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.
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