I'd Totally Fuck Your Boyfriend

I've decided I'm going to be a professional mistress. 

Like. 

For fun.

People assume the type of woman who would have an affair would be evil or a gold digger, someone with Daddy issues or buckets of insecurities. 

But you know the real reason women have affairs?

Married men treat you like a queen.

This has not been a good dating year for me. 

I've managed to land myself some real winners. 

*insert sarcastic undertone*

The first guy I slept with this year LITERALLY recreated the opening scene from 'Bridesmaids' which I didn't even realize until I told a girlfriend what happened & she was like, OhMyGod. We HAVE to watch 'Bridesmaids.'

"I don't want to be an asshole but I don't want you to stay." 

I had my clothes in hand and had no interest in spooning all night with him or his crooked penis but it was still slightly mortifying. 

Talk about an orgasm kill. 

I should have taken that New Year tryst to be an omen for 2015. 

Because in 7 months I've managed to have the most ridiculous, disappointing and bizarre sex of my life. 

But hell. 

At least I got laid. 

And yes. 

They were all single. 

And yes they all treated me like shit after harvesting my garden. 

And no. 

This isn't a wah, wah, woe to me pity party. 

This is an honest reflection on the difference between how available men treat me versus unavailable men. 

You know who texted me today to tell me to break a leg?

My married ex lover. 

You think any of those fuckers who thought I was a suitable vessel to stick their dick into care about my performance?

Not a fucking chance.

But you know who went out of his way just to pick me up a coffee this week when he didn't even want one?

My boss with a fiancé. 

You know whose making sure to see my performance because he knows how important it is to me?

My guy friend who has a girlfriend. 

You know who doesn't return my texts or make time to sip Old Fashioneds with me?

SINGLE MEN.

I had a guy whose married see a rehearsal and be so supportive and encouraging about the work I'm putting into my performance and of course, he's married. 

Because married men know how to treat a lady. 

They're more appreciative, more attentive, more complimentary. 

And if I have to suffer through one more lackluster lay and his inability to behave like a gentleman after indulging in my orchard I will scream. 

And not in ecstasy.  

You must think I'm crazy and I told myself I'd never have another affair but you know what?

I would totally fuck your boyfriend. 

Because he makes me feel more like a goddess than anyone. 

And I'll take that over feeling invisible any day. 

Dear Resa

Hello Beautiful. 

I heard you're sad about a guy. 

I wanted to tell you that he doesn't matter. 

In the scheme of your life, with the events that have yet to transpire, in the lives of the people you have yet to inspire, he doesn't matter. 

I know he does now. 

And he's a fool to reject the affection of a girl he'll never understand. 

But he's just another wrong guy. 

And I know you know that. 

You've loved lots of wrong guys before which should make this easier. 

But I know it doesn't. 

You're in it now and it's distracting you. 

Don't let it. 

Remember that the only reason you went to see him was because of what that other guy did to you. 

It's circumstantial and temporary. 

There will be other guys. 

There will even be the right one. 

And he will be strong enough to receive your love. 

I know you think it matters whether he comes to your show or not.

But seeing you won't change his mind. 

Seeing you won't change anything. 

He already knows you're talented. 

He already knows you're beautiful. 

It doesn't matter. 

Stop feeling and start thinking. 

You're no one's cast off. 

You aren't their last priority.

You're not the person who tolerates being ignored. 

He is not worthy. 

He treats you with the same regard and care as a one night stand. 

Are you worried about whether your one night stands are coming to see your show?

No. 

Of course not. 

And the reaction you just had at the mere thought of it?

That's the same way you should think of him. 

He is a stranger. 

He doesn't know you. 

Not an ounce. 

He doesn't want to know you.

The people who care about you, who matter, who you matter to, they find a way to have you in their life. 

And you have to, you Must. Stop. exhausting your energy on people who don't love you. 

You can't make someone care.  

You can't make someone let you in who wants to push you away. 

He said he didn't know why you were trying so hard to hold on because he knows there is nothing to hold on to 

Listen to him.

Don't let him make you afraid to be who you are. 

He doesn't admire your honesty. 

It overwhelms him. 

That doesn't mean you should stop telling the truth. 

Be strong. 

Be bold. 

Be courageously the wild fire you are. 

Be a tempest. 

The right man will see he can't calm you or quiet you but can only run with you. 

I know it hurts but a year from now you'll forget how important you thought this was. 

Embrace what is, hold tight to what you do have. 

Love tirelessly. 

And the people who won't accept it, are wrong for YOU.

Not the other way 'round. 

This is your story. 

Be the star. 

Be exactly all you are, doll. 

I promise all will work out as it should. 

I promise. 

He Answered the Phone Part 2

In the past two weeks I have smoked three different nights.

And I have come to a definitive conclusion--

Smoking cigarettes is like having sex on a first date--

It leaves me feeling a little dirty, slightly dissatisfied and wondering why I thought that was a good idea in the first place. 

But you know what?

I'm glad I know that.

I'm glad I had the somewhat disappointing experience to help me realize what I absolutely do not want. 

I feel like I spent the better part of my life having my mind already made up about things without ever experiencing them. 

Not that I need to run out and take the Crack to know that's not for me. 

My personality is already prone to addiction let's not give the crazy redhead any narcotics. 

Can you even fucking imagine?

But sometimes, with some things, I do need to know. 

I need to find out for myself. 

That's just the kind of girl I am. 

I'm a little reckless and impulsive. 

Mostly centered. 

But sometimes a little lost. 

And there are moments when it takes the voice of someone else to help balance my chaos. 

After my gift wasn't received I went on a run. 

I really thought I was fine. 

At least he didn't hate me, right?

I remember the last time I saw Mr. Volcano the summer of '10.

The way he looked at me was frightening. 

I don't think I've ever had anyone look at me with that much venom before. 

It was like he was possessed. 

And I didn't even realize how much it had wounded my heart until I saw him a few months ago, love pouring from his eyes, when he told me how wonderful it was to see me. 

I got into my car afterward and couldn't breathe. 

And an hour later I'd been serenaded in my room with a love song.

I think that's part of why it's been impossible for me to let go of this romance. 

It fell into my heart moments after healing had overcome it--I felt ready for love and there it was. 

How then could I so easily dismiss it?

Didn't it have to be when its timing was as beautifully written as the song played for me?

The people I love have a profound impact on me. 

Probably more than they should. 

So as I ran, I remembered all that. 

Every last detail. 

And I knew it could be so much worse. 

There was no hate. 

It was simply over. 

Over.

The word echoed in my ears.

It was over.

I couldn't pretend not to see it anymore. 

I stopped running and I just stood there. 

