Batgirl's Got Shit On Super Girlfriend.

Over the weekend, one of my best friends came and stayed with us. For both of us-- "fun"employed graduates with a bachelors in writing who aren't happy unless we're working for 5 independently contracted clients at once and think "relaxing" is an exercise is being frivolous-- it was not only a great chance to not only discover "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding", read woman's magazines, eat McDonalds (or "The Devil's Food" as my very health-conscious boyfriend would call it), and have the Girl Time that we both found ourselves currently lacking in our lives post-grad, but also, to compare relationship notes and find heroes in other people and how they lead their coupled lives.

I think she's utterly amazing for being in a long distance relationship and is a rock-star for being confident enough to try 21st century ways of staying in touch and intimate. She loved the fact that I strive to make every day eventful for my S.O; we woke up and went impromptu hiking the other morning, then ended up getting glammed up and going out for a business dinner later that same night. I love the fact that her boyfriend is admittedly crazy about her and that it's obvious to everyone around them, even when they're apart-- the constant "ping"-ing of her iPhone affirms that he's not afraid to be candid about how he feels. She (and I) were both smitten when my S.O remembered to bring her a towel and washcloth at night before she went to bed-- something very "host-y" that had escaped both our FEMALE minds, but didn't get past him.

All in all, it came down to the fact that we both know our relationships and our respective partners, but found that finding things to admire in your friend's relationships can help you look at and switch up your own more effectively, too. While all of our relationships are as different as we are as individuals, there's something really great about knowing that you have a "Girlfriend Hero" who will run across town after her boyfriend's rent check to make sure it gets to the right place on time that you can look up and aspire to...while knowing at the same time that you're her "Girlfriend Hero" for your uncanny ability to snag the best seats for the festival fireworks AND remember to bring along your S.O's favorite candy to snack on, too.

If you're lucky enough like me to realize that for the first time in your life, nearly all of your best friends are taken, pair up with one of them whose relationship style you really admire, take notes on how each other makes it appear effortless, and exchange compliments. A lot of the time, the effort we spend putting time, energy, and countless summer-day-outing-plans-so-you-don't-get-bored-and-cranky into our relationships either isn't noticed by our partners (because we're just that good at seeming perpetually AWESOME,) or just isn't acknowledged the way we'd sometimes like it to be after going above and beyond, because, hey, we're girls, and men and women communicate differently about appreciation, after all. Make it your goal to find someone who makes it look so easy to look up to, because, chances are, she'll end up telling you that you're just as stellar a girlfriend, in your own ways.

XOXO

Should We WANT To Lose Ourselves?

We all know the sayings: Lose yourself in the moment. Lose yourself in your work. Lose yourself to find yourself again. But should we want to lose ourselves in the first place? Lately, I've been wondering what good can come from losing oneself. I hate that moment in a relationship when you suddenly realize that you're not happy being alone anymore, or, at the very least, have come to expect that someone else will be around to entertain you. And when that's not the case, then that thought becomes an obsession, and it's like you're suddenly a half of a Siamese twin severed, who feels like they've lost their identity, or what was special about them. In many way, identity theft may be kinder than the moment in which you find yourself realizing you're losing yourself, or, at least, losing the things that used to make up your life or define you as an individual or Single Person.

The existential crisis started around 56 hours ago (and counting). Thursday morning, I was woken up by a text from TGIS, and we continued correspondence from afar until about 5 o'clock that night, after which, I haven't heard from him since. (Granted, I haven't been trying very hard, but that's because A.) I'm under the severe impression it's just better not to nag, and B.) I've always thought it gives you a better symptom of your relationship to see when he finally gets back around to you.) One day was fine. But when I woke up this morning, I felt odd, disoriented. And that's when I realized it was because I'm so used to waking up beside someone. Noon came, and I found myself still in bed, because no requests for brunch out had been made. By this evening, I was in full-out obsession mode about not only the state of my affair, but also, about what the FUCK I was supposed to do with myself and all this free time that had suddenly (and unwelcomely) been found on my hands. So while I may not be neuros-ing about it all over him, I found an outlet for it elsewhere: With my girl friends. Obviously. Because some things never change, even if your established weekend routine suddenly does.

I'm in my twenties. I'm so close to having my Bachelor's Degree in hand I can almost feel it; I paid for the insanely expensive and insanely luxurious Ralph Lauren sheets on my bed myself; I'm paying down my credit card; and I'm giving a presentation at a national writer's convention in Boston in March. My life is pretty fabulous, and yet, all it takes is two day's worth of silence, and I find myself acting like I'm 16 again, trying to occupy myself by making a list of things to do with items like "Wash dishes," "Moisturize entire body," "Watch a 'thinking' documentary to try to get my mind off of 'thinking' about the fact it is a weekend and I don’t believe it without another person here: Sexual Intelligence; Wild China; Food, Inc.; or Prehistoric Predators, Season 1," "Find some way to make a palatable drink with Skyy vodka, the dregs of orange juice, whipped cream that’s lost it’s whip, and anything else in the fridge, all while really just wanting a nice glass (or bottle) of wine," and "Try not to 'wine' anymore." It made me wonder: Do our lives really still revolve around boys?

Once upon a time back in sophomore year of college, my mother thought my friend Madison was secretly my lesbian lover. I can see why she might have thought that-- we spend an uncomfortable amount of time talking to each other. Mostly, I think, it's because we usually have equal levels of confusion in our lives, and think about things similarly. So it was Madison I turned to when asking, "Why do I always panic like this if I don't hear back from a guy for like, I'm not shitting you, two days? I mean, it's TWO DAYS. My sane self knows this. However, my relationship self is going mental. What I want to know is, why do I FREAK out?"

And then Madison said something very true, yet not very heartening at all: "Because you haven't had good luck with similar situations in the past."

Touché, my dear, and good fucking lord, there is no hope-- I'm done for.

I am not the only one who seems to be wondering about the ramifications of losing yourself for someone else. Madison has her own issues, too. "The problem is that I've always known that [I was letting him use me like a doormat]. I just kind of let it happen. And that's not me at all. And that's why I'm ashamed."

And that's when I hit my epiphany in our conversation: "Secretly, I think we're all ashamed at things we do in relationships or non-relationships with other people. Look at me-- I've forgotton how to be ok with being suddenly alone. I think there's something about wanting to be with another person that makes us crazy and makes us forget and sacrifice parts of ourselves because we want something else SO MUCH."

