Hush-- Staying Silent.

I don't think there's ever a worse time for a girl to start crying than after having sex while still in bed with her lover, and yet, that's where I found myself the other day.

It wasn't him, not at all, and it wasn't me, either-- it was my past. My past is a bit colorful. As may have been previously stated, I haven't always had the best taste in or luck with men. One of my past relationships manifested this trait physically-- I was manhandled (quite literally) in a way that's left me with some residual emotional scars and idiosyncrasies, which seem to pop up at the most inconvenient times. A classic sign-- I'm loathe to actually call it "abuse," which of course means that I'm in denial about it and it was, in fact, abuse. I just hate to think of myself-- me: loud, dominating, confident, and proud-- as a victim. I don't consider myself a victim-- just someone who was too young, too naive, and too inexperienced to do something about it. And because of these facts, I've almost never admitted to it or talked about it.

I was smothered; I was uncomfortably pinned; I was choked. I was shaken. I was slapped. None of these were things I asked for-- they were things that just happened, for no rhyme, and no reason. And now, a perfectly wonderful man who treats me like a princess and would never think of purposefully hurting me has to be the one picking up my pieces after I spooked at finding myself in a situation completely non-related that my mind interpreted quite differently, and sent me spinning off into a panic attack the likes of which I haven't had in quite awhile.

Maybe it was the weight of someone on top of me, while holding me down. Maybe it was the thought I had that linked this feeling with pain. Maybe it was just because I'd been having nightmares lately, and was particularly susceptible to feeling overwhelmed. But for whatever reason, I suddenly found myself fighting furiously to get out from under and away while breathing like a winded racehorse. He touched my back to ask if I was ok. I nearly screamed at him to give me space. We both took a few minutes to calm down and process, and once I realized what had happened, and what I had done, I scooched across the bed, threw my arms around him, and started crying with my face screwed up against his chest. He was lovely about it, telling me that I didn't need to tell him the full story; that he understood, even if he didn't understand everything, because we all have our own skeletons in our closets. He let me cry, rubbed my back and kissed my head, and let me work it out of my system. And once we had both calmed down again, we had sex again, possibly the most reaffirming and reassuring act that I can think of.

Please, listen to me-- if you have been mistreated in your past, please, please find some way to let your current partner know. I know it's hard, and I know it can seem at times unnecessary or excessive or like a cry for attention, but if you care about the person you're seeing, they deserve to know about your issues and emotional well-being before you find yourself hyperventilating and sobbing onto their chest like I found myself. You can only be a victim as long as you stay silent, and as long as you let yourself be thought of as such. Instead, learn to grow through the experience for the hard lessons it teaches you-- how to be in tune with your emotions, feelings, and relationships with other people. And even if this isn't something that you've been through yourself, remember-- if I can be a victim of abuse, anyone can be a victim of abuse. The best thing you can do for someone with past issues is to be there for them and try to understand what it is that makes them panic or feel a certain way, and to work through it, together.

To all the other people with "colorful pasts" out there, please know-- you're not alone, and there is someone out there who will be patient and willing with you, because that's the way it's supposed to be; I promise.

XOXO

Long Gone

Tonight, I went to a bar with one of my exes. (Don't worry; this is not one of "those" stories that involve the equation of an emotionally vulnerable woman + man from her past/present she can tell you full measurements of, and I mean, FULL measurements + alcohol = oops.) It actually wasn't as simple as that, because it never is-- when he originally got in touch with me, he said "coffee" and "afternoon," which as the day progressed later and later, turned into "beers" and "11 PM" by the time we actually connected with each other. As is prone to happen, as soon as we made firm plans, a dinner invitation with friends rolled in, I realized I had absolutely nothing to wear in my over-flowing closest that was suitable for this occasion of "hi, this is casual, and yet don't I look great?", another guy came over while I was supposed to be getting dressed, and yet another man texted me to ask if I had any plans for the night. Yes. Yes, I'd say I did. (I swear men have uncanny Spidey-sense about when other men are moving into territory. As I followed my mid-dressing visitor into the kitchen, I had a brief, terrified moment where I thought he was actually going to sit down at our kitchen table to chat and render me hopelessly late for this most very important of dates.)

It always blows my mind how skittish women are about calling guys to firm up plans, but after the ship has sailed, I swear to god it's the easiest thing in the world, mostly, because you don't give a shit. You stop worrying about who was the last one to call or text, or if you're blowing their phone up. He texted me on Wednesday to let me know he was coming into town. He called me this afternoon to work out a time and let me pick a location-- he always lets me pick the location, and this is such a good move on his part. I texted to re-affirm that plans were still on. He texted me to let me know where he was downtown before the bar if I wanted to stop by and grab a slice of pizza pre-drinks, and I called him when I was 5 minutes away from the bar to make sure he was there. I have been told that in a perfectly functional relationship, this is the sort of discourse a couple can have. I have only been able to seemingly achieve it with a few of my exes. I never said I don't have my communication issues.

Once there, standing, pint glasses in hand, face-to-face again after 2 years, it got interesting. I was surprised to find myself no longer sexually bowled over by him, even since our last meeting. Not much had changed in his life, while a lot had in mine-- it made for uneven conversation and the feeling that the student was outgrowing the master. He's 25 now, and I was standing in front of him, drinking legally, obviously not 18 anymore; we were both a little taken aback. And then "Hot Thing" by Talib Kweli came on, and I couldn't place it-- other than the fact that it's on my iPod-- and why it seemed so familiar, and why we were both suddenly so stiff, until I realized it was one of Those Songs from a dark night and twisted bed sheets. Awwwkward. Thanks, 3 Needs.

