Reply to: pers-967459174@craigslist.org [?]Date: 2008-12-22, 5:37PM EST
I know you might not read these anymore, but Missed Connections was how we found each other in the first place. I never expected to fall for you that first evening when you walked into the bar in Back Bay, but you were captivating. The smile that you aimed at me was perfect and your eyes are more beautiful than any others I’ve seen. It’s pure luck that you posted, and even more absurd luck that I found the post the next day. Since then, every moment I’ve spent with you has been absolutely incredible. You gave me my life back, and when I’m with you, you make me happier than I ever thought I could be.
It took us a while to come to this place, but you said to me that all you wanted for Christmas… was me. And I’m yours. Fully and completely, with no expectations about the future, but I’m still more hopeful than I've been in a long time. For us. For the next week, two weeks, month, year… however long we have... I promise I won't waste a moment.
Merry Christmas. I love you.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
So About All This
That's it. I'm done.
I've spent most of my life wondering what it would be like to be single, to be dating casually and sleeping around with anyone I want. And in some exceptions, it's been incredibly fun. I've had some lovely first kisses. Some incredibly enjoyable sex. Some fantastic dates.
But on the whole, it's just been a lot of pain-in-the-ass meddling and heartahce. Certainly a helluva lot more trouble than its worth.
I guess I always took for granted that there would be good guys out there, ones that I could find. So I used a lot of men, slept around a lot, messed with people's emotions. And now I'm realizing how disappointing it all is.
People are stupid. Most men that I've met aren't as smart or as funny as me. Or else they don't know how to make me a priority. Or else they cancel a lot. Or else they're not okay with my personality. And all that's lead to is disappointment when every single man I've met has slowly, but surely, turned out to be so much less than I expected.
But that's okay.
I'm okay.
I just think I'm rapidly growing tired of it.
I've spent most of my life wondering what it would be like to be single, to be dating casually and sleeping around with anyone I want. And in some exceptions, it's been incredibly fun. I've had some lovely first kisses. Some incredibly enjoyable sex. Some fantastic dates.
But on the whole, it's just been a lot of pain-in-the-ass meddling and heartahce. Certainly a helluva lot more trouble than its worth.
I guess I always took for granted that there would be good guys out there, ones that I could find. So I used a lot of men, slept around a lot, messed with people's emotions. And now I'm realizing how disappointing it all is.
People are stupid. Most men that I've met aren't as smart or as funny as me. Or else they don't know how to make me a priority. Or else they cancel a lot. Or else they're not okay with my personality. And all that's lead to is disappointment when every single man I've met has slowly, but surely, turned out to be so much less than I expected.
But that's okay.
I'm okay.
I just think I'm rapidly growing tired of it.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
There Is Love and There Is Love
Joyce Carol Oates wrote a book called "My Sister, My Love."
And I picked up the book in the library because I saw the title and a zing! went through the synapses of my brain.
Finally, I thought, finally.
Love is not, by nature, rational, but there are degrees of rationality to it. There are elements of the sane that slip into the maddening sensations related to falling in love. But the way in which I love Meaghan runs deeper than this rationality.
It's primal. Instinctive.
There is love, and then there is fierce love.
The kind of love where you can't let her out of your sight. The kind of love where you agonize and ponder, feel the fear grip at your throat, feel the dread as palpably as a slap against your cheek. The kind of love where you know without question that if anyone was to touch her or hurt her, you would hunt them to the corners of the remote world and kill them brutally, without question. The kind of love where you want to hold her close against you, breathe in her smell until the ends of time, because you somehow believe that if you never let her go, never release her from your protective grip, you, flimsy, human you, can stop all the bad things in the world from touching her.
It goes deeper than love. It's under the skin, under the layers of vessels, sunk even under the marrow of your bones. You feel it in the core of you, this love.
My sister has given me two rings. One is alexandrite, a beautiful kiwi green. Inside, our initials are engraved in careful, slanting script. K & M. The other is a series of three rings. two of them smaller amythests, the middle, a larger pearl. They are Meaghan and I, our birthstones, linked together, like two arms wrapped around in a hug.