It's all so terribly ironic, because as I was driving home on Wednesday night after bringing TGIS back to his hometown, I was smugly reminiscing on this relationship versus past relationships, thinking to myself how you can be the person you're supposed to be and want to be when you're with the right person. Give me 56 hours of silence, and I'm still the confused little mess I was a year ago, give or take a different man, situation, and a few relevant learning curves. Look how far I've gotten on the road map to finding myself.

XOXO

So what about you? How have you learned not to lose yourself, or how to occupy yourself when you'd rather be doing something with someone else? Do you think that we're more willing to sacrifice parts of our lives and our selves if the payback of having the love of someone else is an option? Comment below and tell me what you think-- who knows, we might be able to solve all our relationship issues and neurosis together. Wouldn't that be a freaking miracle? What would the world do with so many more sane people?

The Young and the Restless

There are 2 types of people who can't sleep: The genuinely not tired, and those who are being kept awake by their thoughts that are too loud. Lately, I've been one of the latter. Granted, I've never been someone who kept up with a solidly respectable sleep schedule-- I'm more of a "night-owl and sleep until noon" person, myself. But when it's your fifth night in a row pressing the lighter side of 4 AM face-down in your bed, rest nowhere to be found and utterly restless, it's time to face facts:

One.

There is no one you can call or go see at 4 AM for a good limb-entwined sleep. There may have used to be. But there is no longer. And granted, you may have all sorts of friends to call on: Friends to drink with, friends to dance with, friends to discuss literature with; friends who will cook for you and go on drives with you and will lend you ten or twenty dollars in a pinch, but there is no one really who you can call, wake up, and say in that hesitant low voice that needs to be specially reserved for hours after 1 AM, "Hey, what are you doing? Can I come over?"

Two.

This may be what's keeping you awake.

Three.

You may be in mourning.

Four.

Every morning.

This is one of those times where you realize, yet again, that some aspects of being single suck. I've had, most of my adult life since the age of 16, someone handy to share a side of a bed, or, in the case of the small and cramped college extra-long, extra-narrow mattresses, a whole bed. Or, in other cases, the downward tilt of the mattress and the wall. And for the first time, I find myself, a grown girl of modest means, with her own new bed, most everything she could wish for or desire, with scads of experience and options, realizing that all that doesn't mean much unless you can get a good night's sleep. For which, apparently, my egg-timer of sleeping sand has run out, and all my trains have left the station.

Humph.

Is there a service for this sort of thing? A bed companion? A room-share? If it would cut down on the rent, that would help, too.

XOXO

Celibacy and the City

A friend of mine told me the other night that she made the conscious choice to be celibate for the last year after she took a long and hard look at her hook-up history and felt less than pleased.

"Hey, that's cool," I told her, to which she scoffed.

"Oh yeah, Miss Sex-Blogger?"

I can't fault anyone for thinking that I'm pro-sex-- for sure, I am-- but it's more about her deciding to do something, and less about the fact that it's about not having sex. Right now, I'm going through the process of deciding what I want this summer to be all about, and I've come up with something that is just as interesting as her choice to be celibate:

I want to wake up every morning with expanding possibilities. I want to not be afraid to play. I want to stay loose. I want to keep things casual. I want to not let the past affect my future. I want to soak up the sand and lake's water equally. I want to not have to miss you any more. I want to be civil and someone who you'd want to miss. I want to be young. I want to be allowed to do as I please. I want to come and go and not have answer to anyone. I want to sleep the best I ever have. I want to go to concerts and movies and hiking and camping and sailing and road trips and swimming and expand. I want to become more professionally-proactive than before. I want to be able to change as often as the summer breezes. I want to not be figured out. I want to be allowed to just be.

And here's what I don't want, although it's exactly what everyone seems to think I should want: I don't want to date.

And I don't want to be tied down.

Maybe that's the root of the problem-- I came back thinking that's exactly what I wanted, and was too stunned to react with any sort of aplomb when I started to having sneaking suspicions that that's exactly what I actually don't want right now.

Would Carrie think wanting to be single is acceptable? I think yes, absolutely. People are fighting and clawing to get into relationships-- I want nothing more than to NOT be in one right now, taking a break and cooling down. What about you? What do you want this summer? Are you waiting to get into the "In" door, or are you running for the "Exit"? For now, the only man getting the right side of my bed is Nicco. The kitten.

XOXO

American Girls, or Why I Evidently Should Have Studied Abroad In Switzerland

Do you know that internet access is a human right in some countries? Not only does Switzerland consider it a human right, they also have some of the fastest broadband internet speeds in the world. Estonia, Greece, and France all consider internet access an inalienable human right.

So why, then, did I choose to come to Italy, land of the "Yeah, we'll get around to it...someday," public services and apparent lack of affection for making sure students studying abroad can like, I don't know-- actually keep up with their loved ones, do homework for online classes, and run blogs?

Monday night, I was laying in bed, streaming The Nanny (no judging), being generally happy, when it crapped out. I called the internet company the next day, and they told us it was a problem in the telephone lines (I believe it-- the entire neighborhood is holed up in the corner bar, the only place with functioning Wi-Fi in apparently, a 2 block radius,) and that they were leaning on the phone company to get it fixed. Great. The next day, I called back to check progress on the strong-arming. "A technician will be coming tomorrow, probably in the morning," I was told. Awesome. Thanks. Next morning, no show. Next-next morning, still no tech. An apartment full of 8 angry women. 6 angry guys above us. Peeved American students all up and down the block. And the only thing I can think the phone company is doing is sitting and rotating on their thumbs.

I'm sorry. I'm a little steamed. It wasn't so much of a big deal when I KNEW I didn't have internet, but now that I'm paying a REDICKULUS amount of money for it per month, I would really, really like to exploit it as much as possible. I would really like to be able to talk to the people at home that I miss. Like, reassure my parents that I'm ok and to ignore and not open my monthly bank statements, or to be able to make Spring Break plans with my roommates in Dublin. Potentially, even-- TRY TO FIND AN APARTMENT TO LIVE IN WHEN I COME BACK SO I AM NOT HOMELESS IN BURLINGTON.

Because do you know what internet-less American girls resort to for entertainment? It's nasty, nasty stuff, my friends. Retail therapy. Chainsmoking. Consuming entire bottles of wine, and starting to drink just after the sun reaches the zenith. Unsafe behavior. Risky road-crossing. Gelato addictions. Baked good and chocolate abuse. Spending horrific (HORRIFIC) amounts of money on new books to keep one's self occupied in lacking electronic pages. Talking to the local men. Taking far, far too much time to gaze at Michelangelo's David. (By far the hottest man in Florence. Those abs. Those buns. That...ball-sack. That's carved out of marble? Seriously? Seriously?)

