You admitted you liked me. You kissed me. You slept with me. I thought that made us a couple. I thought that meant we were dating.
The time is 2:19 a.m. and I sit sullenly at my sad excuse for a desk, typing, backspacing, typing, backspacing. My vocabulary escapes me at this hour. All I want is to fall into purple-hazed dreams and maybe not feel what it feels like to want and want so desperately that it stings. I think back to old friends, acquaintances, lovers, enemies (if there is such a thing anymore) and I try to imagine what they think of me now.
We really have no control over anything. And for a certifiable control freak like myself, that’s not just unnerving. It’s paralyzing.
I’ve probably googled the height for every male celebrity there is and I feel like I can confidently say they’re all 5’6.”
If you’ve ever wondered what your favorite writers use on their skin, look no further.
My favorites so far have been Tom Colicchio and Padma Lakshmi because I’m obsessed with Top Chef and Tom is my celebrity crush.
I came to realize that there’s something missing in my life. But that piece is still unknown. Maybe a person? A touch? A drink? I don’t know.
On the night my boyfriend has a seizure after his 50th alcohol detox, we are placed in a room next to the ER psych ward.
You can’t just spend your entire life waiting for the story to continue. You’ve got to keep writing it yourself.