I looked across the river at the Portland, Oregon sign and let myself collapse on the cement. 

I wrapped my hoodie around my head and tried to hide inside. 

And then the water fell. 

I'd believed so desperately for so long, and it was over, with such a casual dismissal, just like that. 

And every time things had seemed finished in the past he'd always change his mind and call and want to see me.

But this time was different. 

The way he'd looked at me felt different. 

And I didn't understand how it could just change like that, without me being a part of it. 

But I knew this time. 

The difference hit my eyes like a flash of light.

So I let the water fall down my face and the acceptance wash over me. 

I picked myself up and tried to run again. 

But it was like there were weights strapped to my legs and I couldn't lift them.

So I walked. 

I got close to the Hawthorne bridge and the rocks that look like gossiping friends. 

Suddenly I felt drawn to them. 

I want to climb them, I thought. 

I stepped up onto one and remembered the trail of rocks I'd stumbled on years ago with my friend. 

I'd never had any interest in hiking and we'd gone on an afternoon hike that turned into a seven hour ordeal when we took a wrong turn and landed on the Trail  That Never Ended. 

It was the sea of rocks that clued us in to the fact we weren't in Portlandia anymore. 

A thunder storm found us and we nearly lost daylight and it was terrifying. 

And wonderful. 

Suddenly my longing for him over powered my sadness. 

And since we hadn't talked for...a month?

Longer?

I assumed he'd be as responsive as the recipient of my gift had been. 

I dialed anyway. 

Sitting on a rock, wondering when I became someone who saw rocks and then longed to climb them and then it happened. 

I heard his voice. 

He answered the phone. 

I couldn't believe it. 

I realized I didn't even really know what to say.

I just missed him and wanted to talk but had never anticipated he'd actually answer. 

He wasn't particularly responsive. 

But then again, he'd always hated talking on the phone. 

Knowing that, I felt loved just that he answered. 

I told him about how I'd remembered our adventure and how I never would have tried something like that and realized I loved it if it hadn't been for him. 

I told him about rehearsal. 

How that night I'd changed the blocking for this one moment and when I asked the director after if that worked he said, "I trust you. Did you know that? Did you know I trust you? And I love you and I think you're great."

And how rare that is, to have a director have so much faith in you. 

And it made me really happy to be able to share that with him. 

He'd never been one for words but one of the times he had given me praise was when he'd seen me perform. 

He'd said he was proud of me and proud because he felt that my success had been his success. 

And I think that's part of the reason I wanted him to be in the audience again. 

I wanted him to be proud of me. 

But I didn't even ask if he was going to see the show. 

I just hung up the phone content. 

He didn't hate me either. 

And then it washed over me and I started skipping. 

I ran all the way up to the bridge and looked out over the city. 

HOPE.

Like the wind kissing my cheeks, it seeped into my skin. 

Hope.

Not in any thing in particular, but just a hope.

In the impossible, the unlikely, in people, in friends. 

In love. 

If he could answer the phone then a part of him missed me too. 

And if a part of him missed me then maybe the connections I believed in were as strong as I felt. 

Maybe they could withstand the tempest in my heart. 

Maybe he would come to my show. 

Maybe they both would. 

Maybe someday he might even be in my life again. 

Maybe they both could. 

But even if none of it, even if the hope wouldn't manifest the way I expected it to, it was THERE.

And they all could ignore me, they could reject my love, my persistent heart, but they could not diminish my hope. 

And this time the water fell in streams of joy. 

Pure, consuming joy.

He Answered the Phone Part 1

"I don't know why you're trying so hard to hold onto this."

My voice faltered. 

It was one of those rare instances where I couldn't tell the truth. 

Because I love you.

I was afraid he'd hang up on me.

'Be..cause...I....care about you. And I want you to be in my life.'

It wasn't a lie. 

It just wasn't the whole truth. 

He was so angry with me. 

It was kind of unnerving.

Especially since it wasn't that long ago that I'd seen him and he'd been so playful.

But instead of reacting, which is certainly what I was normally prone to do, I was frighteningly calm.

The kind of calm that would overcome you if someone held a gun to your face and the only way to stop them was to talk them out of it.

'You seemed happy to see me, were you not?'

"I wasn't expecting it."

'But you were so interactive with me.'

"It's my job to be nice to customers. I was actually really stressed out having you there."

I was quiet again.

I was starting to feel like an asshole.

'Why did you pay for my drinks?'

"Because you said I owed you a sazerac."

I was beginning to think I'd completely misread all of our interaction. 

I had told Mother that he'd looked at me like I was a hot fudge sundae. 

It's hard to get that look wrong, she'd said.

But apparently I was completely fucking wrong.

"I'm sick of this. We're not good for each other. It's gotten too crazy."

I tried to say that I thought the circumstances had been crazy and bad but that it wasn't our dynamic, it was just all he'd been through.

"You have no idea what I've been through. I had to put my dog down."

I was quiet again. 

Shit. 

Couldn't just a fragment of a rainbow enter his life?

The whole time I'd known him it had been storm upon storm and I felt so helpless. 

"I already have enough to deal with and I didn't need to deal with this on top of it."

'I'm sorry. I don't want to add to your stress. I want to offer you support.'

"You know what? When you make a list and the bad times outweigh the good..."

I interrupted, 'But we don't even have that many times together. I don't think that's fair.'

"I disagree."

'You hugged me for a really long time. I don't think you would have done that if you don't care about me.'

"I have a hard time pushing people away."

'Why do you have to push me away?'

"I don't know why you're trying so hard to hold onto this."

'Come see my show. Will you come see it?'

"I don't see the point."

I held my breath.

That's exactly what he'd said when he broke things off on the phone. 

I'd asked if I could see him that week and he'd said, "What's the point?" 

It was then I realized his tone of voice had the same frantic level of anxiety he'd had then.

And it made me sad. 

'Because it's important to me and I care about you and I want you to be there.'

I felt like I was a freshman in high school again.

I felt small and stupid and like everything I thought was wrong. 

Like I was the same band geek crushing on one of the cool jocks who didn't even remember my name. 

He hurriedly got off the phone and I was in shock. 

But to my surprise I wasn't angry.

All I could think was--

He's hurting.

And I wanted to do something. 

If he thought the memories were bad I wanted to make a good one. 

But I didn't know what I could do. 

I got out of rehearsal early and was going into the city to go on a run, which I was grateful for because since the show started rehearsing I haven't been able to run as much. 

And I haven't liked that at all. 

I wanted to go see him. 

Which I knew made absolutely ZERO sense since he'd just been a fire breathing dragon. 