While I am whining, let's insert a few other general complaints:
- I absolutely despise sleeping alone.
- The guy above me blasts “You are my everything, everything, everything, everything,” while having bed-post banging sex. This is why I do not sleep with bros. If I heard that song, I would be out of there before the end of the first chorus.
- I live in a madhouse. Please save me. Except for Alli, I never want to live with women again.
- I want a good beer like I want a fucking hard-on inside of me. And then, I think I want the beer more. Something tall, dark, full-bodied, with great head. And we’re still talking about the beer, here. Italy-- not a place for internet, or good beer.
- After seeing Avatar and beautifully joined-up alien/alien animal relationships, I really, really, miss Saph. This is the longest I have ever gone without seeing her. I am missing my other half, people.

If I make it back home alive, you have Robin to thank for the majority of this. He tried, really hard, to find me functional internet without the cost of a pint-and-a-half beer or banana and Nutella milkshake. He makes sure I am properly entertained and don't walk alone at night. He hears speeding mopeds before I do. And last night, he cooked dinner and got my Avatar ticket in advance. Along with the general fond company and lack of interest in each other, I think this is what an old marriage is like.

XOXO

Of Men, Women, And Italian Escapades, Part 3:

Women:
The Feminine Mystique:

In my Women in 20th Century Fiction class, we've recently been assigned reading material with a common theme: the idea of the central female character being "witchy" or "otherworldly" in some aspect.

As a woman, I can tell you that there is nothing that I hold more dear at my core than the idea that there lies within me something that even thousands of years into our being, has not yet been figured out or fully understood.

It can be the tangible that changes us: a new pair of boots, sexy underwear, a different haircut. It can be the intangible: love. Feelings and emotions and someone special in our lives, the novelty still there, the phone calls and butterflies still frequent. These things put a spring in our step and a sparkle in our eye, a feeling that we are not quite who we were yesterday, or even just a few hours ago. Women are constantly in flux. We are fluid and mercurial and we never quite feel the same way about something twice. We are made of leather and lace and contrasting actions and opinions. That’s the beauty to us: we are always new, always fresh, and ever exciting.

According to ancient philosophers, it worked something like this: "You see a woman. (Or a man.) You love her (or his) beauty. What you really love is the reflection of the beauty given to her (him) from above." But what does it mean to love beautiful things like this? Is it shallow? To what extent does my love of "pretty, smart things" reflect on me? Pausanias speaks of "vulgar love" in demeaning tones. Ficino speaks of "vulgar love" very matter-of-factly; as a way of life and natural human action that is to be accepted, or even applauded (i.e-- I see; I like; I get). Renaissance philosophers thought that one could achieve sanctity by their love for beautiful (i.e-- beauty given from above) things. If this is the case, if there is a higher level of being after death, I am all up in there. Often I have been known to say that if someone wasn't so beautiful, I wouldn't let them get away with half the shit I dismiss and decide not to pick a fight about.

The Audacity of Doing Nothing:

Speaking of not picking fights...one of my really good friends here in Florence has been with her boyfriend for two years. He's an active member of the Air Force, and was deployed for eight months to Afghanistan last year. They got to spend three weeks together, and then she left for Italy for 3 months. They're planning on staying together, and he's considering joining active duty, which means that she'll be following him around the world, moving every three years. As she said, "If he goes active duty, it means I go active duty, too." Over dinner after our Women in 20th Century Fiction class the other night, I asked her how she dealt with the distance and the fear and the worry and the missing him. She slowly pushed her penne around her plate before answering. "It's really hard, it is. I don't tell him a lot of what I think or what bothers me, because if he only has one 15 minute phone call to me a week, I don't want to spend it fighting with him, you know? So I try to be as supportive as I can be."

This is something that I have been struggling with lately. As women, we are taught that the best possible thing that we can do is ride a situation or argument out. But women operate on emotions more than men do. It’s true. While I shut down, close down quickly, I do feel harder than I’m sure most do. I hope for more. I want more. Things affect me deeper than I’d like to admit to. But even in cases such as these, I fall back on the same logic that my friend does: if you have limited time, you don’t want to rock the boat. It’s better to smooth things over, look the other way, or not bring it up in the first place. She just wants her boyfriend to not multitask doing his homework when he gets time to Skype with her. But will she make that demand? No. I want to say “I don’t like it.” But I won’t. I want to say “Stop,” but I don’t. Making demands appears to be something that we just are comfortable with. Being able to see things from both sides of the equation, as women can be good at, tends to make making ultimatums harder, or, in some cases, a moot point.

Women tend to be inherently self-less. We want to do more for others, especially those we love, than we would do for ourselves. And so we find ourselves avoiding the hard subjects; not asking the questions; not demanding the answers or courtesies. I was almost ready to give this trip up. I was ready to leave it up to Fate to decide if I was staying, or if I was going. I ended up going. For myself, I know it’s the best possible outcome. Already, I am discovering aspects of myself that I never knew existed. I can be fearless, opening cab doors and talking to strangers, not sure if I’ll be able to receive the outcome I engaged in the conversation for in the first place. I can walk into a store or market or classroom, and fight it out with finesse until I get through what I want, English or not. I will walk home alone at night, and feel confident enough in myself that I am not scared totally shitless. I am traveling to expand what I know, and how sure I am that I know it. I cannot hold on to who I was, because for that, I will always remain in the same place and be emotionally stunted. I should be feeling everything.

Not for myself, I worry about the repercussions that leaving had. I reached the conclusion last night that as far as I know, I am now the Other Woman. I am not dumb. I am not blind. And while I may not want to rock the boat and ask those questions, I can reach my own conclusions. Strangely, I felt better about this then I did when the roles in my mind were reversed. Perverse.

How horrendous is it that women will not stand up for what they want when they feel as if they’re stepping on someone else’s toes, or if we’re afraid of losing what we do have? Men, certainly, do not display this same characteristic. As I have noted, there seems to be a lot of having cake and eating it, too, in the men’s camp. And what are the women doing? Making those cakes.

Fucking stop baking and enabling. There is a place and a time to do nothing. You can play cool and wait it out, but only to a certain extent.

