5

It's astounding how quickly women's role in American society has metamorphosed within only the past few decades. Seriously, how did expectancies change from The Perfect Housewife to The Take-On-The-World-And-Grab-Life-By-The Balls Girl in less than half a century? The problem is that the new moth is now beating itself repeatedly against the porch light when it comes to relationships with...men. And it's not surprising. From what I've gathered from the men in my life, they don't sit as well to change compared to us more effeminate crowd (In general, there's always the outliers!). So how do we expect to be treated in the "same way" that women were in the 1950s, with the door-holding and the financially covered meals? Isn't a little unfair to put ourselves into a power position but at the same time demand to be treated as pets? Chivalry is fair to ask for, but asking to be supported when you're a doctor and your new boyfriend has a job at Office Max just seems downright shameful. If you don't want to be complaining about your man not paying for dates, then don't date the ones who aren't pushing themselves as far as you.

4

The knot in the hardwood floor panel becomes my world - my focus, my whirling thoughts, my physical pain, my questions...everything. I never knew it was possible to be so angry at a mahogany dot. My thoughts run in every direction, like roaches scurrying from a kitchen light being turned on late at night. I somehow have to lasso them together and turn the remainder or my mind into a large, empty void. Horses constantly escape from the heard: "Austin should be here.," "Is that girl a lesbian?," "Holy shit my legs and lower back hurt.," "What happens if you fart while meditating?." And then imagined conversations set in. I can't tell if the sweat is coming from the un-air conditioned Florida attic that we're sitting combined with the agonizing discomfort of remaining perfectly still for twenty five minutes, or from the challenge of completely clearing my mind.

3

What should Leah do with her life? Should she follow her parents into medical school and become a psychologist or a doctor of some field? Or should she hold fast to her passion for sick and disturbed men and become a criminal psychologist? (That, at least, she already has the beginnings of a resume for.) Should she look into a career in forensics and become the inspiration for the next generation's shows? Or should she say "Fuck it all" and go fishing for the elusive RichWhiteMan sea bass? It's the question of our lifetime, and everyone is anxiously awaiting the unfurling of her the rest of her 20s and early 30s. A common opinion is that she should delve into the depths of extrasensory perception (ESP) and become an investigator of parapsychological phenomena. The fact that her cat possesses a strong connection with ouija boards strengthens this idea as well. With this lifestyle, she would have the freedom to inform others of what to do with their lives, while concurrently doing almost nothing of significance with her own. But for us non-psychic population who will never have the powers to distinguish answers in a crystal ball, only the future will reveal what she chooses to pursue.

2

The shrill cry of the brakes interrupted my subconscious thoughts and caused me to momentarily glance up from my sketchbook to survey the mass of New Yorkers presented in my subway car. New York: A city who's every inhabitant displays such an overwhelming ability to stand alone, and infallibly resist any eye contact with others. Yet hardly anywhere else in the country can such a diverse group of people stand shoulder to shoulder in such an intimate area and feel this at ease with a transvestite's crotch a foot away from their face, or a homeless man rocking back and forth in the seat next to theirs. Maybe it is the constant physical closeness in the city that provides every New Yorker with the innate need for a sense of family and community. The momentum of the train causes the entire mass of people in the car to lean for a few seconds, looking like a room from a carnival fun house. We recover, and the doors open to exhale the departing and inhale the newcomers. I inconspicuously prop my red moleskin against my purse until the car settles - I haven't quite been able to let go of the desire to keep my personal artwork out of the view of strangers. The page in progress now consists of three layers - an original sketch, a jumble of scribbles over it that I proceeded to do in a moment of frustration after intensely disliking that sketch, and finally the statements "TOO MUCH FOR ANYONE" / "NOT ENOUGH FOR ANYONE" written vertically mirroring each other in large black sharpie letters. I watch an older, slightly worn-around-the-edges man search for a seat and fatefully sit almost directly across from me. The funny thing is, I don't remember ever making eye contact with him (How could I have, if he was a native New Yorker?). But I don't think that I've ever in my life felt such mysterious, overwhelming energy between myself and a stranger. In the short time that we shared together in that subway car, I became certain that this was a person in which I shared a deep connection beyond any understanding of the physical world. It was different than lust. It was a feeling that everything that had ever happened to me or that take place in the future in my life without this man was horribly pointless and insignificant. He was in no way a head turner; his age was difficult to place, anywhere between mid thirties and mid fifties. He donned glasses under almost shoulder length, unkempt hair, and there was a look of a scholar or a professor about him.

1

The summer of consistent, never fail rainy days. The possibilities that your twenties hold (the possibilities of the rest of your life, for that matter) descend in a glistening roar of thousands upon thousands of cries of "This is your path!," "This is your direction!," "This is your best option, can't you see?" Maddened you wish for the opportunity to have participated in the very first ticks of time - to have been able to have seized the second hand and wrenched it off the clock raging "No! You silly and stupid system! Who's idea was this!?, to create a world in which every living organism is given just one chance to make it, with no repeats and no going back to an earlier point to correct any mistakes or travel a more preferred path?" We are in a world where urgency and desperation are the keys of progress. With each passing moment another few thousand raindrops plummet to the ground, and another few thousand possibilities are absorbed into the Earth.