And I also knew that I'd just read an article about what happens to the brain after a breakup and I was doing EXACTLY what it said I would--

In this new context, the reward system is now the part of your brain that's going to motivate you to do something really dumb. Like drunk calling your ex or initiating breakup sex.

Yep.

My reward system was prompting me to be an idiot. 

But moreso, someone I cared about was hurting and I had to do something.

How could I not?

He hadn't meant it to (in fact, he likely meant it to do just the opposite) but when he'd said I don't know why you're trying so hard to hold onto this, it struck a chord in my heart, it fanned the flame, it smacked my heart right in its face. 

Because it reminded me--That's. Who. I. Am. 

It's who I want to be. 

A woman warrior who follows her heart, follows the love overflowing from her heart, regardless of everyone and everything trying to convince her she is wrong. 

And then I knew what I wanted to do. 

I went and got a bottle of fernet, which was his favorite, and a cigar the sales clerk helped me pick out.

And I headed to his bar to drop it off. 

It was the only thing I could think of that might provide an ounce of comfort. 

I walked in and another bartender saw me. 

"Sazerac, right?"

I smiled. 

He'd made my drinks awhile ago when I'd been there one night by myself. 

'Right,' I said. 

I was flattered he remembered me. 

That happened to me at another bar a couple weeks ago. 

It felt like bartender speak for, You're that hot girl.

He pointed me in the right direction to make my delivery and I found him around the corner. 

When he saw me the look on his face was calmer than I'd expected. 

He looked surprised but not with the level of intensity he had before.

(The look that had made me think he wanted to bitch slap me.)

This look was one of sheer curiosity.

I handed him the bag. 

'Here, this is for you. I'm sorry about your pup.'

He shook his head.

"I can't accept that."

I was mildly embarrassed.

I hadn't even considered a refusal. 

'But I got it for you. It's fernet. And a cigar. I even had him help me pick it out for you. He said it's a good one.'

"I can't take that. If I take that I'm gonna feel like an asshole."

I tried to insist but to no avail. 

I said ok and I left. 

I didn't even ask for a hug. 

I didn't think I wanted to know the answer. 

But I was still glad I went. 

On the phone he sounded like he hated me. 

And looking into his eyes I didn't see hate. 

I just saw a man pushing me away. 

Because I guess that's what his heart drove him to do. 

And at least the last thing I did was loving so his last memory is of me standing there.

Trying to love him. 

And accepting that he won't receive it. 

But I was true to my own heart. 

And that's all I can do. 

That's the most any of us can do. 

And I'd hold onto that cigar because someday someone would accept it. 

Possibly even him. 

The Plea to the Woman Warriors

When I was younger I wanted everyone to like me. 

It was a real desire of my heart, to be friends with everyone. 

I remember one birthday party when I was, what--like 15? Having something like, 20, 30 girlfriends over. 

And then feeling consumed with concern for everyone else, wondering if they were having a good time, if they were feeling included.

That's kind of exhausting for a teenage girl.

Now, more than a decade later, and I know I don't possess the energy anymore for something like that. 

My friendships have become fewer and more intimate. 

Genuine relationships leave no room for worry about someone's level of enjoyment. 

If my friends weren't having fun they'd tell me. 

Because those are the only friendships I have in my life anymore. 

It's actually really hard to maintain friendships as an adult.

We're so much more fucking complicated than when we could just be friends because we both had Leonardo Dicaprio posters in our room.

RO-MEY-OH!

Fighting with friends gets harder too because we're more stubborn, our pride is unmoving and it gets harder to reach out to each other. 

I had a misunderstanding with a girlfriend and needed a couple days to be hurt about it.

But then when the Barcelonian destroyed my libido with his deceit, I sent her the screenshot of his horrific declaration-- "I never sleep with a girl more than twice. I've been with 5 and no third time..."--1...2...3....4....Reese....just another pussy on his shelf of conquests.

My magical pussy is heretofore on lock down and will not be available for ravaging until further notice. 

Men, you all can go fuck yourselves. 

And surely, the horror of such a dialogue would spark a conversation with my disgruntled friend. 

But she never responded. 

Not one emoji. 

I dislike being condescended to, I hate when someone swears at me, but nothing-NOTHING-breaks my heart more than being ignored. 

And I'm not sure what to do at this point. 

We've been friends a long time and I certainly don't want to lose a relationship I cherish over some misunderstanding. 

But at this point I'm so hurt I don't know if I can even send an emoji. 

I really hate being ignored. 

It is the most dishonest thing a person can do. 

It's the game the men I love play with me. 

To communicate is truth. 

And truth is love. 

Withholding is SUCH a lie. 

And lying is the opposite of love. 

It's merely deceit. 

Selfish, uncaring, indifference. 

I'm used to the men I love being cowards afraid of the truth in their hearts. 

But when the women I love are hiding from me?

It's almost harder. 

Men are never strong enough to love me.

I've NEVER met a warrior who was worthy of my heart. 

They've all been lost boys still on their walkabout, overwhelmed by the fire in my soul, the truth on my lips, the insatiable lust that no man has ever satisfied. 

Show me a man who wants me more than I want him and I will follow him to the ends of the Earth. 

But the women in my life, the women have always been their own Goddesses of War, towers of strength and sass, support and encouragement. 

They have held my hand while I cried over another fools dismissal of my love.

They have cheered me on when I begun to hope in someone new, when I doubted my own heart, when I've raged, rejoiced, retaliated. 

It's been the women I love who have stood by my side. 

So it almost hurts more to be ignored by them. 

I have always loved Sheldon's Mom. 

She is such a kindred spirit.

Part of the reason I mourned the loss of Sheldon after our breakup was because I wanted his Mom to be my Mother-in-law. 

I fucking adore her. 

When Sheldon stayed with me last year I told her because Sheldon has this delightful way of not communicating.

I knew she was worried and I wanted her to know he was okay. 

I never texted her a ton but I'd check in every once in awhile. 

I told her about Ireland when I was excited about him and when Sheldon and I had a falling out. I wished her a Happy Mother's Day and sent her the photo when Sheldon actually smiled with me.

So after all this prolonged drama with Sheldon and his internet love, I wrote his Mom and told her that Sheldon wasn't going to my show but that I hoped she still planned on going. 

And she never wrote back. 

I think it almost hurt more to feel slighted by his Mom.

I always felt that we had an appreciation for each other. 

But I guess the whole Sheldon clan is finished with me. 

And I'm So. Tired. Of fighting to be in people's lives. 

I have no energy left. 

I'd rather have two friends, two friends who adore and accept me, who let me be all that I am, than exhaust so much energy on people who don't think I shine. 

No more shadows trying to dull my sparkle.

You're for me or against me. 

