The facts are these: many months ago, I spent the night at a man’s apartment. The circumstances were semi-platonic, tinged with an aura of romance; that is, this person had offered me the moon and I had refused, and he said, well, let me give you everything, and will you take what you can? I said, flattered by this grand gesture, I will take what I am okay with.
I was very lonely.
We talked about art.
He made me feel important.
I was used to men who made grand declarations of their affection for me. Because I saw these men as harmless, I placed myself in situations with [...]
You’re going to need some Gatorade. For the fluids, electrolytes, sugars. Or instant chicken broth, if you can get someone to make you a cup, because you’re going to be there for… Wait. Back up.
You’re 40 years old, and this is your second marriage. You’ve waited until you’re ready. Waited so many times, really. Until you got remarried. Until your husband got back from the deployment, got through graduate school. Bought your house that you will never move from, because you hate moving and refuse to do it again. There’s room in it, even if your kids (two boys from your first marriage, one girl from his) [...]
I dread getting my hair cut. Actually, I dread getting all of them cut.
The reason is three-fold. I hate small talk, I hate people touching my head, and I hate being hovered over—especially when that person is above and behind me. I'm positive that in a past life I was killed suddenly, from behind, and that it was mob-related.
Anyway, haircuts, for this reason, are traumatizing. I avoid getting them until my hair starts to feel like chainmail and starts talking to me. That’s when I know it's time.
I can't make an appointment like a normal person, so my method is this: I walk down random streets until [...]
"But that morning, I sat at the intersection in my idling car and watched that woman bouncing around, and even though I was in a bad mood, she made me smile. She had swagger. She didn’t give a shit that she looked a little unwieldy out there, jumping up and down, boobs jiggling. She didn’t care that her sign sucked. And the drivers in the cars next to me were smiling and waving at her, and some of them were men, too. They weren’t giving her a cheap, ‘Hey there, little hottie!’ wave, they were giving her an appreciative, you-made-my-morning wave. They liked the cut of her jib. And so did I." [...]