Official website for humorist, Twitterist [it is so a word] and occasional fiction writer Benjamin Kissell.
Follow me on Twitter (praetor1983) for occasion daily bon mots.
Love: -Lifts us up where we belong. -Will keep us together. -Is a many splendoured thing ... even when it's brought into the harsh and unflattering light of everyday reality.
Marriage is, indeed, what bwings us togevver [thank you The Princess Bride for that most awesome of wedding scenes]. Whether you're getting married in the conventional sense [SQUEE!!!!! APRIL 2015!] or living in sin with a safety pin waiting for him to put a ring on it, marriage is the true-bonding of a household.
Having found the man I intend to spend the rest of my life with a whiles back, we decided to move in together last summer and began what could - charitably - be called "a f#@king insane" amount of packing and merging: You see, we're both consumate packrats [read: not quite hoarders, as we only have the one cat who is quite alive and not squished under a box somewhere, thank you ] who've yet to meet a vintage action figure, series of humor/sci-fi/fantasy novels or X-Mencomic book we didn't like.
We lived to tell the tale despite having enough boxes to fill a warehouse and being the stereotypical idiots who decided to RENOVATE the apartment while we were in the process of moving in [why yes, I realize the irony of me mocking and calling the people on Property Brothers who go through the same thing "wussies"]). Thus we ended up with what is affectionately called "Comic/Bookstore Geek Chic" for our place. Warm greys and blues accenting off-white/"antique-bone" cabinetry; aqua/teal love seat and small cerulean wingback chair and comic books, 'geek' posters and action figures as our tchotchkes help the whole apartment feel cohesive and ... well ... "us".
Of course, getting there was only half the battle ...
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"Chores? I'm so thrilled I could scream ... oh, wait ..."
You see, despite our being 'the same person', John (my loving boyfriend fiance) and I had a few differing opinions on things when it comes to what makes a household run. And, thus the war was born on multiple fronts and a sweeping conclusion had to come ... Win or lose, the battle was chosen.
Over Vs Under: the toilet paper siege
I don't know about you, but there is only one PROPER way for toilet papr to hang: OVER, so that a simple tug will provide you with endless bounty of soft tp instead of requiring you to do the hand-crawl-of-awkwardness as you search and grope for that elusive edge so you don't end up that miserable "Not a Square to Spare" victim [Hrmm, look at that - 2 Seinfeld jokes in just as many articles; what's up with that?]. This battle can also spread to the paper towels and will spoil any goodwill in the kitchen if you don't catch it in time.
Socks: the vicious enemy of the dryer
We both are veterans of doing our own laundry [admittedly, if I could have someone else do it for me before - namely my saintly Mum - I fully took advantage; BAD Benjamin! BAD Benjamin!] and neither is a stranger to the drudgery of hauling our baskets from bedroom to washer/dryer, thankfully, now my machines are not coin-operated and this is spoiling me rotten ... and yet, we still found a conflict: socks. I won't say which of us was the offender [both], but one of the singularly most irritating things I've discovered in the world is having to unroll wet socks so that they are not bunched-up or inside out (to dry more evenly).
Inside the sink or beside it: When dishes clash and clutter
No matter who I've lived with in the past, friend or family, no one has come to a consensus of where and how long it is socially acceptable to leave dirty dishes. In the sink? Beside the sink? For a few minutes? Hours? Days? Early on in our relationship a friend told John the secret to getting me to do dishes: make me angry/pick a fight. [Apparently I only get into the dish-washing zone when I'm pissed off; weird.] Neither one of us has been consistent in this - both occasionally light-heartedly mocking the other for leaving a pile in one such place or the other.
This battle is a draw - you could say we both win, but since this involves washing dishes let's be honest, nobody does.
I am insanely competetive when it comes to board games like Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly and Mad Gab. 'Nuff said.
My thoughts at the beginning of any board game ...
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At the end of the day and the small battles - win or lose - I am happy to lean back and muse: for love and marriage; for better and for worse my life and his are tied together forever ... and I? Am very okay with this.
Something to Take the Edge Off [i.e. coping with another birthday]
Benjamin Kissell
These little f#@kers SOO aren't going for .99 apiece on eBay these days ...