You're communicating truth or you're hiding in dishonesty. 

I want no part of the Withholders anymore. 

Ignoring me is the cruelest thing you can do to me. 

It's why I ended up blocking the Phantom. 

He uses silence as a way to set my heart on fire. 

I will always tell the people I love the truth of my heart and I expect that in return. 

And to the women I love who no longer stand with me--Shame on you.

The men, the boys in my world, they are the great let downs, they are the ones incapable of the strength it takes to stand by my side. 

But YOU, you're the women warriors I admire and I depend on. 

To grow silent, to let go of the intensity of my love for you makes you as common as any man. 

And what a tragedy THAT is. 

My Unexpected Penpal

Mr. Volcano was probably the saddest breakup of my life. 

He was the man who broke my heart with "I love you but I can't be in love right now."

And then he fled to the mountains in Alaska to heed the call of the wild and also hide from the overwhelming love overflowing from my heart. 

When I love I love HARD.

It generally scares the shit out of the poor bastard.

So when we saw each other this year for the first time in five years and had an incredibly loving interaction it was one of the most precious nights of my life. 

(And then as Fate would have it, as an even further delight, later that same night The Phantom of the Opera played the song he wrote me on his guitar.....but that's a whole other story....)

Mr. Volcano travels a lot. 

He's a bit of a wandering soul, living in one place for a few months, another for a few more.

Right now he's about to embark on a walkabout for several months backpacking through some forest of solace. 

And the girl he's dating is totally cool with that, which I think is inspiring. 

I want to be the kind of woman whose understanding and supportive enough to give the man I love what he needs, however unconventional. 

(But no back door. Sorry, gentlemen. I'm a classy fucking broad. There are boundaries.)

But I thought how rare and wonderful a match they must have. 

I don't think there are very many women who'd be okay with their love leaving for a long adventure that they couldn't be a part of. 

(I'd be like, can't I come visit so we can do it in a tree??)

I couldn't believe that after all this time Mr. Volcano and I were penpals. 

We both loved to write.

It was kind of adorable that he liked it so much because he was truly an introvert, a man of few words, but when it came to writing, he had so much to say.

He actually broke up with me in an email.

 

Of course, I didn't appreciate his love of writing then. 

I got it as I was walking into work at Victoria's Secret.

(Vicki's Hush Hush?? God! That was a lifetime ago! I may or may not have freaked out, crying so violently that they sent me home. 

It's hard to suggestively sell the miraculous bra when you're busy being a drama queen.)

I remember calling him and yelling through the phone, "YOU BROKE UP WITH ME IN AN EMAIL?!?!"

He, in his small town ignorance, thought I'd read the email on my computer once I got home after we'd met and talked face to face when I got off work. 

In his defense he still had a flip phone, the kind so crappy the only photos it took were blurry and in sepia.

I couldn't believe it.  

Of course like most of the men who'd broken up with me things didn't really end there. 

Something about me makes the men who love me too overwhelmed to be with me but too captivated to let me go.

They think they need to linger around and take care of me. 

It would be endearing if it wasn't a consolation prize for the fact they're too scared to love me. 

I'm the scariest fucking woman in Portlandia. 

Lock your doors, men.

But now--right now, five long years later, Mr. Volcano was offering me relationship advice.

"I think romantic relationships tend to get complicated because not a lot of us learn to develop emotional intelligence at a young age (or as adults.)"

To hear him talk like that when he'd been such an overwhelmed, frightened, confused, uncertain kid back when we dated gave me hope. 

People change. 

Whoever said people don't change never had any artists in their life. 

The people I feel most connected to are always passionate about something, they're constantly growing and adapting, becoming different versions of themselves. 

They CHANGE. 

I know I certainly have. 

Most recently I've changed the way I view love. 

When I was younger I thought the most loving thing to do was to wait for love, to believe in it to the point of sacrificing myself at the altar of hope in it. 

But now--

I believe in being direct, transparent, genuine in communicating love in all its raw, vulnerable truth. 

And then if that love, as pure as it is, isn't received and reciprocated in similar sincerity, I move forward alone. 

The kind of love I crave is too powerful to need the man possessing it to catch up to me. 

It will consume and HAVE to be. 

Because the kind of love that can live without mine, isn't the love I want. 

Not for a second. 

The Night I Smoked My First Cigarette Part 2

Puppet and I met downtown at a dive we usually reserve for the end of the night.

Bad food & bad drinks are the thing you crave when you're already drunk, not when you're just beginning your night of debauchery.

But I was so thankful she'd agreed to be my partner in crime I didn't really care where we went or what happened that night. 

So long as I got a sazerac, a cigarette and a glimpse of the man who could have been the love of my life. 

I guess it was the equivalent of our pre funk. (A term that didn't come to be until after I was already too old to "go clubbin.'" Which is probably not even what kids are calling it these days.)

But I totally get the idea of visiting and drinking before going somewhere. 

Set the tone, the mood, the vibe for the night. 

I, however, didn't want any drink touching my lips until we got to The Phantom of the Opera's bar.

I hadn't had one of his sazeracs in four months.

And I was craving one with the same intensity I'd been craving his penis all summer--both were the best I'd ever had.

(But I'm totally cool with just being friends. Who needs great sex when you can have friendship? It's like having an orgasm except not having one. Totally just as good. Well. Almost. Like exactly the same except completely fucking different.)

We left the dive and started off to his bar. 

Puppet smoked a cigarette but I told her I wanted to wait. 

For some reason I felt like I needed a sazerac first. 

I couldn't smoke my first cigarette sober. 

Where was the fun in that?

We got there and stood outside while Puppet finished her cigarette.  

And there he was. 

Standing behind his bar, which meant he would for sure be the one making my drink, which made me really fucking happy.

The bar was lined with men who looked like they were part of one group. But there were two seats in the corner of the bar. 

I was ready. 

Big hair. Red lipstick. Hot dress. 

It was show time. 

But Puppet suddenly seemed hesitant to go in.

"Are you nervous?" I asked her. 

'A little.'

"You're like, more nervous than me," I laughed. "Don't be nervous. Come on. Let's go."

And then with all the crazy hidden behind my eyes I strutted in wearing the dress that may or may not have been what I'd worn the last time we'd--cough--proven our love to each other.

(Shut up. Don't judge me.)

We sat in the two chairs on the end and immediately I felt calmer than I'd felt all week.

I was happy. 

Being back there, being near him, was like a tranquilizer dart for my chaotic heart.

I breathed slowly.

He took a moment to get to us so I wasn't sure if he saw me walk in. 

But then he was walking our way and set menus down in front of us.

"Good evening, ladies. How's your night going?" He said, the way any bartender would. 