Afterward, we strolled Church Street to talk where we could actually hear each other talking about our respective semesters in Florence over DMX growling, and when our arms brushed, there was no static charge anymore. In my mind, that was the end of The End. Ship. Officially. Sailed. Off over the horizon. I really have no clue how and why these things work. It makes me wonder if I'll wake up tomorrow morning, or the morning after that, or 2 weeks from now, or 3 months, and suddenly, have no feelings left for people I've held on so doggedly to and weathered through so much with. Probably, actually. Sad, really.

I'm not going to lie about this: Every woman secretly hopes to hear that a guy she used to be with has found that he just isn't able to live without her. This is very rarely the case. But, as we of the XX chromosome persuasion have to know everything, and figuring that all this time and all those other men in between later, I thought it was high time to actually come out with it while he walked me home and ask him why exactly he still calls me every time he comes back to Burlington and asks to meet up.

But instead of admitting his misfortune on dropping off the face of the Earth after graduation and dropping me faster than a hot potato covered in ignited kerosene, when asked why he's kept in touch with me, 3 years later, he grinned his little grin and said, "I still like seeing you. I liked seeing you tonight. And I enjoyed the friendship that we had," and kissed the side of my head. Roughly translated from his Manslation, "I liked the way you blew me."

I have no hope for huMANity. Or my love life.

XOXO

The Curious Evolution of John and Jane Doe

When we were young girls, we cared about what the other girls thought. If they liked us; if they liked our new dress; if they were talking about us. Boys had cooties, and we didn't care what the boys thought. Times passes. We keep the girls who are close and true to us, and we stop caring about what the rest think-- if they're talking about us, what they're saying, if they like our new dress. It doesn't matter anymore. Skin's thicker. Gossip holds less sway. You couldn't give a shit about what she thinks about you, but something curious has happened-- now it's about what he thinks about you. Boys don't have cooties anymore-- they have the sickness you desperately want to catch.

We care, desperately, about what they think. We want them to like us. We want them to think we're smart and funny and warm and genuine. We want them to like our friends, and our friends to like them, and their friends to like us. We want things to be smooth, but not too smooth that it gets staid or boring-- just smooth enough to be comfortable, like their old worn-in t-shirts.

We pretend, after it's done, that it doesn't matter, that we didn't care that much, that we're absolutely fine. You can all pretend, and you all can act, all you like, but when it comes down to it, this is usually a performance put on before a clever audience who knows your stage tricks, so about the only thing that you have left to perform with is your dignity and hopefully, a mutual respect for what you had together.

Even if this happens, we still don't want to believe curtains are curtains. We want to believe that we cannot be left. We want to believe that coming back is possible. We want to believe that we are special alone. But the truth is that we are all readily replaceable, like parts-- not the whole machine. True, without some parts, it won't work, won't function at its best. But others will suffice. It'll keep moving.

As Patience and I sat up till 4 AM last night and compared notes about this, we came across a curious phenomenon-- despite all this insight and all the fieldwork from dating for years, we still cannot makes heads or tails out of what the lies we were told were, and what the truths were. Is it that you care about us, or do you just want to bang other chicks? Was it the weed or beer talking, or did you really at one time think we were something special? How much said was a quick charm, and how much said was true? Were you sincere? Or are you just an extremely accomplished player? And will we ever know the truth?

When it comes down to it, it's just one huge game. Like dating chess.

XOXO

Datepocalypse Now: A History Of Disaster.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl with big blue eyes and French-braided blonde hair in a church's preschool room. There was also a little boy with a brown bowl-cut and long, long eyelashes. They were In Love. They talked about their wedding; how many kids they wanted. (Him, three boys. Her, none.) He was going to be a mechanic. She was going to be a vet, and was already resigning herself at the tender age of four to being the breadwinner of their two-to-five-person family. (She had always been a little pragmatic about life.) They played together every day, except the weekends, which always went by far slower than they should for someone who has just learned to tie their shoes, and still doesn't know how to swim or ride a bike. Monday would come again, and she would build with blocks and cuddle stuffed animals and he leaned intently over the Fisher-Price orange and yellow car's hood. It was bliss.

Until one day, when talking about their upcoming-upcoming-upcoming nuptials, the little boy uttered the words that froze the very still-warm and un-jaded blood in our little blonde practicing veterinarian's veins: "Well, I'd either marry you, or Sarah."

The cherubic child glanced across the room at the towering red-headed girl with the short and flippy hair, currently engaged in bullying another little girl for the rice table's shovel. "Ick," she said, and with that, slapped the boy right across his long-lashed face, stomped away, and vowed, "Never again! And NO MORE MECHANICS!"

I've never been great at sharing anything I particularly like, be it cardboard building blocks or a living and breathing man. It's one of my tell-tale only-child hang-ups. It was (hilariously, in hindsight,) awkward for the next 10 years of my life, as Alex, our fickle long-lashed wannabe-mechanic, and I shared the same pediatrician. Every grown woman's worst nightmare is to see an ex when they look like shit-- now imagine being aware of this sentiment at the age of 7, and hacking up a lung, stricken with bronchitis, as your spurned crush, covered in a particularly attractive and blistering rash, glares at you from across the waiting room replete with rocking horses, puzzles, and Highlights magazines. My mother would always point him out, and say, "Look, it's Alex! Why don't you go say hi? You used to play together all the time!" She just didn't get it. And I never forgot Alex, or that feeling that came over me as his statement sunk in and I looked across the room at Sarah, Carrot-Top's Miniature Preschool Bully.

