The stages of a break up

domestication, Love, silly goose, soulfood

1- this prob isn’t going to last, tread lightly. bookend every criticism with 2 compliments.

2- yup, getting back together, at least for makeup sex, picking out the wedding dress right now.

3- that mother fucking asshole. probs going to burn his house down. unless he apologizes at some point in the next 72 hours, I don’t want to lose all of those hours of pinteresting our future baby’s nursery.

4- ahhhh good. he really sees his mistakes and has shown satisfactory remorse. yay I won’t die alone.

5- ohhh for fucks sake. dude literally can’t even fake being nice for 3 days.

(repeat steps 1-5, 3 to 7 times until you’re worn down to cinders of your former self. you’ll know it’s time for step 6 when you look at his pictures and expletives accidentally jut out)

6- you’re dead to me. outta lives. unplugged the gaming console and took a long walk to the woods to bury the last remaining drops of hope, empathy, and love that I had for you.

7- sit shiva for 5 days.

8- do you, but for real this time.


Slow Jam

Love, soulfood

I miss you when I’m cutting an onion. Half way through when I would normally yell uncle and bring you the knife, I just stand there and lean into the fire welling in my lash line, spilling down my face.

I miss you when it’s too early to be dancing at a bar, but I’m old and can’t wait until midnight to get the party started any more. So, instead of pounding the rest of my drink and reaching out for your hand. I slowly sip a gin and tonic, reciting affirmations like dance like no one is looking, and dance like everyone is looking, and you only live once, and fuck it this is your joy, and waltz out to a barren floor and do my thing.

A stadium of narrowed eyes glance up from their phones and scanning my body. I see them, every one of them. Ninety percent disgust me. Exactly one of them is drunk enough to remove himself from his stool to ask me to dance. He’s a short hispanic man who thinks that every song is the rumba. You know, these hips grew up on hip hop and soul jams, so I’m forced to dig deep into my muscle memory. Where I pull out those months of Zumba taught by a peppy Latino named Frank and that time that we took bachata lessons and the instructor said in no uncertain way that it was a shame that such a smooth man like yourself was partnered with me. But I make do, because I feel the most like me when I’m in motion, and at least someone was willing to be my surrogate partner.

I miss you when last call comes and I get ushered out of the club in a flood of people. People asking for my number. Small hispanic man asking when I would be there again. I don’t know, I grimace and tipsily wedge my way through the crowd. Once I hit the night air I realize it’s almost two. How did that happen. And more impressively how am I not dead, that was multiple solid hours of dancing for a girl who barely does any cardio. There I am, stripped of inquiring eyes. Alone. In the dark, dead streets of a city that I’m beginning to despise.

If I’m lucky enough to make it home with out being accosted, I walk in my door lie down on my couch and slowly breath. Attempting to regulate the excruciating pain of being one person in a 1,000 square feet, that used to feel far too small. Now it feels like the Taj Mahal. The mausoleum of my shattered expectations, buried in a tomb that implanted in my left atrium. When I’m awake at night because it’s still hard to fall asleep without anyone to curl in next to I hear it. Well I hear the blood pounding around it, making a new path, doing everything that it can to keep me alive.

Alive some hours more than others. It’s just those little things that happen all day long that remind me that alone is not a home. It’s a temporary residence. I like to keep the bed made and not make too much noise when I come in. Out of respect for it’s impermanence. So that when the time comes for me to move out of the slow dread of solo that the transition will be easy. Don’t worry I’m being careful about packing back up this baggage, going to try and take as little of it as possible on the next flight.



Love, soulfood

*I was cleaning up my hard drive and found this that I never let free into the world. It’s interesting more than heart breaking 2 years later.*

You still haunt me: a book review.


I’ve been reading this book for a few weeks. I read another twice since I started. The beginning had me reading though the cracks in my finger it was that uncomfortable. Yesterday I read most of it. Because it seemed like it might have an answer for me. Like I could come to terms with whatever the life lesson was in this book. Pretend that the plot really unfolded in my own life and move on. Or at least have a direction to or not to take.

I read the last page, closed it and tried to explain to a 4 year old why it was so disappointing. We concluded it that it sucked. It did. It had no conclusion and no sequel. Long story short there were 2 passages that made it all worth reading.

But now that Mattia was there in front of her, with his eyes closed over thoughts to which she had no access, everything suddenly seemed clearer: she had looked for him because she needed to, because since the night she had left him on that landing, her life had rolled into a hole and hadn’t moved from there. Mattia was the end of that tangle that she carried within herself, twisted by the years. If there was still some chance of untying it, some way of loosening it, it was by pulling that end that she now gripped between her fingers.

With her thumb in his mouth he had looked up at her, with those disarming eyes that Alice couldn’t resist. Then he had closed the wound in his hand and kissed Alice on the mouth. She had tasted her own blood in his saliva and imagined that it had circulated throughout her husband’s body and come back to her cleaned, as though through dialysis.There had been that time and there had been an infinite number of others, which Alice no longer remembered, because the love of those we don’t love in return settles on the surface and from there quickly evaporates . 

That last was worth all of the pages.

Real love fucks you up. It’s all that I can remember. The memories, the hurt, the smiles, the happiness of everyone else fades so quick. I barely even feel it. And it doesn’t feel bad to walk, stomp or run away. There probably will never be a conclusion. I don’t know that there will ever be another. I can smell a bad imitation from a mile away. Sometimes loneliness makes me weak, makes me willing, but it’s always a lie. At least I’m learning to cut my losses early.

I need a men in black stick.