7 days. 6 islands. 2 ladies. 1 boat. Paradise, perfection & a realllllly rough Monday.
It’s hell writing and it’s hell not writing. The only tolerable state is having just written.
"OK, tell the internet you’ll see them later!”
Annnnnnnnd Mom and I are off on our Caribbean adventure!
Girl, are you the F train? Because you’re never there when I need you, and when you are, you’re a hot mess.
A ship ton of islands.
Mom and I booked a cruise last week and we leave in 2 days for:
- St. Thomas
- St. Kitts
- St. Maarten
- St. Lucia
Which is one saintly vacay. I’ve also never taken an entire week off work and I’ve never once been on a cruise, so I’m very much looking forward to casual island hopping and also paying $400/minute for Wi-Fi to make sure the company doesn’t CRUMBLE WITHOUT ME.
There’s nothing as universal as the weekend and one’s modest hopes for it.
Pushing & pulling.
It’s a strange thing, to want, and to be wanted, and then to watch a once-doting silhouette on the barstool next to you quickly fade, time and time again. You have often found yourself in this cycle of wanting and having and then, letting go. And not letting go in a quasi-romantic, maybe-in-some-other-lifetime kind of way, but letting go in an I-kind-of-like-you-so-I’m-going-to-end-this-by-hurting-you-before-we-invest-any-more-time kind of way. It feels raw and painful to write, like most personal truths, but it has happened in a number of dark bars, on first dates and on second dates and on informal after-hours barstool meet-ups – your mouth and your brain and your heart just disconnect, sever ties, and words come from a darker, more destructive source (one seemingly undetectable in the daylight), and you push buttons and push boundaries and then you just push, push, push until you can’t anymore. Until they no longer have the chance to be something or someone in your life. Not always, of course, but more often than you’d like to admit, and always with the ones who made you light up inside, even just a little. This is what some call the reckless art of self-sabotage, and it’s possible you have perfected this subconscious technique in your years of dating and building walls and carefully choosing who gets to tear them down. It’s an excuse to feel in control, to know the ending before it ever begins, but it’s clear there’s no good explanation behind this fuzzy-headed exercise — except that maybe somewhere along the way you blindly chose to avoid heartbreak forever, even in its smallest form, which is dramatic and embarrassing and unacceptable and the most tragic of human mistakes. Dating has always been about the stories, the process of elimination, not the possibility of love, right? Girl, you know better than to keep fooling yourself like that. Fix the leak before it drains you. Come clean about the empty barstools, and keep your head clear where it matters most, and when you like someone, I mean, really like someone, let yourself light up and pull yourself towards them…pull, pull, pull until you can’t anymore. And then revel in the afterglow that comes from not knowing an ending before it begins.
How do you hold a baby? Like a wine bottle, right?
I slept little, read a lot, and fell in love frequently.
You know that thing when you appear in a krazy Kardashian episode? No? Maybe? Well, that is apparently a thing that happened last night because several weeks ago I hashtagged a few Instas with E’s summer hashtag (I think it was a Wines-day eve) & then moved on with my life & then my friend sent this screenshot from Sunday night and now I need to know if you can keep up with me.
Escaped the summer heat and spent the afternoon at the Whitney among Jeff Koons’ multi-million dollar creations.