---

Fast-forward 9 years later, and I was in a long-term relationship with what was by all accounts a highly unsuitable man. The problem was, I was 16, and bored, and really couldn't give more of a fuck that the only reason I was staying in the relationship was the fact that I honestly couldn't be bothered to work up the energy to dump him. That was, until New Years' Eve day, when I made the most influential discovery of my teen years until the one two years later in which I found same highly unsuitable man on a gay dating website. (THAT was the pinnacle of maniacal glee of my teen years.) Said boyfriend had been at my house the previous night, and had asked to use our home computer to check his Myspace page. (Ah, yes-- it was in THOSE days.) I had dutifully logged him in so he could Myspace away, remarking aloud that I didn't know he had a Myspace page. "Yeah; it helps keeping in touch with people I went to school with and don't see much anymore." (He was already a college graduate, if this clears up the meaning of the previous word "unsuitable.") I filed that piece of information away, and the next day, typed his name into Myspace's search bar to add him as--wait for it, because I was so excited-- not just my Myspace friend, but as my Myspace boyfriend.

Imagine how quickly that bubbly teenage naivety turned into a sickening feeling of betrayal when I found his public Myspace page, in which he chronicled the process of "soon ending all these girl problems", with helpful comments and a cheer-leading section from the woman of his affections. Who was decidedly not me. In fact, I was the problem. The problem he had been inside of the night before. Which didn't seem like too much of a problem to him at the time.

I got raging drunk at my best friend's New Year's party that night, in preparation to do What I Must the next day, because my very sophisticated 24 year old boyfriend was throwing a very grown-up New Year's Day party in his apartment with the missing slats in the Venetian doors and the posters taped to the walls. A party that his older brother was driving in from Rochester to attend. A party at which I was supposed to pretend to be 18 and going off to NYU in the fall, like I always told his friends I was. (He was the one who actually propagated this rumor in the first place. I played along because I was a theater geek in need of practice, and plus, I already liked the beer that his friends brought over.) A party at which I was supposed to be as sophisticated and sexy as possible. Because doesn't every college grad want to show off his six--...eighteen year old girlfriend?

So I woke up the next morning, shook a hangover off, got dressed up in something that showcased what was already some pretty phenomenal cleavage for someone so young, and picked one of my best friends up who was also invited/was my emotional support. We walked up the back stairs and into the apartment, party already in full-swing, and my boyfriend quickly spotted me (I think I was in something teal?) and waved me over to where he and a guy who sported the same red hair and could only be his brother were standing, holding bottles of Honey Brown. His brother and I shook hands as he said, "Hey, it's so nice to meet you." And then, turning his gaze to my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, added, "I've heard so much about you."

"So nice to meet you, too," I told him, and as soon as he relinquished my hand, turned to my unsuspecting boyfriend and dropped the A-bomb with all the aplomb of a particularly trigger-happy ARA member-- "Oh, I saw your Myspace page. I know all about her. It's so over."

I swear time briefly stopped as I spun on my heel, grabbed my smirking friend's hand, and flounced out, leaving my stunned now ex-boyfriend to explain to all of his slack-jawed and still guests exactly why his trophy girlfriend had just dumped him. I will say-- it was deliciously empowering to my 16 year old self's confidence after being steam-rolled both metaphorically as well as physically by the same man for the past 6 months. I wish every woman could have a bad relationship they didn't care so much about with a shitty revelation like that, just so that they could have that One Shining Moment of Self-Redemption. He called every day for a month straight, begging to be taken back. I haven't talked to him since that New Year's morning over 5 years ago.

---

I've spent most of the day cooling off so I don't say anything totally off-base. But this is what I do need to say: It's not my fault, and it's not my problem. If you want to blame anyone, take a good and long look in a mirror and ask yourself why. You knew full-well. So man up and live with it. I'm not thrilled, either. Did you ever think of that? Did you ever think of the situation you were putting me in, the same situation I lived in in the reverse? And that's more than a little perverse.

It's only taken me 21 years to figure this out, but in the end, it's not, in fact, about what I want; in fact, I want remarkably little from you, if you had taken the time to actually ask me instead of jumping to conclusions. It's about what I need that you can't give me. I need someone who will be there when they say they will be. I need someone who would rather eat bull's balls in public than break a promise when they make one, because "I promise" needs to mean something more than a placation. I need someone who values me without having to look elsewhere to find what I'm missing. I need someone who accepts my flaws, quirks, sneezes, moles and all as much as I accept theirs. I need someone who isn't going to think that the red-headed terror of the sandbox is as much of a catch as I am and can't decide between the two of us. And therein lies the fundamental problem-- since I came back, I've been slowly realizing that you either can't or won't give me what I need yet. A "break" would imply that we were less than already broken, and I'll be honest and say that I've been feeling like it's been shattered beyond some major dedicated repair for awhile. So thank you for finally turning me loose. I hope that you find what you want and what you need, too.

XOXO

An American Girl Shows Her Stars And Stripes And Cosmopolitan Ingestion

So this past Tuesday night I was a stunning disgrace to the American culture. Or, rather, I was a total and utter portrayal of the classic American abroad student, and so, a stunning disgrace to the Italian culture. My Tuesday nights are to what everyone else's Thursday nights are. I don't have class until 6 PM on Wednesday, so this leads to all sorts of night-time free-time. This is why I needed internet access so badly. Without, I am forced to resort to this sort of depravity.