I wasn't sure how to read him and right before he walked away he shot me a glance with such ferocity I had no idea what the fuck it meant. 

There are all different types of looks.

Those of anger or passion, sadness, regret. Playful, silly, hopeful stares. 

Usually emotions were very clear in the eyes of someone you care about. 

I'm gonna say the look the Phantom gave me was a mix of so many different emotions there wasn't one mere feeling to it.

The feeling was fucking intense. 

But because I'm such a sick mother fucker and because I was literally looking for trouble, a smile beamed across my lips as he walked away. 

Oh. He SO fucking cares.

And the men to our left invited us into their conversation. 

They were brothers. Out of towners. 

And they all kind of looked the same, like Italian versions of Mark Ruffalo.

The Phantom came over to the six men at the bar because he'd missed one of their drinks and was trying to figure out what he'd skipped. 

"I've been working all day," he said, rubbing his head and rationalizing his sudden confusion. 

I smiled again. 

He is totally flustered. I made him flustered.

He came to take our drink order and I leaned over the bar before he could say anything.

'Two saz's,' I said and he set out to make all eight of our drinks.

The brothers continued charming us and I felt like I'd stepped into a scene from the movie that is my life. 

Handsome men fawning all over you while you're sitting at your ex boyfriend's bar you haven't seen in months is a pretty damn decent way to be seen.

Minutes later he brought over our sazeracs and said, "Sorry, gentlemen, ladies first," and I kinda felt like the prom queen because we'd ordered last and got our drinks first. 

Cuz I'm a fucking goddess, that's why!

That alone, that moment right there, already made the night worth it. 

I was being doted on by handsome strangers and my still-so-fucking-sexy-no-matter-how-much-time-passes-god-damn-him ex lover had made me a saz before anyone else. 

Happy Resa.

And I hadn't even had my cigarette yet. 

I felt like he was happy I was there. 

I was happy I was there. 

It's where we first met, me sitting at his bar, the night Ireland took me there last summer. 

I'd been drawn to him even then.

The brothers engaged us in loud conversation and every time I laughed I wondered if the Phantom was looking at me. 

I looked up and he was walking towards me.

'Best I've ever had,' I said, holding up my drink, before he could speak. 'I haven't had one in a long time.'

"A sazerac?"

'No, the BEST.'

He tilted his head slightly and looked away, the way he always did when he brushed off one of my compliments he couldn't accept. 

'Your mustache is so cute!' 

"It was just a joke. I did it this morning just for the day."

'You should take a picture of it.'

"I did."

'I should take a picture. I'm good at taking pictures of you.'

He smiled and I didn't know if he got the reference to his Facebook profile picture which is one I took.

Suddenly his smile fell. "I'm surprised to see you here," his tone accusatory.

The way his eyes flashed I almost thought he was gonna deck me. 

For a moment I suddenly wanted to run out the door. 

But I blinked the fear away, channeled my inner Mae West and said coolly, 'I needed a dose of this bar.'

YOU. I needed a dose of you, ya damn fool.

He nodded slightly, "But you deLETed me," his intensity, if possible, even more intense. 

I met his stare.

'Yeah. Well. I changed my mind. You changed your mind a bunch of times. I changed mine.'

His tone softened. "Well, I deleted you too. Because I didn't know," he looked away.

'I'm sorry.'

He leaned across the bar and his face was inches from mine. "What?"

I knew he just wanted to hear me say it again.

"I'm sorry."

He kind of shrugged and walked away.

I don't know why, but I really hadn't thought he'd be upset. 

He seemed so indifferent about making time to see me I just thought I wasn't that important to him. 

Because if I was he would have wanted to see me. 

Wouldn't he?

The guys around us continued to entertain and amuse us and I found my gaze occasionally drifting to the Phantom just so I could watch him.

It had been so fucking long since I'd been around him I had to constantly fight the urge not to stare wide eyed with the same fascination a kid seeing their first fish tank at the doctors office would. 

I took in every detail as quickly as I could before I'd force myself to look away. 

The way his bow tie matched his suspenders.

The way he kept tucking his shirt back into his jeans. 

The way he still tossed his hair even though it was much shorter than I remembered. 

The way his hands mixed two drinks at once like he was two different people, with such precision and ease. 

I let myself look over at him again and we must have felt each other's gaze because our eyes locked. 

And instead of looking away neither of us took our eyes off the other. 

He just stopped what he was doing and held his gaze, like one of those moments in a movie where the lighting shifts, and the crowded room goes fuzzy and dim and the only two people suddenly in the room were he and I, a spotlight on each of our faces. 

The way he looked was no longer intensely accusatory, but intensely inviting. He smiled and I think he even winked. (If he didn't, his eyes winked without even moving.)

A quiver ran through my entire body and a memory danced across my mind to a night he'd looked at me with the same mischievous glint in his eyes. 

I'd been feeling like I didn't want a man to even look at me after the Barcelonian and his emotional rape.

But being back in the Phantom's gaze, I felt safe. 

Fuck. 

I felt home. 

That's all I'd needed. 

That's why I went there. 

Why I had to see him. 

Something in me knew his energy somehow calmed my chaotic energy and that was actually enough. 

I didn't need his words. 

I didn't even need his body. 

(Although who am I kidding, when he looked at me like that I wanted to hop over the bar and rip the skinny pants right off him.)

'Come on,' I tapped Puppet on the back. 'I wanna smoke.'

I tore her away from the conversation she was having with the middle brother and practically skipped outside.

"Do you want me to light it for you?" She asked. 

'No. I can do it.'

"Ok, you have to suck in a little bit," she lit my cigarette. 

I expected to cough but I didn't. 

I giggled like a school girl. 

'I can't believe I'm smoking a cigarette!'

"I'm such a bad influence," Puppet said, trying not to smile and show her amusement. 

'This isn't as bad as I thought it was going to be.'

"Uh oh."

'I kinda like it.'

"UH. Oh!"

'Don't worry, it's much too expensive.' I posed with my cigarette trying not to be obvious that I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. 

The next couple hours were a joyful blur.

Puppet & I played musical chairs after finding the brothers tedious and a bridal party came right before close in dresses so frilly we mistook it for prom.

The Phantom was way more playful and interactive than I'd expected, silly even.

We smoked again and had another saz and I felt like a rebellious teenager that actually couldn't wait to tell her parents what she'd done. 

(I had brunch with them the next day and thought they were going to be upset with me. But Dad just asked if I'd smoked pot yet and Mom told me which brands were best to buy. I fucking love my parents.)

I told the Phantom I wanted another sazerac and Puppet and I hopped back into our corner chatting away about life, the universe and vibrators.