To declare a simple truism [and homage my love for Jane Austen wit]:
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a person in possession of a looming birthday must be in want of a cake or party. However little known the feelings or views of such a person may be on his or her first entering the birthday month, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding friends and families, that the birthday is considered the rightful property of some one or other of themselves.
... That is to say: whether I like it or not, my 31st birthday is here and whether I'm ready or not, we're celebrating it.
Keep in mind, there is a ridiculously high standard set by the bar of last year's birthday (my first with my amazing boyfriend fiance John); an 80's cartoons themed all-day costume party. We co-hosted as Skeletor (him) and She-Ra (me) - with decor in various shades of neon and crepe, vintage toys and books scattered around the living room and friends and family alike attending in costume. We had the Mario Bros., a Treestar, Rainbow Brite, Miss Piggy, Care Bears and Carmen Sandiego (from the game cartoons in the 80's). It was amazeballs. It was stupendous. It was ... a lot to live up to.
Like ... a f#@king lot.
I didn't even try to compete with it for John's birthday this year and was completely okay/very happy to let my 31st birthday slide by quietly - accepting the occasional gift and Facebook or Tweet well-wish. Of course ... well ... you knew it couldn't be that easy. Instead, I am facing down my 31st birthday [trust me, 31 is actually not that scary at all ... except that it firmly entrenches me in my 30s and I can no longer claim that I am 'just out of my 20s'] and having a dual celebration Pizza Party/Arcades of the 80's themed birthday party shared with one of my best friends. Full-on mocking the idea of maturity going hand-in-hand with age.
If you were curious, yes I was Jerome ... sans the class, skill and bow-tie.
Why a pizza party?
One could assume it's because (in theory) pizza parties are more affordable to throw than a traditional birthday party - of course, one would be wrong when said party is thrown at home [between decorations, food and recovery-from-last-minute-cleaning-via-online-shopping]. It's because we had our childhood heydays in the 80's and both my amazing boyfriend fiance John and I have rather fuzzily-warm-and-friendly memories of just these sorts of parties. Also? What was a more fan-f#@king-tastic way to have a birthday circa 1987 -88 than a pizza party at Pizza Hut?
Go on, think about it. I'll wait.
*waiting*
*still waiting*
See? Nothing. Told you - there wasn't.
And because we're not about to put the sheer awesomeness of a bunch of 30+ year old friends and family celebrating like it's 1988 on-display in the mess that has become Pizza Hut [I'm sorry, but their little Wing Street re-launch? No thank you. Give me a darkened pseudo-Italian wannabe pizza restaurant steeped in grease and unfettered teenage angst for authenticity any day] we're doing the apartment up in red-and-white checkered tablecloths, crepe paper, and as many vintage tchachkes as possibe crammed in the kitchen, living room and sun porch.
And no, before you ask, despite the fact that I MAY friggin' resemble a hipster AND I am over 21 there sure as shit isn't gonna be a giant ice chest filled with PBR or cheap wine [although the sheer pathetic-ness of an ice chest full of PBR would be in-keeping with the theme ...] we prefer to take the edge off of this birthday thing not by getting blitzed, but by celebrating it. By actively engaging it. By taking its fangs out at the roots as we mock it.
... Although, if there were to be booze, my Trashcan Blue Mopeds would be APPROPRIATE.
uhm ... yeah ... pizza party ... yepp.
[PS - if I can ever find my f#@king The Land Before Time puppets, you can bet your bottom quarter that I will have some vintage authentic shit up in this joint.]
[PPS - a Trashcan Blue Moped: Monster + cheapest-brand-of-white-wine-you-can-find + Blue House Brand Fruit Punch ... you're welcome.]
MY BIG FAT ASS and other insulting newsflashes ... [a.k.a. my own weekend update]
Benjamin Kissell
Ooh, all the latest shitstorms fit to ... well, not to print, but definitely to kvetch about; right?
Every year I get to run a harrowing gauntlet of Family Get Together Hurdles that togetherwould make any decathalon-minded Olympian blanch in fear and possibly ask to 'sit this one out'. Why? Well, within a 10-day stretch is: Mother's Day, my Mum's birthday, my Da's birthday and my Uncle's birthday (which coincides with Cher's, so it's a double-whammy holiday). As usual, this year to save time/sanity/possible shouting matches my family combined Mother's Day and my Mum's birthday - double the presents and all the delicious cake we can eat #hashtagwinning!
