I am making macaroni and cheese and drinking red wine and trying not to cry. The macaroni and cheese is more likely to be a successful venture. I wish I were watching a 70s crime movie with the Legend. I wish I were sharing my fattening carbs with him. I wish he loved me enough to be here. I wish I wish I wish I wish. Most of all I wish I still had the faith to believe my wishes came true. I cried all last night—cold sad loveless endless November Venus Retrograde nights have that effect on a girl—and when I woke I still couldn’t stop. From Boston Rachel said: All you have to do in the next hour is wash your face and get a coffee. The fresh air and sun on your face will make you feel better—not a lot, but a little. As always, my dear friend was right. I wish that hadn’t been the highlight of this sadsack of a day.
Archive | Sabboytical
The Church of Sunday Night in November
your departure seems like it has to be final this time and i can’t stop crying. i feel like the ground has opened up below me, that everything is going to stay dark and cold, and what is the point of such love and warmth—the feeling i had hoped for (prayed for) for such a long time–only to have it go away again. the loneliness is a lot worse now, worse than it was before, because i thought we were each other’s reward for all our sadness, all the struggle before we found each other. you’re the last person i should be saying it to, but it’s your embrace i want (all that would make me feel better) and i’m an inconsolable small person right now. an inconsolable small person with a new manicure because I thought I would make love to you with these new short purple nails. i press send here but it’s always to you that the lost love is heedlessly, helplessly traveling. the pain, jesus, the pain is terrible. will this venus retrograde never end.
While You Were Snooping
Once when I had been dating a man for a few months and it was going really, really well– flowers at my door and long kisses at subway entrances and those unmistakable rosy cheeks–he read my journal when I wasn’t home.
I actually understood the impulse. When I’d been younger, I’d been the type to ransack everyone’s drawers. I never took anything; I just liked to know the whole playing field. Being intuitive meant I could fill in most gaps myself, but I preferred access to all information. Then one day I read a letter to a boyfriend’s roommate. It was from a guy with whom I’d enjoyed a heavy, unconsummated flirtation during college. He was a Marlboro Man sort from Montana with long legs and a craggy uneven smile that was just rare enough that you felt it in your toes when he beamed it at you. This was back in the early 90s, when people still hand-lettered long missives to each other. (I still do; it’s so private and sexy.) This cowboy had written to my boyfriend’s roommate about a woman he had just begun dating. She’s tall, she’s blonde, she’s funny, he’d written. She’s just like Lisa Rosman except she’s not a crazy bitch. Continue Reading →