So Happy.

Are you happy? she asked me.

I smiled. Yeah. I am.

Thanksgiving morning I woke up and my mind wandered.

It played a montage of their faces. 

Where they might be, what they were doing at this moment.

The Phantom rolled over and kissed his girlfriend and smiled. 

Sheldon's mother hugged him while he stood motionless and hid the smile on his lips. 

And I layed there smiling imagining all of it.

I thought I was going to be sad.

This is the first holiday I've spent without my old friend and I expected it to be harder. 

It's amazing how quickly someone can become a stranger. 

But I didn't have any room for sadness. 

I was too happy. 

And then he texted me. 

My loving sunshine. 

And he was laying in his bed. 

Smiling. 

And my mother sent me a rainbow from where she sat in Maui.

And there was an energy around me that made my heart swell.

I spent so many months of this year feeling so lonely. 

And alone. 

And lost. 

And now. 

Now I had someone meeting me for coffee just because seeing me means that much to him.

Can you imagine?

After neither of them wanted to look at me again?

Starbucks.

The beginning.

Like some old bar we kept returning to.

Because they made our favorite drink. 

And our favorite bartender made it unlike any other. 

And then he went on his way and I filled my arms with mochas.

And delivered them to my second family. 

And they danced around the kitchen in their pajamas like the couple I've always wanted to be a part of. 

So much absurdity. 

And such love. 

And my heart was so full. 

And then there was more. 

And I drove to my soul sister's family. 

And when I walked in I became a part of it. 

And we laughed and drank and I fell in love a little bit more. 

I sat on the kiddie side of the table and the 7 year old drew me a rainbow. 

And my name was on a leaf next to the other dozen names around the table. 

And I thought I'd stay an hour and four hours later I had to tear myself away. 

And I drove again and forgot to miss anyone. 

And I sat at the piano and more joy sang from my lips.

And then he texted me. 

My loving moon.

And none of this year has been simple. 

And I'd never ask it to be. 

But this day, on this very special day, nothing existed but love. 

The faces I saw. 

The arms that held me. 

The friends who smiled with me. 

Flooded my heart with so much overwhelming joy it all faded away. 

Each dark cloud. 

Every cold stare. 

And there was nothing left but love. 

And the moon. 

And the revelation that I already had everything I could ever ask for. 

Once in a Full Moon

Meeting a man who is actually as crazy as I am is truly frightening. 

It's one thing for me to play off to my friends or even strangers, Oh yeah, I'm crazy.

And they laugh and I laugh cuz I don't, like, really mean it of course. 

I'm just being dramatic for the sake of comedy. 

Ha Ha Ha.

That Reese.

She's such a kidder. 

But only a minute percentage of people actually know that I'm not kidding. 

Sometimes I don't even know what I'm gonna do. 

A switch is flipped. 

An impulse is followed. 

Sometimes it's fabulous and you have great sex with a stranger. 

Sometimes it's not as fabulous and you end the night desperately trying to fish out the condom he didn't know fell off inside you. 

Being crazy doesn't mean I have a vast pharmaceutical collection on my nightstand nor does it mean I'm unstable. 

My crazy is moody. 

It's unpredictable. 

It's possessive and responsive and demanding. 

Me. 

NOW. 

Right the fuck now. 

Come. 

I knew exactly what I was gonna wear. 

Red.

Dress. 

The dress that had such a cult following the girl I visited in Spain had the same one. 

This shit was international. 

The first time I'd seen the dress had been during the summer. 

I saw it and thought, That's it. That's what I'm going to be wearing the first time he sees me. 

I had it all planned. 

I was going to walk in and be stunning. 

Light up the room. 

All heads would turn to look. 

Of course they sold out of my size (damn cult following) and I grew impatient and I ended up wearing a different dress. 

That dress had been the last one he'd seen me in the night he had to feel me in his car so the effect was similar. 

It did the trick. 