These are the only rings I wear. It is no mistake that they fit securely on my ring fingers. I may love men, and many of them, but my sister is my bride until the end. She is my one true love, stretching beyond the limits of relationship. We share the same blood, the same mother, the same cheekbones, the same long lashes. We were sprung from the same woman, and in the end, we will go back to the dust and mingle together through the ages of the world.
She is my sister, my love.
And I picked up the book in the library because I saw the title and a zing! went through the synapses of my brain.
Finally, I thought, finally.
Love is not, by nature, rational, but there are degrees of rationality to it. There are elements of the sane that slip into the maddening sensations related to falling in love. But the way in which I love Meaghan runs deeper than this rationality.
It's primal. Instinctive.
There is love, and then there is fierce love.
The kind of love where you can't let her out of your sight. The kind of love where you agonize and ponder, feel the fear grip at your throat, feel the dread as palpably as a slap against your cheek. The kind of love where you know without question that if anyone was to touch her or hurt her, you would hunt them to the corners of the remote world and kill them brutally, without question. The kind of love where you want to hold her close against you, breathe in her smell until the ends of time, because you somehow believe that if you never let her go, never release her from your protective grip, you, flimsy, human you, can stop all the bad things in the world from touching her.
It goes deeper than love. It's under the skin, under the layers of vessels, sunk even under the marrow of your bones. You feel it in the core of you, this love.
My sister has given me two rings. One is alexandrite, a beautiful kiwi green. Inside, our initials are engraved in careful, slanting script. K & M. The other is a series of three rings. two of them smaller amythests, the middle, a larger pearl. They are Meaghan and I, our birthstones, linked together, like two arms wrapped around in a hug.
These are the only rings I wear. It is no mistake that they fit securely on my ring fingers. I may love men, and many of them, but my sister is my bride until the end. She is my one true love, stretching beyond the limits of relationship. We share the same blood, the same mother, the same cheekbones, the same long lashes. We were sprung from the same woman, and in the end, we will go back to the dust and mingle together through the ages of the world.
She is my sister, my love.
Sneaky
So this is how it happens. As easy and simply as that.
Love has never been forward with me. It does not announce itself, ring the doorbell, show up in a fanfare of trumpets and exultation. It does not appear noisily, or busily, or colorfully. It sneaks in. It is covert, subtle, as quiet as summer air hanging heavy in the trees and as sweet and soft as breathing. It slips in like the last person to arrive at a party, easing open the door and standing in the back of the room, unobtrusive.
But then I begin to notice it in degrees: the small sigh when I'm held tightly, the way his eyes remind me of songs that I sing out loud, the almost-imperceptible hitch in his breathing when I wind my legs around his in the early hours of the morning. This is how love sneaks in, climbs in, sets up shop in a small little corner of my heart, and every hour when I'm sharing his laughter and inhaling his sweet smell, Love moves his furniture out a little further, tends his garden more closely, lights a fire in the grate. Love makes himself at home in the furthest stretches of my heart and then lets himself grow.
And one day, there it is. Not back in the corners, but fully and completely a part of me. Love has stolen the pieces of me, little ones at a time, and then it is morning and I am awake and find myself consumed.
I love him with pieces of me that didn't know how. And this is how it happens. With a flutter of his eyelashes. With the quickened pace of his pulse. With us lying in the Sunday morning sun, watching the light change through the slats of the windows, my hand pressed firmly against the skin that encompasses his own beating, breathing, bursting heart.
Love has never been forward with me. It does not announce itself, ring the doorbell, show up in a fanfare of trumpets and exultation. It does not appear noisily, or busily, or colorfully. It sneaks in. It is covert, subtle, as quiet as summer air hanging heavy in the trees and as sweet and soft as breathing. It slips in like the last person to arrive at a party, easing open the door and standing in the back of the room, unobtrusive.
But then I begin to notice it in degrees: the small sigh when I'm held tightly, the way his eyes remind me of songs that I sing out loud, the almost-imperceptible hitch in his breathing when I wind my legs around his in the early hours of the morning. This is how love sneaks in, climbs in, sets up shop in a small little corner of my heart, and every hour when I'm sharing his laughter and inhaling his sweet smell, Love moves his furniture out a little further, tends his garden more closely, lights a fire in the grate. Love makes himself at home in the furthest stretches of my heart and then lets himself grow.