Doing nothing can be both good and bad. At home, doing nothing is no big deal. Burlington is Burlington. I’ve been there for awhile; I’m going to continue being there for awhile. I know what it is I like to do, and for the most part, I’ve done it all. I’ve settled into the sort of ambiguously lethargic relationship with the place that you have with something that you know will always be there. I can sleep the day away, wake up and sit in front of the TV or computer for the rest of the day, smoke myself silly, go back to bed, and rinse and repeat for days before I feel like I need to actually accomplish something. Here in Florence, temporarily (hopefully!) laid up by my knees that after years of cartilage wear from thousands of hours spent riding and galloping in two-point position and jumping decided to go on strike, limiting my amount of walking per day allowed, doing nothing is like wearing a hair shirt. It itches and irks me, knowing that there is a city out there that that Robin and I have already mapped out, but not yet explored, and it is only mine for a short amount of time. And I am sleeping until after noon so that my knees will hopefully let me get around Ultrarno before giving out again.

But there is a little-known side to the Audacity of Doing Nothing. It is the Beauty of Doing Nothing. Even just doing nothing here in Florence, making their strong café and going out onto the balcony to read and smoke a cigarette or two is better than doing nothing at home. Every night, I go out there and look over the city and clear sky at night, floodlights on main attractions, ancient chapels, churches, towers, and fortresses, full moon and familiar constellations, and am hit with the same overwhelming feeling: I am here. Even just doing nothing, I am existing here. And that alone makes it special.

XOXO

Can You Hear Me Now? GOOD.

Possibly one of the things that we hate most about being a woman (other than the PMS and the bloating and how hard it is to lose weight,) is that we have this innate desire to KNOW. Know what's good. Know what you're up to. Know what restaurant in town is now "hot." Know what our friend said to our other friend. Know whom is sleeping with whom. And most of all, know why you aren't calling or texting or emailing us back.

It makes me feel like such a traitor to my usually-relaxed personality when I realize I've turned into one of those harpy bitches staring at her phone like, "Um, hello? I sent you a message. RESPOND TO IT, PLEASE." Usually, I am not like this. Usually, it is my mother who is the one being like, "Have you heard back from so-and-so? When was the last time you talked to Nora? How's Matt? Have you called your grandmother lately?" while I sit in one of the barrel chairs and make the universal "calm down" motion with my hands, and be like, "Chilllllllll, mama. All in good time. People are busy. I'm not stressing, so why are you? If they have something to say, they'll call. Why would you call if there's nothing new to talk about?"

But sometimes, despite best efforts, we all succumb to this. As I outlined briefly in a recent previous post, I know that part of my personal issue with it comes from the fact that one day, there was no getting through to someone I cared about; the calls and texts and responses stopped for absolutely no reason, leaving me hurt and confused. The other part is just general woman-worry. Really, when it comes down to it, I really don't need to know THAT MUCH. Half of the texts I send are completely useless and don't demand real responses and are of the "I am bored and looking for you to distract me" variety. Which can be hard when their recipient isn't bored and isn't looking for distraction and in fact, YOU are distracting THEM.

But, the eternal harpy in me protests, really, how much time does it take to send a quick response back?

I should be the last person to be pointing fingers. Communication isn't one of my strong points in the first place, unless it suits me, as most of my friends, family, and men could tell you. I'm notoriously horrendous at A.) first and foremost, actually picking up my phone, B.) responding to messages, and C.) responding to my own texts, and yet, I find myself flipping a shit, or, ok, not really-- more accurately, cocking the eyebrow of heavy judgement and tapping my toe waiting for a timely response. It is so one-sided. I enjoy being in the wind; what I do not enjoy is the person I'm trying to get a hold of being in the wind. It's not being high-maintence-- I am not one of those girls you have to call every day, or even every other day. When this happened to me, I was baffled. You mean, people-- they actually call just to see how your day was? Really? I liked this. What I don't like is that feeling of mandatory check-in, like a telephonic prison-break. Call me every day expecting conversation time or for absolutely no reason, and you've got yourself onto the fast-track of getting sent straight to voicemail. Yes, I am guilty of it, too.

But having free time, usually something I don't allow myself because I consider it destructive in large and unstructured doses when paired with boredom, proves itself the downfall of many smart, perfectly sane women. Multiple times this break I have considered flinging the goddamn phone into a snowbank off the deck, because then, by god, it would have a legitimate reason not to ring, that I know about. (I have always been a big fan of practicing proactive offense. And proactive defense. And being passively-aggressive. It is one of my less charming and more aggravating quirks.) My advice to you is this: STEP AWAY FROM THE PHONE, and no one gets hurt. Leave it somewhere. Don't cart it around with you; the lack of ringing will be all that more apparent. Unfortunately, in East Gomorrah, my phone is the only contact I have with the outside, civilized world. I am chained to the thing I hate the most. Freud would have a field-day.

I try to be fair, really, I do. People are busy. There are far, FAR more important things to do than respond to a text, like, save children, be on vacation, not interrupt the rest of a movie theater, be out of service or like two of my closest friends be travelling internationally, be "busy" with a S.O, buy that $12 cashmere sweater before some other bitch does, actually focus on your job, give all your attention to your driving and not cause a 12 car pile-up, and celebrate a birthday or holiday with friends and family actually present and in front of you rather than staying glued to your cell phone. As Miss Molly Ford of Smart, Pretty, and Awkward noted, "People standing in front of you are always more important than a text message on your phone."

But still, like any other woman, there are times that I worry that I look like this chick, right here...

None of us mean to, I promise. None of us mean to nag, or complain, or make you feel like any less of a good friend or sibling or cousin or guy. (In fact, we are trained from the time we are still in diapers NOT to nag, because nobody likes a nag. And it's true.) It's not you-- it's us. It's us worrying why that guy never called after we gave him our number, or after a first date, or after he said he would, when really, it's clear. It's us worrying about how you used to call every day or text us for at least a half an hour every afternoon, and now that things are comfortable and you feel like you don't have worry about us running off with a new best friend/other sibling/new guy without you, you've stopped "just checking in." Well, here's the doozy: just when you are feeling comfortable enough to not have to talk to us everyday or every other day, we have gotten used to it. We've (wrongly) grown to depend on it. No one can keep that sort of instantaneous gratification up, and we are just starting to realize stamina's limitations. We're just feeling smug about the fact that we found someone who knows the importance of good communication, and then you go and pull the rug right out from under us, wrap your line of communication up in it, throw it off the wharf, and call it a day.

