Why I Can’t Talk To The Person Who Knows Me Best
I need to tell you that I’m not okay, but I haven’t said anything to you in five months. I need to tell you that my brother is sick, that I’m working two jobs, that I’m not sure where my life is heading, and that I constantly feel like I’m drowning.
I could argue that you don’t know me anymore. You don’t know that it took me ten days to drive across the country or that I drank seven cups of coffee during my one day in Seattle. You don’t know that I walk to work in Los Angeles and that I haven’t talked to my parents in a month; you don’t know that every Sunday I go to what used to be our favorite cafe for hangover breakfast sandwiches and that my heart stops every time the door opens while I’m there because I think it might be you. You don’t know that I have a tattoo on my wrist; you don’t know that I ran a half-marathon; you don’t know that my hair is past my shoulders and that I’ve lost 10 pounds; and you don’t know that I feel broken. Again. You don’t know that I wake up at 5:30 every morning for work; you don’t know that I don’t eat meat anymore or that I still go to yoga booty ballet every Monday. You don’t know that most nights I cry myself to sleep and you don’t know that most mornings I wake up feeling numb. You don’t know that I work on a PC at the office, on a Mac at home, and feel like a gerbil constantly running on one of those cage wheels. You don’t know these things because five months ago I walked away and you didn’t chase after me. You didn’t chase after me because I told you not to. You didn’t call. You didn’t write. And, apparently, we made a mutual decision to stop talking at all.
Because we decided this, and because you now don’t know any of those things about me, it’s transpired that I probably don’t know things about you, either. I don’t know if you’re still killing yourself working crazy hours; I don’t know how your month-long trip to India went; and I don’t know how many haircuts you’ve had, and if any of them have made you look as stupid as that one last December did. I don’t know how you celebrated your birthday last week; I don’t know where you’ll be on Thanksgiving; and I don’t know your reaction to this season of Modern Family. I don’t know if you’ve kept up running or if you just did it to compete with me; I don’t know if your room has any more furniture in it or if you’ve embarked on your dream of surviving by freelancing; and I don’t know how often you go to our favorite cafe for hangover breakfast sandwiches, or if your heart stops every time the door opens. I don’t know how your sister is, and if she’s pregnant; I don’t know how your mother is and if your father is still recovering from surgery; I don’t know if anyone else has slept in your bed with you and wondered why you have to have the shades closed but the windows open at night. I don’t know if you think about me; I don’t know if your coffee order has changed or if you still stay up composing songs and pretending it’s not a big deal; I don’t know if you’re dating or celibate or engaged; and I don’t know if you’ve kept track of how many days it’s been since we last talked.
I want to talk to you. I want you to hear all about everything. I want to tell you that it’s been 164 days since we last talked and I want to hear you say that you know, that you’ve been counting, too. You’re the first person I feel like calling when something silly happens and the only person I know that would understand why I’m pushing myself to not talk to you. I could argue that you don’t know me anymore. But I know that you do, and that is why I still can’t talk to you.
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He holds my hand in his lap, looks me directly into the eyes and says, “I love you more than the amount of sperm a blue robin makes.”
Took my own braces off with nail clippers.
…So let’s go there.
It’s 2 A.M. and you find yourself in front of a fast food restaurant. The world spins, your stomach growls, and your heart beats. You’re drunk and hungry.