a season of thanks

this year, i want to thank you for loving me at my very worst. thank you for all the home-cooked meals and fresh-baked goods. thank you for making the effort to keep in touch, even when we're miles apart. thank you for choosing to have me in your life, for the long nights, filling my life with laughter, for making my fights yours, being there for the tears, without judgment. i'm thankful that ya'll are in good health, and for allowing me to offer strength, when you've needed it most. thank you for always providing me with a travel buddy, when this city becomes too much. thank you for being my family, the siblings i never had, and for taking the time to read the words i'm always writing, my letters to you.

and i'm so thankful that for another year, i had you all in my life. and i pray, i will see another full year with all of you.

this year, i'm working on accepting those things for which i cannot change, working on accepting the choices of others, and learning that i can't fight to keep myself in your life, that i shouldn't have to fight for that. but know this, if you ever decide you need me, i guess i'll always be here.

"Why do you still read my blog?"

I knew I wasn't going to receive an answer. Not a tangible one anyway. Somewhere over the course of the past year, you'd decided we were no longer going to even politely acknowledge each other. But there you were, every other week, showing up in my Google Analytics statistics. You were the only one I could track on that thing.

"I think he still reads my blog. I don't understand why. He won't even acknowledge my presence."

"How do you know?"

"I track it. But maybe it's not him. Maybe someone else who works at the NRA really likes it."


I probably shouldn't have asked you about it. You've stopped coming by. Perhaps that's for the best. Is it weird though. That a part of me was comforted by the fact that, maybe, you still cared. Even though you refused to let anyone know that.

But. Here we are. Of my own doing.

"She's not even cute. I don't understand," she'd said, showing me a blurry photograph off Instagram.
"It's not about looks," I had said. There was nothing I could say that would make anything better.

I always used to say, it made me feel better when the last guy I was with moved on with someone who wasn't very fortunate looking. I could say, well at least I have that. And hopefully her personality would be terrible as well. That would be even better. But really, none of it matters, none of it really makes you feel any better because at the end of the day, they're with someone else.

I don't know what it's about. I don't know why we move on in the ways that we do, or why we "upgrade" or "downgrade" for lack of better phrases. All I know is, everything kind of works out the way it's supposed to, the way it has to. And some of the outcomes will be unpleasant, and we're not going to like it. Sometimes our greatest fears are realized.

But I don't know. Whatever happens after you were with someone, none of that discounts what you had while you were together. It's just, this is how it is now.

You make a series of decisions, and sometimes, this is where the story goes.

But your story's not over. It's just a hard bump in the road, you just have to get through. Work on yourself, don't mind others, and things will get better. I know this much.

When the rain falls

And the night falls down
Yea, you've got me here
In this humdrum town

At almost twenty-nine, I finally grew out of casual sex, learned how to light a lighter, and wear eyeliner. I learned that bro-code pretty much doesn't exist, that it's kind of necessary to note you're in a relationship on Facebook, that having trouble saying no only makes situations harder, and that online dating is a waste of time. I learned to appreciate the humor in awkward moments when guy friends think you're down for hooking-up, and, in getting fired from your job boxing pizzas. It was the year when I started gauging everything against forever. It was the year when I let you go. I had waited my entire life for someone to love me in that way, to that degree, and when you came around, I learned the hardest lesson, sometimes love just isn't enough. I faced it with a certain disbelief. Sometimes true stories are the hardest to comprehend because they can shake the reality you always felt you knew.

At almost twenty-nine, I stopped feeling like a failure. That's how it had felt, gauging accomplishments against time, against that of others, against these ideas I had had on what life was supposed to be like at certain intervals.

At almost twenty-nine, you came around again, in a way I hadn't seen since we were far younger. And I played with the idea of you, in that way. Maybe a decade was all we needed. But in reality, the thought of being with you, makes me feel like that 16 year old girl who first fell for you, and I'm not her anymore.

And for the first time in maybe ever, I don't mind getting older.

The former years. 

It was the summer of endless nights, east coast road trips, rest stops, drive thrus, west coast love, the hot desert sun, fleeting crushes, blurry nights, drinking from the bottle, revisiting the past, and letting go.

Summer 2013. You were good to me. In all the ways.

You Can Say Anything

If I could say anything....I would tell you that I love you, even when it didn't show.

You know how I save everything? I should really, at least, get rid of the old photos and things you've said, that I saved on my phone long ago. Nowadays, there are days that go by where I'm not reminded of you. The other day though, my phone kept telling me iCloud was running out of storage, so I had to go back and delete insignificant things from my photo album. So, of course, I had a mini trip down memory lane, reminded of things you used to say, fights we used to have, how much you did love me in those moments, and how you used to make me feel, when things were good. It's so rare, you know, to find someone who will love you.

