by Tracy Dubin
Remember Me Through Non Sequiturs I’ve Written into My Cell Phone Notes App While in Love
Is it my phone or your phone? Which of us is gloriously fucking it up now.
A lot has happened since we last spoke.
I fell in love with someone who wasn’t you, and I’m also missing a tooth.
I began an essay this morning on mimesis; and later, when I have time to revisit it, I need your input, to color areas of it with your beautiful mind where I am remiss.
*
If it’s real, it’ll never be over.
Take It
Pretty sure I drink too much; pretty sure hearing Joplin’s “Piece of My Heart” as I walked in while waiting for someone to call back is not a good sign; pretty sure I’m going to live a long time from years’ worth of pushing my body to the limits, between sleepless nights and sporadic time zones; pretty sure I definitely need to be left completely alone for a few days; and pretty sure the stir-fried salmon I’m eating is old, but I’m going to devour it, anyway.
Facebook DM Never Sent
I really don’t know if you stalk me on this, but I know you do stalk. And you know I’m never going to text you more, because of my ego. And you know, if you do contact me, I will see you, and I will yell at you like no man’s been yelled at before. You’re really going to get it. This is all your fault. You started being cruel first. But then, I’ll give you the biggest hug I’ve ever given anyone, squeezing and screaming at you out of love, because you have not been my best friend for the past 8 months and wtf would you do that. I want to smack you in the head. I probably will. And then I’ll talk your ears off.
I have a lot to say. I’ve missed you.
I’m pretty good – which is a complete contra-hyperbolization. But those vocational doors never opened for me: it was obstacle after obstacle preceding rejections foreshadowing more rejection.
Where the hell have you been?
Frog Princes
I’ve kissed them all. My problem is whomever I like is always subspecies and anti-establishment, so looking for frogs is futile when he’s probably an asshole caterpillar.
Asshole caterpillar! That’s rather phallic. This memo was written very well; sometimes current me is in awe of past me because past me was a little wordsmith. I’m also wanting a new asshole caterpillar, because I miss being obsessively infatuated. I read tonight versus talking to some asshole caterpillar on the phone, and I miss my moody man bugs.
*
I lost three men this week.
RIP, three different men whom I will never speak to again because I simply don’t like any of you. I never really did (except for One, and this Gemini Judy Garland hates you the most and you know it, my old Jewish Scarecrow.)
*
I get confused in love too!!!
Instagram DM Sent 9/18/24, 8:52 A.M.,
Never Opened
Messaging you here because I know you’ll never open it: I wish you didn’t fuck up. I would like a sleepover immediately where I have a second glass of red wine, read straight for 3 hours – you won’t be allowed to talk to me – but then we’d have breakfast, and you’d make me pancakes then I’d go home and send in these journalism articles I should have queried last week.
And if I saw you late last night until this morning, I would have sat in a corner and silently cried subsequent hours with me not wanting to speak. Always astonishing to me how life changes within minutes; you’d think I’d be immune to this by now.
Golden Cocks
My men are so stupid. Honest to honorable God. Not just this one, but them all – there’s a special secret subset of ’em and frankly only under 10 make my special “Tracy’s Men List.”
They all think their penises are made of gold and women are standing in line to marry, not just date them; but no. No. They are actually crazy. Overly arrogant. And can’t function well in society. But they’re giftedly intelligent and creative. And I’m totally attracted to that.
What Is It About Love That Makes Us So Stupid?
I know the answer! I meticulously wrote a philosophical and medical-based essay on the issue, with a powerful dialectical addendum explaining why two souls who truly love each other can never get wed – which is personally paradoxical, because I want to have five husbands one day and be madly in love with each and every one of them.
Candidly, I would call back all the guys I ignore if I knew they’d only talk to me for 5 minutes max.
Redact: 30 seconds, max. If I texted back and called all you guys, I’d have no time for myself. Guys cannot think we can dedicate our entire lives to them.
I bite, but you should have known not to pet me.
Only in My Head
Are you done being mad at me and being an ultimate crazy bitch? Because if so, let’s go out tonight.
