Walking off the plane, respectably drunk from first class, my hair pulled back and pinned high, my skirt hugging my legs, nothing underneath, my heels flexing my calves, old perverts fucking leering at me. My mind was on one thing, what he'd think of me, would he kiss me outside on the sidewalk: would he kiss me, would his tongue taste like coffee hiding whiskey, would he finger me in his car while we drove to his place? I wondered if I was insane being here like this. My time with him flashed through me in less than a second: I went ahead and contacted him through his website. I'd read all of his books, but I'd read a lot of books, I read for a living. But there was something about him, not just the way his words stared a hole through me, but something about him as a person. I wasn't sure what it was exactly, the photos of him online or the fact that when I contacted him under the pretense (how I hate that word) of who I was in the city, who I worked for, what I did in publishing, he replied like I wanted him to, humble yet arrogant, and respectfully declining my literary interest in him. He had his own money, had conceived a writing application last year, and it had blown up hugely, and there were enough savvy investors to erase his need for a publishing deal, which was too bad. But there was something vulnerable to the message, and when I called the number below his signature he was soft spoken, polite, and humorous. A month went on. A month. Constant texting, calling, photos. First the faces, then a shot of my tits, my ass, my fingers blocking an otherwise graphic shot of my sex. He sent me shots back, all of it: his chest, shoulders, cock, him out of the shower. It was the first time I'd sent a man anything like that, but I trusted him. In bed at night, I'd listen to him, ask him to read me something, and he finally did, and I'd masturbate to his voice, his words. For a man who wrote like him, he lived alone, confused by it, but something told me he needed distance. But it didn't stop me from flying out west and seeing him.

First flesh impression: He was a little heavier in person, especially in profile. He was taller than I'd imagined him, 6'1, big shoulders, tattoos down his arms, which I'd seen in the photos, but in person they were more prominent. I have one, on my shoulder blade, a black rabbit, a ghost rabbit from fiction that stirred me as a little girl, and when he first saw it in an early photo I'd sent him he immediately texted back, "Watership Down, that image haunted me throughout my childhood in the saddest and best ways. Good piece."

--From that point on, the first impression didn't matter, I was mad for him. And outside on the sidewalk, there at SeaTac, he pulled me into him and kissed me, ran a big hand over my ass, got me hotter than a teenager.

Back at his place, a smaller place than I'd imagined, we had two hours of the bar up the street in us, I met his famous dog, and then he and I were in bed fucking like prisoners. It was Friday, then it was Saturday night: pizza boxes everywhere, empty bottles of wine. Walking out of the shower, I passed his desk and chair and it just then occurred to me that it was where everything happened for him, and something gripped me. I had to leave the next morning. I had to leave and I panicked. Back in bed I asked him what he thought of me, where he saw us going in the future. His dog jumped on the bed and curled up and slept behind the back of my legs. I instantly fell in love with both of them. But he basically told me that I lived in the city and he lived two thousand miles west. He also said we'd just met, which was fair, but it hurt. It hurt because of the last four weeks of constant contact, of wanting, almost hurting for him, and it also occurred to me there that he probably had a few more like me waiting in the shadows. Looking into his eyes I could see that I was nothing special. I was another reader, a hot piece of ass that might grace a poem in some obscure, chickenshit way. The moment changed for me, it changed his writing, and it changed him. But feeling him next to me, his cock against my leg, his freakishly big and weird body sleeping, his dog snoring right in rhythm with him, it was clear that I had to be the last piece for him, the last "booty call" he'd need to have. I rolled off the bed and quietly kissed the air until his dog awoke and walked out. I gave him a little bone from the box on top the fridge, and grabbed the longest knife from the rack, closed the bedroom door and watched his silhouette sleeping, bathed in moonlight, a drunk and fat attempt at what was once my future in my heart. I held the knife and felt the whiskey move me closer quietly. I'd had enough men like him. He wasn't special, he played with words for a living, and I'd fallen for it. He'd live after I left, but he'd never be able to fuck another woman.

Tyler Durden: My dad never went to college, so it was real important that I go.

Narrator: Sounds familiar.