And one day, there it is. Not back in the corners, but fully and completely a part of me. Love has stolen the pieces of me, little ones at a time, and then it is morning and I am awake and find myself consumed.
I love him with pieces of me that didn't know how. And this is how it happens. With a flutter of his eyelashes. With the quickened pace of his pulse. With us lying in the Sunday morning sun, watching the light change through the slats of the windows, my hand pressed firmly against the skin that encompasses his own beating, breathing, bursting heart.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Email Exchange w/ Mummy #2
Email to mother, 2:37 pm:
So… the sugar daddy has purchased tickets to Trans-Siberian Orchestra for me. Woooooot.
Email from mother, 2:43 pm:
Which sugar daddy?
Mr. No Personality ?
Mr. Sucks-air-through-his teeth?
Mr. "I don't like girls who chew with their mouths open"?
Mr. St. Lawrence - cute but quiet?
Mr. Woodpecker?
which one?
Email to mother, 2:47 pm:
Mr. No Personality / Sucks Air Through His Teeth
He took me out this past weekend and I got drunk and I think he understood that he’s boring and annoying because he asked lots of questions about me and was thoroughly interested, and of course I love talking about myself so it was actually very enjoyable.
Email to mother, 2:47 pm:
Christ, when you sum up my sex life like that, I get kind of depressed.
So… the sugar daddy has purchased tickets to Trans-Siberian Orchestra for me. Woooooot.
Email from mother, 2:43 pm:
Which sugar daddy?
Mr. No Personality ?
Mr. Sucks-air-through-his teeth?
Mr. "I don't like girls who chew with their mouths open"?
Mr. St. Lawrence - cute but quiet?
Mr. Woodpecker?
which one?
Email to mother, 2:47 pm:
Mr. No Personality / Sucks Air Through His Teeth
He took me out this past weekend and I got drunk and I think he understood that he’s boring and annoying because he asked lots of questions about me and was thoroughly interested, and of course I love talking about myself so it was actually very enjoyable.
Email to mother, 2:47 pm:
Christ, when you sum up my sex life like that, I get kind of depressed.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Ian: Part 1
Craigslist is funny like that:
Ian was the first. It was still summer, the air heavy and moist, the sidewalks humming with the heat. I had to drive home that evening to see my family... all the way back to Maine. I'd parked up in Alewife, way up on the top floor of the parking garage. It reminded me of the days past when my parents used to drive my little sister and I down to Boston for the day. We were so little then, just tots, and we'd park at my Aunt Cathy's house nearby and take the train in for the day.
I got on the train at Arlington and took the Green Line into Park Street, only this time I crossed the unfamiliar tracks, away from Ashmont and Braintree and followed two gentlemen down the steps towards Alewife. I came out on the opposite side of the platform, disillusioned. It's like when you see yourself in a mirror and realize that what you thought your hair part looked like is actually the opposite. I crossed the tracks... I remember that I looked good, casual, hipster-hot, like I had all the coolness to battle the heat. I turned around, looked back towards the steps, and locked eyes with one of the gentlemen I'd followed down the stairs.
He was gorgeous. Tall, skinny, curly reddish blonde hair. Freckles, long lashes. Great smile. He smiled at me. I smiled at him. Shiiiiiiit.
Ian was the first. It was still summer, the air heavy and moist, the sidewalks humming with the heat. I had to drive home that evening to see my family... all the way back to Maine. I'd parked up in Alewife, way up on the top floor of the parking garage. It reminded me of the days past when my parents used to drive my little sister and I down to Boston for the day. We were so little then, just tots, and we'd park at my Aunt Cathy's house nearby and take the train in for the day.
I got on the train at Arlington and took the Green Line into Park Street, only this time I crossed the unfamiliar tracks, away from Ashmont and Braintree and followed two gentlemen down the steps towards Alewife. I came out on the opposite side of the platform, disillusioned. It's like when you see yourself in a mirror and realize that what you thought your hair part looked like is actually the opposite. I crossed the tracks... I remember that I looked good, casual, hipster-hot, like I had all the coolness to battle the heat. I turned around, looked back towards the steps, and locked eyes with one of the gentlemen I'd followed down the stairs.