So what makes this so harrowing? The forced gift-giving and expenses? The over-eating? The deliciously dangerously fattening cake? Well, each of these is a danger in and of themselves. However, the worst offender is the actual getting together of my family.
You see, my family is comprised of dangerous folk. No, not ex-CIA Spooks (that we'll own up to, anyways). No, we're a family of sharp-tongued warriors clad in sarcasm, armed with wit and veiled commentary.
As a veteran combatant in the Passive-Aggressive War of Attrition, known to the outside world as "family bonding time", you would think that I've seen/heard it all. One would assume that I'd become inured to the politely couched slings and arrows of misfortune tossed off as "sentimentality" and "concern for your welfare". But, you would be wrong. Whether from my WASP grandmother, my "too blunt for words" grandfather or the constant high/low snark that comes from all three sides (my uncle, my Mum and myself) there has always been an almost- Cold War level of hostility below our love; something I'm told isn't in the standard nuclear family.
Huh.
I know; this doesn't sound too warm and friendly or even terribly Norman Rockwell of us, but that's just how my family is. We love each other - we do! Sadly, we don't always relate too terribly well with one another. We exist in a state of detente that makes the gloom of an 80's Sting song sound positively upbeat. Despite being a family with large vocabularies, extensive literary collections and various highly respected degrees [and JEOPARDY! championships] our communcation skills towards others within our family unit are ...
Stunted.
Stilted.
Possibly more arrested than a combination of Sheen, Lohan, Britney, Bynes and Bieber.
Which is not to say that we don't give it the ole college try - we get together for family birthdays, holidays and, occasionally, just to see one another. We'll meet up for dinner at my grandparents' home [think Yuppie Colonial cross-bred with repressed repression] and often follow the post-dinner conversation with a rousing game of Scrabble before scattering to the four corners of town to live our separate lives. (My family quite thoroughly refuses to play any iteration of Trivial Pursuit when my Mum is around; perhaps something about the whole JEOPARDY! win sets them to nervous?)
With the closeness I've often publicized with my Mum, you'd think that at least our Dynamic Duo-ness would help offset this whole Rockwell-from-Hell vibe.
Again, you would be wrong.
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Eerily, this looks a lot like my grandparents' living room ... complete with passive aggressive undertones to the carpet, panelling and brickwork.
The usual and most repeated offender on this watch list of Passive Aggressive Heavy Weights is my loving Grandother, Nana. [Author's caveat: please understand, before I go any further, that I love my Nana very very much and will kick you in the jimmies if you say one mean word about her ... I'm just aware of how strong the Passive Aggressive Force is with this one.] Best described as a cross between Maggie Griffin and Blythe Danner, Nana is known to break out with such colorful commentary like "Benjamin, when we were growing up the Jews in-town were a VERY clean people" (upon seeing my Star of David necklace when I first converted); or "Lori, I just NEVER know what size shirt to buy you" pause and wait for it "here let me cut that cake for you - you need a bigger slice" and the ever-classic "I always love when you visit, Benjamin; it happens so infrequently".
Ouch. Like a knife-wound to the gut, that is.
So, with that sort of build-up it shouldn't come as a surprise that this weekend's festivities of family togetherness brought out a comment from my Nana that made my head swim in confusion. During the unwrapping of presents and camera-phone flashes my grandmother turned to my mother and, with nary a trace of irony/condescension/passive aggressive WASP to her voice, said "Benjamin's face is filling out nicely".
"Filling out"?
"Filling out" what the hell does that mean? Does it mean my face is a teenaged girl just developing a bra-worthy chest? Should I be looking for teenage-onset acne and worry about my voice changing? My face is suddenly a bike tire getting a quick fix at the Wawa free air pump? I can't help but read into this based on the decades of WASP commentary that have been the basis of our family's communication.
What does she mean by this?
True, my cheeks are no longer the rakish cheek-bones that could cut glass they were in my youth [*le sigh*], but I didn't think I had suddenly developed Chip'n'Dale Chipmunk cheeks in the last 24 hours. Yes, I've put on a few lbs to my ass, but wouldn't I have noticed if that fat had suddenly flown up to my face?
Yet, when my grandmother says this in an offhand comment I begin to obsess about it.
