Scenes from last night.
Our line of towels and the cheapest blow dryer in the world.
Brit’s endless makeup shit that she doesn’t even really use.
Brit leaving her clothes around like a heathen.
Me medding up for the week.
A piece of our bookshelf— guess who’s is whose and what books have you read?
She wasn’t pleased.

Scenes from last night.

  1. Our line of towels and the cheapest blow dryer in the world.
  2. Brit’s endless makeup shit that she doesn’t even really use.
  3. Brit leaving her clothes around like a heathen.
  4. Me medding up for the week.
  5. A piece of our bookshelf— guess who’s is whose and what books have you read?
  6. She wasn’t pleased.

Her hair is a mess of colors— terrible, dirty bleached blonde and a revolting burgundy/purple mix with her natural golden brown hues. I hate her hair. I told her that earlier today, in the “wee” hours of the morning as I leaned against the counter, waiting for the toast to pop up while pretentiously sipping my green tea.

"Your hair looks like shit. I hate it."

Her eyes slid to mine. She blinked five times to give  an incredulously quizzical look to the stare. Cocking her head, she spoke.

"Please, tell me, dear. Carry on, attack the cellulite on my thighs next."

She has never had cellulite before, but as she entered her twenties and the stress of international politics and presentations to white men in expensive suits come upon her, she has gained ten pounds and has come to fear the new cellulite on the inside of her thighs.

I had never really thought about the cellulite on her thighs. My mind has been too preoccupied with my own thighs to connect her eating her feelings to the cellulite on her thighs, but suddenly everything came together as I realized I was, surprisingly, not the only person with issues to tame in the room.

"I will pass," I responded cooly, saving the "I love your thighs" for another time, because it just didn’t fit. I want her to know that I love her and her body and her shittily colored hair (despite hating it) and every part of her for a time when it didn’t seem like an apology for misspoken words or an excuse.

Let me be frank, because this is the most anonymous I can be while still being me… if that makes sense.

Last week I got incredibly intoxicated after dropping my son off with my somewhat girlfriend. I then, in my state, decided I should die. I tried, and luckily She has a spidey sense when dealing with me, and showed up. She saved my life— something I could not do for my brother— and I spent four days in a hospital, but now I’m out and going through some intensive outpatient programs while trying my damnedest to get back to some sort of familiar territory.

I have cried more in the past week than I have in my entire life, probably.

I don’t know what else to say, but only three people knew about this and I had to get it out.

Life Updates

  • I’ve been smoking a pack a day of “light blue” American Spirits. I ditched them today and intend to continue ditching them. This sucks.
  • I am going to start running on the 22nd.
  • I am leaving for Paris in two days. I will be gone, with Jake, for a week.
  • I hate everything, but at least I’m not wanting to die.
  • My social life is dwindling.