Yesterday, I took some time to think about all the things I am thankful for. This list consisted of the usual and expected: friends, family, music, creativity, New York City. Considering all the incredible things that have happened to me in the course of one short year, you would think that I had so much to be happy about. And yesterday, I tried to be happy. I put on the smile, took in the sights, drank all the booze, and laughed the hours away. But honestly, just below the surface, I was dying inside.

These last few months have often left me speechless, and I spend many of my days staring in awe at the new world that surrounds me. I never would have believed that I would have had the courage to follow my heart and leave everything I've ever known 3,000 miles behind me. Every day, I count my blessings. I have fallen head over heels in love with this city. But because of one stupid, awful, mean thing someone did to me, I am heartbroken every time I turn a corner.

I don't say these things aloud because my friends tell me I'm too good to waste my time thinking about him. They tell me to forget about it and move on. They don't know about what happened to me before and why this was so important to me. They don't know that I still cry myself to sleep and wake up shaken by my dreams. They probably will bitch and moan about what I'm about to write here. Whatever, deal with it.

I have been alone longer than anyone dares to believe. And with each ignored phone call, broken date, or heartless text message, I move one step closer to thinking that I am unlovable. Science tells us that if a hypothesis is proven a certain number of times, it becomes a theory. Each time I meet someone new, I get better at predicting when, exactly, he'll break my heart. And with the last one, I called it five days before it happened. Just one more, and I'll be hopeless.

I'm fuming inside. I don't know why I deserved to have such a mean thing happen to me. I was so incredibly hurt, embarrassed, dejected, ashamed... Honestly, what did I do to deserve that? It kills me to think that he's okay with it all, ignorant to how angry I am. Every time I see him, I want to bash his head against the wall, throw every profane and crude insult I can think of in his face, spread hideous rumors about him all over the city. I feel like I'm in middle school again and everyone is laughing at my misery. And instead of crying about it like I want to, I'm expected to suck it up and live my life like nothing ever happened. But goddamn it, you happened, and you ruined a place I love so so so much. I can't be at school without wanting to hide. I can't be in Times Square without thinking about September. I can't wear my AMDA t-shirt without remembering the night you walked me home. I wish you would just disappear.

Part of the reason I just can't let this go is because I needed to prove to myself that I made the right decision in coming to New York. I had felt so uncomfortable in my own skin for so long that being here, in a place where I believe dreams really can come true, was like breathing again for the first time in years. I felt that my career goals and personal desires were completely justified, and I had finally found the place where I could be myself. And because of that, life and love would just sort themselves out. Life got where I wanted it to go, but love, clearly, not so much. I was never expecting a sweeping romance; I just hoped I wouldn't get hurt again, and in the same way I've been hurt a million times before. But it happened, and I'm starting to believe that some greater power is trying to tell me that I'm just not cut out for that sort of thing.

I don't like it when people who are in relationships try to comfort me. Especially when they tell me they were in my shoes once. It's like your parents telling you about the time, way back, "when I was your age." What do you know about loneliness? Feeling like a complete and utter outcast because at 24, when most people my age are either seriously attached, engaged, or married, I am single for yet another painful, embarrassing, and nauseating year? Praying that someone will return your desperate text message on a Saturday afternoon so you won't have to spend another night alone watching reruns online? Putting a portion of your hard-earned cash into monthly payments for online dating services, hoping that you'll meet a good person through a carefully calculated matching system, only to find out that everyone in the world lies and can skillfully edit their pictures on PhotoShop? Cutting and dying your hair a thousand different ways, losing more and more weight, buying make up and perfume, and forcing your flat feet into four inch heels, all for the hope of catching someone's - dear God, ANYONE'S - attention at a bar? Please, for the millionth time, do not tell me he'll come along one day, like he did for you. I've waited for him steadfastly, impatiently, nonchalantly, demurely, and desperately for years and years. Your pity just serves to remind me how pathetic I really am.

Right now, I want nothing more than to be home in California, far away from the person who has made each day of the past month miserable. For the first time in almost eight months, I don't want to be here.

I hate him for that.


putting it out there

I had an interesting dream the other night. I dreamt that I was a successful professional Broadway performer, getting ready for one of my weekly shows. My friends were all around me, milling about and preparing for the night ahead. But something was missing, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I felt angry at something, but nothing was there. No one would believe I was angry and no one could understand how I was feeling. I, myself, didn't really get it.

When I woke up, I replayed the dream over and over, trying to figure out what was missing in my life. Then it hit me - he did not exist. At all. Like, he had never been thought of, conceived, or made. He was simply non-existent. And I was angry at NOTHING.


I realized today, that I had been leaving a huge part of my life out of these blog posts over the last two months. It wasn't an accident, though. I made the conscious decision not to write about my love life because, truthfully, part of me knew it was all going to fall apart. And I didn't want to have a record of any of the good times when I felt like bad times would come so soon after. This has nothing to do with my history and any bitterness I still hold toward those who've hurt me in the past (because sadly, the bitterness is still there). In the beginning, I wasn't pessimistic about any of this at all, actually. But something in me - intuition, maybe? I don't trust it enough - told me I was making the wrong choice, that I would eventually not want to remember it. However, optimism always finds a way to win, and for a while there, I was hoping things would be different this time around, since I was a new person in a brand new city where anything is possible. But reality grounds you, and when you're at the end of it all, you realize what a fool you've been. That's my story, anyway.