The bridal party had all received their drinks and I realized the Phantom wasn't making my saz.

'Hey!' I yelled down the bar. 'I want a sazerac!'

"No," the Phantom spoke with all the authority of a Dom.

My mouth fell open.

"You're driving and I can tell you're kinda drunk. So no. I'm not making one," he smiled, amused either with himself or my bemusement or both. 

'But-'

"No."

'But--rrrfghh.'

He was totally right. 

I didn't need another one. 

But I wanted one. 

And god dammit, why was he so fucking sexy when he was telling me what to do?!

(Could you just like, get ugly? This would be a lot easier if you weren't so bloody attractive! I'm literally a Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, right here. In the flesh!)

He brought us our bill and I was shocked. 

He'd bought my drinks. 

He didn't just not ring them through. 

He told me in the past when he covered a drink he paid for them himself. 

He hadn't covered my drinks since March. 

I wanted to leap over the counter and hug him. 

(This time he could keep his pants on.)

I walked to the other end of the bar and waited for him to come back.

I picked up one of the atomizers they used to spray the glasses with and hoped it might be the absinthe. 

I sprayed it in my mouth and cringed. 

One of the other bartenders walked by.

I held up the bottle, 'What's this?'

"That's saline water," she said.

Lovely. 

I quickly grabbed another bottle and smelled it this time. 

(Good thinkin', Reese.)

The familiar wave of absinthe hit me and I sprayed it in my mouth to try and eradicate the salt in my mouth. 

It got all over my face and it was at that moment I realized the Phantom knew better than me how much I really didn't need any more alcohol.

He came back and was standing right in front of me.

'Merci,' I said. 

"De rein. What?"

'Can I give you a hug?'

"Just a minute," he handed someone their bill and then walked over to me and put his arms around me. 

He was so tall my head was nuzzled in his chest.

I felt so happy that he hadn't been mean to me, that I'd gone in spite of all logic instructing me otherwise. 

I started to pull away but to my surprise his grasp didn't budge.

I buried my face back into his shirt and squeezed him even harder. 

He'd missed me. He was happy I was there. 

Joy started seeping out my skin. 

We finally separated and I said, 'You made me feel better.'

"That's surprising," he turned away. 

I ignored him. 

'Look!' I held my phone up to his face. 

'Look what I did! I'm not a virgin anymore!'

He squinted at my phone. 

"You smoked a cigarette?"

I nodded with the enthusiasm of a six year old in their first tutu.

'Yep!'

"Why?"

'Why not?' And I ran away grabbing Puppet as we rushed through the doors. 

A gateway those doors were, a time machine, where I was and would always be a goddess to the bartender I would always be drawn to, no matter who else played in the story.

Through those doors, we were always the same--

I, his FancyFace.

And he, my Dandy.

And for the first time, I was going to let that be enough.

To hope for anything more seemed greedy. 

I had my very own Tardis, right in Portlandia.

And should I need him, he would be there. 

The Night I Smoked My First Cigarette Part 1

This week was Free Slurpee Day.

7/11 from 11-7.

Fucking Clever.

It worked like a Tardis and took me back to a year ago.

Sheldon was living in my living room.

(That sounds redundant but it's actually the truth.)

I had just started dating Ireland.

That was only twelve months ago but it may as well have been another lifetime. 

I remember how violently I wanted Sheldon out of my home. 

And how desperately I didn't want Ireland to leave. 

When he did leave in the fall Sheldon took me to Teardrop to try and cheer me up.

We ended up sleeping together that night.  

I'm not even really sure why. 

But it was the most disconnected intimacy we'd ever had. 

And it cured us of ever wanting each other in that way again.

Neither of these men were in my life anymore.

And after the week I'd experienced I really didn't want any men in my life. 

The guy I had started seeing had informed me, a mere fifteen hours after being inside me, that he never slept with the same girl more than twice and even went so far as to say he'd already done this to five other women.

I felt so horrified and violated and in shock I didn't even respond. 

I just blocked his number and then spent the next several days in a dark fog.

It might have been less vile if he hadn't been who I met the same week the Phantom refused to meet me or who I met the same day I saw the doctor and found out I need to see a specialist about a growth.

Unfortunately the physical connection with the wicked Barcelonian was a sweet escape amidst the disappointment and fear I was battling with. 

Some people when faced with trauma withdraw and lose all interest in physical intimacy. 

When I'm stressed all I want is to escape into someone else's body. 

I'm sure there's a term for this. 

I'm just gonna call it I Always Want Sex No Matter What the Fuck is Going On.

Always. Always. Fucking Always.

So to then have that physical connection then be so tainted, all I wanted was to go into hiding and never look at another penis again.

I felt confused and unbalanced.

Lost. Dejected.

Every date I'd had since things ended with the Phantom had been a disappointment, every lover a let down.

All that did was drive the memory of him further to the forefront of my brain until it was like he was standing right in front of my face.

By the time it was Saturday evening I was so restless I couldn't sit still. 

I suddenly had to see him. 

I didn't even really understand why. 

I'd blocked his number, he'd hurt me, his behavior had been so wildly inconsistent I could make a chart and it could be studied in psych 101 classes around the world. 

But none of that mattered. 

I had no fucking idea what he'd do or how he'd treat me.

But I knew whatever would happen it would snap me out of my dark reverie. 

I needed to be reckless.

I needed to do something stupid and crazy. 

I felt so off balance the only way to realign was to radically swing in one direction. 

I wanted to smoke my first cigarette. 

I hated smoking. 

I'd always hated the smell, the smoke, the way it hung on my clothes. 

I. Fucking. Hated. It.

Always had.

On my first date with the Phantom we walked out of the bar and he'd reached for a cigarette and I'd said in disgust, "You Smoke??"

It was one of those deliciously awkward moments where he felt like an asshole for being a smoker and I felt like an asshole for being so blaringly obvious that I hated smokers.

(One of the hottest moments that happened later was when he'd been desperate for a cigarette and upon finally getting one took two drags before hurling it out the window and then grabbing my face to kiss me because in that moment he needed to kiss me even more than he needed his nicotine. That was the last date we ever went on. Damn.)

And now, months later, I wanted a fucking cigarette. 

Thirty-three years and I suddenly needed one. 

I messaged Puppet, who smoked on occasion, even though I knew she wouldn't approve of my self destructive plan for the evening but to my surprise and delight she agreed to meet me. 

It will forever be the moment in our friendship when I fell even deeper in love with her. 

"I don't think you should go alone," she said. 

And I was grateful. 

Because I really didn't want to go by myself. 

I already felt unstable and irrational and uncertain of what I might do.  

(You know you're in a weird place when you have no idea which of your personalities will decide to do what.)

