When people find out that I am a bartender, that I have been a bartender throughout this pandemic, they usually say something like “oof” or “I’m sorry” or “how have you been doing?” It’s okay, I’m used to it, and to be quite honest, I’m used to the instability of being a bartender in general, even before there was a pandemic to turn the world of the service industry upside down.
“My bar closed for good, so I’m currently unemployed.” — I usually say something like this, sometimes with the caveat that it will eventually reopen, but not for a…
The first time (that I can remember)
A pajama set, my favorite one, with little kittens on it, in all different colors. the way that it splattered, all down the front of me, the way that I cried, the way that my mom took me into her bed, put me in a loose t shirt, threw away the kitten pajamas.
The last time (most recent)
You always think that you can get away with it by chugging enough water, by leaning back against something soft, by concentrating really hard and swallowing multiple times. like that time I stared at myself…
Dicks make me nervous. I don’t like to look at them; this is a fact that never ceases to surprise and make people laugh when they hear it for the first time. And why not? How can I have had sex as many times as I have without catching enough glimpses to get over my little girl issue of shyness?
I avert my eyes, I let my gaze stray upward, I give gentle caresses on stomachs, thighs, meaningfully cradle faces in my hands. I have had three serious boyfriends, and those three are the only ones with whose private parts…
Recently I got a tattoo from my cousin, of a cherub next to a drink called the sidecar; it’s orange and comes in a martini glass with a silvery sugar rim. I came up with the idea in a night, and it turned out better than I could’ve imagined. To me, it means something along the lines of including my cousin’s art on my body, and implying the significance of being a bartender as it has affected my life as a whole. The more tattoos I get, the less important an easily digestible story of why seems. But I think…
Every day is different. Some days I forgive you, some days I forget you. Tonight, I spent an hour and a half reading through text messages between you and I on my computer, where I haven’t deleted them. I wanted to see if I would still feel sad, if I would still cry. I felt a little sad, but I did not cry. That’s a measure of progress in its own right.
I’d forgotten what it feels like to have someone regularly tell you they love you. I’d forgotten what it felt like to take something like that for granted…
A Marxist analysis, and a social reflection on my time working within the service industry.
Let’s talk a bit about my personal experience within my workplace, a restaurant/bar called Brown Sugar Kitchen in Oakland. I don’t want to scare you away by talking about how this is a Marxist analysis, but I won’t lie, it is. I literally wrote it for a class called “Marxism for Activists”. But it’s also a reflection of my time working in the service industry, and explores how it is interesting to consider this kind of work within the realm of social science. …
Part 2
Is sex really as simple as something that you get better at, more used to, with time? With practice? Are our bodies really as simple as objects that can be turned on and off — our minds the same? I’ve written a lot about love, about relationships, about sex and the way that it feels, the way that it impacts me emotionally, the way it connects the mind and the body, the way it lingers when the person upon which the memories are attached has disappeared. …
I no longer count the minutes, the hours, that have passed since I talked to you
Driving down the highway, I notice that a spiderweb has formed on the right side-view mirror of my car. I wonder about the spider: When I return to park in front of my house, will it be able to find the web it has begun? The web that has survived the rain, the blowing wind on the highway, the rounds of birds on the power lines unconcerned about the world below them. Has the spider itself survived all these things? What a tragedy it would be, for the spider’s home to outlive it.
Turns out, the spider’s probability of reconnecting…
The search for my father’s truth and my own
Getting to know my father has felt like untying a series of twisted little knots. It’s required sifting through his words to get down to their real meaning, examining his stories within the context of the environment in which he was raised, and relishing small realizations gained from conversations with family and friends about him. It’s involved juggling both the hypocritical hatred and unconditional adoration one reserves for parents. My father has not made it easy to get to know him, beneath his facade. But sometimes, I suppose, neither have I.
To know my father’s parents is not to know…
Poetry Sunday
It was 2am in someone else’s house, I was dogsitting,
or should I say we were,
and without talking about the strangeness of it, we had
made the bed our own.
It was dark, there were three dogs, the room was hot
But the ceiling fan was too loud to use.
I don’t remember how it started, but
all of a sudden you told me your fridge
was better, because it was emptier than mine.
I didn’t understand how that logic was possible,
unless you were insinuating that my house was dirty,
wasteful, excessive, nouveau riche.
I cried when I…
Emily Cashour
25 year old writer & graduate student, passionate about storytelling as a great equalizer. Email:egcashour@gmail.com. I’d love to hear from you!!