Eventually I grew impatient and just ordered the dress in a smaller size because I'm sure it would be fine. 

And you know the great thing about being incredibly buxom?

Nothing ever fucking fits. 

Because my breasts are always in the way.

Fuck you, dress. Now what am I gonna do?

Fortunately for me fate knew how to fix it. 

I connected with a girl who lived in Spain and we decided we should meet. 

And she just happened to have my same red dress in the size I needed. 

And as it turned out, she needed the size I had. 

The purpose of Spain really was to reunite the perfect dress in the perfect size for each of us. Everything else was fucking sprinkles on the cupcakes. 

I had actually never worn it since my return home. 

No real reason just--

Well. 

No real reason to. 

When something is that special to you, that significant and meaningful, it's hard to want to throw it on for just any old night. 

The dress needs to be living a story. 

So the man I was to meet was my match. 

That's how my Bestie phrases it. 

I've met my match. 

Which in the wrong context makes it sound like I found the one and you're thinking Awe, what a doll!

No. 

She doesn't mean that. 

She means, Holy fuck, Reese. There is actually a male version of you in existence. He's just as crazy as you which means we have no idea what the fuck he'll do because you've met your fucking match and that's a scary, incredible, overwhelmingly horrifying and wonderful thing. 

I'm paraphrasing obviously. My Bestie never says fuck that much. 

So I got there and he was already there. 

Sitting right where I'd hoped he'd be. 

In the spot where the man I'd originally bought the dress for sat the last time he'd adored me. 

I couldn't have written a better poetic ending if I'd tried.

Crazy people always have meaning behind everything they do so when I walked up and saw which glasses he was wearing I knew they were for me.

And I was nervous and I saw he was too. 

And he acted strangely because of it and I did a poor job of hiding my annoyance because he was acting so strangely. 

And I wished we were in an episode of Mad Men so I could pull out a cigarette right there and start smoking it to steady my nerves.

And we both knew the whole conversation was feigned and we were both somewhere else observing each other while we appeared to be engaged. 

And I finally leaned in real close and said, Are you ok?

Which was my demure way of really saying, What the fuck are you doing?

And he responded by saying, Yes, that was a weird question.

Which was his charming way of saying, I have no fucking idea what I'm doing.

And that's the thing about crazy. 

It understands.

It's intuitive and hyper aware. 

At least our brand of crazy was. 

I loved and hated that about us. 

And it was a full moon. 

The "mourning moon."

The last light before the darkness of winter. 

Illuminating the darkest moments of the past year so as to visit them one last time before turning away. 

Like some perfect timing in our perfect fucked up story.

And it was perfect. 

As endings are when you're no longer fighting Timing and her incessant persistence. 

Never was I more certain and uncertain. 

More joyful and full of despair. 

More accepting and knowing that our goodbye would never be the way a goodbye was written to be. 

And I took comfort in that. 

I took comfort in a lot of things. 

Like the moon. 

The inconstant moon. 

Ever changing. 

But always returning. 

As is written in the stars. 

Just Another Tinder Fail

It was the best of times. 

It was a waste of time. 

Tinder was literally the light of my labia. 

And the bane of my existence. 

If love is just another form of hate then Tinder brought out the murdering romantic in all of us. 

I really don't take it seriously. 

Maybe I should.... Question mark.

But I don't. 

It feels like one giant game.

Egos. 

And complexes. 

And a race to get my bra off.

Did you know that men will pay for my whiskey but they won't pay for my dinner or my ticket to see the concert?

They only pay for what they think might get them laid. 

And then they think I don't notice what they're up to. 

#amateurs 

The swell thing about being a Tinderella Queen (self proclaimed) is that I generally have an idea of whose gonna work for me. 

And whose gonna be dull as Cook's "champagne."

The guys who make me laugh with their messages, whose sass and personality shines through, always make for fun dates. 

Even if they don't end up being romantic hits I'm always glad I went. 