We were on the phone last night, updating each other about our lives. How we got here, at 28 years old, professionally and romantically far from where we thought we'd be at this age. "At 12, I thought, I'd lose my virginity at 18, get married at 23 or 24, and have kids at 27, when I would be professionally established." Well, that didn't quite pan out. She was talking to a new guy, he was 25, "he's so green, untainted, wide-eyed, brings vodka in deer park water bottles to house parties. He doesn't know there are cobwebs in my head, and I will never tell him." These days, we're wondering why we couldn't just have stayed with the one that loved us. What am I waiting for? Up until a few years ago, hanging out with a cute guy would've brightened up our entire day. Nowadays, cute doesn't even do much. "I don't even want to bother hooking up with him. I'd rather go home, wash my face, and go to bed." - "It's such an ordeal. The me of 3 years ago would've had a problem turning a guy down, now, even the cutest ones, I don't want to bother with." 

I wondered today, when a whole day will pass and you wouldn't have crossed my mind. I wondered when that day would come.

These days I just try not to think about you, what you're doing, who you're with.

And I think, maybe I'll go on one of these dates with these guys I can't even bring myself to be interested in.

I don't know what it's all about.

A year from now, everything will be different.

Waiting for one day.

How long does it take to move on?

A: "I still cry every time I think of -. But I know it'll eventually stop."
T: "Eventually?"
Q: "There's no timeline of when you'll get over it. It's usually either when it hurts too much or when u find someone new."
C: "All of the above and yea you might never really get over him."
A: "Yeah unfortunately. You can have many loves."

Q: "Don't ask me. I never get over anyone."


Two and a half years. I wish I had the heart to delete two and a half years of text messages from my phone. Then I could delete your number and it would stick. Then maybe, I could take that way out. Cold turkey. But out of sight, out of mind was never my style. I was the girl who defriended him and then stalked his new girlfriend's Facebook and sobbed over their photographs as a happy looking couple. I was the girl who read everything and looked into everything until it didn't hurt anymore. As much exposure to the wound as I could take, until I couldn't anymore, until I didn't feel anything anymore. That was the way I'd always gone because at least I wouldn't be blind sided one day. I would already know that he had moved on, and I would simply be coping with it.

Out of sight, out of mind meant that, you could be blind sided at any given moment. There would be no easing in to the idea of him and someone new. One day, it would just be there. As a fact. But at least, in the meanwhile, you would've been able to forget about him, to live your life without feeling crazy because you happened to know who he was with or what he was doing at any given moment. But then, there's the danger of never really dealing with the end, the danger of suppressing emotions, that could one day, one random day just take hold, and then you're wondering why, months down the line, you're having a break down because all of a sudden something has reminded you of the life you used to have with him.

I don't know what's better or healthier.



J: "I broke up with him. It took me a year to get over it."

Why are you sad? You broke up with him.


I don't know if it's a girl thing or a human thing. Every guy has asked me that though. Why in the world are you sad? Is it true? When guys are over it, they're just over it? But it hasn't been that way, it hasn't been all roses and over it.  Perhaps I've been going through the five stages of grieving without really realizing it. Denial and isolation. Back then, it had felt like a weight had been lifted off of me. I had asked myself a simple question, can you live the rest of your life feeling this way? To be with someone, to have someone that was yours, but yet, feel sad more than you felt happy? And I couldn't, so I left. But I had been deluded enough to think that I would be able to get over it without too much time. Maybe that was the denial part. Anger and bargaining. In the aftermath, there was the period where I would get so angry and feel so much resentment because he never understood. Even when it was over, I still wanted so badly for him to just understand why. And then, in the time after, I thought maybe, maybe I could, we could figure out how to make it work. Depression. the step before Acceptance. I'm not really sure where I am. But somewhere between, maybe. 


A guy friend told me recently guys like to date younger girls because they don't carry as much baggage. They're not all depressed and shit. They still know how to have fun. I guess I'm not helping my case. Not attracting any more men with all of this baggage. Whatever. This is life.

there's no religion that could save me

At twenty-seven, I'm learning how hard it is to let someone love you, how hard it is sometimes to live this life right by yourself, by others, and how, even when we should know better, sometimes, sometimes it's not enough. And in moments when I want to settle, when I simply want to give up, how vital it is that I remember what all of this was for. I'm learning, it seems, the older I get, the more blurred the lines between right and wrong become, and the harder it is to believe anything is possible. But there are still those moments that take my breathe away, a kind word from a stranger, an unusual note of affection from a friend. And the weight of belief, the weight of faith, and for everything we can't control, how living is the essence, it's the only thing we have control over.


 the former years

"The future is only an indifferent void no one cares about, but the past is filled with life, and its countenance is irritating, repellent, wounding, to the point that we want to destroy or repaint it. we want to be masters of the future only for the power to change the past." - Milan Kundera

At twenty-one, I learned the reality of the ever-long cliche of broken hearts, emotions heightened to anger, hate, bitterness and regret without sacrifice, without discretion: it was what it was.

At twenty-two, I learned the price of self-worth and perhaps the most difficult things in life are the truths for which we cannot control: time, cancer, the choices of others.

At twenty-three, I learned the reality and repercussions of the choices we choose to make, the price of momentary desires.