Tyler Durden: So I graduate, I call him up long distance, I say "Dad, now what?" He says, "Get a job."

Narrator: Same here.

Tyler Durden: Now I'm 25, make my yearly call again. I say Dad, "Now what?" He says, "I don't know, get married."

Narrator: I can't get married, I'm a 30 year old boy.

Tyler Durden: We're a generation of men raised by women. I'm wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.

It's me, Stevo, remember me?

It's been so very long since we last met I almost convinced myself that you would have forgotten me.

But I couldn't forget you, and the time we spent together, and I always meant to write but I figured that you wouldn't even read my letter, but here I am now, a little older and perhaps a little wiser.

So then, how are you and how have you been? I hope you're well, and that you didn't give up on university like you said you planned to do. I always admired that about you, your commitment to learning, I never told you because I was a jerk.

Are you seeing anyone? I mean, we could maybe meet up for a coffee sometime and I don't know, just talk. I always felt I could talk to you openly you know?

If you don't want to meet up then maybe we could just write each other? I hope you feel that I'm still around, because I am, I always was.

I got to go. Please write, the usual address.

ps We could meet at The Library if you feel like it, there's a new coffee shop right next door.

Gasoline, orange blossoms, sun tan lotion, coffee, the ocean, the paws of my dog, a new book, puppy breath, baby hair, Vicks Inhalers, Captain Black tobacco when passing a person smoking a pipe, the skin of a sexy woman, steaks broiling, the after-smell of a soapy shower, hot laundry, bakeries, good whiskey, citrus candles, new car, sulfur.

I really, deeply appreciate having this outlet for self expression through social writing.

It's a safe haven to express my essence, my most intimate and honest thoughts and feelings about everything, and not worry about being judged.

I love you all and feel so happy to be connected in this world of words together.

To share one's personality and one's soul - to share one's self - through the medium of creative writing is a privilege that I treasure.

what he wouldn't be ready for, was when she didn't.

he had tried to prepare for the worst but the image of her eyes and the memory of her lips wouldn't allow him to doubt

rational mind: it's been 2 years

but she loves me

rational mind: she probably met someone new

but she loves me

rational mind: she probably doesn't even remember

but she loves me

rational mind: you were never good enough for her in the first place

but she loved me

every time the door opens he peeked out

every time he was disappointed

every time he heard footsteps he snapped to attention

every time he slouched back down

Jack showed up at the bar twenty minutes early

Jack left the bar eight hours late

dawn breaking and the autumn chill stinging his drowsy eyes

he wasn't ready. he would never be ready. he loved her.

Being an actual young widow, I can't do ~those~ sorts of movies. That whole sappy death genre is right out. Those don't make for "good" cries for me. When I am hormonal and just bursting for Alice-in-a-pool-of-tears relief, I have to look elsewhere. I rely heavily on musicals. Cats, Superstar, Nightmare Before Christmas, Sound of Music... That sort of thing. I can still sing if I'm crying. But my go-to standard when I need to feel and belt and feel some more, is Cabaret. Liza is just so heart-rendingly perfect, and Sally Bowles is all of my gauche, American pretense at glamour, all of my selfish inability to cope with reality, all of my running and armoring myself in outrageousness to feel safe from both the outside world and my own feelings. We make the same mistakes over and over, not wholly by accident. ...Maybe this time....

"Happy" is a perfectly decadent outfit we put on when we wake up every afternoon. I cry for our self-imposed barricades and I cry for our stubbornness and I cry for our lost babies and our damn determined life-long performance and our desperate screaming at trains and for our inability to convince *ourselves* and for our genuine spark of "most strange and extraordinary" that is truly, truly there, somewhere, but we just haven't a clue how to nurture it on our own.

Today I found my Happy Thought

and it's not

about money

or power

or fame

or glory

or prestige -

it's about

HEALING

I cannot think of any greater meaning

to life than this;

HEALING oneself

HEALING everyone

HEALING all bodies, hearts, minds, and souls

HEALING all cultures, societies, and planets

I imagine a future in which everyone is healed

and I feel what the Vedas call "Bliss Absolute"

I am alive

simply to heal

and in acknowledging and affirming this purpose

I feel more complete and healed than ever.