So the date I had set for this weekend was one of those kids who I knew was gonna make me laugh when he sat across from me. 

I'd gone climbing that night but I'd cut my climb short so I could make it to the bar on time. 

Aalto's this great pub that feels sexy even though it's a dive.

I walked around to the back side where they had 47 candles lit and spread about the room and no one was sitting back there. 

I sent him a message in case he wondered where I was hiding and said I'm sitting on the side that's having a seance. Apparently that's what we're doing tonight. 

He'd messaged me a few hours before confirming the time. 

And I logged off the app to read a text. 

Then he'd written me back. 

Shit I'm suuuuper sorry to have to do this but I'm gonna have to rain check tonight. A friend of mine is having a crisis and she needs me. 

Slightly jarred, I didn't respond right away. 

Canceling a date was one thing. 

But canceling a date after you should already be there is just in poor taste. 

#amateurs

I logged off the app to text my friend back and figured I'd write back some No worries I hope your friend is ok diplomatic response. 

Because like I said. 

I didn't really care. 

After all, this was a stranger. 

So I logged back on to Tinder and he was gone. 

He'd unmatched me. 

Which was even more strange than ditching me last minute with some bogus excuse. 

The Tinder app recently updated so you can no longer see when someone was last on. 

Which means if I hadn't logged on to Tinder in the two minutes he'd sent the message to me before unmatching me I might never have known he wasn't coming and I would have sat there with all those candles wondering if my date had died. 

I thought about staying and buying myself a drink since I was already in town. 

But I don't even like dealing with Saturday crowds with a date. 

Who the hell goes out on a Saturday night anymore?

I remember last week I was really in the mood to go out but all my friends were busy or sick and this guy was like, Yeah well it's a Monday.

Like the idea of frequenting a bar on a Monday was absurd. 

I love going out on week nights, I quickly responded. 

I hate going out on the weekends.

So even though he was amusing and kind of cute and picked a swell sexy dive bar in the city. 

He was yet another Tinder fail.

And proof that I really, truly, need to stop dating 28 year olds.

#ihaveissues

My Joy is in Your Flesh

There is this chronic need in my generation to find joy in isolation. 

When a girl is single you know what everyone tells her?

You should be happy being alone.

They tell her that the only real joy she'll find is when she can feel joy by herself. 

A friend of mine recently wrote how much peace she felt eating dinner alone and that more people should do the same. 

People like to make others feel that their need for someone is a mistake. 

Because needing anyone, other than your own company, is a weakness. 

It's a dissatisfaction in self and contentment. 

And I think that that's all a bunch of shit. 

Into the Wild, which found great success in both film and literature, ended with the hero leaving one final message to the world--

Happiness only real when shared. 

And of course because he died, because he went off and sought to experience life alone it's ok to accept his discovery that the greatest joy is only truly experienced in the presence of another. 

And it's ok in that context because, after all, it's just a story. 

Except it's based on an actual real story. 

Life IS better shared. 

And I'm so fucking sick of the world wanting everyone to "be okay" alone. 

God created Eve because it wasn't good for Adam to be alone.

It doesn't make us weak to need each other. 

It's how we're wired.

I have some of the most amazing people in my life right now. 

I have known friendships my entire life. 

But the bonds I've formed now feel like family. 

We're fucking blood. 

My sisters are the friends I could call at three in the morning. 

That idea about having a friend whose such a good friend they would help you bury a body?

I have several of those friends. 

And they would all admit they would totally stand in the dirt with me. 

In the rain.

With a shovel.

I am one lucky bitch. 

And sometimes, I truly need them. 

And that doesn't mean I don't find contentment in my own company. 

It means sometimes in that moment, for that night, I don't want to be alone. 

Sometimes I need to drink with my girlfriend and cry to her about the boy who will never text me again. 

Sometimes I need to be in the arms of a stranger. 