He was gorgeous. Tall, skinny, curly reddish blonde hair. Freckles, long lashes. Great smile. He smiled at me. I smiled at him. Shiiiiiiit.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Work-In-Progress Craigslist Post
I'm definitely not looking to be dominated / probed with kitchen utensils / bent over and spanked. No long term relationships, no middle-of-the-night booty calls, and while I could definitely use the cash, please don't offer me money to participate in your 50+ orgy.
Please be charming, intelligent, and as pretty as I am (if not more so). Dogs get bonus points. Also points are awarded to anyone with a penchant for old-school British literature and / or rabid Red Sox fans. Kindly do not have any large, protruding hairy moles, children, or venereal diseases.
I'm a total social deviant. Perpetually sarcastic, prone to un-PC conduct and removal of clothing in public venues, and inebriation. Snarky, intellectually devastating, with a winning personality and an arsenal of crap puns. I devour books with as much voracity as I would a plate of Indian take-out.
Short, slim redhead. Beaming smile, a sprinkling of freckles, perpetually perky boobs, and the soft, lovely curve of my shoulders has inspired my personal trainer to swear off men forever.
If you are anything less than my intellectual equal, I will mock you subtly to your face for my own enjoyment, then use you for whatever minimal sexual pleasure I can glean from your sub-par coital maneuvers, after which I will discard you on the roadway of life like a crumpled Taco Bell wrapper. You've been warned.
Respond with picture / favorite book / politically incorrect joke, and charm my pants off.
Please be charming, intelligent, and as pretty as I am (if not more so). Dogs get bonus points. Also points are awarded to anyone with a penchant for old-school British literature and / or rabid Red Sox fans. Kindly do not have any large, protruding hairy moles, children, or venereal diseases.
I'm a total social deviant. Perpetually sarcastic, prone to un-PC conduct and removal of clothing in public venues, and inebriation. Snarky, intellectually devastating, with a winning personality and an arsenal of crap puns. I devour books with as much voracity as I would a plate of Indian take-out.
Short, slim redhead. Beaming smile, a sprinkling of freckles, perpetually perky boobs, and the soft, lovely curve of my shoulders has inspired my personal trainer to swear off men forever.
If you are anything less than my intellectual equal, I will mock you subtly to your face for my own enjoyment, then use you for whatever minimal sexual pleasure I can glean from your sub-par coital maneuvers, after which I will discard you on the roadway of life like a crumpled Taco Bell wrapper. You've been warned.
Respond with picture / favorite book / politically incorrect joke, and charm my pants off.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Christ, Douglas.
Absolutlely phenomenal.
I think that perhaps the fungus that my podiatrist in Saratoga so painstakingly removed from the underside of my left big toenail might actually retain more personality than Doug.
The man. Is a NIGHTMARE.
So granted, I think he probably knows that. I think the kid probably has a serious complex surrounding the fact that he's a giant waste of space. As such, I can understand why he was wearing a stunning grey suit with borderline-pimp pinstripes. I can understand the flowers (white roses... ick). The door holding. The large umbrella. The Jack Johnson on the CD player. Top of the Hub, for chrissakes.
The wine flowed. We order Sonoma Cutrer. He was nervous, and jittery. Cliche. We made out on the elevator, for fucks sake. Mostly because I just desperately wanted him to shut up and he'd been talking the entire time we were driving. The bread was warm, the lighting dim. My spinach and goat cheese salad was a little slice of heaven. The crab cake was ecstasy. And the cookie plate... oh GOD.... the cookie plate.
Yet through all of this, I kept looking at his stupid grinning face and listening to his obnoxious drawling child molestor's voice and thinking He's dropping $200. You should probably sleep with him.
Granted, the boy is beautiful. His body is astounding. His lashes are long. He's got vicious, dreamy bedroom eyes. And he drops money and makes me feel like a princess. The boy fucking offered to make me breakfast this morning, to which I replied "No, I'm taking a shower. Please be gone when I get out." When I came back, he'd made my bed before leaving.
