the last time in new york.

Jill looked up at the tall building staring down at her and smiled silently.

She turned to Mario. Her heart was floating.

This is it. Really, it. For the first time in her life, a home and a place to be. She was finally going to belong.

Jill took one step in the right direction, to the tall brick building filled with books, knowledge and ideas and Mario held her back gently.

"Yes, my love?"

"I’d rather you not, Jill."

With a tug on her hand, Mario led Jill away.

She glanced back and saw the bright future slowly dim.


The diagnosis was
I was high-functional
And was going to be just fine
Because I was in a suit
And heels
I carried my semi-expensive purse
And I only looked at the clock
Because I was en route to work

But inside
I hadn’t showered in days
I was simply breathing
And going about my day
I was staring into space at work
Until it go to the point
Where I had to admit out loud
That I was staring into space at work

My arms were bleeding
And I did it to myself
I happened to weigh 75 pounds
Because food didn’t just taste the same

All I did was sleep or sleepwalk
And feel pain in my chest
Real, physical heartbreak
Because as they say
The heart is deep
And it can hold both love and hate

I was on life support
And everyone hated you
And so did I, in my half-dead state

But alas
The business suit
Masked the broken inside
Because on the outside
The diagnosis was
I was going to be just fine
Because I seemed high-functional

last things.

What’s up, stalkers! Follow the new shit: and stay here for the stories I invent (or live through).


Dear X,

Mathematically, anything can replace you. Once a relationship is defined. Variable talk.

Anyway, enough. I’m taking the GRE in a few days. Remember that? I cannot begin to tell you how hard it was to be heartbroken and study for a mind-numbing test at the same time. I am amazed at my own strength.

I’m writing you a letter because I think you either fell off the face of the earth or are too ashamed, still, to face me. I don’t think it’s hatred, anymore. I really think it’s shame. You feel bad that you didn’t mean to hurt someone but you did. You feel terrible that you managed to pierce the heart of someone who did nothing but think better of you. It’s okay.

I meticulously disguised this letter and didn’t put a return address so you would open it. I think you might have forgotten how to pick up a phone or reply to a text. I don’t have the time or the energy for a smoke signal, for a stalker drive-by, or for interrupting the lives of our friends. So, let’s let this be the last thing between us.

I’d like my books back. Because even if you aren’t there anymore, those words of someone else remain eternal. And also, I’ve always wanted a whole room - floor to ceiling - stacked high with books. Open the cover of the orange book. Do you see it? It’s signed by the authors. Now you know why I’d really like it back.

Also, last thing. Can you give me my heart back? It might be a lot to ask for but I really gave it… all of it, to you.

Everyone keeps selling me the “there’s better out there for you” bullshit. To me, the better version of you is still the better out there for me. That is sad. But guess what, it’s because I always believed in you to be better than what you are. No matter what.

I digress.

So. My things, please. I’m going to lay low and probably disappear for a while. After 2 years, even driving on Temple (yes, the whole stretch), doesn’t feel right anymore. I find that Wilshire is a suitable replacement.

Please acknowledge that you received this.