I went with my friend Erin, her roommate Kara (Mama Kara,) and their friends to Be Bop, a fun, dive-y little basement bar with live music. Tuesday night is Beatles cover-band night, and let me tell you, they were actually good. You know what else was good? The drinks. Roughly 2 Euro cheaper than I am accustomed to paying for, on top of NO COVER CHARGE, heavy on the liquor, large on the size, and quick to be served. I seriously had a White Russian like m'boys used to make back home. After seeing an Amazonian Italian woman wearing as a shirt the same black sheer blouse from Zara I was wearing as a dress, I resorted to knocking back a Cosmopolitan and a Ruskie, after hardly eating and two glasses of wine in Pairing Food and Wine earlier that afternoon, and was toasted like 10-grain bread in the morning in about 30 minutes. This may have lead to some very loud singing along to the band. It may have even-- for shame-- led to some dancing. In places one should normally not dance. I was eyeing a table-top.

Sober Carissa apparently does not want to get laid. My interactions with the local gents (collectively either still in high school, or 30 years old, or American abroad students-- nothing in between,) went something like this: A tap on the shoulder, a hand on the back, a slap on the ass. I turn around. "Ciao," says Mr. Italia. "Ciao," I say back. "Mi chiamo Simon/Antonio/Charlie." "Mi chiamo Carissa." And I turn back around. Ohhhhhh. Shut down. End of story. Go away. I could be French for all I am so disinterested in you. Lesbians even care about you more. Really. Go take your wandering hands and wander somewhere else.

Drunk Carissa, however, appears to be the 180-degree opposite of Sober Carissa, because I found myself leaning over to Erin, pawing at her, going, "Hey! Heyheyhey! Did you see that guy at the bar?! I only saw his ear and the back of his head, but I think he's cute! I really think he's hot! I'm going to go over and-- ohhh, wait-- he turned around...no, not that cute. Definitely not that cute. Well, maybe, if you look at him from this angle..."

Erin: "What the fuck are you talking about? He is hideous."

Drunk goggles: Helping less fortunate Italian men get some since 1989. While we're here, can we please take a minute to conduct a poll? Because the question was, ahem, raised if Italian men stuff their Armani and Dolce & Gabbana jeans. Because I have been around the block a time or two, and I may have been known to date men who wear tight jeans, but NEVER in my life have I seen anything quite like what was on display at that rooster show. "Quarters-- lots and lots of quarters," was the only excuse Erin could come up with. To me, there is no excuse. Just eye-sear-age.

Towards the end of the band's set, I was really, really cravin' me a Double Cheeseburger like the good ol' times across the Atlantic, so we left Be Bop to find some tasty American victuals. Sad times-- the Golden Arches were closed, but the kebab shop right down the street was not. I took off running in un-straight lines as fast as my little gold flats would take me, smacked into the sliding glass door, and did my damnedest to open it. Nada. I looked in plaintively at the man behind the counter, who was watching me, obviously unimpressed. "Are you open?" I mouthed at him, and he nodded, miming at me to push the door to the side. You know, like how sliding doors are supposed to go. I put my hands flat on the glass and gave it a shove. Uh-uh, little drunk girl. Try again. Finally grasped the little indented handle. Gave a mighty yank. Lost my balance, and staggered in with a triumphant "YEAHHH!" As Erin said, "At least you're a cute drunk," because after those antics, it was the only thing working in my favor to get me served my kebab. That, the fact that I thought Mr. Kebab Man was totally smokin' in that dark skin/dark hair/light eyes way I am extremely partial to, and the other fact that I was still dancing along and breaking it down to their Middle Eastern rap music. ...In the middle of the kebab shop. Yeahhhhhhh.

It gets better. Oh, it gets better. Have you had enough? Are you cringing yet? Are you totally disappointed at the mockery of civilized and decent human behavior when inhabiting a strange and foreign country? Because if you aren't, I am at the memories of the night. At this point, black-out would be preferred over remembering the self-travesty. I am not proud of myself.

So, huh, funny thing-- I forgot how when you're drunk-- like, really, really drunk-- you forget things. Like the fact you gave your friend 2 Euro for a White Russian of her own earlier and so are short-changed after buying a Doner kebab at 2 AM. Which leads to things like finding yourself standing in a packed kebab shop, contemplating if anyone will see you take your kebab and run. And then just saying "fuck it," digging in and devouring said kebab in a beastly manner that not even your close friends can contain their disgust as you demolish it in under 2.2 minutes, losing a french fry down between your cleavage in the process. (The act of fishing dropped food from down there, in case you were not aware, is called "spelunking." As in, "I totally went spelunking after that fry while everyone watched. No fry left behind!")

After the Destruction of Kebab Shop on Cavour, I toddled my way home, chain-smoking and weaving, to wrestle out of my clothes and fall into bed, full make-up still on. Woke up the next morning protesting sunlight, street noise, raccoon eyes, and my continued existence with a massive hangover. Lesson learned.

So let's here it for America, Americans, and American students abroad! Land of the freely drunk, home of the blazed.

XOXO

P.S-- You can probably find me at Be Bop next Tuesday night. Repeat performance around 11. Less drinking this round, though. But probably equal parts dancing and singing.

The Heartbreak Project

I'm taking a break from packing up my apartment (sob, sob, sob,) to share this with you, because I think it's remarkably important.

This is one of the most amazing things I have seen recently.

