just be

Do you know what makes me happy?

Sex.

People.

People make me happy.

Their stupid laughs and the way they show you the cool socks they're wearing even when they're 35 years old.

Whiskey.

Buckets and buckets of alcohol.

And no regret for the stupid things we do because of it.

My fat cat sleeping on my stomach.

Red lipstick.

The way my curls look berserk when I take out all my pincurls. 

Lace.

Every ridiculous pair of panties I own from Victoria's Secret.

The way the moon glows like its own sun.

Men.

The one whose reading this.

The one who will never read this.

The friends who are my family.

Girls nights.

Cuddling up on a chair too small for our big butts and watching the whole movie like that anyway.

Kitty onesies and the one who will wear one with you.

Christmas trees and Christmas lights and Christmas Eve.

My parents.

An audience.

Sunsets.

Twilight.

Hikes.

The city.

The ocean.

Sand between my toes.

Popcorn cooked on the stove.

The way little girls look at me when they believe I'm Princess Anna.

The way men look at me when they want to say I love you.

Peanut butter.

Singing.

Songs that take me back to an exact place.

Running until I can barely breathe.

Kissing until I can barely breathe.

Breathing after I've finished crying.

Disney movies. 

Fairytale endings.

Believing in happily ever afters.

Accepting people's shortcomings. 

Loving them anyway. 

Love.

It's really everywhere.

Joy.

Waiting to seep into our skin.

Sometimes I forget. 

How simple it really is.

To be happy.

With all that already is.

Just to be.

my scattered little love

Sometimes I like writing more than talking.

It's a more certain way to be heard. 

The person reading isn't waiting their turn to talk

Or tuning out to something you just said.

The way we are all wont to do. 

In our quiet desperation to be heard.

Instead readers are silent.

They're simply processing.

And whatever it is you need to say is absorbed in their time

At their pace.

Sometimes I really need to be heard.

In person I'm sometimes too loud.

I laugh too loudly at my own jokes and I look away. 

I have a hard time looking people in the eye.

It's rather unnerving, to be sitting so vulnerably in someone's gaze. 

So my eyes dance around the room.

And I pretend it's not a big deal when connecting to someone with my eyes and my words is one of the most intense experiences in the world for me.

When it's only my words they stare you in your face.

They have nothing to hide 

To fear 

To doubt.

They just speak.

And the reader listens.

With writing you don't always need a response because what you needed to say was shared.

All you really need is to know it was seen.

That your thoughts were heard. 

That for that moment, that person knew your truth.

How they responded to it isn't the point.

That has nothing to do with you.

I've learned the cruelest thing we can do to one another is ignore.

Ignore each other's words, our pain, our existence.

We strip away the relationship we once shared, the closeness, the intimacy, the laughter, the tired tears, the hope and the trust, until all that's left is silence. 

The way it was between us before a sentence had ever been spoken.

And it's the greatest tragedy of all, the refusal to grow and accept each other's limitations, to wave to each other from either side of the sea.

But silence allows a loss to be permanent, to change the way we see the world, to kill the hope we'd desperately clung to.

And we mourn our loss and our misjudgement and wonder if everyone is so heartless and careless.

And eventually we find ourselves laughing with a stranger, and hugging them with the intensity we thought was reserved for someone else, and we let go.

Of what we once believed was. 

And what we doubt might be again.

And we lose ourselves with this person, this friend or this lover, or this soul sister, and their love brightens the tiny dark corner in our hearts.

And we believe again.

And we trust.

And we forget to think of those anymore, to be mad, to miss them, to see them in the stars. 

And we wonder how after every new bond, and every separation, we still doubt the power of it all,

The timing.

Its sheer perfection. 

And our buried hope 

Finally breathes again. 

For the sisters 

And the brothers

And the lovers

And kindreds

Who've been wary on their own long journeys

Desperately 

Achingly

Longing to fall into our arms

The one who will understand them 

Who will uplift and inspire them

The one who had to be filled with cracks to manage to stumble onto their path.

Just so.

My dear ones. 

My tribe. 

Dear Kai

I walked by the Hawaiin place near my apartment today and I thought of you.

I looked in and there was a couple sitting in the window.

I don't know why but it made me smile. 

I thought about the times we'd order pulled pork and extra macaroni salad.

But we'd just get one order and split it. 