It's that he is absolutely. Batshit. Stupid. Retarded.
VAPID.
I like him ever so... until he goddam opens his mouth. Then I just want to take a bandsaw to my jugular.
I wonder if I can ask him to stop talking forever. We would get along great if he did.
I think that perhaps the fungus that my podiatrist in Saratoga so painstakingly removed from the underside of my left big toenail might actually retain more personality than Doug.
The man. Is a NIGHTMARE.
So granted, I think he probably knows that. I think the kid probably has a serious complex surrounding the fact that he's a giant waste of space. As such, I can understand why he was wearing a stunning grey suit with borderline-pimp pinstripes. I can understand the flowers (white roses... ick). The door holding. The large umbrella. The Jack Johnson on the CD player. Top of the Hub, for chrissakes.
The wine flowed. We order Sonoma Cutrer. He was nervous, and jittery. Cliche. We made out on the elevator, for fucks sake. Mostly because I just desperately wanted him to shut up and he'd been talking the entire time we were driving. The bread was warm, the lighting dim. My spinach and goat cheese salad was a little slice of heaven. The crab cake was ecstasy. And the cookie plate... oh GOD.... the cookie plate.
Yet through all of this, I kept looking at his stupid grinning face and listening to his obnoxious drawling child molestor's voice and thinking He's dropping $200. You should probably sleep with him.
Granted, the boy is beautiful. His body is astounding. His lashes are long. He's got vicious, dreamy bedroom eyes. And he drops money and makes me feel like a princess. The boy fucking offered to make me breakfast this morning, to which I replied "No, I'm taking a shower. Please be gone when I get out." When I came back, he'd made my bed before leaving.
It's that he is absolutely. Batshit. Stupid. Retarded.
VAPID.
I like him ever so... until he goddam opens his mouth. Then I just want to take a bandsaw to my jugular.
I wonder if I can ask him to stop talking forever. We would get along great if he did.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Women - Mark Leyner
Fantastic blurb by Mark Leyner in O Magazine (entitled "What I Know For Sure About Women"
1. Even little girls, in all their blithe, unharrowed innocence, have a presentiment of sorrow, hardship, and adversity...of loss. Women, throughout their lives, have an intrinsic and profound understanding of Keats' sentiments about "Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu."
2. This sage knowledge of, and ability to abide, the inherently fugitive nature of happiness somehow accounts for the extraordinary beauty of women as they age.
3. Women have an astonishing capacity to maintain their equilibrium in the face of life's mutability, its unceasing and unforeseeable vicissitudes. And this agility is always in stark and frequently comical contradistinction to men's naïvely bullish and brittle delusions that things can forever remain exactly the same.
4. Women are forgiving but implacably cognizant.
5. Women are almost never gullible but sometimes relax their vigilance out of loneliness. (And I believe most women abhor loneliness.)
6. In their most casual, offhand, sisterly moments, women are capable of discussing sex in such uninhibited detail that it would cause a horde of carousing Cossacks to cringe.
7. Women are, for all intents and purposes, indomitable. It really requires an almost unimaginable confluence of crushing, cataclysmic forces to vanquish a woman.
8. Women's instincts for self-preservation and survival can seem to men to be inscrutably unsentimental and sometimes cruel.
9. Women have a very specific kind of courage that enables them to fling themselves into the open sea—whether it's a new life for themselves, another person's life, or even what might appear to be a kind of madness.
10. Women never—no matter how old they are—completely relinquish their aristocratic assumption of seductiveness.
And here is one last thing I know—and I know this with a certitude that exceeds anything I've said before: that men's final thoughts in their waking days and in their lives are of women...ardent, wistful thoughts of wives and lovers and daughters and mothers.
1. Even little girls, in all their blithe, unharrowed innocence, have a presentiment of sorrow, hardship, and adversity...of loss. Women, throughout their lives, have an intrinsic and profound understanding of Keats' sentiments about "Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu."
2. This sage knowledge of, and ability to abide, the inherently fugitive nature of happiness somehow accounts for the extraordinary beauty of women as they age.