I need to feel wanted and desirable. 

I need my skin to be in the hands of some mans. 

And that doesn't mean I don't think I'm beautiful. 

That means in that moment I need to be fucked. 

Sometimes I do need to be alone. 

And I need to feel everything I'm feeling and I need to think everything I maybe shouldn't even be thinking. 

And those nights I am content exclusively having only my own company. 

But I'm not of only one desire. 

My mood changes and my needs shift. 

And just because I'm not okay being alone one moment does not mean I'm wrong or weak or lacking. 

Anything. 

I'm simply existing. 

And if it took someone's death to realize happiness exists in its purest form when shared, how can anyone begrudge any of us the desire to share happiness while we're full of life?

I am NOT enough. 

And I am proud to say I need my relationships to experience great joy. 

I need my sisters. 

And I need my fucks.

And I need love. 

And I would never, ever want to pretend that I'm above needing anyone. 

Sometimes I can stare out my window and see the sun and feel content alone in my bed. 

And sometimes I need someone there so I can nuzzle into his chest and breathe with him and not feel so fucking alone. 

And whatever I need, whatever anyone needs, they should fucking reach to the moon to get it. 

And no one should make them feel wrong for seeking it. 

Because happiness is greatest when shared. 

And how can anyone feel weak for realizing that?

Cheer up, Buttercup

Stop being so happy all the time.

You're making me jealous.

I woke up so. fucking. grumpy.

My poor cat came into my room at the same ungodly hour he always does, wondering why I hadn't yet gotten up to feed him. 

He plaintively meowed in the same tone a toddler would whine. 

And I groaned back loudly annoyed. 

And rolled away from him, throwing the covers over my head. 

I did not want to get up. 

I was annoyed. 

I was annoyed that I was annoyed. 

I just wanted to sleep. 

For days. 

So I decided to get beautiful. 

Because when you hate everyone the best thing you can do is put on your lipstick. 

And I stared up at my made up reflection in the mirror and sighed. 

I still wanted to go to sleep. 

But at least I looked put together. 

And when you feel like a fucking mess looking fine is your greatest armor. 

I found Cartier in the living room happily finishing his breakfast and gently stroked his head. 

I really loved him. 

He kind of saved my heart when it was alone. 

I got to work and didn't greet anyone. 

I always say good morning. 

But I couldn't today. 

I'd already used up the energy I had to put my makeup on. 

So I just sat down and started working. 

And then as minutes faded away I felt more energy surge through my body. 

I reached into the bag I'd set on my desk and pulled out a feather boa as bright fuschia as the dress I wore to homecoming. 

I draped it across my desk. 

And I took a lavender one and draped it across a shelf. 

The colors made me happy. 

And minutes became hours and I cheerfully sang hello to the girl who sat across from me. 

And she returned the greeting and then stopped what she was doing and just stared at me.

Stop being so happy all the time.

You're making me jealous.

Then she felt embarrassed because she knew I didn't know her well enough to know she was only partially kidding. 

So I stared back and said, If it makes you feel any better I was really grumpy this morning and hating boys and listening to Fiona Apple.

And she said, That does make me feel better. 

And then I reached into my bag again and grabbed a royal blue feather boa. 

And without even asking I started scattering it across her desk. 

Here. You just need a feather boa.

And she lightly laughed. 

But she kept it there all day. 

And after she left for the day it still lay there. 

And that made me happy. 

Because sometimes we need a surge of color on a grey morning. 

And I was trying so hard to combat my disappointment. 

And she had no idea how much I was working to try and float in a cloud of joy. 

She thought it just came easy. 

But it was work. 

Joy is work. 

Life is work. 

Laughter. 

And pain. 

And expectation. 

And rejection. 

And repetition. 

And the threat of monotony. 

But I'd decided, I chose, to make something bright when I wanted to give in to the shadows. 

And all my work, all my efforts to lift my own soul out of defeat, had lifted her. 