The same way we always split food cart and chimichangas at Santeria.

We were always sharing things.

It was like we never stopped being lovers, even though we'd long since stopped having sex. 

I smiled as I kept walking and then it hit me. 

How infrequently I think about you anymore. 

And I suddenly felt guilty. 

Because I'm okay. 

I thought I should still be sad and still be thinking of you all the time. 

But I don't anymore. 

And I realized you must be okay too because if I rarely think of you, you most assuredly never do.

I thought about how there are only a handful of days left in this year and then it will be over. 

And that this is the first year in four years we spent more of it apart then together.

A part of me knows it's what we needed a long time ago but it's funny. 

Even though we eventually were both accepting of the romance being over, we never could separate ourselves from each other. 

It took us a lot longer to be ready for that, for the reality of our breakup:

A life without the other.

My friend asked me a couple weeks ago how long I thought this was gonna last, this rift between us. 

And without hesitation I responded, Oh, it's over.

It was the first time I'd said anything like that out loud, the acceptance that you would never be a part of my life again.

Part of me knows it's fitting. 

I know you always blamed me, partially, for the girl who ended things with you last year (or was it the year before)?

She thought the closeness we shared was "fucked up."

I was scared it was going to be some other woman that was going to be the cause of our great divide. 

I asked you once, What if you dated a girl who didn't want you to be friends with me anymore?

And you calmly responded, That would never happen. Because I would never want to be with a girl who would say that.

Life has this way of having all the drama of a movie. 

Art really does imitate life. 

And sometimes that's really incredible. 

I remember the night we went to Barlow and you saw my show.

And you left that night and texted me, I hope things work out for you.

And it was the first time I felt we were both happy for each other, that we loved other people. 

It was later that month you told me we couldn't see each other anymore. 

I still feel like the timing of that was horribly unfair. 

I let myself turn the heat on even though I know next months bill is going to be expensive. 

I even remembered to shut the doors to the other rooms like you always said to. 

The room really does heat up so much faster. 

And I finally got a WiiU and Mariokart. 

It must sound ridiculous but I can't believe I'm never going to get to play it with you. 

I can't believe a lot of things anymore. 

But I guess that's just part of life. 

I watched Crazy Stupid Love tonight and I remembered the first time I saw it was because you downloaded it for me because I wanted to watch it with you. 

You used to do sweet things for me all the time and I never understood that was your way of showing me how important I was to you.  

I was too busy wondering why you never told me I was beautiful. 

I watched you distance yourself from every breakup and I know there will never come a day you reach out just to say hi.

And it's okay because I guess we don't need each other anymore. 

And it makes me sad but I think it's just what had to happen.

For us both.

I'm sorry we are so different because it made it so hard for us to understand each other. 

But on our best days I think it's what made our bond so special. 

No one else really understood it. 

But we knew we meant the world to each other. 

We did once. 

And I hope when you walked by the tree in pioneer square this year you thought of me.

I hope it makes you think of me every year. 

And I hope years from now, when your hair is grey and there are wrinkles around your eyes, we see each other again.

I hope after all that time your mouth still twitches when you look at me, as you resist the urge to smile.

And I will walk over to you and wrap my arms around you without saying a word. 

And then we'll look at each other and you'll purse your lips together and frown in that playful way you always did when our faces were close together. 

And I'll look at you and say, See. I told you that you were gonna be a really handsome old man.

And the smile you'll pretend you're not feeling will find its way across your lips, and you'll simply say, You're weird.

As you always did, when what you really meant was, I love you.

Sociopsychopath in Like

Some guy on Tinder asked me out today. 

We matched on Tinder on this same day two years ago.

He doesn't live here and for some reason anytime he's been in town it's never worked out when we've tried to meet. 

So today he writes, I think it's time we meet.

And something happens to me. 

For the first time in two years I don't want to meet him. 

I kind of met someone. 

Ok before you get excited it's not like that.

We're not making out under mistletoe and calling each other baby.

Though he does sometimes call me babe. 

I don't know if I've ever dated anyone whose called me babe. 

Oh god. 

Are we dating??

I don't know how to do this. 

I don't know what I'm doing. 

I like him.

Do you understand what that does to me?

Liiiiiiking some boy?

It turns me into a sociopath!

I become obsessed.

Consumed with the person

I like.

I don't like what it does to me. 

