When I was 23 I was stupid. I really was. Like I think subconsciously I took about 40 IQ points and stored them away for later when I was better and more deserving of them. Because when I was 23 I was really stupid. I was impulsive and unhealthy and full of declarations that held no merit in the real world. I was all “look before you leap” without even fathoming the look aspect. I was all “apologies before permission” but never really said that I was sorry. Essentially, I was a mess. An unbecoming, unraveling, hyperventilating, stumbling mess. And I would swivel on my hypothetical axis with extended arms to take down anyone in my vicinity. Because, at that point, that was all that mattered. Messing anything and anyone and everything and everyone up. Making as much of a mess, causing as much of a wreck as possible, being as much of a disaster as I could. That was what mattered. Because for most of my life, that was how I quantified notoriety. All press is good press. It doesn’t matter what people are saying as long as they’re talking. Popularity is measure by the number of times your name is said when you’re not around. So I got the proverbial press. I made people talk. If popularity was gossip I was fuckin’ queen B. But it didn’t negate the fact that I was, also, fucking stupid. And it didn’t negate the fact that I was stupid because I was trying to remember how to live without loving you. Because when I was fumbling around, when I was wrecking things, when I was breaking everything in sight, that’s what I was doing. I was finding my footing without you. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t chic, it wasn’t cute. It wasn’t some Zooey moment where a guy with a messenger bag comes along and a Bon Iver song plays and everything is okay. Because my life wasn’t and isn’t and never will be some MPDG moment. It is just my life. And when I was 23, I was stupid. I was stupid with my health. I was stupid with my money. I was stupid with my choices. I was stupid with a lot of things. But one of them, was being stupidly in love with you. And, well, I had to figure out how to live without you. How to grocery shop without you. How to sleep without you. How to walk my dog without you. How to purely exist without you. But in figuring out how to live without you I’ve realized something. It’s possible to have memories with someone, and not love them anymore. So this is what I’ve come to terms with. I don’t love you anymore. Not even an ounce. I don’t want you. I don’t miss you. I don’t need you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember what it was like to love you. It just means, I’m not going to anymore. Because now? That would be stupid.