One thing that being divorced twice by 37 has taught me, I’m a shit girlfriend. Regardless of my husband collection being utterly dysfunctional, I like being married. I do not, however, enjoy being a girlfriend.
Being a girlfriend has all of these stupid rules like being available and knowing when someone will swing through. I have to remember when to shave my legs and straighten my hair and clean my apartment. Continue reading
“Thanks for not having sex with me.”
There’s nothing quite like a 27 year old lover scorned. We started sleeping together when he was 24. I ended it recently for someone who is 52 and speaks French. Someone who appreciates shoes, smells like tangerines and tastes like vanilla.
Certain things are worth the sacrifice.
I’m on the corner of 44th Street and 3rd Avenue at 8 in the morning, when midtown is just as hopping as the meat packing district at 4am. Every creed and color pours up and down avenues, in and out of transport hubs. There’s so many of us, it’s like no one even notices each other.
We kiss on the cheek in the amicable style we’re each trying to adjust to. This is what it means to make friends with someone you used to fuck. I’m 37 years old, I haven’t done this to date. I’m still uncertain that I’m going to start now.
There’s something beautiful to me about standing in the center of Manhattan wearing sweatpants I slept in with messy bed hair. You never know where life will take you.
The cold February prick of winter stings my cheeks as I turn to walk home. I try to be a good host and always escort guests to their destination. That’s part of why I love living in my neighborhood, there’s 24-hour transportation that can literally get you anywhere in the world. That’s how I ended up living in Australia for ten years.
I originally left New York City for love and I came back because of heartbreak. Both times I was saved, for different reasons. There was at least one solid lesson that came of it all, anyways; your heart only breaks once.
Namaste blog tribe
I’ve been fucking with this blah-g for six and a half years now.
That’s a hot minute.
When I started it, I was at the end of a nine year marriage what was one of the saddest, most neglectful relationships I’ve ever endured. Then I left Australia after about a decade, and came back to a city I had to escape from a very long time ago for reasons outside of these parts.
And she saved me, Manhattan picked me up, brushed me off and gave me a chance to use the only resource I have beyond my every day being – ink – and build a life for myself in midtown, Writing. Continue reading
welcome (the world)
he introduced me
there is no one i need
to know. and while
these women gossiped
and laughed and bantered
my lungs expanded
while my eyes closed.
they said: she’s an alcoholic.
she isn’t one
they spoke and spat
mouth running mischief.
when this happens –
me down. before i rise
i take time
to consider. to think
about the color of his e(yes)
and accent of his voice
and things he does
while he was trying to know
me. i was
never. one of whatever.
i hope he pleases her
because i am nothing
but one second
of time. that
does not exist.
The last night I saw you was the only night my dog ever pissed on my floor. She did it while you were here doing drugs in my bathroom that were delivered by my dealer in a silver BMW about twenty minutes ago.
These are things that happen in Manhattan.
I’ve known you for almost two years now and you have begged and pleaded and played on the weakness my divorce cut me with and broke both of my knees.
I’ve given you a lot. Too much. Things I will never get back. Things you will never deserve. But if you ever thought I would give you the number of my delivery service – you played yourself. Continue reading