No, see, it's actually be-tter if I date lots of boys because then I never get fully consumed by one and the raging psychopath stays well hidden for no one to ever know.

Except for that one wackadoodle who comes around once every five years during the harvest moon because he clearly has a psychopath fetish. 

Excuse me.

High functioning sociopath. 

But I kind of want to be a psychopath with this new guy. 

Does that sound off?

I think that's my sociopath talking.

I'm BOTH, ok.

I don't subscribe to "labels."

The thing is, I went out with this guy the night after my moon lover killed the fun on our chaotic little twisted love.

You know some men just can't handle their psychopath.

So when random guy wanted to meet for a drink I thought, yes, yes I will.

Out with the old and in with the---

What's this kid's name again??

So I had a good date and it followed with a great night and in the morning I didn't know what the fuck to do.

He kissed me goodbye and said I'd like to see you again and I felt like that emoji with the wide eyes and the blushing cheeks.

He's still here and we're gonna talk about this now??

I don't know what's happening.

But as he tripped walking backwards out my front door I giggled. 

He had turned me into a school girl. 

Nothing has happened.

Don't misunderstand me. 

We went to the Lego store and we played Mariokart and he played his guitar for me and I let him spend the night again and on Christmas Eve we saw each other unexpectedly even though we'd seen each other the day before. 

But, you know.  

Whatever. 

I haven't had time to worry like I usually do because he makes time for me and he communicates.

And part of me secretly keeps waiting for the axe to fall because Duh, have you seen my life?

And the other part of me is eerily reassured because it's all simple with him.

Simple.

Like nothing and no one I've ever experienced ever.

And I told myself I shouldn't even write about him like acknowledging my comfort and excitement and nervousness and giddiness would make it all disappear like the dream I was sure to awake from. 

But I had to.

Because it's what's true.

When that other guy wrote me today and wanted to meet and I suddenly had no desire to meet some other stranger I knew. 

This must be something. 

It had to be, hadn't it?

I need to tell you something.

You're married.

No. I wrote you on Okcupid a year ago.

And you never wrote me back.

And if it does turn out to be the case, wouldn't that be something?

Wouldn't it?

Why Spain made me quit YouTube

A couple months ago I went all the way to Spain to meet a girl I had connected with on Instagram.

We'd never met before but we believed ourselves to be soul sisters!

She was Dutch, I was Anerican. 

Yet somehow the wonderful world of Instagram had brought us together. 

And after lots of messaging and FaceTiming we came up with the wild and crazy notion that I would fly thousands of miles just so we could meet. 

And guess what?

She was nothing like the way she had presented herself. 

She was an entirely different person. 

A moody, angry, negative, selfish person. 

I found this out the first night I got there. 

I travelled thirty hours to see her. 

Thirty. Ho-urs.

After a nap, which I'd desperately needed, it was evening time and we decided to watch Frozen. 

Because we both loved it and what a perfect way to bond in our pjs.

Before we started the movie I saw, via IG, that another one of my soul sisters was sick back in Portlandia. 

I'd only just recently met her as well, also due to connecting though Instagram. 

When I'd met my Portlandia soul sister she said she wanted to hear me sing sometime. 

And when I asked her what she wanted to hear me sing she said, A Whole New World. 

Random. Specific. And perfect. 

Kind of like her.

So when I saw she was miserable and ill I had the most fabulous idea that me and my Spanish soul sister could sing A Whole New World together and then I could send it to my Portlandia soul sister and it would make her feel better. 

Oh I don't want to sing, Spain said. I'm very particular about what I'll share online and I don't want to sing.

Slightly confused and still terribly jet lagged I just said okay, even though I had said I just wanted to send it to Portlandia, not the whole of the Internet. 

I should break context for a moment and also point out she does have posts of herself singing on her page but it's of her singing a solo. 

You know. 

Where it's only her.

I would also like to break context here and say that at her birthday party she sang lots of solos in front of all her guests but again, wouldn't sing anything with me.

Cuz, ya know, if a trained opera singer flies thousands of miles to stay with another trained opera singer the idea of them singing together is preposterous. 

Even if they'd talked about it. 

Before the expensive departure. 

But back to watching Frozen.

Excited to be finally cuddled up together watching a Disney movie I took a bunch of selfies of us because we were finally getting to do what we'd talked about doing for months.

We were finally together.