So here I am, two months later, single and lonely as ever. Trying to figure out how the hell I'm gonna get past this one because it was a doozy. (Really, who the fuck would do what he did?! Crazy people, surely.) Then, out of nowhere, God or my subconscious or whatever sneaks into my dreams to tell me that I have to let go of my anger because the thing I'm fighting against is no longer there. Alright, I think I can do that. But then what?

I believe in fate, destiny, all that everything-happens-for-a-reason business. It comforts me to know that my trials are serving a greater purpose, beyond the pain, heartache, and disappointment, and leading me toward something incredible. Otherwise, I'd have nothing to live for. But fate is just a small part of the big picture. It requires my trust, faith, and honesty. The truth about New York is once I started being honest with myself about what I wanted out of life, as well as believing that I deserved of all that and could obtain it for myself, everything fell into place. And easier than I would have ever imagined. That being said, I have a request to make of you, Fate:

Please send me someone to love.

I am a good person; I recently covered that one, you can check my archives if you'd like. I am a loving, kind, generous person. I am loyal, honest, sincere. I'm genuine, and I keep it real. I'm passionate, ambitious, idealistic, and optimistic. I can be neurotic at times, but really, it's because I care so much. I remember birthdays, check in on people when they're sick, send letters for no particular reason. I love animals, dogs especially. I like working on crossword puzzles, even though my vocabulary is too limited to get me beyond #7 across. I make up dances to celebrate the serendipity of life, like having the last class on a Friday afternoon cancelled or finding a restaurant that actually has Kool-Aid on the menu.

I believe there are an infinite number of good things in this world and life to experience, and I have been blessed with the opportunity to live through many of them during my short time on this earth. But one I haven't experienced, and am, admittedly, jealous of most people my age because they have, is love. The kind of love that makes you want to stop time or climb a mountain. Love that is overwhelming, awe inspiring. The stuff that makes it difficult to differentiate between fantasy and reality. Magic, in a way. To feel that way about someone and have someone feel that way about me would be my own bit of Heaven on Earth. I like to think I deserve that kind of happiness.

I don't know when you'll find the time to make this happen, Fate. But for now, I'll take it as a sign that both in the last dream I had and the dream you sent me back in February that indicated I would meet someone incredibly important in New York City, I was wearing the exact same outfit. I'll keep track of the clues you leave me here and there, and hopefully I'll find what I'm looking for at the end of this long, tedious, and broken road.

Just putting it out there.


today in history

America elected its first ever black president.

I voted Obama. I made a difference.

The people in Harlem are running down the streets and cheering at the top of their lungs. Today, I'm proud to be an American.

Here's to a brighter future.



I am a good person.

I make the conscious effort to reduce my own carbon footprint. I recycle, use energy efficient light bulbs, and purchase rechargeable batteries. I contribute to AIDS research. I volunteer my time to the community. I am anti-violence. I believe in peace. I support the arts. I am open-minded.

I adhere to the Golden Rule: treat others how you would like to be treated. Even if they don't deserve it. I am agreeable and seek compromise. I celebrate birthdays. I give gifts not out of obligation, but out of love. I really do care about how you feel about your job, your family, your partner. I value my friendships and work hard to make them last.

Because of this, I am a pushover. I let myself get stepped on and mistreated because I have such a need to give. And I find myself getting trapped in the same patterns over and over again. My history repeats itself, and at some point, I fear my heart will break into too many pieces for me to be able to put it back together again. I don't want to be cynical. I don't want to be cold. But every time something hurtful happens, I think that maybe it's the best way to prevent myself from feeling any kind of pain.

I remember that first night, listening to you unload all your emotional baggage onto the floor, and I thought to myself, why would you tell me all of this when I've barely even known you for a week? I realize now that people like you use that as an excuse for their behavior. I mean, didn't you wonder why I never shared any of my resentment or anger? I don't use my past as a way to justify my stupidity. In fact, I fight so hard against it, sometimes people wonder how I ended up so strong. That, in itself, makes me better than you.

But still, as I always do, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. As time went on, I started to see the familiar sign posts leading me to my usual exit. I hoped it would be different though, because I was in a new place and I had become a new person in the short time I had been here. But that's where the problem was. I had always believed that I was never good enough for people. That I messed things up because I said the wrong things, wore the wrong clothes, wasn't pretty enough, wasn't skinny enough, wasn't smart enough, wasn't witty enough, wasn't this, or wasn't that. I never put the blame for my unhappiness on others. The truth of it is the world is full of jackasses.

Now here I am, on the familiar side of it all. Of course I'm sad. Even if you're used to mistreatment, there's always that little bit of hope that keeps you from feeling numb. And maybe that's why I'm not a cynic. I hope for the best because I think I deserve it. So I'm gonna keep on truckin' on. There's not much more I can do, other than that.