I definitely didn't need to be alone when I planned on doing something stupid. 

You should always have a best friend by your side so they can bail you out. 

Or take a video if it's fucking hilarious. 

I told her I would buy her a pack of cigarettes for meeting me and headed to the Safeway in my backyard to get Camel Menthol Crushes.

The guy getting the cigarettes suddenly said, "You saw the fireworks on the Hawthorne bridge, right?"

I froze.

'Uh....yes....'

"I saw you there. I was standing right next to you."

Whaaaaaaa.....

No. WAY!

That's madness!

And Puppet had been there with me too!

And the Hawthorne bridge--the picture the Phantom had posted the last time he'd called--"Feet in the river, head in the clouds."

Suddenly.

I wasn't nervous.

I was excited. 

Tonight's going to be epic! I texted Puppet. 

I just knew.

I knew it was going to be one of those nights.

Dear Phantom

Emotions are a weird fucking thing, aren't they?

I've managed to want to set you on fire and curl up in your arms in the same week. 

I'd like to blame PMS but I think we both know that kind of manic intensity is just an average week for me. 

I told a stranger about you and the saga between us and she said we were too much alike. 

I hadn't thought of it like that before. 

But we are both very sensitive, artistic, passionate, inconsistent beings. 

I guess maybe that's why we were so great and so awful together. 

I honestly have no idea how you think of me anymore. 

I will never understand your refusal to see me.

It's both infuriating and insulting.

And even though I've started sleeping with someone else, when I had upsetting medical news you were the one I craved a hug from. 

Again. Emotions. 

They make no fucking sense. 

I'm sure I'm fine, at least that's what the doctor told me. 

"Don't get yourself worked up worrying about this," she said. 

Because when a doctor refers you to a specialist surgeon to have a growth biopsied and/or removed you just bat your pretty eyelashes and say, 'All in a day.'

Those are some scary medical terms.

And my Dad having cancer less than a year ago it's freakier than freaky Friday.

But it's not really any concern of yours because we're not friends. 

We're not anything really except a confusing mess of shadows. 

I wish I could go into your bar and have an interaction with you where you weren't avoiding eye contact with me and acting like a robot. 

None of my friends want to hear about you anymore. 

I've become THAT girl. 

And some of them are even placing blame on me that I went through this because I let you treat me this way. 

And I don't get it because I've just wanted to fucking see you and have a damn conversation since our last interaction was a magical kiss followed days later by a vague "break up" text.

The whole thing just feels overly complicated and complex when it could be settled in a ten minute genuine interaction. 

I saw some article about how we live in a time where you can't always have resolution and closure and I felt like the universe was telling me to fucking give up already. 

But if you don't end up going to my show then I will probably end up back at your bar in a couple months. 

Hopefully with my new lover, should things continue. 

He has this pure joy in the way he looks at me that makes my heart happy.

You'd be glad to see me smiling that way again. 

I haven't since you stood in front of me in that tux. 

And I know my inner warrior is supposed to be strong enough to not need any man. 

But you know what?

That's bollocks. 

Because sex makes life better. 

And how am I supposed to stop missing you unless I have someone else in my life whose kisses make me feel like a Goddess?

And he even called me that on our first date. 

"You're like this Goddess...."

Just like you used to say. 

Except he makes time for me. 

I sent him a picture of me in my new Marilyn Monroe dress and he had to see me that night. 

You never had to see me. 

You always had something more important to do.

Sheldon won't see me either. 

I guess you have a lot in common with him too. 

He's also a withholder and delighted in not giving me the things he knew I needed, simply because he delighted in seeing me suffer. 

I guess it makes me a masochist because I miss him. 

I guess that's why I kept reaching out to you the last several months. 

I missed you desperately. 

I have no idea what's gonna happen. 

If you'll come to my show. 

If I'll just never hear from you again. 

If your behavior has proven anything it's that I have no fucking idea what you will do or what you're thinking at any given moment EVER. 

The day you called me a week and a half ago you posted a picture of the Hawthorne bridge and wrote, "I have been told it is called 'masturdating'--feet in the river, head in the clouds."

And since the Hawthorne bridge was always where I'd send you love on my runs I had to hope in that moment you were sending love my way too. 

And maybe you always would. 

Even if I never saw you again. 

And even if by the time I did, I loved another. 

Either would be lovely. 

So long as there was love. 

Always love. 

Rivers and roads. 

Rivers 'til I reach you. 

If My Life Were a Romantic Comedy

One of the coolest parts of my new job is that I travel around to all these different locations and meet all kinds of people. 

It's reminded me that kindred spirits aren't so few and far between. 

And I feel like I'm back in school making new friends.

Which is kind of adorable and ridiculous and I love it. 

This past week I worked with someone new who, after my first day asked, "Can we keep you?" Which of course made me feel like the coolest girl in home room and also like a really adorable kitten. 

Friday I worked with her again and the whole day was sOooOoo slow that we spent much of the day gabbing and catching up. 

Again, like we were in home room. 

And I told her the story of Me & The Phantom, which when told in full to a stranger reminded me how utterly absurd it is.

Soooooo much drama for soooooo little time together. 

It really is the stupidest love story of my life. 

(Sorry, Phantom. You're cute & sexy & uber intelligent. But you're a fucking idiot when it comes to relationships.)

Now, most people that I've shared the saga with all have a similar response--

Move On.

He's just not that into you.

You deserve better.

Etcetera etcet..

But this girl, this woman who'd been married for 17 years decided to be unlike the rest of the rational women in my life. 

"I just don't think it's over between you two. From what you've told me, it just doesn't sound over. It sounds like he's still grieving and working through his stuff. Just wait and see what happens. Wait and see if he comes to your show."

Her hopeful romanticism made me smile. 

I feel like that's the way I spent my youth. 

Believing in the power of love. 

More than all things. 

That if it was meant to be it would find a way. 

But as she defended her theory,

'He changed his profile picture on Facebook to the picture I took of him in March.'

"That's because he still loves you."

'He met his friends for brunch, his actual friends, but he won't meet me.'

"That's because he knows what will happen if he sees you and he's not ready to be with you yet."

I realized that I didn't want to believe in the hope she was suggesting. 

Because I had for three months and all it had gotten me was feeling like a fucking idiot for believing in a connection with a man who didn't even want to meet me for a fucking cup of coffee. 

I felt really foolish.

I felt like a twat waffle. 

I didn't want to subscribe to a theory that might make me look like an even bigger dumbass. 

And that surprised me. 

Because I would have thought that having someone who doesn't know me find hope in the tragedy of my broken heart would have inspired me. 

But I just wanted to dismiss everything she said. 