Look how cute we are, I exclaimed, showing her the photos. 

Oh don't post any of those, I look awful. I look like a boy.

Dumbfounded, yet again, I just quietly said okay because what could I say?

Why are you being so weird?

Why are you being so rigid and controlling when you seemed so fun and free spirited?

So I posted a photo of myself having a good time and texted Portlandia a feel better text and left it at that. 

Shortly after her boyfriend got home and it was then she suggested we stop watching Frozen and switch to watching a movie that he might enjoy. 

Here is when I decided I'd had it. 

No I want to watch Frozen so I'm going to keep watching it. But you can feel free to go visit with him if you guys don't want to watch it. 

And she didn't watch the movie with me. 

And that was our first night together. 

It all kind of went downhill from there and I discovered the depths of her road rage, her self loathing, her bitter moods and how quickly she shut me out. 

It would have made for a rather interesting documentary but the strange thing was, being around her made me lose all desire to make videos anymore. 

When I first started making YouTube videos it was mainly for fun but there was a tiny part of me that thought it would be amazing to gain enough subscribers I could get paid to make them. 

And Spain had such a following on her Instagram that made her aware and controlling of everything she would post or allow to be posted about her. 

And none of it, none of her selfies or supposedly vulnerable posts were an honest reflection of who she really was. 

And I hated it. 

She was the most ungenuine person I had ever met. 

She had destroyed the desire in me to make videos. 

When I got home we barely talked and eventually seeing her posts on IG really bothered me. 

They weren't her, they were this projected manufactured idea of who she was supposed to be to keep her followers and gain new followers and promote some product to create more sales. 

It was all one giant scam when all I wanted from my own life was something authentic. 

The best part of Spain were the hours I spent alone. 

I realized how incredible it was to take in the sites and the culture of another corner in the world. 

I went home with a hunger for more. 

More travel, more exploration, more adventure. 

And less insincerity.

Less manufactured relationships. 

I don't know when she did it because I stopped following her posts, but she had unfollowed me on IG and unfriended me on Facebook. 

She even deleted me from her Game Center. 

The extremity of it seemed right in line with the force she screamed in Spanish while driving just because someone wasn't driving fast enough for her. 

I had written to her on Facebook to see how her final move went and how she was doing.

And messenger has this wonderful feature where you can see when someone read your message and also see they chose to never write you back. 

But being the ornery little diva I am I texted her to wish her a merry Christmas to which she sent a terse you too.

And when I texted her again days later telling her my best friend's sister passed away she never texted me back. 

And you know what?

THAT really pissed me off. 

I could deal with her insecurities and her inability to get lost in the moment with me. 

I could deal with the fact she was immature and competitive and unwilling to sing a fucking duet.

I could even deal with the fact she deleted me from all her social media.

Fine. 

BE the real version of who you are.

She's a temperamental bitch. 

But someone important dies and you can't be bothered to acknowledge me?

F U C K  Y O U.

You're a fake. 

And a fraud. 

And all of your followers who look up to you as some style icon have NO idea the true nature of your heart.

I would take one genuine interaction with one soul over the thousands of bought followers you have any day. 

I want none of it. 

So I quit YouTube. 

I even started to try to make a video last week.

First time since being back from Espagna and I stopped filming.

I just couldn't do it. 

I don't want to do anything that's not genuine anymore. 

I don't want to do anything that might change me into becoming the type of person whose one way when it comes to her brand and another way with her house guests. 

And I don't ever want to become the type of person who wouldn't sing a silly song to cheer up a friend or post a goofy looking photo to capture a cherished memory or put time with a stranger ahead of the comfort of my routine.

Because that's who I met in Spain. 

And I don't want to be anything like her. 

So I'm just going to write. 

Because I always write the truth. 

And maybe everyone won't like it but I'm not here to sell an image to please the masses. 

I'm here to be authentically, exactly who I am, as I am.

Because I'm a gem.

And Spain missed the fuck out.

And just to see if maybe I might be wrong in my fury I took a look at her page tonight. 

And there among her top posts she stood wearing the necklace and the dress I'd given her on her birthday.

Felt amazing wearing this tonight.

Because it's okay to keep the things I gave you in your life. 

Just not me.

Guess we know what really matters to her. 

HER.

Pretty in Pink

I tend to instill a strong reaction. 