And that was enough. 

A smile. 

Was enough. 

It really was. 

New Moon

Men don't know this 

But every woman has her breaking point. 

It's a misconception that when a woman has feelings for someone -

SEE Love or Luff SEE ALSO Lust and Infatuation

that said woman is immune from linear thinking. 

That she won't easily be motivated to act when the behavior towards her has changed. 

Or when the man she has feelings for reveals his belief in the woman's expendability. 

I am strong. 

I am resilient.

I don't actually believe I could be content with a disproportionate love. 

I detest halfway love. 

I would rather be left alone then have someone resist their instinct to love me. 

A transition occurred. 

One of judgement. 

Possession. 

I am not, in fact, any man's doll to be placed on his shelf for those impulses he wants to pick me up and look at me. 

I am, rather, my own possessor. 

Free from everything.

A N D

E V E R Y O N E.

No apologies. 

No explanations. 

My choices are mine. 

And when I make them I choose them. 

Completely. 

In theatre, the actors most tedious to watch are the ones who don't commit to anything. 

Their character isn't established because they never consciously made a choice and gave their everything to it. 

The actors who demand attention are the ones who with every fiber in their being commit their energy to the choice they made. 

There is no room to believe anything other than what they present the audience because for them it is raw truth.

Those are the players I am inspired to play with. 

And those are the relationships I seek to surround myself with. 

Some people think they're honest. 

At least as honest as they can be with another person. 

But what they don't realize is until they reconcile the reality of their truth with themselves they will never be free to share it entirely with anyone. 

Or any lover. 

They object and protest that they have been honest this whole time.

When in fact they've never been honest anytime.

Because their truth is too fucking much.

For them to hold in their hands and see.

Their mind would be scattered across the walls. 

This year has changed me. 

And when I woke up this morning I felt different. 

I crouched in child's pose inhaling deeply. 

Somehow, the atoms within me were no longer dancing. 

They were running. 

Driving me somewhere I didn't understand but with a profound resoluteness that I wanted no more of what had been. 

I wanted change. 

And as Timing loves to boast in all her perfectness I saw a post that today, 11/11 it was the New Moon.

And this new moon was in Scorpio.

An uncomfortable sign. 

That Scorpio teaches us not everything lasts forever. 

Something has to DIE.

So it may be reborn. 

C h a n g e.

I felt it. 

The moment I awoke. 

The sun cutting through my window warming my skin. 

I knew what I didn't want. 

A feigned adoration like some distant mirage. 

That made me a mere hologram. 

Impenetrable. 

Locked behind glass walls. 

And there I was to lay. 

Waiting. 

While Time whiled away days.

Upon hours.

And I to simply 

Be.

Silent. 

Enduring. 

Loyal.

Like a porcelain doll. 

Lightly touched, if touched at all.

So I grabbed a hammer. 

And shards flew everywhere. 

And then I suddenly wasn't communicating.

When I was s c r e a m i n g.

And now I was a bad doll. 

Because I set his lies on fire. 

There is no love in deceit. 

It was pretend. 

Mere make believe. 

Like a scene. 

In a play. 

And then the curtain closes and we never look at one another again. 

Once. 

I held onto a lie. 

Fervently, with such childlike care. 

I held onto it at night and cuddled the hopes into the dark hours of the dawn.

And I believed. 

Oh how desperately I believed that the lie could transform into my truth. 

But then. 

I was a fool. 

A lovely little fool 

Whose only frame of reference was to devote her entirety to that one. Entity. 

Now. 

I'm tired. 

My tolerance quickly wanes. 

And I see reality before I see anything else. 

The new moon aligned in me and I no longer wanted to exist in an alternate universe anymore. 

I. Want. What's right. Now. 

And the originator of this effusive infatuation was no longer able to make me sit still beside him. 

I ran. 

Fled. 

With the same frantic urgency that drove me to him in the first place. 