I am aware that between my exhaustive work schedule, my extreme and personal dislike for exercise and love of delivery food my ass has ballooned a tad. My formerly trim 31-32" waist is a tad wider these days [a fair bit more if that asshat scale at the doctor's office is to be believed]. Of this I am painfully aware every time I fasten my dress pants for work and feel their waistband cut a little into the area-formerly-kn0wn-as-my-middrif. This doesn't normally discourage me as I am a grown adult man in his 30's who isn't actually unfit, just not super-skinny.
Of course I pick at this and focus on it so badly that for the next two days it's all I can do not to text her all Shannen Doherty-like in Extreme Caps Lock with grade school-isms "OH YEAH!? THAT'S WHAT YOU THINK!" It isn't until I'm home, fuming, sitting next to my wonderfully patient boyfriend fiance Saturday night that it occurs to me [okay, he points it out, satisfied?]: Nana actually meant exactly what she said - my face is filling out nicely. Not rounding out in a late-80's/early-90's Drew Barrymore way, but in a healthy adult way.
Huh. Whodathunkit?
I guess I just got my own not-so- little newsflash this weekend: even the Cold War had to end - perhaps my maturing body [*heh* try NOT making that sound like some lame after-school PSA] and waistline aren't the only things growing around here?
CARRIE BRADSHAW AIN'T THE ONLY GAME IN TOWN [a.k.a. that article I trot out every few years to show I'm not a knock-off Sex And the City writer; proving it when I toss you a purposefully SATC article to show you the difference in my voice, tone and ... man, this is a long title, isn't it?]
Benjamin Kissell
"I don't know about you girls, but I can't fathom what I was thinking looking back at those outfits from seasons 1-4." "Yeah you do - we were being paid to be walking mannequins, Kim."
In my early 20's, there wasn't a cheap fad, fashionably chic course or retro neuveau tack I didn't try to stay ahead of and yet, it somehow wasn't UNTIL my very early 20's that I finally landed on the bandwagon that the ENTIRE FREAKING WORLD had been latched onto [like a hipster in skinny jeans latches onto his organically-grown coffee] - I found my love for Sex and the City and became one of the herd. And it was fun.
Don't get me wrong, I'd heard about it before then - its popularity had been as ubiquitous as the heretofore mentioned hipsters in skinny jeans are now [seriously, walk down a sidewalk or through your local mall and count them up ... you'll thank me - or be so depressed you down half a box of wine (white, not red you heathen)], however, despite its popularity I hadn't discovered how SATC related to me. True, I was a mildly-fashion-conscious gay man living in a large small-town (or a small large-town, whichever you prefer), but whenever Sarah Jessica Parker and her emaciated frame showed up on my television screen shilling for HBO's newest season of bobbleheads I took a 'Not me' stance.
That is, until I made the fateful mistake that haunted my mother for weeks afterward ... I caught the first mini-marathon when TBS began airing it [I may have subjected her to a viewing of the entire first season when I ran out and bought it on dvd the next day ... 8+ years later and I'm not sure if she's forgiven me yet].
By 2008 and the release of the first SATC movie, I already owned 5 out of 6 seasons, had a myriad of pink and high heel-themed accoutrements and had discovered a love of all things chick lit [of course, for the last part I really can lay that at the feet of Jen Lancaster, but that's another article]. I was a gay man hooked. I had a sickness and I had also discovered my love of writing in the similar dating vein as the fictional Bradshaw and her real-life counterpart (and creator) Candace Bushnell.
My humor posts about my dating life (the ups and downs) on various pages [okay, mostly my rotating Myspace pages ... don't judge me, 'twas 2005-8 when it was still slightly popular] had garnered me a slew of fans and, of course, more than the occasional comparison to Bradshaw and Bushnell. In an effort to show how different my voice was from the SATC vibe, and in celebration of the release of the film, I penned an article where I took on the role of Carrie Bradshaw in my own little community.
That article is what follows, please enjoy ... and if you don't? Well, who forced you to read it?! Oh, I did? Well, still. Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride anyways.
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"If I pose awkwardly in designer couture, no one will be able to tell I've been starving the entire production and would happily gnaw off the knee of the nearest Grip. Right?"