People are never like, Oh that Reese? She's okay.

People are like, Ohmygod I love that girl she's such a crazy bitch!

Or they're all, Ohmygod I hate that girl she's such a crazy bitch.

I'm fine with it. 

I'd rather be memorable. 

Even if half the men I sleep with block my number and unfriend me on Facebook.

I'm used to a reaction. 

But just because I'm used to something doesn't mean it doesn't still become tedious. 

We had a tacky Christmas sweater day at work.

And apparently there was a contest and I won for most tackiest. 

I'd worn these magically ridiculous kitty cat candy cane tights and a snowman sweater and I won!

I wasn't even trying that hard, guys. I didn't even realize there was a contest, I thought. 

So awesome to already be recognized for my gifts. 

And a lot of people thought it was fun and supported my silly happy Christmas cheer. 

But there were also a handful of people who were giant snatches toward me because whenever you're as insanely effervescent and energetic as I am there are going to be grumpy gus' who want to shoot me in my giggle. 

I don't even know where that is but I know it'd be fucking painful. 

And normally I can ward off negativity like a positive ninja but sometimes it gets exhausting. 

And like armor, the next day I wore a protective shield around my shiny little heart: I wore hot pink everything. 

Wearing pink is like wearing red lipstick--it guards against the glitter haters who would steal my joy if they could.

Sometimes when people respond to my joy with negativity I wish I could just say, Would you rather I be a bitch? Would you rather I snapped and glared at you and told you how fucking ugly that beard really looks on you? Cuz I can and you're gonna hate that version of me even more. 

But I don't and I do my best to sparkle on and sometimes I just don't want to be around anyone because it feels like nobody understands. 

And doesn't anyone just want to be happy for no reason anymore?

And as I was coming back from lunch I looked up and this little girl was staring at me across the street. 

I stopped, staring back at her, wondering why she was staring.

I like your outfit! She suddenly yelled. 

And I suddenly felt her same age, bashful and happy to be appreciated by a stranger. 

Thank you, I yelled back. 

And that's when I realized. 

I really am meant to work with kids. 

Because I am a giant kid. 

Whenever I do the princess parties the kids love me and I'm so stupidly happy my heart pumps glitter through my veins.

And for now it's supplemental and part time. 

But I hope. 

I hope one day it becomes a much more significant aspect of my life. 

Because that little five year old made my day. 

And really adults can be so darn negative sometimes. 

Ya know?

Wouldn't it be lovely to not always have to be around them?

some crescent moon

The last time we made love he thought it was because I wanted to feel closer. 

But I actually wanted to experience him disconnected. 

If a man tells you he's ending things being intimate is the best way to let him go. 

You'll never feel more used than you do by him in that moment. 

Men think they have us figured out. 

They think we won't be able to get over them and that our love for them will haunt our hearts. 

But what they don't realize is while they're looking at our Instagram we already have another man in our sheets. 

Love is fickle. 

It is the very extreme of emotion which gives it all the credibility of a teenager. 

How can I possibly take any of it seriously when it has no consistency?

Just thinking about its ups and downs makes me dizzy. 

What sort of truth lies in that?

He was pretending and we both knew it. 

But he thought I believed him. 

He thought my eyes were the same doe ones that believed everything he used to say under different stars. 

But there was only one night this time I truly believed him and it was the night he first said I love you and water danced in the corners of his eyes. 

But his love, like most love, was a selfish one. 

It doesn't make it feigned. 

Just a little insincere. 

Because the heart can't want what it wants when it has no fucking clue about anything. 

It merely reacts, like some chemical experiment where I'm the one standing motionless in a glass jar. 

And after all of it, the passion and the love and the distance and the silence, I am still, and forever will be, his only other one.

And he is my one.

Of many. 

Many loves. 

And lovers. 

And I am something he'll never be. 

Free. 

I saw a Ghost on my birthday

I woke up hungover. 

Which is really a great way to start your birthday. 

I'd had such an epic birthday eve I'd already made out with two people. 

Happy fucking birthday, Reese.

I slept in but not as much as I'd wanted. 

When you go to bed after two you want to sleep half the day away. 

So I forced myself to wake up and continue the celebration. 

I was so out of it when I left I didn't lock my front door. 

I got back that night and thought my home had been broken in to. 

Nope. 

I just never locked the door. 

Holy shit. 

