This Is Not A Sext

This is not me saying that I stopped drinking for a week and even when I’m sober I still think about you late at night. This is not me saying that when I was wandering around Brooklyn after midnight, I wondered what it would be like to bring you to New York. This is not me wondering what it would be like to wear your sweatshirts at night, to be under your blankets at night, to be next to you at night.

This is not me thinking about you even a little bit. Or at all.

This is not me filling up the tub and dunking myself in it over and over and over and once more for good measure. There’s nothing to cleanse, nothing to rid myself of, nothing to wash away. Because this is not me thinking about you and that voice and those eyes and that way and thinking about what it would be like to put things back together that were once long lost.

This is not me trying to distract myself or trying to fantasize about what we could be or were or are or whatever that even means. This is not me trying to come up with reason after reason to not talk to you. This isn’t your name slipping easily off the tongue or naturally into conversation. This is not me letting you “cross my mind” or “bringing you up” or anything of the sort.

Because again. This is not me thinking about you even a little bit. Or at all.

Just so we’re clear, this is not a sext. This not me trying to get your attention. There’s nothing to this—just so we’re on the same page. This is not residual loneliness or the two bottles of wine in my system making themselves known and shouting when I’d normally say nothing.

That’s what this is. Nothing.

Because that’s what we are. Nothing.

So this is not me saying that sometimes I talk about you. To other people. And that saying your name out loud reminds me of things like summer and sweetness and possibility. This isn’t me wondering what you’re doing and when I’ll see you next and what this whole, “picking up where we left off” thing really means.

And it’s not me looking for hidden meanings or “just saying hi” or saying anything at all.

This is not a sext. This isn’t me wanting to ask what you want to do to me and listing out the 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 12, 15 different things I want to do with just you. This isn’t me saying that I can’t sleep and I want to be not sleeping with you. This isn’t me hoping you can pick up on the “I want yous” hidden between things like, “hi” and “what are you doing” and “you good?”

This is not a sext.

This is not a sext.

This is not a thing.

This is not anything.

Unless you want it to be.

In which case, let’s pretend it’s not nothing. Pretend I never said anything. Pretend I can be something.

Pretend there’s something here. TC mark

I asked women to be honest about their Instagram photos

“The essays in this book are short and sweet, and incredible. Love love loved this.” — Alex

“I’m so in love with this book! It’s so moving and some of the stories bring me to tears not because it’s sad, but because it’s relatable and shows that we’re not alone.” — Kendra

This is the reality of Instagram...

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