Bitches Love Cake.

Inside the mind of a post grad: socially avoidant theatre artist, writer, lover and corporate slave.

Goodnight princess

—The sound of my heart melting


Sometimes I have to force myself to care about anything.

I have to suppress the urge to lock myself away with a bottle of wine, my headphones, and a pack of smokes.

I have to ask myself if I want this tattoo or this whatever because I actually want it or if im trying to quiet something.

Then I remember I forgot to take the pills.

So I do.

Then, as I wait for them to kick in, I start to wonder if I take these pills to quiet my anxiety, or to take a break from being myself.


Once you had put the pieces back together, even though you may look intact, you were never quite the same as you’d been before the fall.

Jodi Picoult

To those of you that wonder, we are working things out. So far we’re happier now than we have been in a while.

Day 5

Tonight after the rec league volleyball game my coworker told me nonchalantly “I don’t give a fuck that you got dumped. It does not impact me at all. I mean that sucks but I do not even remotely care. You’re hot enough, go bang some dudes.” With a laugh.

Oddly, that didn’t bother me that much. I don’t demand coddling. However, twenty minutes later the uber gentleman with a live in girlfriend of six years walks me to my car and asks me:

"Hey would it be weird if I kissed you?"

My reply was a quite professional “um perhaps, considering the fact that you have a girlfriend.”

"Good call."

Day three.

I never know what time it is anymore. Time goes by so slowly, I’ll think it’s been an hour when my phone insists only five minutes have passed.

I slept for 14 hours straight last night. My cubemate forced me to eat a reeses and that’s all I ate.

I want to go home…

Life Without You, Day One.

I’m in a strange place, tethered to earth by nothing and at the same time so much that it’s choking me.

Maybe it’s the wine, but at the moment I feel invincible. I’m homeless while you sleep soundly on the bed my mother bought for us. I sob while you drink your fifth Jack and Coke in our home, and pack up my belongings like a nurse rids a parasite from the blood.

"Maybe it’s the wine." Remember that? That’s what I said to you in a dizzy whirl after you kissed me by your truck the first time. I felt your lips on mine for hours after you drove off into the sticky summer night. You smiled and whispered to me, "tell yourself whatever you need to."

I will hurt for a very long time, but I will survive. I will learn to love myself the way I showered you with it for years, accepting with gratitude the odd sweet word or candy run in return. I will not be swallowed by this. But you, in your intoxicating rush of freedom and selfishness, you will wake up some morning and realize what you threw away. Literally threw out onto the street. And I will be long, long gone.

I agreed to a week long trial separation after a coffee session this morning when I couldn’t stay away.

No contact for a week, to think and miss and plan how we can make it work, to reconvene on Sunday and talk about how we can fix things.

When I left for work he hugged me more tightly than he ever has, stroking my hair and kissing my forehead. I drove off high with relief and possibility.

I cried three times at work today.

When I plotted to retrieve my clothes while he was at work, I imagined spraying the bed with my rose perfume. I pictured him lying alone and smelling the subtle scent, wondering if it was imagined or a sign from the universe that his suspicions are true.

When I arrived, my shampoo was in a bag. His ring was on the table. His tools were in my spot on the couch. This was done an hour after I left the house. An hour after the strong hugs and hair play. Day one of the “trial.”

If someone were to ask me a week ago which was more likely, this or raining spaghetti, I would answer without reservation, the Italian precipitation is the only option.

I’m in a living room that I don’t recognize, looking at efficiency apartments on Craig’s list. On my 25th birthday I had assumed I would be running a half marathon, engaged and in a bigger home, with a puppy and a novel on the way.

On my 25th birthday I will be entirely alone, in a pet-free apartment, with plantar fasciitis.

My life is a sitcom. Some how it’s not funny when it’s real.

And then there was one.

Out of the blue, after seeing a late night movie and holding hands the entire time, my southern gentleman told me he wants to be alone.

An unworn white dress hangs in the closet of my childhood home, and two weeks worth of his favorite meals sit in the freezer when the dollhouse where we made a home suddenly becomes a museum of memories, just a house in which I no longer belong.

To say I’m unprepared is an understatement. To say I’m heartbroken is to say that the Sahara desert is a little warm. I have no proper word, nor suitable analogy to describe the hole in my chest that only hours ago housed plans and dreams, and unshakable love.

We went to bed together like always, and he kissed me softly on the lips like he has every night for the past four years. I stared at the velvet lines of his profile in the dark for what felt like an eternity, and prayed to an estranged God for it all to have been a dream.

Of course, no dream can be had when sleep is elsewhere.

Everything was beautiful. Everything hurts.