This morning, my mother reminded me that today marks my third anniversary of moving to New York.
I wish I had a more romantic explanation for why I decided to chase the Big Apple, but I wanted a creative job in advertising, and I found the need-for-a-car quirk to LA both miserable and unattractive.
Below is a blurb inspired by the first man I dated in the city. We went out for about a year without any title–bleugh. I know. Trust me, I know.
I was 22, going on 23, and weaning off Wellbutrin; he was also my neighbor. And I'd ignore his workaholism and our age gap by putting the fact that he opened every door for me and adored taking me on dates like "an early screening of 8 1/2" or "a late-night drive to the beach."
I dreamt of him last night. Not in any significant way.
He cried at my doorstep over being bullied by ten-year-old children, and I stood in front of him unamused.
I don't know what it means. I am still determining where that came from.
Anyway. There was a much, much better blurb about him. If you have it in your inbox, please, please email me. It touched on how I dyed my premature gray hairs in preparation for our first date and didn't dye them again until I decided I could no longer sustain whatever we had.
I loved him for one and a half inches of coarse, stubborn hair. Yay, Biotin.
Here's something I titled "I love often" back in 2021. I re-read it quickly and fixed a few things, but please understand I am now 25 and in a relationship. Though I still feel love deeply, I was probably trying to cheer myself up from the pain I was experiencing by writing in rose-colored ink.
I've uttered "I love you" after every kiss I've shared. Some find it unsettling; others dismiss it as naive. A friend once attributed this to my Venus in Pisces, while an old therapist suggested blaming my dysfunctional upbringing.
I've replayed moments of mutual affection and pondered the uneasy silences wrapped in uncertainty. I've opened them without regard for strategic restraint, believing there's no beauty in holding back devotion. Why conceal my feelings? Is that truly so absurd? To openly cherish those who have seen my true self, whose pillowcases bear the imprint of my right cheek?
I've loved recklessly and passionately. I've expressed love in simple stares and tears. I've loved them all, and I'll continue to love many more—some more deeply than others. Is this wrong? I neither know nor care to dwell on such mystery.
Catch you on the next revisit. I feel very funny right now.
As always, thank you for reading.
XOXO ❤️ Twitter. Instagram. Letterboxd. Tumblr.
i love this, felt like a movie narration!!!!!
Well now I need to watch 8-1/2. I'm an Aries and this accurately sums up my dating history and why I always ended up hating the men.