Unaffected. 

Oh so distant. 

The Best Date

I was actually kinda nervous. 

Excited. 

Nervous. 

Like, why the heck are you nervous? It's either a hit or not.

What of it?

I walked up to a guy sitting at the bar, Are you George? I asked eagerly.

The guy stared at me blankly with what can only be described as an unenthused smile. 

No, he replied and I realized as I looked closer past those thick spectacles that he really didn't look that much like the photos I'd seen.

Oh, he has the same glasses as you, and then I laughed more than I should. 

Like I said. 

Nervous. 

I loved the bar I was at. 

They made the best old fashioned in town. 

And I'd had several significant dates there. 

Though I'd never been there with the Phantom. 

Or Sheldon. 

That also made me happy. 

He walked in and I immediately realized it was him. 

Dashing. And tall. 

He smiled at me across the room bespectacled like his doppelgänger on the bar stool. 

I stood up ready to throw my arms around him but as he got closer he seemed to grow taller. 

And more handsome. 

Really. 

Ridiculously attractive. 

And I suddenly felt very flustered. 

Oh hey it's nice to meet you, I muttered something to the effect and slowly sat back down like it was a complete accident I'd stood up in the first place. 

He leaned down slowly and offered me his arms in a hug that enveloped me. 

Oh okay, I thought, yeah that's why I stood up. HUG.

Good Lord, Reese, are you gonna be this cool the whole night?

The next hour was spent in scintillating conversation. 

I talked too much and he'd laugh politely.

The waitress I knew came by when he was in the restroom.

Isn't he a doll? I said. 

He's really sweet, she replied. 

He told me I was funny and energetic and boisterous and a good storyteller, which I decided were all traits I'd love to be the first impression I gave a stranger. 

I figured this was either gonna be really short. Or really fun, he flashed his dimples at me. 

And I held out from blinking. 

Damn. 

There are fun dates and sexy dates, amusing and charming ones. 

But there are very few who cause you to feel all at once overwhelmed and comfortable at the same time. 

I don't even know what that's called but it's incredible. 

I was loud and scandalous and open and raw. 

I wasn't trying to be anything or anyone. 

There were no warning signs that usually appeared on any and every date. 

Just a green light. 

So we never ended our date. 

The part in the story where I usually left, where I always left, at least I have for a very long time, I decided to stay. 

The part where I'd disconnect I allowed to be wrapped in his arms.

And when the light danced off my cheeks and I squinted to see his eyes looking into mine, he smiled.

Good morning.

I smiled back. 

Is this the part where you make me pancakes?

And he laughed. 

If I could sum up my greatest desire into one simple thing it's to make people laugh. 

It's like an orgasm for my heart. 

We decided on a spot neither of us had tried and as I sipped my coffee from the steel mug I thought, A sleepover and breakfast? Who am I?

It was wonderful. 

It turned out I just really liked talking to him. 

He was smart and insightful. 

Sensitive. Resolved.

He was the kind of guy I'd want to read my short stories if I wrote any. 

The kind of guy I'd want to play video games with and wear no makeup around. 

He was both sexy and adorable. 

A feat few can achieve. 

He left in a few days and I knew I might never see him again. 

And I actually didn't mind. 

In sixteen perfect hours he's managed to change my established pattern and wake me from my complacent reverie. 

I didn't know what I was looking for but I knew I wanted the kinds of lovers I'd love getting brunch with as much as I'd love seeing naked. 

We left the restaurant and of course our cars were in exact opposite directions. 

We hugged and he smiled at me. 

At least this time we get to end with a hug instead of an awkward sit down.

I laughed and hugged him again. 

It was the perfect thing to say to bring our perfect mini love affair full circle. 

I walked back to my car with the rain dancing in my hair. 

It was still out there. 

That connection. 

That feeling that made me want to look up at the sky and let the water fill my lungs. 

I was seen. 