3. Women have an astonishing capacity to maintain their equilibrium in the face of life's mutability, its unceasing and unforeseeable vicissitudes. And this agility is always in stark and frequently comical contradistinction to men's naïvely bullish and brittle delusions that things can forever remain exactly the same.
4. Women are forgiving but implacably cognizant.
5. Women are almost never gullible but sometimes relax their vigilance out of loneliness. (And I believe most women abhor loneliness.)
6. In their most casual, offhand, sisterly moments, women are capable of discussing sex in such uninhibited detail that it would cause a horde of carousing Cossacks to cringe.
7. Women are, for all intents and purposes, indomitable. It really requires an almost unimaginable confluence of crushing, cataclysmic forces to vanquish a woman.
8. Women's instincts for self-preservation and survival can seem to men to be inscrutably unsentimental and sometimes cruel.
9. Women have a very specific kind of courage that enables them to fling themselves into the open sea—whether it's a new life for themselves, another person's life, or even what might appear to be a kind of madness.
10. Women never—no matter how old they are—completely relinquish their aristocratic assumption of seductiveness.
And here is one last thing I know—and I know this with a certitude that exceeds anything I've said before: that men's final thoughts in their waking days and in their lives are of women...ardent, wistful thoughts of wives and lovers and daughters and mothers.
Score! A Direct Hit!
Email to mother, 9:41 am:
Mummy-
I'm so sad today. Any words of comfort?
Email from mother, 10:44 am:
Kate:
For some reason the words that sprang to my mind were "... love is a battleship" but that isn't quite the tone I wanted.
How about "to have loved and lost is better than to have never loved at all".
In the end, all our relationships and loves become a part of us in some way and add to who we are. They also enhance our life journey. So, I would focus on what you got from him and learned from him and be thankful for the gifts and lessons he gave you. But, in the end, stay clear that this is not the right time for you to be in a long term relationship and therefore, although it is sad and hurts - this is probably the best thing for you.
Other than that - I recommend hot tea, chocolate, bubble baths, soft pjs, a great book and just be kind and gentle with yourself while you have your feelings. This too shall pass.
Email to mother, 10:46 am:
I think you meant to say... love is a battle... FIELD!?!??!
AHAHAHAHAHA LOVE IS A BATTLESHIP. YOU SANK MY DESTROYER.
Mummy's the greatest for making me laugh.
Mummy-
I'm so sad today. Any words of comfort?
Email from mother, 10:44 am:
Kate:
For some reason the words that sprang to my mind were "... love is a battleship" but that isn't quite the tone I wanted.
How about "to have loved and lost is better than to have never loved at all".
In the end, all our relationships and loves become a part of us in some way and add to who we are. They also enhance our life journey. So, I would focus on what you got from him and learned from him and be thankful for the gifts and lessons he gave you. But, in the end, stay clear that this is not the right time for you to be in a long term relationship and therefore, although it is sad and hurts - this is probably the best thing for you.
Other than that - I recommend hot tea, chocolate, bubble baths, soft pjs, a great book and just be kind and gentle with yourself while you have your feelings. This too shall pass.
Email to mother, 10:46 am:
I think you meant to say... love is a battle... FIELD!?!??!
AHAHAHAHAHA LOVE IS A BATTLESHIP. YOU SANK MY DESTROYER.
Mummy's the greatest for making me laugh.
A Love Letter
Sean,
We always knew it would end, and maybe that's why it was as good and honest as it was. When there's limited time, when every night could be the last one shared, you hold each other closer. You always said that I would break your heart, but didn't you ever take into account that my happiness was linked with yours? A little piece of both of us has broken off and gone away. But such is life. And we are strong, and we are intrepid, and we possess that beautifully distinctive humanistic quality, the ability to heal. I hope I find my way to you again. I hope I can give myself to you, all of myself. If I came back, I would love you better and more fiercely than you can imagine. And if we both go on to love other people, we will love them even more honorably because of what we've shared. That doesn't ever take away from us, from the lovely, sheer simplicity of the us. It was easy at first, you and I, and then it was harder than we ever anticipated. But regardless, it was still beautiful.