I foresee great things happening with this project. Around the time you reach a certain age or certain number of relationships, everyone has a heartbreak story. Some people find it cathartic to share it. Some never would dream of it. Some keep it short and sweet. I'm a big fan of the six-word stories, so I'll keep my short, not so sweet, and condensed. I wrote the following for another great Facebook group started by the lovely Alli called "I Dated A Douchebag."

The Three Douchebags:
Story #1: Six months of catering. He cheated.
Alternate ending: He's married, kids now; secretly gay.

Story #2: Always, "Maybe later, baby." Never happened.

Story #3: Love. He left; disappeared. Thoroughly abandoned.

This last one is my personal heartbreak story. When I was a freshman in college, I shacked up with a senior. And then I fell in love for the first time. I can't tell you why-- he wasn't an exceptional guy in any way; in fact, I recognized this about him on a daily basis. Maybe it was just time for me. Anyway, I fell in love, and he graduated, left, moved back home, and completely washed his hands of me. There were no calls. No emails. No communication whatsoever. Witness Protection would have been proud. It was as if a friend you saw every day was suddenly not there, and you had know idea why. It was like missing my left arm. Even after he got arrested and I left a message asking if he could please let me know he was ok, I heard nothing. Nothing. This has resulted in some abandonment issues. I am terrified of being left this way again. I am terrified that any given day, the calls will stop; the communication lines, always tenuous with me in the first place, will break down; someone will have upped and moved away on me, either physically or metaphorically; that the places I once saw someone in will be empty.

After an entire summer and fall, an ocean of tears, hundreds of pages of writing, and countless hundreds of dollars spent smoking myself into an unfeeling oblivion, I woke up one morning completely free of him. Just as quickly as I fell into love, I fell out of love with him. It felt like the moon had suddenly stopped orbiting around the sun, and snapped off into deep space. In the end, I don't regret any of it: I don't regret taking that insane leap and falling in love for the first time; I don't regret what I learned about myself through the pain and the smoke and the writing; I don't regret equally ignoring him for the past year now that he's tried getting back in touch with me. From an utterly unremarkable relationship, I gained some truly remarkable knowledge. I feel; I love; I am.

And so, the (heart)beat goes on.

XOXO

Jersey Blunt: This Is Just To Say...

...That I am going to miss you a hell of a lot. I thought of you this morning in the shower, and I was going to call you today to chill over this weekend, because it had been way, way too long.

And then I found out this morning that Jersey Blunt passed away at 4 AM today.

After a night of partying, he was heading home when he had a seizure, fell, hit his head, and died in the hospital this morning from complications and trauma. Yes, the seizure was probably drug-related, but, you know what? I don't give a fuck. He was probably happy. That's all that matters.

Jersey and I met in the fall of last year, under dubious circumstances. He was a 20 year old freshmen, after having to put his college career on hold for a year for parole, and I was his advisor. He was handsome-- Italian, 6 foot, 4 inches tall with black hair and bright blue eyes, a big nose, and a wide mouth that smiled easily. He was charming; cunningly, stunningly intelligent; rib-achingly funny, and had a heart as big as his hands. Being the oldest and most experienced in the dorm house also made him the most popular. Unlike most people, Jersey never turned anyone away from chilling with him-- the awkward, the unpopular, the underdogs-- all were welcome. He was kind. He was polite. I have never, ever seen that kind of respect and caring from an alpha male, and I probably won't see it again for a long time. He had a set of manners on him that would have made his New Jersey Jewish mama proud. He ironed his khakis before going to meet with his parole officer, for chrissake.

Though he had a shady past, he was trying to turn as straight and narrow as a natural-born hustler can. I got involved; maybe a bit too much, but that's a part of my life that made me learn, made me grow, and taught me invaluable lessons. He was possibly the most protective and caring guy I have ever even loosely been with-- he protected those around him fiercely, in quietly assertive ways. He made me promise to buy only from him, so he would know what I was taking, and would know the quality, where it came from, how much, the effects, and the dangers. He was the first there to watch your back. He was the one who would call you right back when he saw a missed message, even for something not important. He was the one I called when I was tripping hard, panicked, and didn't know what to do. He took care of me. Calmly. Soothingly. Totally. When he left for the summer, I quit that lifestyle, and the few times I saw him this fall, it seemed like he was brushing it off, too.

I saw him last week, when I was running to a meeting-- met him coming down the stairs I was going up with another one of the SoHo boys. We chatted for awhile, catching up, making plans to party together again. He asked me to let him know of any jobs I heard of that could be interesting. Dealing had stopped being his main income. He was moving on.

Some things, however, would never change. His jaw looked a little funny. Did he get punched? Was it swollen? A toothache or dental procedure? I peered at it until I couldn't help but wonder any more? "Lookit me for a second," I asked, and when he got squirrely and started blushing and fidgeting, I knew I had him.

"Awww..." he started, but I persisted-- "No, no-- look at me!" He bent down so I could see him better, and we were almost in the same position as that afternoon at the beginning of us last fall when he tucked me up to his chest and under his chin on the sidewalk as people and cars passed and snowflakes drifted down.

"Are you...chewing?" I asked him.

"Naw, I'm not chewing," he said, his eyes darting around, not looking at me, a sure sign he was embarrassed and trying to get out of it. "I'm not like Graf and spitting all over the place, but yeah, I have a lip in."

"Ewww. Why?"

"I dunno. I used to chew. I got drunk last night and bought a tin. Don't want to let it go to waste."

The guy could deliver an Oscar-worthy act to professors, faculty, friends, and members of the judicial system, but he still could never,ever lie to me. Not about drugs, not about girls-- not even about homework.