Guess that's what a good night will do to ya. 

So I pick up the Bestie and we drive into town. 

And I guess I'm still pretty out of it after brunch cuz when I park I'm not where I think I am. 

I thought I'd parked a block away from my favorite vintage clothing store, the one I visit every year on my birthday. 

But as I looked up I realized I wasn't across the street from my favorite vintage shop. 

I was across the street from his bar. 

The Phantom's.

I stopped for a moment on the sidewalk and just stood there, dumbfounded. 

The bar I was staring at was four city blocks away from the vintage shop I could've sworn I'd parked in front of. 

I laughed at myself wondering if my subconscious had brought me there because I'd wanted to see him. 

We started walking past the bar and all of a sudden there he was.

Unlocking the side doors to let some people in, the lights on the Christmas tree twinkling behind him. 

Huh, I said, There he is.

And I smiled. 

I didn't feel anything I expected to feel--sadness, anger, longing, regret. 

I simply smiled.

Wow. I'm --over him. I was so.obSESsed with him. And now....I'm over it. 

And then I laughed. 

I stood there in the rain and I laughed. 

So happy. 

We got to the vintage shop and it was empty. 

Our faces looked upon the other and this time we both laughed. 

A sign on the door announced the store had moved. 

To Hawthorne. 

The exact street on the other side of the river we'd just came from. 

It was literally a block away from where we'd been. 

So I drove across the river, across the Hawthorne bridge, to walk in the rain and see The Phantom on my birthday. 

And smile. 

And realize I had healed. 

It was perfect. 

Fill in the emoji

I got myself an advent calendar and quickly discovered the only thing I'm good at doing every day is masturbate. 

Consistency is a lot of work. 

Making time for anything takes a lot of fucking effort these days. 

It takes work to forge relationships with people who aren't giant flakes. 

We're the generation of entitlement and nobody is gonna do anything they don't feel like. 

Unless there's something in it for them. 

I get it. 

Sometimes I don't want to share my time. 

Sometimes I cancel my dates so I can play Mariokart. 

Sometimes I want to do what I want, by myself with no one other than my cat staring at me in judgement from across the room. 

The times I do have a problem are when people flake when it's important. 

You don't want to meet me for happy hour because your period has sucked all the energy required to put on a bra?

Fine. Whatever. 

But I invite you to something weeks upon weeks in advance and you bail?

Not cool, brah.

I hate when people let me down.  

I'd tie myself in knots just to make the people I love laugh. 

I expect my beloved to treat me with the same caring grace. 

It makes me want to kick them in the vagina when I feel like they're indifferent to my disappointment. 

This time of year brings out the best and worst in people. 

When Dickens was writing A Tale of Two Cities he must have been talking about Christmas time. 

I know in a month it won't matter. 

Hell, it may not next week. 

It's just strange. 

Why is it always the way that the people you don't expect to be there for you, are, and the people you do expect to show up can't be bothered to send an emoji?

There's something really poetic in all that. 

I just haven't figured out what it is. 

Can't talk right now, playing Mariokart

Last night I cancelled my date so I could stay home and play Mariokart.

Tonight I told him we should meet for a burger because I knew I'd never bail on a free burger. 

Sex, sure. 

Burger, never. 

Dating when you've been single as long as I have is much more complicated than I ever realized. 

A guy asked to see me again and instead of being elated like a girl is supposed to feel my first thought was, Didn't I just see you?

I'm apparently not used to sharing my time with anyone but my cat. 

It's a good thing, though, cuz I like it when people push me past my comfort zone. 

In bed and in life. 

Let's try something different, let's spice things up.

Let's not make it awkward when I make it clear I want you to leave. 

But the thing that has been good about dating guys who send me texts other than dick pics and emojis is that it's made me realize how happy I actually am single. 

Of course I love dating and I love sex and meeting strangers is practically a hobby of mine. 

But it's the holidays and I thought I'd be pining for someone to link arms with me at zoo lights and I'm not. 

I'm a happy panda all on my own. 

In fact my actual birthday was spent with some of the friends I hold more dear  than anyone else on this planet so I'm not wanting for anything. 

Except perhaps this burger that's supposed to be killer. 

The bastard's lucky I have a weakness for meat. 

Ah hell.

And men. 

I can't make that

I got to celebrate the Bestie's birthday last week and part of the birthday extravaganza was going to hear Dumb Blonde. 

