September 15, 2014

An Open Letter Regarding Taking Chances And Life Decisions:

To You:

Go for it. Just do it already. You’ve been looking for hours, assessing the situation, calculating risks— just jump. You’re not going to learn anything, otherwise, sitting there on the sidelines. So maybe you’ll wind up doing the wrong thing. Again. And? You’re going to do lots of things wrong over the span of your life, and you might as well make another on the off-chance that it actually turns out to be the right one. I have fallen off both many physical and proverbial horses over my lifetime, and I still hop on the next every chance I get. It’s dusty and dirty and terrifying and painful every time you end up back on the ground, but that’s where they say you have to build from, anyway. Maybe that’s it— maybe I love the thrill. Maybe I love the concept of, the idea, the day-dream that this will be the time I ride off into the sunset, triumphant. Maybe that makes me foolish. But I can also tell you this: No one ever got instantly rich betting on the favorite horse/way/idea/tradition the way that you do on the long-shot. You have to take those risks. Risk your time, your money, your heart, your reputation, your friends, your sanity, your comfort for that one great high stake, if you’re willing to. Play for those odds, and I guarantee you that you will become one of those interesting people who’ve lived a fascinating life that everyone wants to get to know. Take your chances where you find them. 

To Him:

You may think I’m incredibly weak for you. I’m not. I lived for months without you— mad, hurt, a little sad in the moments that I thought about you— but I still lived, and changed, and grew. I spent nights laughing with friends; with strangers in galleries and bars; with the warmth of a fire and the sound of guitar for company; with bottles of wine and hours spent blissfully over a stove. I went on dates. I traveled. I went new places. I listened to new things. I applied to new jobs. I read new things, and watched new things, and wrote A LOT of new things, and I did it all without you. I had orgasms without you, and heartbreak without you, and smiled without you. If you want to come back now like a homing pigeon returning to roost, fine— men are endlessly predictable all the same. This has been done by men before you. This may be done by men after you. I have not been existing with my life on pause, waiting for this moment with you— I have been forging my own. I will never be as trusting and docile as I was before. I can’t forget, and I find it increasingly hard to forgive, but I am willing to try, which is a gift in itself. My time is precious, and if a second chance is nothing near precious to you, I’ll shortly find out, and then, I’ll have my answer. Until then, I will proceed with caution, because I now know that you will never be the thing that makes or breaks me— just a lovely accompaniment, not the whole damn thing. You did a foolish thing when you let me go and realize that there are other ways— a dangerous thing for those wild at heart to know. I can lay in bed with you at my back, but all the while, know that there is an entire world out there, ready for me, should I choose to get up and leave. And now I don’t know if I could ever be content.

To Them:

You may think I’m stupid for doing this, but I have to believe that like everything, there is a reason, and in being eternally curious, I must figure it out— good or bad. It’s like any fork in the road; any choice— either the red pill or the blue pill might be fatal, but that’s a chance you have to take. I want to LIVE, and so, I must be willing to get bumped and scraped and pushed and pulled if I’m ever going to find out what’s behind Door Number Three— good, bad, or indifferent. How will I ever know if I never try? Take your word for it? No, thank you. What’s right for one isn’t necessarily good for another. No true story was ever as good in the re-telling as it was in the moment it happened. Let me build my own moments. Judge your own.

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My favorite thing about this photo is that she was the one who took it.


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Dog People

The other night, as I was kissing a guy on his living room floor, I felt something brush the side of my face. I’m not particularly romantic— full-on cuddling holds no real sway over me; I’d rather someone just sleep with their hand on my ass all night than being stuck to someone else’s sweaty, hairy naked body; hand-holding is decidedly NOT my end all, be all— so I was more clinically curious than anything: Is he going for the classic “brush your hair back” move? Is this supposed to make me come over all girly? No. Ignore it.

Then, it happened again, and I realized in dawning disgust that whatever it was that he was doing, his hand was really hairy. I thought I knew these hands. I had previously trusted these hands. I’m a devout eyes-closed kisser, but at this, I couldn’t go on anymore— I opened an eye and peeked. Right at the same time that something soft and wet touched my cheek.

His puppy’s face, apparently having learned from the master, inches away from mine, looking to get in on the action with some kisses of his own. Now, I have been approached with threesome queries before, but never like this. 

My hysterical laughter; his owner’s abject horror.


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