He still was into personal use of drugs, however.

He explained it to me this way, as we stood on the porch one night, smoking and debating String Theory. (Yes...String Theory. He could have gone Ivy. He made me feel ridiculously slow and dim.) "It's like that-- like String Theory. Everything I do, opens up my mind a little more. It stretches limits and makes me grow."

He was happy. He knew the risks. Knowing him was to know to expect something like this. Loving him was to love all of him, bad habits and all. Since last November, I have always awaited the phone call saying he was either back in jail, or had died. It has always been a possibility with him, but that's ok-- that's how he lived his life, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Not a second was left not lived to the fullest.

He introduced me to Purple. Gave me free beer; gave me the chance to beat him funneling my first time ever; always had sick new music to share with me; was always dependable to open the front door, help out with the other boys, or offer to lend me a few (hundred) bucks when I was struggling. Taught me what "mugobs" were, and that you should be able to depend on a man to get in touch with you, and never failed to tease me in the most delightful ways. I will always regret what I wasted when I did the "professionally right" thing and didn't get with him. Let that be a lesson to me-- take those chances, and live like Jersey did. That is a 6'4" gap in my life that no one will ever fill. I will never hear that "Bonita Applebaum" ringtone again.

He was 21.

Keep it easy, killah-- I will always, ALWAYS remember you.

The biggest XOXO of them all, for the biggest dude.

Men Are From Mars, And I Love Them For It.

It was remarked to me the other day that men are my favorite topic. They really are. A dinner party, a family function, a meeting with my boss-- I will assure you, there will be some way at all of these events to somehow work in men or relationships to common conversation. It's not just MY men and MY relationships, mind you-- it's ALL men and relationships with men. This blog would not exist without men. My passion for life, writing, and the things that go along with it wouldn't be nearly as exciting without men. And sex? Fuggetaboutit.

Men fascinate me. I figure out new things about them every day, but I still don't think I'll ever truly understand them. They always remain deliciously mysterious, even when I'm sure they are, in fact, remarkably simple. Food, fun, money, and women/sex (not in that order, or, if you're gay, substitute "men" for all "women," because same standards apply): that's what motivates men. It's just the concepts of WHAT about food, fun, money and women motivates men that remains unclear, or how men go about obtaining these things, the lengths they will go to do it, WHY in fact they really need that steak/new car/raise/girl in their life is so important, and what they MEAN by that dinner request/need for speed/cash/comment about that thing that they said last night when we told the maitre-de that you were with each other.

"Did he mean WITHwith, or did he just mean "with," as in, "yeah, we're eating with each other for dinner; other than our mutual love for this establishment's lo mien we aren't connected romantically in any way, shape, or form."?!"

People (men, especially), always say to take what a man says at face, or word, value, because that's what he really means. I'm finding that that is so totally untrue. Sure, when a man says, "Hey, can you pass me the salt?" it's probably not a cover for "Hey, I've noticed you've been getting a bit thicker in the waist lately, so why don't you move that bloating NaCl away from yourself and over to me so you don't blimp up like the Goodyear?"

But if a guy says to you, "Hey, so, _____ said that you were hanging out with _____ the other day/skinnydipping naked in the town fountain/posing for Playboy-- what's up with that?" chances are he's not meaning "Hey, so, I'm cool with you and _____ shacking up/the town getting a new mascot/13 year old boys hanging you on their bedroom walls, and can I get a copy autographed?" Chances are, what he really means is, translated into Girlversion, "Jesus Christ, please tell me this isn't true so I don't have to worry about what you're doing and my chances with you! Or, at least tell me that _____ is flaming gay."

Let's try another exercise:
He says: "I had a really good time with The Girl You're Not last night."
He means: "I had a really good time with The Girl You're Not last night, and want to make sure you hear it here first, and not from my buddy, and think I'm hiding it from you."
Not: "I'm saying this to make you want me back."
Disclaimer: Some men like making girls jealous. Most don't. Most try their hardest not to make the girls they care about feel shitty, even if you do have a rocky history. So most think that by the time they've moved on, it's ok to share these things with you because you're Just Friends now.

He says: "Hey, did you get my text last night? You never said anything back!"
He means: "Oh, shit, am I in trouble? Can you please explain why I am in trouble, and what I can do to get out of it?"
Not: "I'm doubting Verizon's coverage-- can you just affirm this?"

Someone even tried saying to me the other day, "Yeah, but _____'s not like that." Bullshit, sweetheart. Does he have a dick? He's like that. If you can listen to me and my stories about Perfect and say, "yeah, but did you think that's not what he meant?" or, my personal favorite "he's a guy; he's not going to understand," then be ready to take the same thing. Yes, he may know you well, or you may know him well, and you may even think he's different than every other guy on the face of the planet, but I'm sorry-- he is not exempt, and you are not exempt. Some men things are universal, like the fact they can't see as many shades of color as women can, and think that grilling is an acceptable way to cook anything.

And this is another reason why I love men-- they are so very different from me. But at the same time, they are a lot more like us than we would ever think. They worry about getting fat, too. They worry about hair and clothing. Some of my best, most frequent and fashion-concerned customers when I worked at American Eagle were men. They were always the ones who wanted me to stay in back near the fitting rooms so that they could do a mini- fashion show and have me OK their outfits. 8 times out of 10, a guy will ask a woman or sales associate, "Does this look OK?" before a woman will.