I had honestly never heard of the band but the Bestie was stoked to see them and I'll go to just about any show if it's only twenty bucks. 

We got to Holocene, the particularly small venue, and I say particularly small because it looks more like a bar than a venue for bands to play at. 

And since it's my favorite persons birthday I want to buy her a drink. 

Well unlike me, because opposites attract, my girl is not the lush that I am. 

In fact she hardly ever drinks. 

She doesn't even know what to order, that's how infrequently she drinks. 

I know, she's fucking adorable.

So I channel my inner 22 year old & suggest an apple martini?

Sure, that sounds great. 

Ok. 

So I walk up to the bar to the skinny guy wearing a black turtleneck. 

Yes.

I said turtleneck. 

Hi, Can I get an apple martini? I ask.

I can't make that, he curtly replies. 

Oh, I'm fairly shocked. Ok.

And he hands me the menu with the cocktail list and I sit down with that. 

We look over the options and most of them are designed for the alcoholics like me but I point out one with rum and pineapple and declare that to be the sweetest. 

So that was the birthday cocktail to be had. 

I marched up to Mr. Turtleneck and asked for the Jam & Berry. 

I can't make that, he replies, annoyed.

What? Now I'm getting annoyed. 

I'm missing one of the ingredients. Here you can get a Tom Collins.

Which ingredient are you missing?

Or a Paloma. Or we have the slushee, he points half heartedly to a machine that looks like they stole it from a hot dog on a stick from a mall food court. 

Can SHE make the drink? I point to the female bartender I wished I'd spoken to in the first place. 

He pauses. No.

It's my friends birthday and she doesn't drink a lot so she wants something more on the sweet side. 

Well I don't know why she doesn't just come up here herself. She can get the sluuuuusheeee.

I can't believe this. 

What bartender can't make a fucking cocktail?

Does he even actually work there?

Or did he just throw on what he thought was a cool outfit and walk behind the bar to be the slusheeee pusher. 

Who wants a fucking slushee in winter?

What an idiot. 

I ordered a shot of Jameson --because I needed to drink after talking to him. I needed a zanax after talking to him.--And walked back to the Bestie mildly defeated at not handing her a birthday cocktail. 

Now I know for next time. 

If a man is wearing a god damned turtleneck and he's standing behind a bar, I will find somewhere else to drink. 

Because he not only can't make good wardrobe choices, he can't make a fucking drink. 

#fuckholocene

My soul's sister

There are some nights when a man won't do. 

Nights when nothing and no one can satisfy the twitch dancing in your skin. 

But a soul sister. 

I'd had it. 

To say I was fed up was like saying I like sex. 

It's a bit of a fucking understatement. 

I understand changing your mind. 

Hell, I change my outfit several times a day. 

But there's a point when you don't get to change your mind anymore. 

You get to choose your choice and suffer a life without me in it. 

Hey, if you're a dumbass you get what's coming to you. 

So, reeling from yet another change from my ever changing lover--(or ex, as of late, for the moment, anyway, who the fuck really knows)--I was craving something consistent. 

I was supposed to meet her at our usual place but something about our old haunt didn't feel like what I needed. 

I wanna go somewhere else, I texted her. 

She suggested a dive we'd been to a few times and THAT, for whatever reason, was exactly what I wanted. 

Yes, I wrote back. But only if we can smoke. 

Because this soul sister not only calmed my frustrated storm she also smoked the ridiculously frou frou menthol cigarettes I'd smoked the night I popped my nicotine cherry. 

And sometimes in life there are only 3 things that will do--whiskey, sex or cigarettes. 

(Or all of the above).

So we drank and smoked and we talked of all of it. 

And those few people I can tell my ugly secrets to are the ones who make my heart sing. 

And as we held hands across the table suddenly we both leaned forward and her lips found mine. 

And life is repeatedly full of such disappointment and men who change their minds. 

But sometimes, when the cries of your heart align with the moon, love finds its way to you. 

And it's always sweeter than you remembered. 

A little blue box

He was the last guy to buy me jewelry. 

And when I miss him, I wear the necklace he gave me. 

It never makes me sad. 

It always makes me happy. 

And it makes me feel close to him.

Even if I'm never going to look into his face again. 

I remember when he gave it to me. 