Sometimes love just is. That, and nothing more. It isn't enough to sustain a relationship, or to lead down the logical route to matrimony and then a slow easy transition into old age with a stockpile of memories. It doesn't answer to the quotidian characteristics of age, geography, gender. Sometimes love answers only to itself and it exists solely for itself. And when that happens, when it can't carry on and the us ends, we hold it in a little pool in the bottom of our hearts and remember the old adage that the greatest and bravest thing is to love, as deeply and fully as we can.
You brought me back to life. You kissed me and held me and talked, listened, made me laugh. You breathed vivacity into me when I was an empty shell of what I had been, and because of that I have loved you more completely in these few short weeks than I have loved in years. For that, and a million other reasons, I will always carry you with me and remember the best parts of you and I.
I hope I find my way back to you.
I love you, Sean. Always.
Kate
We always knew it would end, and maybe that's why it was as good and honest as it was. When there's limited time, when every night could be the last one shared, you hold each other closer. You always said that I would break your heart, but didn't you ever take into account that my happiness was linked with yours? A little piece of both of us has broken off and gone away. But such is life. And we are strong, and we are intrepid, and we possess that beautifully distinctive humanistic quality, the ability to heal. I hope I find my way to you again. I hope I can give myself to you, all of myself. If I came back, I would love you better and more fiercely than you can imagine. And if we both go on to love other people, we will love them even more honorably because of what we've shared. That doesn't ever take away from us, from the lovely, sheer simplicity of the us. It was easy at first, you and I, and then it was harder than we ever anticipated. But regardless, it was still beautiful.
Sometimes love just is. That, and nothing more. It isn't enough to sustain a relationship, or to lead down the logical route to matrimony and then a slow easy transition into old age with a stockpile of memories. It doesn't answer to the quotidian characteristics of age, geography, gender. Sometimes love answers only to itself and it exists solely for itself. And when that happens, when it can't carry on and the us ends, we hold it in a little pool in the bottom of our hearts and remember the old adage that the greatest and bravest thing is to love, as deeply and fully as we can.
You brought me back to life. You kissed me and held me and talked, listened, made me laugh. You breathed vivacity into me when I was an empty shell of what I had been, and because of that I have loved you more completely in these few short weeks than I have loved in years. For that, and a million other reasons, I will always carry you with me and remember the best parts of you and I.
I hope I find my way back to you.
I love you, Sean. Always.
Kate
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
And yet and yet.
And yet... I find myself spending an inordinate amount of time trolling for my next fuck session. Like, hours on craigslist.
Hmmmm...
I do think it's always a good idea for people, especially women, to be comfortable with being alone. Which means I seriously need to learn how to spend some quality time... at home... in bed... doing nothing.
Hmmmm...
I do think it's always a good idea for people, especially women, to be comfortable with being alone. Which means I seriously need to learn how to spend some quality time... at home... in bed... doing nothing.
Post-Janet
So probably the most pressing thought on my mind right now is... my cell phone. Fucker died on me last night. I mean, granted, I did leave it submerged in icy water for about twenty minutes. On ACCIDENT. And how terrible is that? Here I am, on one of the most historical days in all of the world (gObama!), and I'm still cursing my piece-of-shit Samsung for falling apart on me. The old cell phone lasted me two years without complaint. Granted, it looked like a stapler, but it was simple. Easy. Uncomplaining. A little bit stupid. Much like some of the men I've been sleeping with.
Yesterday I had my twice-monthly therapy session with Janet (Janice?). Walking into the Milk Street Harvard Vanguard, I felt the same way I always feel when I go into therapy: slightly apprehensive, pissy, and certainnly not at all excited to "talk it out". Yet somehow, I always leave feeling the kind of satisfaction I feel when I take a huge coffee dump: like I've pushed something big out into the open.
So we sat down and she appraised me in that way of her and I started talking about the sex I've been having and how I'm worried that I might be doing it for the wrong reasons. I explained to her the responses I've gotten from my sister and my mother and how they're convinced that I'm having sex to fill this gaping hole (heh heh heh) of self-loathing that's eating me up inside.
As I sat there in the too-warm room, teasing this thought out, I came to the startling realization that I don't have a hole in me that needs fixing.
