So my boyfriend and I break up, and I start working out a lot to stay sane. And now I’m like, great, now I have abs, and there’s no one to look at them. Can I get a second opinion on if my perky spin butt is worth the chunky spin thighs?
I’m still in that self destructive phase where if someone offered me a chance to meet a stranger who would become the love of my life or a text from my ex stating that he wanted to see me, I’d choose the latter.
It’s starting to have been long enough since we broke up that if I died, it wouldn’t be immediately obvious to people to call you. I still can’t believe you don’t want to hang out anymore. I just want go home.
I didn’t have any warning. I still had soup in your freezer and eyeliner placed gently on the ground of your bathroom as I sprinted after you to brunch. I feel like I lost a home.
He talked about wanting a Patagonia T-snap sweater, pointed out his favorite color, and I obliged on his birthday. This’ll be fun, I thought.
I played a game in college where a Patagonia was my preferred morning after attire. As soon as I’d spot one in a guy’s bedroom, my mind would lock on maneuvering to walk home in it.
You’re never allowed to let a girl wear your Patagonia, I declared. I won’t let you get played. Notice I said “a girl”, inclusive of all women, lovers or not. You can’t lend your T-snap to a friend who has a secret crush on you, who will imagine your warmth wrapped around her through the T-snap. You can’t lend your T-snap to an old friend, who is most definitely a friend, who you end up sleeping with in six months. That would be a retroactive violation of the T-snap. If someone wears your T-snap, if they take it, out of your control, you must immediately abandon ownership of the T-snap, so she can’t feel you around her. And she can’t keep it: burn it, ship it to Goodwill, take it out of our lives.
Are you around? Come over for dinner
I have some of your mail, and well, I’ll admit I like your company. Okay, technically, it’s an email. And maybe, yes, I did sign up for the New Yorker subscription with my email address using your name. But it really feels like someone in my inbox is trying to reach you! I think you should give it a once over, just in case
I know that you’ll say no, but we’ve had dinner so many times before! Why wouldn’t we do it once again?
Drinks. Sitting. Our legs were touching slightly more than normal, which I guess means “we’re going to fuck” in this adult era
I’ve been dating like I do laundry: I do it because society says I should, and I know if I put it off for long enough, I’ll regret it, but it always feels like it takes up too much time
“You are the loudest person,” he said to me, from across the circle, as I wailed at the bondfire, the final night of camp, the second or third sentence he ever said to me, after 4 weeks, for 6 years, summing me up: “You talk loud, you laugh loud, and apparently, you cry the loudest, too,” at 15, I was a virgin.
He was right.
I went on a date. He was remarkably fine, but as he spoke, I just kept picturing his face being sculpted out of play dough or clay, droopy and puffy in some spots, with sharp, knife-defined edges in others