"Ok what if you're finished with your show and changing out of your costume and there was a knock on the door. And it was him. And he just handed you a single red rose and then walked away."

'Well I at least deserve a fucking bouquet, come on.'

"No! A single rose is so much more romantic! But what would you do? What would you do if he did that?"

Silence.

'I don't know.'

"And what if there was a knock on the door but it wasn't him it was your best friend."

I looked at her. 

I realized she didn't mean Sheldon, she merely meant if the Phantom didn't show up but someone else did. 

But if it was Sheldon at the door I knew exactly what I'd do. 

I'd throw my arms around him and hug him so hard he couldn't breathe. 

But imagining The Phantom standing there with a rose didn't make my heart throw my arms around his virtual tall, lanky self at all. 

It just confused me. 

I genuinely had no idea what I would do. 

There was too much hurt.

Too much disappointment and confusion, distrust and anger to imagine something so romantic. 

I thought the reason we couldn't be together was because of his traumatic brain injury and his broken face. 

I thought since he recovered from that and admired how frighteningly honest I was that it meant we would finally come together. 

But he just didn't want me. 

And that made me never want to see him again. 

What would the romantic gesture even prove anyway?

That he suddenly realized he'd been wrong and he didn't want to live without me and he'd stand there with a boom box over his head blasting Peter Gabriel because my life was secretly a romantic comedy?

No.

No way.

I don't buy it. 

My life doesn't work that way. 

I have bad taste. 

He was the wrong guy. 

And I will probably never hear from him again. 

That's my movie. 

"Just wait. Wait until your show. You'll see," she said.

I looked at her and smiled. 

'You know. I hope you're right. I really do. I hope you're right so I can tell you you were right. Because that would be amazing.'

And I meant it. 

Because buried under all my pragmatism the hopeless romantic teenage girl in me lived on. 

I had wanted to see him because I didn't want to have hope that he'd see me perform and be so moved by my talent like he had been the last time he saw me that he'd lean down once again and kiss me because he "couldn't help himself."

But I did.

I did believe that could happen. 

In spite of myself, a part of me hoped he would show up, even though I told him not to.

Because he would just have to. 

Because something in him would compel him to come after me. 

And if he didn't?

Then everyone else would be proven right. 

And I would be better off. 

But if he did?

Then maybe I wouldn't have been such a fool for holding on all this time. 

And that would make for a really fantastic story.

But either way, whatever he chose to do, wouldn't change what I had to do.

Which was to move on.

And magically, wonderfully, on the heels of his refusal to meet me, I had the best first date I've ever had since The Phantom.

So I had no idea how I'd feel if he stood before me with a red rose because I was already thinking about someone else's brown eyes.

And that, friends and enemies, is more powerful than any romantic gesture. 

Timing is a fickle beast. 

And he who hesitates?

Loses their FancyFace.

The Last Toxic Straw

The problem with being a caring woman is that men think they can behave however they want, and you will still always be there. 

But as I've previously stated I'm in this new stage in my life where I have zero tolerance for bullshit.

It's much easier for me to let go of people then it's ever been. 

And I don't know if that's a good thing. 

It's new for me.

I realized that if I wasn't going to see The Phantom until he came to my performance then that would mean the last time we saw each other was my last performance when he kissed me in his tux because he "just couldn't help himself."

And that instead of taking this time apart to let go and move on, a part of me would be holding onto the hope that maybe history would repeat itself and he'd be so moved by my performance again he would have to kiss me with the same intensity. 

I'm a bitch.  

Ok?

I am.

But I'm also, secretly, a hopeless romantic. 

And I knew as pragmatic as I could try and force myself to be, it would stay hidden in my heart the idea that my talent might once again stir the love in his heart. 

Well.

Understandably.

I realized that was a fucking disaster. 

How was I supposed to get over a guy if I was thinking about some romantic scene like that?

So then I realized that I should see him before my show. 

Not to start some sort of friendship (I was in no way ready to be his buddy and I didn't know when if ever I would be.)

But that it would be good for both of us to have a genuine, real moment with each other that wasn't hiding behind our iPhones. 

We hadn't spent any time together since he kissed me in that tux. 

Surely it was not unreasonable to think even a brief conversation face to face was deserved after the emotional roller coaster and dramatic occurrences of the previous months. 

And since he had responded so positively and understandingly to my confession that I wasn't ready to be friends, I thought we were in this understanding, compassionate place with one another and that he'd agree meeting was a good idea.

After all, he was the one who called me to say he wanted to be friends and frolick in the rose garden, right?

So of course he'd want to come together and have a genuine interaction. 

Why wouldn't he?

Because the only way for us to ever be friends would be to meet and close the past.

And I wanted to try and be open to the friendship he wanted. 

But he didn't respond to my call.

He ignored me for days. 

And today he told me that he wouldn't see me. 

That we couldn't give each other what the other needs and that it was uhealthy. 

And the man who said he would communicate much better with me wouldn't answer the phone when I called him right after receiving that text. 

I didn't just ask to see him for fun.

I said that I NEEDED to see him to move forward and to be able to eventually be his friend. 

I've been asking for that need to be met for months. 

And his response was that my need wasn't valid. 

I wasn't asking to be his girlfriend. 

I wasn't asking to have anal sex in front of his parents. 

I just wanted to fucking meet.

I actually even said it could be as brief as ten minutes, I didn't care. 

And why the fuck wouldn't he see me when he'd just left me a voicemail about how much he admired my honesty and that he'd talk to me "whenever he talked to me."

I couldn't believe it. 

I guess his behavior has been so erratic I shouldn't have been surprised. 

But I just couldn't believe how cruel he was being.

I'd said that we hadn't seen each other for twelve weeks and that it was important to me. 

I said I needed it.

And he said no. 

So I blocked him. 

I blocked his number. 

I blocked him on Facebook. 

And Instagram. 

And Snapchat, which I almost forgot about.

And I really hope if he actually does come to my show that he doesn't say hi. 

Because I don't want a kiss. 

I don't want a hug. 

I don't want to see his deceitful broken face. 

To communicate a need to someone, to bear the vulnerability of your heart and ask for something with the kind of raw desperate need that's usually reserved for a small child rushing to a parent after a nightmare, and instead of the parent wrapping their arms around the frightened child they stare at them coldly and say No and tell the child it is unhealthy to ask for what they need to feel settled.

IS FUCKING CRUEL.

And I don't want anyone in my life who has such blatant disregard for the needs of my heart. 

I have no fear now about hoping for a kiss after my brilliant performance. 

I will never let him touch me again. 

He can't even reach me. 

I've disappeared. 

And that's what happens when you realize you've loved a monster.