And delighted in. 

And I wasn't afraid anymore. 

For the first time in a long time I knew exactly what I wanted. 

Connections. 

Genuine moments.

They were everywhere. 

And I was so glad he reminded me. 

I was very glad for him indeed. 

Happy Christmas, Stranger

I put up my Christmas tree today and it made me think of Sheldon. 

But not in a sad way. 

He just appeared. 

In my brain. 

Like a sudden flashback or something. 

Your real thought is probably, Why the hell are you putting up your Christmas tree in November?

Well I'll tell you. 

Because I can. 

Also the tree is this golden champagne color and really, I think it needs to be up all year. 

It's stunning. 

When I got the tree out of storage I saw the box of ornaments Sheldon's Mom gave me the year I went there for Thanksgiving. 

I'm fine with people leaving my life.

If you wanna go, then go. 

It's just he really was a big part of mine for a very long time. 

So it would be almost impossible for me to not think of him when I see a Christmas tree. 

I think the strangest part about losing a friend you used to talk to all the time is realizing you can't tell them when something happens. 

I saw the new James Bond today and we'd watched all the other Bond's together. 

I couldn't believe it when the actor who plays Moriarty in Sherlock was in it and I instantly thought of him, since he loves Daniel Craig Bond & Sherlock as much as me.

And then it was like, oh yeah. 

I can't talk to him anymore. 

I talked with a guy this week who loves some of the same video games Sheldon does and I knew all about what he was talking about because of the geek culture Sheldon exposed me to. 

And the guy of course thought I was super cool and maybe I'll have somebody new to play Super Mario 3D World with.

Also my love of all things nerdery makes me want to marry Q from Bond. 

Because a brilliant nerd in glasses is really who I was put on this earth for. 

But the cool thing about remembering Sheldon today was that I wasn't sad anymore. 

I wasn't even mad or resentful. 

I simply felt accepting. 

People are limited. 

And they're not always going to give me what I want. 

And that's ok. 

I believe implicitly the world is full of kindreds for me to spend time with and as much as we overplay the idea that certain people will always hold special places in our hearts. 

We are also the types of creatures who are most easily distracted. 

And the funny thing with memories is you only notice them when you take them out to look at them. 

And when I have so many new, shiny things to look at will I remember to take out the dusty, old memory to see it for what it was?

This is my first year having this tree. 

Next year, I will most assuredly be thinking of something else when I unwrap it from its treasured box. 

A talk with George

I believe in love. 

But I don't believe in the minuteness that it exists for me from one person. 

One soul mate.

Impossible. 

Love manifests in constant forms ever changing and revealing itself in unexpected encounters and brief interludes. 

Belief in one soul mate discredits all the love I've felt for every lost boy. 

And if each of those loves was not thee love is that supposed to make each one less meaningful?

Last night I looked into the eyes of a stranger and my heart soured. 

The intensity of shifting your eyes to catch someone looking into you, with the kind of intensity some people go their whole life without expressing. 

It's transcendent. 

The belief I held onto so fervently with such determination was that love never gives up. 

I've loved tirelessly and relentlessly. 

With the stubbornness of a child. 

But love, the kind of love I want to possess, should never fight to the point of blood. 

If love doesn't want to receive than it should float on to someone more needing of it. 

We all of us need love in our own distorted ways. 

And I convinced myself the love I carried was somehow mistaken because it didn't manifest in the things I've been told love should. 

But the love I carry tucked neatly in every pocket is something new entirely:

A boy told me a story about a couple. The man and the woman each having horrible days. The man, seeking comfort, needed to see the woman, to counter the discouragement of the day. The woman, seeking solace, needed to be alone to process and dispel the energy of her day. So the boy telling the story asked, So what is the loving thing to do?

And my thoughts went to the needs of the one who needed solace. 

Though I would most assuredly be the same as the man who needed comfort. 

And since most often what we need is in direct conflict with what others need how do we balance love with contentment?