He said he hid my birthday present at work because he didn't trust me. 

He figured I'd look in his apartment for it. 

And maybe I would have. 

It was months after he'd said, "I love you."

He used to be so excited to say it. 

He'd get up from his computer and cross the living room to where I was sitting on the couch just so he could put his face in my face and say, "I love you."

It was unbelievably sweet. 

The last time we made love as a couple he looked in to my eyes during and told me, "You're the most beautiful woman in the world."

And I could have died in that moment.

Satisfied. 

Complete. 

And days later he didn't want to be a couple anymore. 

Love is frightening. 

It overwhelms. 

And the only way to love is to be vulnerable. 

Which scares the shit out of most people. 

Who can feel secure so raw?

I, however, would choose the vulnerability of love any day over the self sufficiency of independence. 

I'm happiest when my heart is resting inside a clueless pair of hands. 

I'd rather fumble through life alongside someone's mistakes than ride smoothly in a placid sea of my own making. 

But most men I love don't see love that way. 

They need to transition. 

I am their transition. 

I still remember when he handed me the little blue box. 

It wasn't wrapped, because white ribbon is really all you need. 

And before I opened it, I was already shocked. 

Tiffany.

And this from a man who never spent a dime without a fundamental, logical reason. 

Love had driven him to such excess. 

And it danced about his eyes with the excitement of a child. 

I opened the tiny pouch inside the tiny box and a silver necklace fell into my hand. 

It truly, could have been anything.

And I would have loved it. 

Because he chose it. 

The tiny knot was so simple and subtle. 

It was nothing I ever would have chosen for myself. 

But it was perfect. 

He was so proud. 

And it feels like a lifetime ago. 

Which I suppose in some regard three years is. 

But it's mine. 

And he isn't. 

And there are so many painful memories that frame our tragic love story and broken friendship. 

But that delicate necklace from Tiffany will always be the symbol of the love he once was so excited to share. 

I was such a different girl then. 

And I hope one day, despite how short my next love may be, that they would share such a token with me. 

So when years have passed, and I've forgotten to miss them, I can reach into my treasure chest and find a symbol of the love that once sang in their heart. 

And feel close to them, when I might never look into their face again. 

Happy Birthday, Bestie

When I thought about how it was almost your birthday I wondered what I wanted to give you as a present. 

And suddenly, an overwhelming urge came over my heart--

I wanted to write you a love letter.

We joke that we're each other's wife.

I'm your other husband. 

(Sorry, Andy. You have to share her.)

When too many days pass and I don't see you, I feel out of balance. 

When something important happens to me, I have to tell you about it.

(Even if I'm worried you might be scandalized by it.)

I always have to tell you.

I have to tell you everything. 

Because you're my best friend. 

I have several wonderful girlfriends in my life who I also consider best friends. 

But everyone knows you're my number one. 

And they love you because they see how much you mean to me. 

You have been there for every heart break for the last 14 years. 

(15 years?)

You remember stories from my life I forgot entirely. 

I think we've only had one fight. 

Ever. 

And it was when you were worried about who I was choosing to trust. 

(And you were right.)

But you never make me feel judged. 

You never make me feel wrong for being who I am. 

You make me feel like my soul is full of glitter. 

And I've searched for love and wondered why the men I love always leave, but the truth is, you're the greatest love of my life. 

You've held me together when I was falling apart, you've trusted me as your advocate, we can do nothing and everything together, and no one has believed in me the way you do.

(Except perhaps for Mother. Which makes you my family.)

Your sister told my parents, "They're very dedicated to each other."

And it really is true. 

I don't know if I really believe in romantic love anymore. 

But I believe in you. 

And I believe in the love we have. 

And I'm so grateful to you for always being there, even as the chaos constantly storms around me, I can stand with you and face it all. 

I can't possibly sum up into words what you mean to me. 

But I can say that on this day, I am so happy that your life found its way into mine. 

Because without you, I wouldn't be me. 

And I love who I am. 

And I love you. 

And I love us. 

We are the stuff they write songs about.

And I cannot wait to grow old with you, telling the haters to fuck off, singing when we're wrinkled and our voices still strong, fighting over the last milano in our bathrobes, remembering how fabulous we were when we were just young girls. 

Happy Birthday, Bestie.

My life is so happy because you're in it. 

What more could we possibly hope for?

We already have everything.