It's bizarre; I know. I suck at being a caring niece and granddaughter and even daughter and calling my family ANYWHERE near regularly enough, and I'm not the person my friends would ever call in the middle of an emergency for some quick action because lord knows I may not even pick up my phone or, god forbid, send them straight to voicemail, but I expect you to respond to me promptly, and what I am good at is casually staying in touch with the people, like, once a blue moon, and still having it be ok. Maybe that's what spoils me. I can not call my best friend or close friends from high school for months or even a year, and yet, when one of us finally does, we just pick it up right where we left off. Yet, with the people that you see regularly, you can't. That level of familiarity isn't there yet. You're still wondering "Does he like me? Does she like me? Do they miss me? Or are they off cavorting around town with my new replacement?" Women, as a general rule, love making worry-monsters in our brain. We're hard-wired for it. Some of us have managed to preform partial lobotomies-- years later, I'm rid of the "I'm being cheated on RIGHT NOW!" monster day-dream, but still working on sawing off the connection of the "They are having so much fun without me" one-- but we still all have that faint, wiggling suspicion that you really might be better off without us. Which would just suck.

But-- BUT-- good luck finding the woman who will actually admit to you that she is fine not hearing from you. Really. I've been thinking about this: is there any way to broach the topic without sounding like a completely whiny, insecure-- yes, nagging-- bitch? No. No, I really think there is no proactive way to approach this, save possibly the "destroying your own phone" tactic I've been contemplating, there is not. There is no possible way to say, "Um, hey, I've sent you a few text messages; not sure if you got them, because you haven't been responding to them...know you're busy, but it'd be nice to hear from you..." without sounding like a total ninny. (By the way, that is totally my speech. You can steal it if you really think it accomplishes anything. I don't think so.)

And so, women deal with it different ways. This is the one major deciding factor between Carrie Bradshaw and myself. As any half-assed Sex and the City watcher could tell you, she actually had the balls and/or lack of caring about sounding a little pushy or questioning to pick up the phone and make that sort of call. I, on the other hand, take the chicken-shit route and figure that I'll sleep on it and tomorrow, won't care so much. It works, in theory. Dorothy Parker immortalized the tango of phone hate and women best-- "It'd be such a little thing; just RING!"-- in her short story "A Telephone Call."

Parker wonders, much more eloquently than I ever could, (and most women echo,) "Suppose a young man says he'll call a girl up, and then something happens, and he doesn't. That isn't so terrible, is it? Why, it's going on all over the world, right this minute. Oh, what do I care what's going on all over the world? Why can't that telephone ring? Couldn't you ring? Ah, please, couldn't you? You damned, ugly, shiny thing. Damn you, I'll pull your filthy roots out of the wall, I'll smash your smug black face in little bits...Oh, what does pride matter, when I can't stand it if I don't talk to him? Pride like that is such a silly, shabby little thing. The real pride, the big pride, is in having no pride. I'm not saying that just because I want to call him. I am not. That's true, I know that's true. I will be big. I will be beyond little prides."

Would it kill you to call first and not wait on them? No. But it's always better if they do. Would it kill me to actually form and enunciate the words "I miss you"? Probably. So instead, I hope it's implied. Will we actually ever tell you when we've been acting like a crazy person by the phone? No. We'd voluntarily die by our own hand or painful self-inflicted torture first, screaming "I am an independent woman!" the whole way. Could we ever make that speech asking you if you've really been too busy to text? Probably not. We probably don't even need to. Deep down, we know that there's nothing to worry about. We trust you. We know that you probably won't discard us like a used tissue for the next friend/sibling/woman. Deep down, we just masochistically like to have something to fret over. When something is naturally easy, no drama involved, self-fretting is the only outlet we have. We try and hide it. Well, most of us do. This is pretty much the equivalent of letting my freak-flag fly high and proud. I hope a get a few "amens!" from ladies to back me up, here, so it's not just me. (It is SO not just me. In fact, it is RARELY me.)

So what can you do for us so that you don't have to worry that we're going Parker ourselves and sitting and staring at the phone and stewing in our own self-disgusted juices and you are secretly getting blasphemed for honestly being just busy? It's so simple. It's almost stupidly simple. When you do get two seconds, call or text back. Honestly. Nothing makes someone feel better than a call saying, "Hey, I am really not neglecting you; I really am busy." And nothing, in a pinch, fills that gap like a quick text back to let us know you really are paying attention and care and aren't off having crazy adventures with the entire kick-line of Rocket City Girls and a guy mysteriously named "Fuzz" while we are painting our nails for the fourth time for tortuous fun and trapped in the house in a blizzard counting snowflakes. We really want to look like this girl when we're talking to you, and not the other ones.

In the spirit of reciprocation, here's what we pledge to do for you:

- Always say "thanks for getting back to me," and let you know that it, and you, are really appreciated.

- Let you know how happy we are to talk to you. if we don't say it out-right, we promise to sound it.

- Not take your communication for granted.

- And never, ever lead on to the fact that two minutes before your ringtone started, we were holding our phone up and making crabby faces and mocking it like a child. "Really? Really? You're really going to play this game with me? Ring. Ring, or I will tear your face-plate apart and make your wiring squeal for mercy while I disassemble you. Ring, dammit! RI--SHIT!...Uhh, hello? Heyyy! How are you? No, no, don't worry about it; I'm really busy, too!"

So, love us. Love us, anyway. We are women; this is what we do; and we can't help it any more than you can help the fact you grow manly body hair and still think farting and poop-jokes are hilarious. And to each his or her own.

XOXO

...And it just rang. I am not even shitting you. Twice during the writing of this, I got those coveted responses. People. Stop being so good. (No, really-- keep it up, please! I don't like feeling needlessly neurotic. And I can say it; you can't.) If I could fill an entire post up with the words "Thank You" and get away with it, I would. You deserve to be appreciated.

Welcome "Juxtaposition"!

Like any good coin or Gemini, I've got two sides. One side revels in all things relationship, material, and shiny. The other side wants to suffer for her art and can't justify putting her creative writing in the same space as the writing that she loves to do for fun and pleasure.

Sometimes, one voice is louder than the other.

Because of this, I've created a twin-blog, Juxtaposition, for my more scholastic writing. (Yes; eight months a year, I am in classes designed to make me a better writer. Might as well have something to show for that 40-grand a year tution money. Some of what's created for class is actually passable enough for me to have designs for it.) Some of you close to me and with similar literary leanings may know, because it may have come up in conversations on favorite words and letters and the like, but I picked "Juxtaposition" because it's one of my favorite words. Also, I thought it worked well with the idea of having equal sides frivolous and fun and serious and striving.