Desire and acceptance?

How can one person be all things simultaneously for both themselves and their partner?

And then I thought of my tribe. 

And how much easier it is to accept the absence of one when there is another there instead. 

And having so much love constantly ebbing and souring through the changing winds makes all of it surprisingly simple.

Love. 

Freely. 

Abundantly. 

And when one is no longer present, continue.

With others. 

And should the first love desire the receipt of that love they will find their way back to you. 

Believe me. 

The love that must be shows itself on those late nights when you'd forgotten it was even lost. 

That bottle of Fernet

I finally gave it to my parents. 

I drank part of it. 

But for months it just stared at me from my vanity. 

Sitting there like this nagging reminder that he didn't want me.

I don't know why I didn't just throw it away. 

But I could never seem to bring myself to do that. 

I don't even know why. 

I didn't want it anymore. 

But I just let it sit there. 

I guess maybe I didn't want to deal with it. 

Or maybe throwing it away was like the final nail in our love coffin. 

I have no fucking clue why I do half of what I do. 

That's just life, I guess. 

But one day I realized my mom would probably like it. 

She likes things that most people think taste peculiar. 

So I brought it to her and it feels good to have it out of my home. 

I told my dad that it was the bottle I tried to give the Phatom when I found out his dog died. 

Because it was his favorite but he wouldn't accept it. 

What a jerk, my dad said. 

Yeah, I agreed, speaking of jerks, guess who I'm not seeing this weekend. 

I was supposed to see that kid from a lifetime ago that I saw earlier this year. 

We were gonna go on a walk or sip chai or some shit. 

But he ended up writing me this verbose email about how hanging out with me causes a disruption in his spirit. 

I didn't even know how to process what he wrote. 

He was the one who suggested we hang out again months ago. 

Wow, my dad said. You really have an affect on men.

Yeah. 

Affect.

That's what I do. 

I make them want to never talk to me again. 

I will never fucking understand. 

I think the only part that actually disappointed me wasn't that I was losing this kid as a potentially restored relationship in my life. 

But was rather that five years ago he looked at me in a way very similar to the way Sheldon & the Phantom did last week. (Was that just last weekend? It already feels like another lifetime.)

The look five years ago chilled my soul. 

So much hate I thought he was possessed. 

So if he could, all those years later, want to walk in my company then somehow it made Sheldon & the Phantom seem less tragic. 

Because who knew what Time might bring. 

She'd also brought a lost lover back into my bed and if I had a million guesses I never would have seen that happening on my life timeline. 

A lot of things I never guessed would happen take place. 

So I can't really say what may or not be. 

But Timing doesn't want me linking all these men. 

Even though I saw that kid the night the Phantom first came to my bed. 

Even though they were the only men in the past decade to write love songs for me. 

God, I love guitar. 

But life isn't always a pattern. 

All of life doesn't make this neat puzzle that I can make out & see a clear image of once it's together. 

The pieces fit. 

But they're from hundreds of different pictures. 

Because my life could have gone in hundreds of different directions. 

But I'm here. 

And I don't want to have an affect on men anymore. 

I want them to want to go for a walk with me. 

I want them to meet me just so I can give them a hug after I'm upset. 

I want seeing me to be something they have to make time for. 

Because if they don't the ache is so great it carves a tiny hole in their heart. 

Because that's what they all did to me. 

Teeny tiny little holes. 

Where the love I saved for them used to be. 

But I learned, through every lost boy, to return that love back to myself. 

And eventually the holes closed over and I forgot to notice the ache anymore. 

Or maybe they'll always be there and I just stopped noticing. 

Like that bottle of fernet I ignored. 

And tried not to look at when I walked by. 

Because people come and go and lovers continue to crawl in and out of my bed, but their shadows, the shadows of their love, the love reserved exclusively for him, each of them, never disappears completely. 

They're buried in my skin.