Cut to: this past summer, driving my sister to a party in Portland. My sister is asking me why I don't think I deserve to be happy, why I feel so much guilt when I'm with Trevor, why I seek approval from other men to make me feel beautiful. She asks about this empty, lonely, frightened place inside me that I'm filling up with other peoples' love. She asks me why I don't think I deserve Trevor's love.
Cut to: me back in Janet's office, realizing what a bunch of shit this all is.
The hole inside me, the emptiness inside me that I felt all this past summer and year wasn't coming from a place of self-loathing and hatred. Well, it was, but it all stemmed from the fact that I knew I didn't want to be with Trevor ultimately, but I couldn't face that reality. I wasn't seeking other men's approval because I don't think I deserve love, I was doing it because I subconsciously knew I didn't want to be in a relationship! I had my family telling me how great Trevor was, my sister telling me that all she ever wanted was a relationship like mine, and the guilt I felt was because I thought I should be in the relationship, but deep down I knew I didn't want the relationship.
My sister keeps telling me how negative it is, all this sex that I'm having to "fill up the hurt". But I'm not delusional, and I'm not in self-denial. I'm not having sex because I'm lonely and afraid, I'm having it because I fucking enjoy it! I haven't wanted to have sex with my boyfriend for a year and a half, and now finally, I'm wanting it and loving it.
I think a lot of people think I'm a lot lonelier and sadder than I am. But the truth is, I feel absolutely free. The second that guilt about my relationship with Trevor was lifted from my shoulders, that gnawing gaping space in the pit of my stomach went away. I'm doing precisely what I want... and for the right reasons.
I'm done... with justifying the choices I'm making. They are the right choices... for me.
Bring on the fucking, ya'll.
Yesterday I had my twice-monthly therapy session with Janet (Janice?). Walking into the Milk Street Harvard Vanguard, I felt the same way I always feel when I go into therapy: slightly apprehensive, pissy, and certainnly not at all excited to "talk it out". Yet somehow, I always leave feeling the kind of satisfaction I feel when I take a huge coffee dump: like I've pushed something big out into the open.
So we sat down and she appraised me in that way of her and I started talking about the sex I've been having and how I'm worried that I might be doing it for the wrong reasons. I explained to her the responses I've gotten from my sister and my mother and how they're convinced that I'm having sex to fill this gaping hole (heh heh heh) of self-loathing that's eating me up inside.
As I sat there in the too-warm room, teasing this thought out, I came to the startling realization that I don't have a hole in me that needs fixing.
Cut to: this past summer, driving my sister to a party in Portland. My sister is asking me why I don't think I deserve to be happy, why I feel so much guilt when I'm with Trevor, why I seek approval from other men to make me feel beautiful. She asks about this empty, lonely, frightened place inside me that I'm filling up with other peoples' love. She asks me why I don't think I deserve Trevor's love.
Cut to: me back in Janet's office, realizing what a bunch of shit this all is.
The hole inside me, the emptiness inside me that I felt all this past summer and year wasn't coming from a place of self-loathing and hatred. Well, it was, but it all stemmed from the fact that I knew I didn't want to be with Trevor ultimately, but I couldn't face that reality. I wasn't seeking other men's approval because I don't think I deserve love, I was doing it because I subconsciously knew I didn't want to be in a relationship! I had my family telling me how great Trevor was, my sister telling me that all she ever wanted was a relationship like mine, and the guilt I felt was because I thought I should be in the relationship, but deep down I knew I didn't want the relationship.
My sister keeps telling me how negative it is, all this sex that I'm having to "fill up the hurt". But I'm not delusional, and I'm not in self-denial. I'm not having sex because I'm lonely and afraid, I'm having it because I fucking enjoy it! I haven't wanted to have sex with my boyfriend for a year and a half, and now finally, I'm wanting it and loving it.
I think a lot of people think I'm a lot lonelier and sadder than I am. But the truth is, I feel absolutely free. The second that guilt about my relationship with Trevor was lifted from my shoulders, that gnawing gaping space in the pit of my stomach went away. I'm doing precisely what I want... and for the right reasons.
I'm done... with justifying the choices I'm making. They are the right choices... for me.
Bring on the fucking, ya'll.
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