Some of my favorite things about men are completely nonsensical. I love the way the ALL seem to wear Old Spice deodorant. Every guy I have ever dated, except for the Douche, have always worn Old Spice. The smell of Old Spice, to me, says "boyfriend." The Douche wore Axe. To me, the smell of Axe says, "you want me, but you can't have me, because me and my Axe are not going to be reliable. Whatsoever." Sometimes, I go to the deodorant aisle in the supermarket just to take the cap off of a container of Old Spice, close my eyes, and breathe it in-- comfort, closeness, lazy afternoon, good sex, and sexily sweaty men are all contained for me under that red plastic cap.

I love watching men. I love watching them work, play, smile, laugh, frown, and play video games. I love watching them eat; watching them during sex; watching them purse their lips tightly together so that they're almost invisible when they're trying to concentrate really hard. (Almost all men do that. It's hilarious.) I love the way they walk, and I love the way they talk, and I love the way their biceps flex when they pick something up. (Mmmmm...) I love how they're so very warm at night when I'm so very not. I love the way any man will stand in front of a car's open hood with his hands either on his hips or on the front of the engine wall and have a look on his face like, "Yes, I can solve this," even if he was no idea where to put his washer fluid. But I love the fact that most men, somehow, someway, CAN figure out what's wrong, just like how they all seem to have cable's TV station numbers memorized by heart. They can do so many things that I can't-- reach shelves, kill spiders without squealing, throw a football in a perfect spiral, roll out of bed looking great, remain calm in a crisis-- and this is why they compliment me so well.

I also love watching men shave, something which is at odds with the fact that I also love when men have stubble. Stubble is a tactile thing for me-- I love to run my palms over their jawline and feel the sharp little hairs rasp against the soft skin in the middle of my hand. A lot of guys look more mature and a bit "harder" with some stubble. This is why I love stubble. It is a purely sensory love for me. But shaving is an emotional draw to me. The process, the finesse, the idea of them grooming themselves like that just fascinates me. I can sit on a sink counter or on the edge of a bathtub and just unselfconsciously watch for however long it takes them. They get so studious and focused and you can even catch a glimpse, for a brief second, of that pre-teen boy who stood next to his father at the bathroom sink's counter for the first time, holding a razor for the first time and following carefully the motions mimicked for him by the giant in his life; Superman; his dad. They are so vulnerable and manly all at once, and certainly have more guts than I would ever have for holding a razor blade over their jugular almost daily.

I generally tend to think I'm a pretty clever little minx, but men can always leave me baffled. They always have me second-guessing, keeping one step ahead, and this is another reason I love them-- they challenge me. With some, it's mental-- Jersey Blunt could run circles around me sheer, brutal conniving intelligence-wise, and Perfect, for example, knows all my buttons, and how to push them in perfect unison so I am both frustrated and turned on.

So here's to you, men: here's to the things that they do that I love, and even to the things they do that I hate (hello, leaving the toilet seat and cover up, anyone?) because that's what makes them different from me, and so, so fascinating.

XOXO

"You May Have Changed Me, But I Made Me."

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the things that make us. Nothing existential—I was done with the practical knowledge of physics after CP Physics senior year of high school, and I’m a lethargic pagan with Zen tendencies and religion usually gives me a throbbing headache. More like, the little (and sometimes not so little) things that makes someone up—the little pieces/parts that are unique yet universal.

Maybe it’s the fact I’ve been home so much lately. Going back to the house I grew up and seeing the people I grew up with and sleeping in the same room I did for 18 years of my life (even if I wake up bolt upright every first night home now mid-panic attack because I don’t know where I am,) makes me think about the person I am and who I’m becoming.

There are the little universal things: most daughters use the same brand of make-up as their mothers because that’s what they started experimenting with when they hit middle school or puberty, whichever came first. (To this day, I’m a Clinique girl—foundation, blush, eyeliner, mascara, lip color and all. Thanks, Mama.) Most people still eat at the same time they grew up eating dinner—I’m stuck around 8 or 9 PM because that’s usually when my dad’s wonderful culinary ventures were finally done by. Fathers remain, as John Mayer said, the “god and the weight of their [daughters’] world.” My father is still the person I seek the most approval from—he’s the one I desperately want to like the guys that actually make it home.

(Hmmm, interesting side-note: you know how Freud and psychologists always say that women look for partners like their fathers? I tend to disregard this claim, but this last little endeavor of mine got me comparing notes. Perfect’s birthday is the day before my father’s. My dad also threw discus quite spectacularly in high school. They both like wood-working. They both hunted in their youth. They’re both painfully logical. They both have far more female than male friends. And they both like things THEIR way—their timing, their plans, their deal. They both seem to be hopelessly good at anything they turn their hand to. I believe they are what you would call a “Jack Of All Trades, Master Of All, But Bored Very Easily In Their Pursuits.”)

There are the things you’re born with: a predisposition for warm weather, cool drinks, and good music. A love of cities and men with hazel eyes. Short calves and shorter stature. The same blue eyes, blonde hairline and forehead that everyone else on your dad’s side of the family has. A tendency to talk quickly, even more so when you’re either A.) mad, or B.) in Jersey. The way you sleep on your right side at night and curl up in the fetal position. How you laugh. What words you stutter—“rural,” “tinted windows,” and “Hawaii.” A love of jewelry and cars. Luck at the racetrack and the blackjack table. Baby toes. Dry humor and an inquisitive mind.

There’s the things that are harder to explain: how you can always, always—road blocks, detours, maps lost, bad directions given—find your way home. Like a homing pigeon. I can always point you in the direction my home is. I can tell you how to get there from the east, west, north, south, and which way is bound to have bad pot holes in the road.