Please check it out. It (purposefully, for the meaning of the title,) looks like SATCG's sullen older sister. At the moment, it's rather bare-bones, with four posts I've carried over from here: The Kitchen Bitches articles, the poetry post, and the recent "Snapshots". I have another poem that I wrote this evening that will be going up soon, and that will be published exclusively to Juxtaposition. (From now on, I won't necessarily be advertising what's new on "Jux," so if you like what you're reading, you may want to follow that blog, as well.)

For those of you worried about what this means for SATCG, have no fear. I absolutely adore what's happening here. I just need to stretch both of my writing wings, equally. I'm not just the Sex and the College Girl-girl; I'm also someone who reads Edward Abbey like a religion and thinks running away and getting back to nature is a viable option, a la "Into The Wild." As any Gemini such as myself will tell you, we need to feed both creative outlets and facets for ultimate happiness.

...Now, if I could just convince myself it's ok to bring those Tahari heels...

As always, thanks for your support and continued readership! And visit "Jux"!

XOXO

Have Yourself A Furry Little Christmas.

By this time, you should have opened up presents, stockpiled your stash back under the tree, and sat back and looked over it all like the Overlord (or Overlady) of the Material. You should have stuffed your face with Christmas ham or turkey and potatoes, and special Christmas cookies so much that you've popped the top button of your jeans and vowed to start hitting the gym with a vengeance as soon as possible. Maybe you've imbibed enough eggnog to vomit. Maybe, like me, you started your morning off with champagne enough to put you down for not one, but TWO, afternoon naps. (Mmmm, bubbly...what a weakness.)

You should have called your friends and family to tell them that you love them. You should have been tickled pink by all the random "Merry Christmas" texts you got from acquaintances. (You should have responded to them, too. Nice is as nice does, after all, to run the risk of sounding like your, or my, elderly Southern ex-deb grandmother.) You should have seen a few important people in person, and remembered the ones you can't see (Nora, my best, the Cheech to my Chong, the Jeff to my Mutt, the Curly to my Larry, the Lucy to my Ethel-- this was such a weird Christmas without you this year. I love you; I miss you; I hope you're having the time of your life in New Zealand, but I can't wait to see you again!).

You should have napped. You should have stretched out on the couch and watched some TV and a movie or two. (The Notebook-- and yes, I couldn't watch the end.) You should have helped your family or friends or whoever you're doing Christmas with cook or clean or prepare for dinner and lent a general hand. You should have gone outside for a walk in a winter wonderland. You should have thrown a snowball and tried to catch a snowflake on your tongue without thinking of acid rain or our deteriorating atmosphere.

You should have celebrated Christmas by doing whatever makes most sense to you, in other words. But I know it can be hard. One reader asked me after a recent post what the single are supposed to do for Christmas. (Um, well, I can tell you from a perfectly candid side-- Christmas for me this year was nearly identical to Christmas for me last year, irregardless of status. Nothing special happens for those in relationships, save possibly the creation of an ulcer worrying if his/her family is going to like you if you're doing the whole "Christmas With The Other Family" thing.)

Christmas is filled with more promise than any other holiday (save maybe Valentine's Day). A single person can feel as if they belong in the Land of Misfit Toys. You are told, trained, and brainwashed from childhood to believe that you'll be unwrapping your heart's desire on the morning of December 25th. But, as another friend of mine recently pointed out, sometimes that's not possible. And I know it.

Sometimes, there is no big surprise. Disappointment can be hard to downplay, but, as I (continuously) get older, I start to realize that certain things no longer are so weighty. A small present haul doesn't mean much compared to a large one as long as you're content with what you have. In fact, Christmas lists start to become non-existent. Mine this year was simple-- new running shoes and plaid Burton luggage. Check, and check, and there was my Christmas, for the most part. There are other little things you learn to deal with with maturity. Don't let the little things bother you-- a lack of a call is not a lack of affection. Take a time-out. Realize people are busy with their own families and plans. Keep yourself busy and keep it from getting you down. I firmly believe that love and care does not have to be stated-- love can be implied, and it doesn't need to be over a phone line. In some cases, an international phone call is just not possible. In other cases, it just may not be the thing to do.

It's not always feasible for the people you want to be there for you to actually be there. You may have to make do without friends, or family, or significant others. "Single" comes in a lot of different styles around Christmas time. "Single" can look like someone who's closest friends haven't come back to the hometown for the holiday; "single" can look like the person who is apart from their S.O; "single" can look like the other blogger I read who decided for economical decisions to stay in New York, by herself, than overload the money and stress of going home to Texas and her parents. Take a look around. Find another "single" person. Two "singles" together aren't "single" anymore.

My biggest savior this Christmas has been my friend's dog that I'm holiday-sitting for. Dubs is a Rhodesian Ridgeback/Rottweiler/Labrador cross, roughly the size of a small pony, very warm at the foot of my bed at night, snores exactly like someone else does, and very dedicated. (Dubs would make a wonderful man.) He's become my (almost realistically sized) shadow. When I start to lose purpose, I turn to Dubs. There's always a walk to be had, a tennis ball to throw, or even just a paw to hold. (He holds hands. It is adorably wonderful.) It's hard to be down when big orange eyes are looking at you like, "Hey, get up. I need you, please. Here is my tennis ball. Make yourself useful."

More than anything, I usually need a use in life. Give me a project or an aim, and I am a happy and productive girl. When a dog has figured this out, I'm taking it to mean I wear it on my sleeve in flashing neon. So I'm thankful for this, this year. It gives me something to do other than mope and stress and think, re-think, and over-think.

What else am I thankful for? I'm thankful for my great, caring friends and wonderfully wacky family. I'm thankful for the very gracious texts I got from people it means a lot that included me in their yearly Christmas-texting rounds. (Hello, a few surprises this year! I must be doing something right to merit those.) I am thankful for the lessons I've learned in the past few months, and the happiness and contentedness I've found through them. I'm thankful for the people who have taken a chance on me. I'm thankful for the things I have learned to say. I'm thankful for the conversation, the arguments, the smiles, and the little things. And I'm thankful for you, dear reader, for your support and time.

Now excuse me. I have to go take the dog on a car-ride to go see some Christmas lights and smoke a cigarette since I can't do it in the house.

Merry Christmas, and, if worse comes to worse, go run rampant with some mistletoe.

XOXO

All My Single Ladies.

