Kendra Syrdal

Try as I might to erase every bit of you from my life, you still linger. I make a point to shove you out, to pretend you aren’t reality, but then I open my eyes and you are still here.

I think about what would have happened if I hadn’t been jaded, hadn’t been scarred, hadn’t been in such a damaged place when you finally said, “I want you.”

Yes, rejection hurts. Rejection from someone you were already close with hurts even more. But you don’t get to go around blaming her for something that was so out of her control.

The first time you kissed me was the last time something so trivial meant so much.

Almost take off a chunk out of your finger when you try to use a knife.

I approached five of my writer friends and colleagues with ten of the comments we all get every day and presented them with the unique opportunity to say whatever they wanted in response: no real names, no consequences, no filters allowed. Hilarity ensued.

Sriracha – He makes everything more exciting, more intoxicatingly delicious, but then you wake up the next morning with heartburn and regret everything. He’s the guy you know is going to hurt you but you keep going back for more.

I think I am becoming the type of girl that looks for reasons to leave. I search for red flags, for warning signs, for people to give me reasons to say, “No thank you” and retreat back into the fortress of singledom I have built for myself.

Soak in your own denial about what you’re doing. Justify it rather than just shrugging it off. You had a hard week, you just don’t feel like going out, you’ve earned this.

When you give away your clothes sometimes it can just be that, but most of the time it’s giving away a part of yourself. You’re saying: “Here is this nostalgia. And I don’t want it anymore.”

But this sex was different.


Your friend not only gets the snail mail, and the shout out on Instagram, but you send them a present and a text and you celebrate with them as much as you can even if that celebration doesn’t include a plane ticket.