Cue the “dah, dah dah, dah dahdahdah dah …"
Fredericksburg
is a moderate city, in the picturesque riverside of the Rappahannock,
and in that city, there are thousands and thousands of single people,
all colliding in an attempt to find themselves and that “special one” they can call their own.
On
any given day, there are several hundred thousand stories going on in The City which sometimes dozes in the sun, but here we'll focus on 4 friends; 4 single ‘girls’ who just want to
make it through the day and have some fun – because girls do just wanna
have fun.
Today is a Tuesday evening and a light rain is falling
upon The City, but this doesn’t deter any of the twig-like
overly-made-up and designer-dressed girls and their friends from speeding around the area,
walking in knock-off labels and shopping the high-end stores while they totter on stalactite heels which promise future crippling.
It's on this kind of evening that these 4 friends – me and mine – decide to
meet up at our favorite restaurant and around the table our day’s
events are re-capped and gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Where we have
no qualms about our ‘kiss and tell’ stories.
.........................
Outside of
downtown lives and works Sarah, who speeds past obstacles and itinerant drivers in her stylized green sedan:
confident, stylish, a sexy brunette, she works by day in the financial
district doing banking work. Recently 21, she is the kind of confident and curvy woman that men throw themselves at and many female
co-workers eye with envy. She lives with her best friend and close
confidant, Johnny, but still finds time for her work, close
“girlfriends” and yet, more time to work her way through college while shopping like there's no tomorrow.
Past downtown, in the western suburbs we find Christany winding her way in her black pick-up truck: vivacious, energetic, larger than life, Christany is the sort of
petite blonde bombshell not seen since the days of Marilyn and Mansfield. She
may be the youngest of our group, at 19, but, don't let that fool you,
she is full of spitfire energy and wisdom, her firm convictions lend
themselves to her stalwart character and a bright future. She works in
the private sector, in her family-held company. Many have mistakenly
assumed that the earnestness and baby-blue sweetness of Christany means
she is lacking in worldly knowledge – a big mistake. Just because she
lives by the credo “a ring and a priest” doesn’t mean, she is naïve.
While
across and from uptown, Nate drives by in his smart and sensible blue compact car:
smart, kind, caring, long-minded and stalwart, at 22 he is the most
successful of our group, working deep in the corporate sector. Tall, at
6’2, his dirty blond locks, short-cut of course, are accented by his
deep blue eye, he gains and garners appreciative looks from men like a
Park Avenue Socialite collects shoes. Much like Christany, he has enough
confidence in him to light up the city, allowing others to bask in his
brilliance. Quick witted, Nate has often been the comic center of
whatever group he is in, and if there isn’t one, he draws it to him.
And
then, there’s me, Benjamin, driving from the outlying northern 'burbs to the chic bistro in my classic clunker – a powdery blue
sub-compact: at 24, almost 25, I am the oldest of our group, having seen
a sometimes-too-much of the world and yet remaining so sheltered that I almost naively
hold onto optimism (an oft-dangerous quality, or at least a
get-me-into-a-bad-situation trait). In the 7+ years I’ve been dating, I've seen so much; yet, it’s but a drop in the bucket to the drama and man-troubles available to us. At almost 5’11
(a solid 6 foot with gelled hair and couture shoes) I attract a
moderate amount of attention from men … some good, some bad, and many just plain funny.
We meet up, I arrive last, at
our usual dining spot. Having just missed Sarah (I wave at her as she
drives past me in the parking lot, called back to work without a cocktail to sooth her), I sit next to Nate in the booth.
Sidling in, I reach for the drink menu as a new and different waitress
leans in and joins our conversation in a welcome manner, enjoying the
banter. Giving her my ID, I decide to order a Cosmo, in honor of the
day, and I lean in for the commentary from my girls.
Christany,
it seems, is in-between assignations with the company, having finished a
job earlier in the evening, she is waiting for the call to head to the
next. Like is often the case, she and Nate engage each other in fierce
(but non-combative) conversation, debating everything from the case of
“nature vs. nurture” to religion. Tonight isn’t any different.
The
waitress arrives with my heavily vodka-laced pink drink, which burns pleasantly on the way down giving me a warm glow on this rain-drippy evening.
Realizing I don’t want to drive drunk – well, mildly intoxicated – I
decided to pick up an entree of “loaded potato skins” to help stave off
the effects.