All my single ladies-- this is for you.


You're tired of being strong. You're tired of cooking dinners for one and cold, lonely nights spent hugging a body pillow and having to break open the pickle jar yourself and kill your own house- and apartment-invading spiders.

You feel, at times, like your train is never going to come in.

You watch your friends in relationships and want to execute a graceful mix of bawling and vomiting.

You really, really, really just need to get laid.

It is time, my friend, for you to face your fears and get back on that horse. Get out and meet people. Sitting at home on your ass in your favorite (ratty) pair of college sweatpants is not going to find you a man. Mr. Right is not just going to pop through your door one day, sent on a mission from God, asking, saying, "Oh, hey-- there you are! I've been looking for you! Are you still single?" No, little lady-- he is not. So dust yourself off, put on your party clothes, and go do something social. Outside of your apartment. Outside, even, of your apartment building. Possibly, outside of work and campus.

This is a good time to mention it's time for you to tackle another big-girl goal: going to a restaurant or movie solo. Yes. So scary. I too know that feeling of "Oh my god, she is totally judging me right now. She totally thinks I am a huge, single freak who no one loves," when you tell a maitre-de you want a table for one. But believe me, neither the maitre-de, nor the other people eating in the restaurant, nor the guy behind the ticket counter at the movie theater really care about your single status so much. It's you that cares. Only you. So time to start pretending that you don't care.

Believe me-- no one knows how you feel better than I do. I was (and still am, until Perfect decides to finally make an honest woman out of me,) the quintessential Single Girl. I did what I wanted when I wanted, drank too much, smoked too much, flirted too much, spent too much money, went out too much when I should have been home sleeping-- oh, wait-- I still do all of that. Some Single Girls can never break their solo habit. For some of us, it has become so ingrained and a part of us that without that Single Girl life, we feel lost. When I'm not in a relationship, I always manage to convince myself that I hate commitment, and would be the World's Worst Girlfriend. It's not until I'm back in a relationship that I realize that so many of my Single Girl qualities actually make me a killer girlfriend-- my independence; my sense of fun, spontaneity, and adventure; my desire for sex; my cooking skills; and my shopping skills, because it's more fun to dress your man than it even is to dress yourself.

But. And there is your big, hairy "but."

Maybe right now just isn't your time to be in relationship. Maybe, instead, you're going to have to focus on yourself, and your other, non-sexual relationships. Maybe now, while you don't have a man, is the best time for you to reconnect with your friends and family. It's almost October. It's getting chilly at night and is the perfect time to take some hot hard cider, grab your best girls, and hit a haunted mansion or corn maze and make some of your own, totally girly fun. Do the things that you can't do when you're in a relationship, and you'll find that when you're keeping busy and having a good time, you don't have the time to spend brooding alone about how you're single and want a man.

This isn't to say that when you're shrieking your head off being chased by a volunteer firefighter dressed up in a werewolf costume in a haunted corn maze, that you won't find yourself wishing that there was some guy whose hand you could be squeezing right now as he acts all manly and "protects" you, but...

That time will come, too. If you work for it. If you really do your best and make yourself the best person you can be and aren't afraid to go out there and take charge and ask for it. (Use any in-class or work group or partner assignments to practice your flirting techniques and being outgoing and aggressive. It's great time because you're forced to work with these guys you don't know that well, and a little harmless flirting never hurt anybody. Plus, getting group work done and dating is scarily similar-- you want to be just pushy enough to get something accomplished, but still be sweet enough that these people want to stay in touch and work with you again because they like you. It's like cold-calling someone. Same basic principals-- you're trying to be as nice and polite and winning and charming as possible. You don't want to get dumped or hung up on. See? Ta-da! Brilliant.)

You, lady, on your own, as a single, solitary unit, are far stronger than any other man or couple. You are a lean, mean, self-sufficient machine. So who cares if the random dude you met at the bar never called you? It doesn't mean you're unlovable. You know what, I love you. I fucking love you for how strong you are, and how optimistic, and at the same time, how fragile you can be. I love you for your hopes and your dreams and for what you deserve. I, a perfect stranger to you, maybe, love you for the fact that you're going through the same exact thing I am right now, and that means that I am not alone, and in fact, you are not alone either.

Excuse me if this isn't so Perfect themed, or happy-relationship-centric. I am a bit "egggggh" about relationships and him at the moment. No biggies-- just lots of little things adding up that are making me think. So I'm trying to steer clear of any big, forward-thinking Perfect posts at the moment. Hope you understand.

XOXO

A Hop, a Skip, a Week, and a Drive

(Authoress’ Note: This column is a little out-of-order-and-line with the next one to be posted that I’ve been working on for longer, but this one just begged to be written and posted today, so here it is. I’m such a sucker—it’s hard for me to deny anything.)

Today was one of those days that I swear to God I rose awake like I’d levitated out of my bed from 0 to 60 and was basically screaming that I needed to get out of the city, out of the rut I’m in, and out of everything I know. These four walls (actually, taking the recesses and odd angles into account, these eight walls) of mine that I sit in day after day have closed around me so hard and so fast I’m searching for the sign posted somewhere that cautions to “please, do not feed or try to pet the girl.”

My apartment is a loaded and ticking time-bomb full of both happy memories and memories not-yet-made. I can’t look at my bed without thinking of the boy who so nonchalantly walked in and plopped down on it, stretching out so that his massive body took up most of the space, or how he rolled over to make room for me as we laid side-by-side and talked for hours. Or what else we did in that bed, in those sheets, on those pillows. Those pillows, which when I bury my face in them at night, still hold a whiff of him—soap, clean laundry, country air, and musk. On my closet door hangs that damned scarf I carefully slip-knotted for future use, (what use that is, I’ll let your over-active imaginations fill in the gaps. If you know me, you’ll get there.) Opening my closet door, I’m hit by a double-whammy of sensory grief—the scent of the soap I bought because my magnolia-scented shower gel wasn’t manly enough to share were he to spend the night again, and the bags, yes, bags of lacey, pretty, sexy, extravagant things bought at Victoria’s Secret. (The money I bled to them has me on first-name and friendship basis with all the sales associates in both locations in Burlington.) Under my bed, the condoms on my stereo that taunt me, asking when I thought they were going to be used? My laptop—he said it was nice and used it, his fingers on these same keys I’m pressing on right now. Every time I look out my window, I see the bridge we stood on and talked, just the two of us. I’m starting to distrust my very decorating skills because of how he looked around said, “I like this room. It’s comfortable. I like that you did with it.”