*
I miss The Him who once spoke to me on the phone for 13 straight hours until 9 A.M. The conversation was completely in metaphorical and metaphysical code, as he truly believed I was a soothsayer predicting our romantic destiny.
And in Reality
Please don’t make me regret allowing you open lines of communication to me again. Ashley and my new man friend (but he’s not truly new) were against me doing so, so please don’t make me regret it. I already very much regret being very nice to A. this week. Sometimes I feel like my sweetness is preyed upon, like it’s assumed I’ll still be there no matter what.
I won’t.
Femininity
I’m getting squishy again, hence I may be able to refit into my costume from Halloween’s past; and by costume, I totally mean chest display.
I was lonely last night and this morning. Guess he’s not calling. Good and bad girls exist; he knows which one I am.
If you have to ask, you don’t deserve to know.
To My Almost Lover (A Sexual, Textual, Unsent Draft)
I tried with you for a full year and a half. Faithfully tried and was open and willing to let you get close to me. I invested in you, thinking the payoff would be worth it. I don’t get close to anyone, exactly. You messed up. You hurt me. You can’t expect me, especially someone like me in my self-worthy ways, to be like yes, I accept you and your treatment, after it’s been 365 + 183 days. There were some days I had really needed you; others, it would have been really nice to have had you in my life. But you blocked or ignored me.
*
Oh, I don’t care anymore. Always get someone while they still care.
You want me mad, trust me. I am no longer mad.
Denude
Would you still want to be my friend if I didn’t look as good as I do naked?
I don’t trust you with my emotions because I don’t see you approaching anything differently. I am not friends with those I do not trust.
And you’ve never been my friend, R. My friends don’t send me their penis.
Venus Retrograde, Mercury Retrograde, Mercy Retrograde
I didn’t know there were weird astrological occurrences going on with the moon tonight until Raul, the Gemini man I went out with once four years ago, just texted to tell me – which is cool, considering I never saw him again because he ran a slew of illegal-underground-Hollywood bars in the late 90s and I do have an overprotective mom who gets mad sometimes and probably wouldn’t like him. But that’s interesting, about the moon. Good icebreaker, Raul.
Tonight, I went out with two guys in their late 30s, and it was seriously weird for me because of the age difference. There was none.
I get into the weirdest experiences with men two days before my period. It’s hard to weird me out, but it’s happening.
*
Greg wasn’t answering my texts, so I asked a ladybug if I should message the most recent ex-boyfriend during Mercury Retrograde, and the bug said, “Yes.” The bug should have said, “Hell yes, of course.”
People make jokes about me being crazy, but joke’s on them: it’s true and I am.
Edit and repeat.
*
How can I trust that you’re not going to retreat every time there’s a bit of conflict between us? Blood lives in the cut. You disappeared after you took out your penis and we weren’t even fighting then.
Watching The Love Witch
“So, I was a bad girl. Are you going to punish me? Sometimes it’s almost scary how strong the love gets.” Elaine reminded me of me painstakingly, especially when I had my super long hair; plus, a few of her phrases were word-for-word spurts I’ve said. I shouldn’t publicly proclaim this if you’ve seen the movie… but I never require, force, or want someone to love me – they already always do, and it’s more a matter of if I feel the same.
My Encino Commons’ Parking Lot Marriage Proposal
This is a metaphorical conceit of paradoxical realness: hypothetically yet seriously, I would want to get married in a parking lot (I know the one) and I wouldn’t want a single guest there who’d think I should not be married in said parking lot, because it’s my choice, my marriage, and what I want.
I’m aware I complain about men all the time, all the damn time. Truthfully, there’s no one I complain about more than this one. But paradoxically, there’s no man more deserving of my best-friendship forever than this cute piece of shit, my cute piece of shit.
Can I tell you a secret? I’ve written wedding vows to him in my head.
*
I can now post musing like this on my Facebook because I’ve blocked or been blocked by everyone who would criticize me: I hate how we must ignore lovers when we badly want to talk to them – for harmless, friendship reasons – but we must ignore, because talking leads to feelings leading to remembrance again of why it didn’t work out.