Home seeps into your veins. Both my parents are New Jersey transplants, but I’m a Vermont Girl through and through. My night vision is phenomenal from running through fields at night, holding a beer bottle in one hand, and the can of gasoline for the bonfire in the other, or holing up in a playground’s tunnel tube with a polar fleece blanket and bottle of vodka in the middle of winter with the Twinny. I’ve ridden in the bed of a drunken friend’s truck and gone muddin’ and field driving. I could drive a Gator or Kubota before I could handle a gold cart. I drive better on dirt roads than paved ones. I own a pair of Carhartt pants for the winter, and I slip into the Vermont vernacular of “hun’nin’” and “fer” and “yer” and drawling out long and flat vowels as easily as I picked up contra dancing and wearing plaid. (That was “hunting” and “for” and “your,” for those of you who don’t speak Backwoods.) I cleanly killed a 150 pound doe on the opening day of fall hunting season, even if it was with my car and not a rifle. One of my favorite prom memories was when they played Big & Rich’s “Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy,” and the glittery and well-coiffed and be-tuxed dance floor turned into a massive hoe-down.

And I’ll admit, there’s something appealing to me in the date described when they sing, “‘I’m a Thoroughbred,’ that’s what she said in the back of my truck bed as I was getting’ buzzed on suds out on some back country road. We were flyin’ high, fine as wine, havin’ ourselves a big and rich time, and I was goin’ just about as far as she’d let me go. But her evaluation of my cowboy reputation had me beggin’ for salvation all night long, so I took her out giggin’ frogs, introduced her to my old bird dogs, sang her every Willie Nelson song I could think of, and we made love.” (I think I actually may have done something like this—one of my high school beaus knew to cut the engine of his Wrangler a hundred yards from the end of my driveway and coast to the mailbox, where I would meet him after sneaking out around midnight with a six-pack of Bud and the knowledge that my parents were fast asleep, thinking I was on the other side of the wall in bed.)

And then there’s the things you accumulate along the way: Your education, or what you so choose to take with you from it—to this day, I can relay physics theorems with you and the major players in the American Revolution and positively OWN a five paragraph paper complete with opening paragraph with thesis, three supporting paragraphs, and a conclusion paragraph that ties them all together in air-tight and faultless detail, but get me a calculator for simple math.

The people that helped shape you: teachers, friends, authority figures. Alli, my riding trainer, is my second (much younger, much more entertaining) mother, and the person other than my father who guys should really go out of their way to impress, pulling out all the stops—handshakes, “yes ma’am,” “no, ma’am,” “pleasure to meet you,” and all. If I bring a guy to the barn, that’s when they know I’m serious about them—not when I bring them home. My parents I can survive you meeting without much of a to-do, but meeting my horse and my trainer is like meeting my child and therapist.

Past relationships you bring with you—scars, lessons, and all. Every new guy I date has to deal with the damage and triumphs of previous boyfriends. After the Inappropriately-Aged Boyfriend, I acquired the need to know, in brief terms, where, with whom and what guys were doing when not with me. (That’s what a cheater will do to you.) After Catholic Boy, virgins were nixed from the dating list. After the Douche, men who followed through were given priority. The Flaky Artist started the Tall Boy Obsession. Legs taught me what abandonment feels like. Jersey Blunt gave me a taste of what a real guy is supposed to do—call back, text you first occasionally, and like to include you in what they’re doing, even if it is helping him sell his wickedly good weed. And Perfect gave me that guy that every other boy in the future will despise: that ex that’s still around, on my phone and a few towns over, who did everything right; the Golden Boy; the one I still can’t say one bad thing about, even when pressed. I can give a shrug and a “He drove me crazy, but he put both toilet seat and cover down, what more do you need to convince you?”

I recently pulled my senior year book out again, feeling a little nostalgic at the end of another summer as I watch people getting ready to leave for their first year of college. I remember that newness, that feeling of “thank god; I’m finally outta here!” and the fears that came with it: Will I like my roommate? Will I make new friends? Will I be homesick? Will the classes are too hard? Will I get caught partying by the cops? Will the girls be cute? Will the guys be hot? Will all my stuff fit into my dorm room? Will I have to share a bathroom? Will my roommate sex-ile me? Will I be sex-iling my roommate? Will I get good grades? Will my professors like me? Will I like my professors? Will the food suck? How often will I get to visit home? Will my friends from home stay in touch? Will I like it there? Will I grow up?

I now look back on this, and I can give a firm “yes” to all of these things. And if at first it seems like “no,” give it another try.

In my senior bio, my future plans and quote were wise beyond my years. Somehow, my 18 year old self knew back then that College Carissa would need to open that page up, and see something other than the fact that it is never, EVER a good idea to include your current boyfriend or girlfriend in your bio—something I failed at, mentioning Catholic Boy and our romps in the Tech Room twice. Instead of focusing on this, I left myself two pieces of gold: “‘I’ve done the math enough to know the dangers of a second-guessing.’- Tool, and future plans: conquer the Amazon with a mongoose, and when that’s not exciting anymore, raise sheep in Ireland with a gorgeous farmer. (Or go to college, be happy, and love one man, or many.)”

It was telling already, even then. Along with the picture of me accosting a life-size Beef-eater bedecked teddy bear with a leg and am arm over it like it was a giant, furry stripper pole in London that accompanied it as my senior portrait.

I’ve always enjoyed a bit of shock value. That remains the same.

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