I once considered making a zine with every tense or romantic text message I drafted on my Notes App. However, reading them made me realize how stupid I'd been in my dalliances. And even though I have no issue opening up and oversharing, publicizing said moments made me want to crawl into a hole.
For example:
"I know you're busy, and I don't want to add more stress to your week, but..."
Feel free to complete the sentence with whatever low self-esteem prompts come to mind.
February is the month of love, the four weeks I get to milk that I'm a Pisces Venus (the quirk that once had me thinking about wedding dresses on fourth dates). It is also my father's birth month–the man who ruined Aquariuses for all of you–perhaps that is actually why I was thinking about marriage on fourth dates.
Last night, I watched Bitter Moon, an erotic thriller that made me remove Peyton Reed's 2003 romantic comedy Down With Love from my four favorites on Letterboxd.
The premise? A married Hugh Grant becomes obsessed with the gorgeous, much younger French wife of a paraplegic American writer.
Perhaps the only reason it scratched an itch is my fascination with erratic performances of romantic obsession–à la Match Point, another of my favorite movies.
I find it charmingly entertaining. The seemingly-unavoidable brain rot that comes with arbitrary passion.
February is for lovers and for longing for Spring and for letting me write stuff like this.
This morning, I picked up a bag of heart-shaped lollipops that I plan on eating until the May. To make whatever sentiment that brought a smile to my face in the Walgreen's checkout line last.
XOXO!
down with love 🫶
mwah