There are more things, more memories—how he sat on the sofa, propped up against the throw pillow, how he bounced on the ball in the living room like an over-grown, hulking child—us standing side-by-side in front of the bathroom sink and vanity, both of us brushing our teeth and looking at each other in the mirror. I love my apartment, but right now, I want to break up with it. Home is supposed to be my haven; where my heart is. Right now, my heart is elsewhere, and not residing in this little borough of Burlington. Right now, Melancholy has moved in, bring her roommates Despair and Frustration with her. Some women would take all these things and get rid of them, a sort of detox of the relationship and heart and home. I am of the grin-and-bear-it type, myself. I figure if I have made my bed, slept with him in my bed, and spent afternoons with him on my bed, I can damn well lie in it and contemplate what I’ve done.

The scream of frustration, boredom, pain,—whatever—that threatens to rip out of my vocal cords has been growing larger and larger every day that I come home, turn my key in the lock, and see these things. The urge to scream because I can’t do anything else to fix, change, or alter this in any way other than by discussing it with him has become almost overwhelming. But of course, I’m sure the rest of the apartment building wouldn’t exactly like that, and you best believe I have a set of lungs on me. (Thank you, Mrs. Harlow and eight years of choral training, six years of projection teaching from theater, and smoking and exercising for lung capacity.)

Today was one of those days that I couldn’t sit still or stay in the same place for the life of me. I wrangled Alli into agreeing to go on a road trip with me to Stowe, a town I’d never been to and was a comfortable enough distance away for me to feel like I was escaping without using tons of my non-refundable gas. It was the perfect day for a drive—sunny, with rain showers that turned the valleys between mountains misty and serene. It’s true, what they say—you can take a Vermont girl to the city, but you can’t take the Vermont out of the girl. I needed the sort of country atmosphere I grew up in—I needed the familiar sight of a small town, a white church steeple, a clapboard old one-room school house. I needed sugar shacks and cows and dilapidated barns. I needed badly paved roads fallen into disrepair that made my Little-Honda-That-Could’s long-gone shocks groan as they came back down to earth after being launched into the air by the remains of frost heaves and pot holes. I needed long stretches of road that ran alongside sandy rivers without any other car in sight, but possibly, a moose hiding somewhere in the swamp. (Moose crossing signs—another thing I love about Vermont. To me, a moose crossing sign for the next 15 miles would be a great way to get kids in a car to shut up and focus—bribery mixed with a sly, “Hey, what was that?” when they start to lose interest would achieve amazing results. And who said I’m not good with children?)

And moose crossing signs I got. And covered bridges. And cow after cow after cow. And ice cream. And a very speedy and white-knuckled drive through Mr. Perfect’s hometown.

I swear to God I wasn’t planning on it. It was one of those things where after driving to Stowe the first time to scope it out, and through Stowe to the outskirts of town (not hard—Stowe is far smaller and more touristy than I expected), I looked over at Alli and said, “Hey, do you want to keep driving?” When she said yeah, I called to mind all the maps I had looked at in detailing this excursion. “If we continue on 100, we can pick up 12, which will take us into Montpelier and then back to 89 and Stowe for dinner at Emily’s Bridge.” What I failed to remember until we were well on our way there was the fact that we would be driving right though Perfect Central. ‘Please, please, please,’ I prayed more fervently than I ever had in any church in my head, ‘Be at work. Be at home. Just don’t be on the road.’ I thought I was hiding my anxiety well until Alli piped up. “Wow, even I’m a little bit worried.”

I looked over at her. “If I see a 4Runner, I’m ducking, and you’re going to take the wheel and steer. Hopefully, he’ll be too shocked that there’s apparently no driver that he won’t notice the car or who’s in it.”

“I’ve been on 4Runner patrol for the past few miles,” came Alli’s response. “And I was planning on ducking too.”

Let me tell you: I’ve been that girl in awkward situations like this before; been at the receiving end of a highly skeptical “what are you doing here?” look or speech before. This is why I generally don't go to hometowns before I'm invited by the resident. Life just likes to fuck with me this way—if I can run into someone at an inopportune time, I will. Another lovely quirk I live with. Sometimes, it’s amusing. When you’re being called a crazy bitch, not so much. Thank whoever or whatever was watching out for me today and giving me the “get out of jail free” card, be it a manager who scheduled work, or a stop along the way for a few minutes that made our paths impossible to cross, but it remains—I got out clean, and unseen. My dignity, (what little there is to begin with,) remains. I didn’t have to make any (truthful yet shaky) excuses. I didn’t have to do the awkward wave of shame and see those familiar eyebrows raised in surprise and shock.

The drive home infuriated me. It’s ridiculously, stupidly, mind-numbingly easy to get from his place to mine. In fact, Montpelier itself is probably the most wheel-and-teeth-clenching part of the entire 45 minute drive, and that’s only because I don’t my way around. For someone who does, it’s probably cake and easier to drive than Burlington. As I ruminated over this fact, I made another realization—the time and mileage it takes to get from Point A to Point Me is almost exactly the same as what I used to drive three or four times a week to and from the barn I board my Super Pony at. Granted, I am far more in love and committed to my horse than I am to this guy, but still—the point remains the same. I’m used to this kind of drive. Hell, I’m a road warrior; the kind of girl who just wants to drive and drive and drive off into the sunset. I live for the kind of quiet and reflective time this sort of drive allows for, when it’s just you, the road, and something or someone at the destination you can’t wait to see. It’s the kind of drive I’d do for fun, let alone for someone I liked. And here I am, with no reason to do this drive or now know the way because we decided to bail out before I was able to say, “hey, it’s not fair you’re always driving to me—why don’t I meet you for a movie or dinner or something?” Life is kind of funny like that—I always seem to find the way after the fact it’s needed.

After an afternoon eating hummus and cucumber sandwiches in front of a covered bridge supposedly haunted by a young girl who committed suicide after her lover stood her up on the night they were supposed to elope, I returned home to my apartment to discover that the exorcism wasn’t quite perfectly executed, and I was returning to all the same old ghosts I had left. There’s nothing quite so sad as a woman left hanging.

(It’s 2 AM and Perfect will probably be waking me up in 6 hours with a good-morning text. I need to sleep. This beast needs editing, but I also promised a post tonight, and I keep my promises. If you’re reading this before noon on the 28th, please stop by again shortly, because there will probably be edits and revisions made to this that I’d love you to see. Thank you!)

XOXO