At twenty-four, I learned some things are never meant to be reconciled: perhaps it's not whether someone else will forgive you for your actions, but rather if you can forgive yourself.

At twenty-five, I learned there's no shortage of dreamers, but those who choose to pursue those dreams are few. And those who choose to muddle on in pursuit, even after time and trials fail, are even further between.

At twenty-six, I learned people will often tell you, sometimes settling is the only option, and sometimes, there's nothing you can do to right a wrong, and sometimes, people won't forgive you, and sometimes, you will forget that you wanted more out of this life, out of the people you adore, and you'll settle for merely what everyone's told you is possible, and not what you know is possible.



Suffering from a delayed reaction on life, consistently romanticizing the past, disaffected with the future and an inability to care for the present.

Facebook was being annoying, and it made all of my tagged photos viewable to everyone. So, in an attempt to figure out how to fix that, I ended up going back down memory lane. And though I know now, it's been two years since we left, two years since I've had to readjust to 'real life', and though most days, I don't think about Italy anymore, sometimes, on nights like this one, when I'll come across a photograph, or a moment I'd forgotten, I find, I miss the city, and I miss you, as if it were yesterday.

I'm sorry I couldn't love you the way you wanted me to.

You were stupid enough to believe the way I felt would change. But you knew better.

I was stupid enough to believe you had the strength to really be my friend. But I knew better.

And so. Here we are.

And at the end of it, I miss you. But that's worth nothing. I know.

Bon Iver

i'm a romantic. i'm a deep romantic.

i feel too much.

i scoff at the color pink, flowers, frills and dates. but all i want is for a guy to take me on a real date, a real one, the whole nine yards, the kind of evening he really had to think about. i'm independent, strong-minded, strong-willed and opinionated, but i want someone who'll want to take care of me, who will never let me pay, who has his own opinions, but gets where i'm coming from.

this journal i keep. aside from cataloguing my sanity, is mostly a book about every man that's ever had an affect on my life. and i'm not sure if that's sad or what. but that's what it is.

for at the end of this life, it's the people who've made a difference, who've taught us lessons, that matter.

i have to stop settling for less.

blue skies, broken hearts

"Sometimes we expect more from others because we would be willing to do that much for them."

I don't know where this quote originated from, but there are about 30,000 people liking it on Facebook currently.

We were sitting in my room a few weeks ago, having one of those conversations that would either be the end of us or would mend what had been broken. Thankfully, we're on the road toward mending, but she'd spoken of expectations, and how she'd learned not to expect things out of people. That way everything was under your own control, and I guess, you wouldn't blame others or resent others for when things didn't go as you'd thought they would. That way you'd hold yourself accountable. It makes sense.

I've always been a fairly good friend. Despite my faults. I'm the kind of person who'll wake up at 3 a.m. to help a drunk friend in the house, or pick you up from D.C., the kind of friend who'd pick you up from the airport so you wouldn't have to take public transportation, the kind of friend who'll try to bake you cookies even though they suck or listen to you cry over an ex-boyfriend time and time again. And so, I've always expected the same out of the people who I choose to be in my life, the people whom I proudly call my friends. And trust me, I choose them carefully. And I'm aware, we choose our friends, knowing what we're getting into, knowing how they are, what they're capable of, and the kind of friend they're able to be.

But it's still sad sometimes, really sad, when you realize, as much as you love them, you're just no longer okay with that much less than you'd give.

There's that point where you realize your parents are just people, flawed in ways you never recognized, and then there's that point where you grow up and come to admire their strength through every pain and are thankful for every sacrifice.

What's with the tattoo?

On my wrist, is a tattoo of an envelope with a heart on the flap. Strange, I know. Most people don't get it. Most people don't get me.

People always ask. We'll be in the middle of a bar, or a party, or eating in a restaurant, and they'll ask. And I'll shrug, and say I don't want to explain.

Anyway, I had viet coffee again. I drank it at 1 p.m., which I thought was a safe hour, but here I am, awake at 3:22 a.m. So here's what it means.

It's for my inability to be happy in any one place for too long. It's for this need I always seem to have with running away, for the sake of growing up, for the sake of sanity. It's letters home, for everyone I always find myself leaving behind, for everyone I've ever loved that I can't be near. I'm consistently leaving people behind. It's letters to everyone that can't be here, in this moment. It's for everything I could never say to my mother, for our language barrier, for our differences, our inability to understand the worlds in which we grew up in. It's for everything I could never express to my dad. It's for everything I will never say to the father, who was once married to my mother, who loved me as he knew, who I hope is happy somewhere. And it's for everything I could never say, written in a letter, to you. I was never good with words in the verbal medium.

This is why I don't explain these things when people ask. It's rather a long story.

_________________________________________________________

via Fuckyeahmashups by Immuzikation - All My Children (MGMT vs LCD Soundsystem)

Dreamers, the lot of us

Suffering from a delayed reaction on life, consistently romanticizing the past, disaffected with the future and an inability to care for the present. I say what I think, at any given moment, perhaps with too much candor, but never ill-mannered. Anyway, aren't we all just looking for something?