A “hi” becomes a mountain of unspoken words; when in truth, it may be all you need to say.
Women Are Cats
I have come to the conclusion I may never marry and reproduce and have made up every love story I’ve ever experienced in my head. Despite texts and photos and physical evidence, I’m telling myself these guys never existed. Or else, at least one (and by one, I mean my one and only, A.) would text me back. Correspondingly, I’ve self-induced myself into delusion to cope. That’s so sad. I’m certain that’s the opposite of what a therapist would tell me to do.
If you ever find someone who you think would be a suitable boyfriend for me, will you please set me up? I’m not avidly trying anymore because remember, my men don’t exist. But laundry and bills do – so whatever. I’ll get to it.
*
I hope you had a wonderful time at Disneyland and that Bill barks his head off at everyone for I’m Bill, that’s how I feel, but we cannot express ourselves like dogs. Yet, men can.
Disneyland, Fall 2019
That was a peculiar trip; sometimes Disneyland can be a peculiar place and propel me to text current boyfriends essays about how much I hate them, current friends flirtatious texts about the potential for more, and current anyone-on-my-newsfeeds about how crowded yet misanthropic Disneyland indeed can be, all while riding that train through the Grand Canyon to the dinosaurs.
This is probably why I never posted this pic; I was too busy pondering peculiar musings.
I used to have a lot more time than I do now, but that train ride is transformative.
Dead Men Tell Tales That Turn Me On
To add to my list of dead men I’d like to date and/or dine with, I’d like to include Dr. John Martyn Harlow and John von Neumann, Ph.D. If you know me, you know I’ve been curating my “Dead Men I’d Like to Date And/or Have Dinner with List” for over the past decade. I’ve exhaustively memorized what questions I’d query each man. Recently, during a psychology graduate school interview, I was asked the question, “If you could have dinner with anyone living or dead, who would it be and why?” My inquisitor was unaware I was insanely prepared. Obviously, I answered in extreme detail, as if I were reading a script. Because you know, I dwell over these things. The interviewer responded with asking do I have any friends or no because I’m smarter than them; to which, I diplomatically retorted, obviously again. I do not believe mature psychotherapist interviewers should tell young, hopeful future therapists that they do not have any friends, but I kept that tidbit to myself. Needless to say, I did not get the interview acceptance. However, I would like to discuss it over dinner with the dead John von Neumann, for I know he’d understand. It’s totally Game Theory.
My imagination is more vivid than I remember.
Contemporary Hugh Grant Is Hot
I’m highly sexually attracted to men who look like they’re dying – this doesn’t mean they must be old; they simply must exhibit a general sense of malaise (like contemporary Hugh Grant). Because just this year, I’ve had food poisoning, an endoscopy revealing eosinophilic esophagitis, and I’ve been to shoulder, hand, and now ankle physical therapy; so, if you want to talk to me about your most recent hike while I can’t even slightly move my right foot, I guarantee you: our relationship isn’t going to work out.
*
I found old photos of me on a stripper pole in Vegas.
It’s okay; I stopped applying to teaching jobs long ago. My grad school interviewer hated me. Contemporary Hugh Grant would never.
Phantom of the Opera
I was reading Lacan two years before we met, despite you thinking you “raised” me and taught me everything like some Gaston Leroux’s Erik. But you never “loved” me in the phantom’s way – seeing the ideal and no real – as has nearly every ordinary man I’ve encountered. Our love was more anti-idealism, although I’ve always been better than your creation.
That anti-fantasy was your downfall, because we shared the potential for perfection. A true fairy tale.
*
I assume, during the interim you’ve blocked me, that you didn’t get a tattoo of my name upon your person. Nevertheless, I think it’d be a good start.
TACOS and BEER Mi Lindo Mexico, Hemet, CA
My most commonly used phrases, plausibly in sequential order:
– “I love you”
– “I hate you”
– “Did you read my breakup essay?”
