Melissa Faulkner

I really do love him. Or I love beer.

I want to be single. I don’t want to app date, or online date, or maybe just date in general.

The only thing that feels strange is the excitement I have about seeing you again. I don’t want to turn that off. I don’t want to run away from it. I’d like to get closer.

If you think your day can’t get any worse…it can. Your burrito bowl could suffer a guac-less fate. I may never trust again.

I no longer want to be spread thin like sand. I want to be the ocean. I want to be whole, and self-contained, and self-serving — so that if the time comes for me to love another, I have a vast, infinite well of love to pull from.

I very rarely see the ocean, even when I travel to the coasts. Because “free time” is never truly “free” when you travel for work.

When everyone has a boyfriend but you, you spend countless nights reliving all the memories from when you weren’t this alone. You think, “I’ll be happy once someone loves me again.” You know that’s not true, but it feels that way. And isn’t that all that matters? How it feels?

I guess your invasive, all-knowing algorithms haven’t quite figured out how to detect heartbreak via timeline posts.

I’ve developed an addiction to having my laundry done for me. Not just having it done for me…but actually paying someone to take care of it. Which is slightly different than the unmatched joy that came from having my mom do it for me, fo’ free, while technically being an “adult” in college. That’s not an addiction – that’s just straight resourceful. This time, it’s me just being…lazy, whiny, irresponsible, or quite possibly – a genius.

I definitely LOL’d for the first 30 minutes. Not the “I went shopping and nothing fit, so I bought liquor” kind of LOL – but the genuine gut kind.

I had forgotten about your sweatshirt’s existence. I was looking for an extra set of sheets – inside a polka-dot canvas box, high on a corner shelf inside my closet.