I’m snapping out of it blog tribe.
As a gypsy, minus my parents being 80 miles away – I don’t really have chunks of family somewhere. If I didn’t have a global cult of love-tribe who check in on me from time to time, it’s possible I might be classified a recluse.
Not that I’m misanthropic. Clearly not, or I wouldn’t fall in love every day, and I certainly wouldn’t live in midtown Manhattan. I love many humans, it’s just that since my divorce – I’m usually alone (minus the babies).
Anyways, last night I saw a favorite person who greeted me with, “How’s your boyfriend?”
Alas, it was one of the first times I didn’t cry as I retold the story. Different fam brings out different qualities. My boy last night reminded me, “Yo. Fuck. Him.”
I hate that. I hate that feeling of complete disconnect. Because once I break off from something, that’s that. I’ve never once gone back on any relationship in my life that concluded. I can’t imagine many worse ideas.
We drank Fosters and ate frozen chimichangas while I filled him in on the horror of many weeks while he shook his head in disbelief with the intermittent, “Really? And I was like, “Si…”
He read some of my work, we laughed. I told him about my new Italian friend who is helping me with my language skills (meglio ogni giorno). I think we are having dinner this weekend…
Some of my boys reckon that part of the break may have been because, “You’re too real,” and “He just didn’t know how to act, yo…” But they always come back to two words, “Fuck him.”
My job is out of control, my daily workload will be roughly quadrupled for the next four weeks. I have been burying myself in words every day and keeping my head filled with Italy.
Only not the ugly kind anymore. Thank God. That took a minute.