This post is an excerpt from Twenties Unscripted: A Journey of Womanhood, Writing, and Relativity. The full essay is available in the book, which is currently available for pre-sale here.
It’s Christmas Eve. Everyone is upstairs laughing. Joking. Inhaling the unique buzz brought on during the holidays when family is together. I hear the pitter patter of my nieces running around, their little bodies filled with the anticipation of Santa Claus bringing their favorite toys in less than 24 hours. I bunker down in the tiny guest bedroom in the basement. It is the only place where I can get a reliable three-prong outlet to connect my laptop and endure this Skype conversation.
My University of Maryland sweatshirt swallows my body. The hood is propped up. I try not to look too serious because this entire thing is dumb and I should be upstairs with my family. But, last night, I got sucked into the vortex of Twitter and spent a solid hour reading every tweet you rattled off. Then I sent you a direct message and said I was ending this whole thing. Whatever this whole thing is. Or was. Then, I blocked you because knowing you couldn’t respond was easier than waiting for a response I may have never received.
This. Is. Dumb.
But, when you texted me after my Twitter tirade and asked if we could talk, of course I said yes. So, here we are. On Christmas Eve. Talking.