– “I really don’t know where I am”
– “Come visit”
*
Now add, “You didn’t read my latest submission, did you.”
Las Vegas, Nevada, 2019’s Poetry
Sitting eating overnight oats
In the room at 1pm
I look over and see two red cranes
One taller than the other
Their hook protrusions wanting to cling
Why else would their hands be open
But I spy the extensive mechanisms required to make them meet
And acknowledge impossibility.
They would not come together
The effort was too great.
Even if a crane magically moved
Its lover would remain untouched
One could not support the other.
And the clock chimed. Back to bed, again.
Persian Christmas Pastries
FYI: I’m at the Persian bakery, I’m going to buy A. some cake even though I’m mad at him, and I would have bought you Persian Christmas pastries even though I’m not sure when I’d see you next because I must leave the country soon. But I would have bought you those saffron tea sweets plus a ticket for a play I had wholeheartedly wanted to attend last night but didn’t, for I wasn’t sure about inviting you to Waiting for Godot because I thought that would have made it too serious between us. I had after-hours plans for us in addition to the play, but I didn’t do any of these things, though I thought of every single one, because it’s been like, when did I invite you to the gay bar – over a week since I started talking to you professing undying madness and you didn’t make any efforts to truly make better yet had 8 days. Or maybe it was more days than that. But I’m just trying to say give a little bit, and you get a lot in return. But you don’t give out anything. While my left hand is full of sugar. Sugar for you.
You’d Already Blocked Me When I Sent These Texts
Tuesday, December 24, 11:02 A.M.
Merry pre-Christmas! I envisioned I could have gotten closer to you, but I’m not always right. We had a good run. Enjoy your holiday!
Wednesday, December 25, 3:32 P.M.
I haven’t left California yet and am presently at the pub and was thinking about inviting you, but:
1) I think you blocked me
2) Their kitchen isn’t open on Christmas; I didn’t know
3) I don’t know if we’re friends
4) I am wearing an elderly woman’s urinary inconvenience diaper because it’s the last day of my period and I don’t wear underwear but in theory, this should be hot for you because you probably date the after-menopause crew.
Slot Machine, January 2025
You told me, “Dealing with you is like putting money in a slot machine as you never know what you are going to get.”
No, it’s not a gamble… my mood is based upon how much love and attention I’m given. (Sometimes, my external environs do also dictate, but I know how to regulate myself. So, I more bounce off the energy I’m receiving from others with whom I’m engaging.) And yes, if you would have messaged me yesterday, I would have mouthed completely different utterances – I remember what they were. Alas, I can’t say them anymore for my personal circumstances and you flowed in a different direction.
Consequently, you’re getting a different message. Although, you would have loved yesterday’s initial river of words. A lot.
*
I never want anyone to feel like I did that night. It happened for the best, though; the cliché rings true. Since it was only after that night, that A. started shaping up. We’ve slothfully become nimbly close. We weren’t doing well together before. His fault. I haven’t changed at all.
It always takes the men longer to catch up to me. They crawl.
Darts
I told you: it’s going to be hard for you because of how you acted towards me. Up to you if you want to push through that hardness to touch my soft spots, or if you want to retreat like you perpetually do and try to work up someone else for beer company. But you must realize, R.: I wasn’t originally difficult with you. I was once your easy target.
I don’t want to say it’s impossible, since even clean slates are made from recycled material. I’m up for the challenge. But it’s going to be extremely hard for you to earn my “true forgiveness,” because you blocked me when you should have called. Cutting off communication when I don’t hate you is the worst deadly sin a man can commit after abuse and non-consensual sex acts. For I am a Gemini, who talks.
Breakfast Micheladas
I am dreadfully careful now whenever licking Micheladas, so as not to chip my front tooth again to recreate TeethMageddon. I’m still suffering through its grave ripple effects. When the disaster transpired, I was texting one man, emailing another, and phoning a fav; I will never talk to another man for the rest of my life while Michelada-licking. It’s simply not worth it, regarding the dental, financial, and aesthetic effects.
