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Maggie worked in a real estate firm on Warren Street. We looked at a couple of apartments together, but nothing panned out. She was adamant about wanting a YARD and a TUB. She always capitalized those words. We kept scouring Craigslist.On February 8 of last year we had a reading at Oblong Books in Rhinebeck, New York, for an anthology we were both in. "Wait, is this a panel?" she said. "I HATE panels."While getting ready for the reading, my self-esteem plummeted. I texted Maggie."Anxiety about my acne. This too shall pass?"She replied within a beat, like a true spoken-word artist: "I'm old and fat and stupid."On our way to Rhinebeck, we pulled into a gas station for chocolate and coffees. I got out of the car, and Maggie told me to put a fuck ton of sugars in her coffee. I worried that three wouldn't be enough, so I put two more packets into my coat pocket.Maggie took a sip of her coffee and announced, "This coffee is vile." She said the Rolos were stale but kept asking for them, holding open her fingerless-gloved hand.So I'm riding my bike down 50th and this guy rolls down his window and looks up at me and says, "Hey! Bike lady!"
So I look down at him and I go, "Hey! Car guy!"
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In the weeks after Maggie's death, my boyfriend and I were never awoke more than ten minutes before we were watching videos of her. We watched "Happy" and listened to "Car Guy" and "Pee Lady." This is the blessing of being an artist: When you go you leave behind some fantastic trail, physical things that those who love you can cling to, to remember.On my bookshelf, I put Maggie's books next to my own."Where's your new book, darling Chloe?"I think this is the year we both get big book deals."Get your ass to yoga, you trollop."Ever seen those yoga mats that say FUCK YOGA on them? We should get those."I have an idea: Let's put new books out at the same time and go on book tour together."
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Follow Chloe Caldwell on Twitter.I'm happy
to be here
to be alive to be here to be alive
I'm here
I'm alive
and I'm happy.