Hiatus

You said "hiatus" like there was something to tie me to the same place, the same space, the same point in time. Like you can tell a dog "stay." Like there was something worth staying for or coming back to.

I wanted to look around and see the same strange universe you live in so I would know what exactly you were thinking. I wanted to tell you, "I may love you, but I don't love you enough to atrophy." I wanted to believe that you were bipolar, as it seemed to be the only explanation for the abrupt Harvey Dent two-face turn.

Instead, as time passes, so do the reasons, the possibility of explanations, and even the desire to linger. In some places, a "hiatus" is nice-- Maui, the Virgin Islands, Fiji. For others, a break only means that things have now been broken. No traction, no ICU and no splints and bones.

XOXO

Things That People Never Tell You

If feels likes sharks slipping past in the night. The music marks you as guilty, but never has Jaws looked this appealing before.

Cat people thrive on rejection. Maybe, it's the whole feeling given off of "I'm-not-quite-attainable-and-some-of-it-is-partially-at-times-when-you-have-no-fucking-clue-where-I-am-and-find-yourself-fervently-hoping-that-I'm-not-throwing-up-in-your-shoes-to-spite-you-because-you're-not-quite-sure-if-I-really-like-you-or-if-I'm-just-using-you-because-without-your-bed-I'd-be-homeless" way that some women seem to have, too.

Dear Clinique: I am writing to you to report a fallacy in your marketing of your Lash Power Mascara Long Wearing Ultra Waterproof Formula. When my now ex-boyfriend of 2 years broke up with me for another woman with a perm, that shit ran like the Nile.

"I don't tell fairy tales much."

"Please? Just this once? Mommy always tells me fairy tales before I go to bed."

"I didn't birth you, so I don't think those rules apply to me."

"C'mon, just this once. Please?"

"Did you hear the one about the princess and the frog?"

"Yeah."

"Nothing is original these days. Fine. There was this--"

"NO! You have to start with, 'once upon a time'..."

"FINE. ONCE UPON A TIME there was this princess who had really shitty taste in men. I mean, like, forget shining armor, these dudes were lucky if they had a frickin' pair of clean boxers. There were no white horses, no roses, no jewelry, no surprise spontaneous serenading and choreographed dancing, no boom boxes under windows...nothing that every single movie or story themed at girls that you will watch or hear for the next 25 years of your life have. Because that is not real life. That is a fairy tale. And in fairy tales, Prince Charming does not give you herpes. Because as our princess found out, it's really hard to sleep with a lot of douches and not contract something that makes you itch where you just shouldn't. And while he lives happily ever after, spreading his gen-hep-2 to the rest of the female population stunned enough to have sex with him, she did not."

"...you don't ever need to tell me a fairy tale again."

"I warned you. And so you know, Valtrex can only do so much, and stay away from artists. They're like, the power-hungry magicians of the not-fairy-tale world. You'll never be able to find that pair of underwear again. Under their bed is a black hole, and a genie. And your three orgasms were his three wishes, tricking you into feeding, clothing, and blowing that sad little excuse for a Jackson Pollock."

"Goodnight! GOODNIGHT!"

"Goodnight, sweetie. Sleep tight."

XOXO

Blips On The Radar

I eat the words in galloping gulps, as fervently as a fish sucks in the water around itself. This is the stuff my life is made of, a dissembled alphabet strung back together again in random and beautiful sequence. Nouns and verbs and adjectives and never, ever truly the same.

To me, you are the greatest novel. I want to read you, to flip open your pages and expose the stories within to my hungry eyes. Voracious.

***

"It's basically like going to war to come back home, blissfully alive, and find that your baby's moved away. Moved in with someone else. Shot the cat. Sold your clothes and given your favorite armchair to your most hated enemy. That's what this feels like."

***

I miss you like Christmas mornings and hot black innertubes floating in ponds in the summer sun. I miss you like first phone calls and piggyback rides and movie nights. I miss you like high school sleepovers and all-night ragers and how Cheech misses Chong.

I miss you like midnight margaritas and 2 AM chats sitting on kitchen counters. I miss you like a partner in gleeful crime, like spontaneous dancing, like Sunday football, beer, and chicken wings and cuddling on the couch, and like a hand on my head. I miss you like 3/4th of my days, like roadtrip videos, like beach bums miss summer.

I miss you like plaid flannel shirts and cats I could actually pet. I miss you like sunny hardwood floors, full bookshelves, and warm beds. I miss you like long conversations, early morning music, and name-calling.

I miss you like my other half. I miss you like every bad day turned good; like nowhere else I'd rather be. I miss you like early, early mornings, and late, late nights, and over 6 years of my life. I miss you like a heavy head on my chest, like warm breath making wet pockets on my shirt, and like a heartbeat I know as well as my own.

I miss you like a constant song in my head, the soundtrack of my nights here.

***

Brief Conversations With Hideous People:

Roommate Conversation: “Is it normal to bleed when you blow your nose?” “No, I don’t think so. I mean, not unless your nose is raw.” “Yeah, it’s not like I’ve been doing massive amounts of coke lately.” “Yeah.” (Exit.)

An Interaction In A Crowded Marketplace (otherwise known as, All The Functional Italian I Know): “Ciao! Un etto? (Point a finger and nod.)” “Italian Italian bella Italian.” “Si! Lo prendo. Quando costa?” “Italian Italian Italian, bella. (Pushes receipt across the counter.)” “Grazie. Ciao!” “Ciao, bella!”

“But it ends in an E. Why isn’t it feminine? Don’t all feminine objects end in E’s?” “Si. But this is different.” “Why? How am I supposed to know?” “It just is. You learn from experience.” “So if that question had been on a quiz, I would have gotten it wrong?” “Si.” “That makes no sense.” “There are no rules.” Under breath: “I like the French more now.”

“Get a boyfriend and go into the countryside, and WALK,” instructs Giancarlo. I wonder if this is what he said to his had-been-an-American-student wife. Sound advice, it seems.

“Please. My dead body could feed a family of six for eight weeks.”

“Seriously, when I handled E pills, this is what they looked like. See this? Screams hand-pressed. You can tell how good or cheap or what it’s made from by the press. When the stamp starts to fade off around the edges, that’s when you know shit’s cheap. And this is supposed to be keeping me from getting pregnant? Thank god I’m not planning on having sex here, because I DON’T THINK SO.”
"Q."
“If I wouldn’t take this if it was E, do you really think I’d take it as birth control? Seriously. This looks like some meth-head distributor’s side project.”

***

I am sitting the the corner bar, watching a guy talk to his girl back home on Skype while I know full-well he's dating and sleeping with someone else here.

It is obvious he loves her-- just by the way he talks to her, his facial expressions, how upset he is that the screen image isn't perfect and the sound is sub-par. He's worried she's seeing other guys. Meanwhile, tonight, he will go out with another girl. He'll sleep with her. Tomorrow, he'll come back down to talk to Miss America again. He'll count down the days until he comes home-- he told her 70 today, he'll tell her 69 tomorrow.

I have a lot to learn about men.

***

XOXO