Baby Bird It into My Mouth
Called someone whom I’m mad at to have breakfast with me, and apparently, he’s the second man who thought it was odd when I asked him to pre-chew my food then baby bird it into my mouth. Josh did it all the time in high school when I was having dental problems; even my mom, the minute I told her I’m missing a tooth and have an exposed gum, said, “Didn’t you use to have your boyfriends pre-chew your food for you?” It’s not weird; if you’re in, you’re in.
PRE-CHEWING MY FOOD FOR ME IF I’M HAVING DENTAL ISSUES AND WE’RE SWAPPING OTHER BODILY FLUIDS IS **NOT** WEIRD.
SOS
So yes, I’d like to hire you, meet in person, go over more questions, then proceed with the next steps.
*
I needed help. You didn’t respond when I responded needing help. This is who you are. This is why you don’t have close friends here with whom to share beers.
*
You only responded to my texts when I threatened contacting your ex-girlfriend. That’s just like when A. answers when we’re doing silent treatments and he thinks I’m going to contact his wife. I like those women. I would never put up with the two of you men as they have. I would have murdered you both. I don’t care about jail as long as I can get antibiotics.
Watching The Lobster
I would maim myself for a lover – but not just any lover, only the one who deliberately ignores me and my text messages – and only after watching him maim himself for me first. I think he would. And this is why I can’t watch movies, because I’m very seriously contemplating this hypothetical and the different scenarios which would play out.
*
He actually doesn’t (always) ignore me, and I absolutely want to never stop talking to him (if I’m not working or busy).
*
Tonight I was talking to myself while opening a bottle of red wine and I quoted him, my now ex-lover: “You got to hit it at an angle.”
LIV Nightclub, Fontainebleau
Miami. 5am. November 2019. After the club. In front of the elevator to our hotel room. Melancholy over two men. A contest of painful love with no winners but this cinematic memory.
Insertions and Inscriptions
I’m not xenophobic but I just had a transvaginal ultrasound done by a scary Russian lady. When you play the-never-have-I-ever-game with me, I’ll most likely win.
Also, every man on earth finds me attractive. When God made me, He was like, “I’m going to make a sexy cynosure everyone remembers and no one forgets.” I laughed when you wrote I’m “attractive.” Inscribe, don’t circumscribe me. You can do better than that.
*
Maybe, understand the difference between a fight, and someone who’s reaching out for a resolution. You’ll understand when you’re older. When you realize how deeply you screwed up with me.
Heaven exists – I know it does – and upon entrance to those pearly gates, I want my Lord to say, “They all did love you, cried TONS over you, and are very sorry but they were too much of pussy little proud bitches to ever say so. I’m sorry, Tracy.”
Watching Tusk
Men need to appreciate good women when they have them, or else, they’ll turn into walruses.
Dichotomies
I am very happy but simultaneously feel I’m dying and perennially tired. Is this the new baseline, I ask myself, rhetorically.
I’m either dying, or incendiary: there’s no in between.
Epitaph to Epithet
This is how you must remember me: I am nothing more, nothing less.
Author Tracy Dubin (she/her) is a Two-Spirited international lecturer, neuroscience researcher, essayist, and poet published in the Harvard Gazette, Hobart, FlashFlood, fifth wheel press, and elsewhere. Longlisted for 2025’s Bath Flash Fiction Award and SmokeLong Quarterly’s The Smokey, Tracy’s currently curating her first flash-filled novel. She lives in Los Angeles alongside her giant African Sulcata tortoise, Fredrick Bartholomew, who resides in her (renovated-for-reptiles) living room. She’s dichotomous, androgynously fluid, and pens comedy too – her written word understands. Find her frolicking amongst digital trees: linktr.ee/TracyDubin.
Artist Shane Allison (he/him) is the author of five collections of poetry. His collection “Turbulent” being his most recent from Hysterical Books, as well as “Remembered Men” from Ranger Press. His artwork have graced the covers of Salamander and Cream City Review. Shane is at work on a new collection and lives in Tallahassee, Florida unfortunately.
Gulf Stream Magazine 