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[typeaforandrea]

C*nty

Any flair, pageantry, or little daily treat that boosts your dopamine levels, even if by a scintilla, is probably the cuntiest of them all. There’s something so deliciously sinister and suburban about an easy interstate commute, relishing in the privilege that bridges the heat blasting on my feet tucked in new creamy leather Vince boots and brief, scalding sips of coffee from the snazzy new…

[typeaforandrea]

Stray

A stoop is a stoop to rest your new chunky heels,even when no one cares to notice them.Even when the restaurant it belonged to(where you both enjoyed lambics and lobster once)is papered in the windows.Even when its cement is pockmarkedand narrowand familiar,but you’re sans a warm Hurricaneon a warmer summer night.Even when you tip your feet to the crescent moonlike a bored child,not because they…

[typeaforandrea]

New poem.

[typeaforandrea]

A decade ago, I had an...interesting...experience during my senior year of college. After graduation, I jotted down a rough outline of the events, for remembrance/keepsake/a spewing of feelings on the subject.  Then, I completely and utterly forgot about it. 

Just this year during quarantine, I impulse bought a new laptop and wanted to transfer some old writing from my barely working UArts Macbook Pro onto the new one. That's when I came across what I had written: a couple pages of narrative originally entitled "Sugar Daddy." 

All the old feelings came up. It was lacking voice and character and even story for that matter, but the bones, albeit bare, were there. So I took on the massive project of revising it, digging deep into the recesses of my old emails, Facebook status updates and aging brain to remember the sequence of events and finally, once and for all, do it justice.

I chose to put this piece on Medium because I think it speaks to a larger problem: of toxic hetero masculinity, of money and age as unearned power, and of so many women who don't speak their voice for fear of...who the hell knows what.

I'd like to think this gives my 21-year-old self a voice, since she didn't have one then.

If you like what you read, please feel free to like/comment/share.  Thank you!

[typeaforandrea]

Confit

An Unctuous, Slow-Cooked Love

“Do you wanna get wings after class?”

They weren’t the first words I spoke to Stephen, but they were the first marinated in mustering up the courage to ask him out and bump uglies already.  We were seated in the back of Mr. Duffy’s classroom, me having just royally failed my senior AP History midterm, due largely in part to already being accepted into art…

[typeaforandrea]

Median "It's all about balance," they say.The ever elusive THEY. Who are THEY?Do they swallow corrections…

[typeaforandrea]

Out of Body

Reminiscing on my time dabbling in the occult.

“That was the fun of the unknown, after all, the anticipatory ‘What if?‘ “

The name of the store was “Possibilities,” which I frequented with my friend at the time, Kara, the only Pisces in my life I’ve ever befriended. It sat next to a therapist’s office right off Pittston Avenue in Scranton, a therapist I visited only once at my mother’s…

[typeaforandrea]

Baby Shoes, Never Bought

The choice for childlessness, explained

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“When I see children, I feel nothing. I have no maternal instinct…I ovulate sand.”

-Margaret Cho

To say I don’t like children is an understatement. As my boyfriend so aptly put it when explaining to friends, “You know that face you make when you take a sip of water and find out it’s vodka? That’s her face…

[typeaforandrea]

Molting Its shell allows the lobster to grow in a constant state of infinite metamorphosis, adapting by needling its plumpness into every salty nook and cranny of armor like polycarbonate, both in simultaneous protection and prison, until, at last, it shatters the proverbial ceiling and wriggles free its naked, ancient body out into the sea's thousand icy cold leagues, forgetting its cells will inevitably regenerate a shiny new casing.

[typeaforandrea]

There Are Two Kinds Of Love There are two kinds of love. Friends turned lovers.Lovers turned lifers. There are two kinds of love.

[typeaforandrea]

“I. Hate. Working. Out. People who actually enjoy it – like, look FORWARD to it – are myths, I’m convinced. The Loch Ness Monster is really just a chiseled guy casually saying that his favorite way to blow off steam after being in the office all day is busting out a couple deadlifts at the gym. Interrupting a blissful, cold Saturday morning in a warm bed to jolt yourself awake and JOG OUTSIDE is martian behavior. It just doesn’t add up. Tearing your muscles apart to build new ones is against everything nature intended. A flat ass turned bubble butt? Admirable, but dark magic, indeed.”

[typeaforandrea]

“I’d catwalk up to complete strangers at the Ponderosa and pose for them. If any background music was playing, forget about it, you were getting a full-blown choreographed dance number right here in this Blockbuster checkout line, my mother apologetic but mostly unaccountable for my failure to recognize not everything is about me (sadly, something my boyfriend continues to remind me to date), yet negated by the fact that my parents kept boxes of entire disposable camera film rolls devoted to me posing with hands out in a curtsy and a Shirley Temple smile.”

[typeaforandrea]

This was by far by absolute favorite part of Italy ♥️🇮🇹:

"Adriatic waters calmly splash against the ritzy yachts in the harbor. Preteens scheme in the plaza, wreaking havoc outside an ongoing mass, "bicicletas!" at their hips. A chorus line of soaring palm trees separates the new town from the old. Impregnable stone walls as ancient as dirt protect the cathedral of San Nicola from the revelers convening at bar-hop row."

[typeaforandrea]

"Taking a seat at one of these benches under a squat palm tree, I realized far too quick that it was already beginning to feel a bit purgatorial here, reaching a literal and figurative midpoint where we inadvertently flipped the switch to travel autopilot. I wouldn't go so far as saying it was boring (I was still in brand new territory, after all), but roaming these quiet, serious streets felt an awful lot like walking through Philadelphia (give or take a couple centuries). People LIVED here, and we were just a nominal little part of their daily minutiae, another sneaker disappearing around the corner, a squiggle signature on a cafe check, a new face on your walk to grab this morning's newspaper."

[typeaforandrea]

"At the absolute end of Atrani lies your very own secret garden, if you're up to the challenge."