While we talk and gab, Nate and Christany
trading quips and smart barbs, I fill them in on my day at work,
mentioning that after leaving retail-hell, I met up with my other friend
(the gorgeous brunette, Christine) at the movies, where we shared
popcorn, soda, and a love for the girls of “Sex and the City” (me,
appropriately decked out in pink and chic). As we chat, we also keep an
eye on the inhabitants of the bar, and even note a well-muscled young
man who brushed past us as he made his way back to the bathroom and
returned to the bar. Christany, as the least subtle of us (a feat Nate
closely follows her in and I am fast gaining on), has made mention of
his “gawgeous ass”, to which I reply in a not-too-hushed “mmm”, while I
bend my head in his direction.
Men-watching, intense
conversation, drinks and fun are our norm, and with the weather turning
mildly on us, we are not surprised when Christany receives the call to
head to her next job. Getting the checks, we pay and turn to leave.
And that is when Fredericksburg’s innate sense of humor comes to pass.
I
hug Christany, and as I turn to walk past – in my pink and grey finery, my hair not-quite-as-coiffed as I'd like –
I notice a familiar face dipped forward in conversation, one eye on
me, the other on his dinner partner. Like his hand.
My own most recent mistake. My Mr. Big.
It’s
been months - almost a year - since I cut him out of my life. Over nine
months since last I saw him. Apparently, The City decided I had a ticket for unclaimed emotional baggage that it wanted me to pick up.
Especially if I'm not having a good hair-day, asshole!
In shock, I said the first thing which came to mind: “Mother-fucking cocksucker”.
Hoping to slip away before I'm noticed, I turned to breeze past, tossing a goodbye wave to Christany and Nate. All hopes to gracefully exit the
restaurant before I caused a scene fled when I had to shove the doors open which caused the wind to catch my jacket and flip it open and into my face as my currently no-longer-gel-held hair whipped into something reminiscent of Something About Mary. Flushed with embarrassment, I realize that I'd shoved my feelings about
what had happened out of the way - zipping them closed in a Louis Vuitton suitcase which I'd been doing my best to forget where it'd been left - instead of dealing with and then getting past them.
Nate
calls these moments, 'Toldja So's' – because he usually has.
When I get home, I slough my finery in lieu of comfort-clothes and a knitted cap over the fly-away hair in my bedroom and soon find myself at my desk, staring blankly at the laptop
screen when I begin to wonder …
When we end something with someone, is
it really over? Or do they have to end it with you, too?
Can you present your ticket and release your emotional baggage with someone? Or do you both have to pick up your luggage to let it go? Does the unclaimed
emotional baggage just trail behind you; eventually
going unnoticed until it’s just a regular part of you
Deciding
not to let these questions go unanswered, I unblock Big’s screenname from
my Instant Messanger long enough to see that he was online. Hemming and hawing, I take a swig of my coffee and begin to type a direct and simple message.
Of course, he immediately responds.
Politely
engaging him in conversation for a few minutes from there I realize he
hasn’t changed at all: he's still a selfish and petty, self-centered
little boy in a grown man's body. He tells me all about the cute new guy he's been
seeing (the slim, effeminate boy with cashmere and express jeans he had
his hand on at dinner) - whether he thinks this will bond us or brag, I don't care to know.
It's clear that the baggage has been picked up and discarded on his end.
Deciding that the healthiest thing I can do is to end all contact between us on a clean and honest note, I decide to be blunt and tell him that I
know all about his cheating and the lying that he thought he'd hidden from me and that he needs to be more selective in his
trysts. And then I hit the 'Block' button and lean back in my desk chair.
As I sit there, my knees at my chin and my
computer screen glowing in front of me, I begin to glow in turn. Smiling
to myself, I feel the cold weight of the anger I’d been carrying around
since the end of me and Big lift off. My smile is genuine, for the
first time since his caustic words at the end of us I don’t
hate him.
I don’t want to avoid him, forget him or hate him. I just want to move past him.
Of course, this means Nate was right. Again.
In the end, though, we have to claim the emotional baggage - whether to keep it with us, or to hopefully let it go on its merry way and our part in packing it so heavily. Sometimes all we need is a little self-confidence and the temerity to go through with finding the answers.
That ... and some really good friends with cocktails.
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