometimes inappropriate, humor.
I discovered that humor dwells somewhere within every situation. Sometimes you have to dig deep and view with an objective eye, but itís always there. Oftentimes YOU are the joke, so you gotta be able to make fun of yourself.
I hope women come away from my book with a greater sense of self. Iíve struggled through life, feeling insecure, grappling with self hatred, trying to lose weight, ondering if other women feel the same way that I do or if Iím the only one who deals with rogue hairs cropping up on her nipples, confusing vagina lips and a penchant for dramatics with boyfriends.
Women are amazing creatures whose identities and self-esteem get a regular bulldozing by the celebrity perpetuation of the ideal woman. Fuck Cosmo with it's airbrushed celebrity photos and articles that have the nerve to pander to the average women while trying to make us feel like shit about our normal bodies, bad relationships and boring jobs.
My wildest dream when it comes to writing my book? I want millions of women to stay up late because they just have to read one more chapter. I want them to relate, to not feel alone, to realize at an age younger than I did that we all feel the same things. We all experience the same hopes and fears. Know that the hot cheerleader in High School is or was just as messed up as you think you are or were. Oh yeah, months on a bestseller list and an appearance on Oprahís Book Club wouldnít suck either.
Below is a short writing sample by Monica.
Walk of Shame
Bright sunlight slits into my eyes like a paper cut. I can feel my hair funking out at odd angles, phantom pains form the ponytail that once was. My breath is so rancid even I can smell it. Tongue coated in a film of scum.
Gradually, nausea recedes and my brain is available to focus on other, more important issues. Namely, where am I? While I consider this, a heavy weight pressing my legs into the mattress laps into my consciousness like ripples from a skipping rock. A leg? A hefty, hairy leg.
Like a slide show, last night pops into my head like flashes. Snapshots. At the bar. Drinking. Dancing. Drinking. Making out. Drinking. It's all coming back now. The mortification spurs me into action.
I stealthily slide my body from underneath the leg. The leg that belongs to... erm.. uh.. Jason! Yes, that's his name. A friend of Natalie's boyfriend. Eep! I cringe in shame, recalling my amorous acts of the night before. A snapshot of me in the midst of an impromptu stripper imitation develops, polaroid style, in my brain. This memory, not one for the scrapbook I assure you, is interrupted by still another flashback of me doing tequila shots. Tequila? I don't drink tequila. Do I?
I worm to the edge of the strange bed, snake a hand out the side of the sheet, and claw hopefully, then desperately for my bra. No dice. My fingers do close around my jean mini skirt which I promptly shimmy into, taking extra care not to wake my sleeping companion.
I know the owner of the hairy leg. Somewhat. His name is Jason. We cross paths occasionally at Natalie's parties. Not an asshole, he's nice enough. He's a generic guy. The everyboy. Not loud and funny, not quiet and mysterious. Just there. Not much personality. Apparently though, he had enough personality for me last night.
The urge to pee is painful and although I want to flee the scene of last night's crime, my small bladder trumps.. and triumphs. I bolt from the bed and grab my shirt which is crumpled onto his bookshelf (at least he reads) and tiptoe into the hallway where surely a bathroom can be found.
I hover above the toilet like I would a public loo. Bachelor boy bathroom, yeck! I run the water in the sink to disguise the unflattering horse pee sound of me urinating.
After what seems like ten minutes I'm finished. I reach for the toilet paper only to discover an empty cardboard roll mocking me from its perch atop the counter. A quick scan under the sink confirms the absence of toilet paper, although I briefly consider wiping with the cover of one of the carefully stacked porno mags I spot. Drip dry it is. I wave my arse about then button up and move to the sink all the while listening for movement in the rest of the unfamiliar house.
My reflection reveals the full extent of the previous night's debauchery. I look every inch a zombie bride. Blonde hair, once carefully styled into a sleek ponytail (so I could wear my dangly earrings of course!) has come to rest somewhere in between an up-do and a rat's nest.
A snapshot develops of me whipping my hair out of the ponytail in the middle of my imitation stripper dance. Oh GAWD! My carefully crafted eye make-up now hovers in clumps, raccoon like, in the vicinity of my eyes. And cheeks. And nearly my ears. I swish water around in my mouth, wipe around my eyes, terrified whomever lives with Jason will decide this moment is the ideal time to relieve themselves.
My haphazard ablutions complete, I inch open the door and peer into the hall. Coast clear, I tiptoe/jog back to Jason's room where he is (thank god!) still sleeping. I spot my purse at the foot of the bed. A cursory search turns up my strappy shoes which I hang over my wrist like extra large charm bracelets.
Just when I'm about to leave the bra behind as a Casualty of Whore, I spot black lace peeping out from behind the nightstand.. or rather the black crate serving as nightstand. I jam the lingerie into my purse and flee the scene of last night's criminal activities.
Success! Maybe Jason won't remember last night! But it wasn't meant to be. On my way out the front door I run smack into Jason's roommate Travis.
Travis is actually another friend of Natalie's boyfriend. Unfortunate, our chance encounter because I've always had a bit of a crush on Travis. I didn't know he lives with Jason. Way-ell, I can kiss that crush goodbye.
A firefighter, Travis is apparently returning from his overnight shift. He recoils in horror at my appearance, then recognizing a Walk of Shame when he sees one, a grin stretches his luscious lips.
"Bye Travis." With that I am off to nurse my wounds with coffee, at some point greasy food will be needed... and lots of sleep. Thank god it's Saturday!