What does it mean?

I had so much fun last night.
Life is good.
I had so much fun tonight.
It’s really good.
But I saw something this morning.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
What does it mean?

I’m curious.
Does it matter?
I’m annoyed.
It doesn’t.
Why does it bother me?
It’s weird.
What does it mean?
It’s fine.

I hate this.
I really liked you.
I don’t want this.
This sadness.
I don’t know what to do.
It is what it is.
Life goes on.
I hate social media.

I hate dating apps.
I’ve downloaded and deleted
no less than 3 times this week.
Is it just me?
I’m scared.
It doesn’t matter.
Why am I crying?
What does it mean?
I wish I didn’t care.
I feel like I’m going to vomit.
Because my neighborhood stinks.
This is life.
What does it mean?

Maybe people come and go.
Like seasons.
And that’s not a bad thing.
Let them go.
Learn something.
Move on.
It could be worse.
At least I was never married.
I can’t imagine getting married.
Whatever that means.
I’d rather run a marathon.
We talked about it.
Maybe I’ll run a marathon?
Where is that coming from?
Run away.

I’m tired.
Let it rest.

I still wonder what it means.

Life is good.

I find myself saying it a lot. Believing it. Really meaning it. I’m making choices that keep things moving in the general direction of goodness. And you’re not a part of it anymore. Life is good.

It’s better this way. Without you. I remind myself a lot. It’s not what I wanted. I got what I didn’t know I needed.

I hope you find someone who is good to you. I hope you’re good to yourself. I hope you find something you never imagined so you’ll see a future that’s clear and a past makes sense.

But if we never meet again, I need you to know that life is good.

A Year at Work

A Year at Work

I have a confession to make.
This is the first job I’ve ever had for a year.
It’s a big deal to me.
It feels like an accomplishment.
I realize in the grand scheme of life,
a year is a flash in the pan
but I’m proud of myself.
I’m not used to saying that.

When I moved back to the city
I had no idea where my life was going.
I was still finding my footing,
gaining my bearings,
shedding my old skin.
People said I could do whatever I wanted.
If only I’d known what I wanted.
I applied for a lot of jobs
I thought I’d be good at.
Including an assistant editor position
but I should’ve proofread my cover letter
a little more carefully.
I interviewed for a lot of jobs
but nothing felt right.
It felt like I was pulling at loose ends.
Unraveling, again.
I started questioning my choice to move back.
I thought maybe I’d take another restaurant job.
I didn’t want to take another restaurant job.
One night while trolling Culinary Agents,
I saw it-
my dream job title.
Wine administrative assistant.
It seemed too good to be true.
It felt right.
I found what I didn’t even know I wanted.

Happy 1 year to us, Parcelle.
A year at work may not seem like much to most
but this is the most a job has ever meant to me.
Thank you.


Why are you thinking about it.
Stop thinking about it.
Don’t think about it.
What’s there to think about.
Cut it out.
Cut the crap.
Cut your loss.
Get it out.
Get away.
Get over it.
Let it go.
Let it lie.
Let it be.
Shut it down.
Turn it off.
Pull the plug.
Look ahead.
Move along.
Take a walk.

The story of us.

The story I don’t want to write is the story I wish I could write. It’s the one that keeps me up at night. The one I keep dancing around. The story of us.

I spend so much time trying to convince myself it was nothing. I’m having limited success. I despise you. I never want to see you or hear from you again.

Lies I tell myself.

I don’t want to write about you because I don’t want to remember how much fun it was and how alive you made me feel because the reality of the us makes me feel like a fool.

I was wrong and I don’t like being wrong.

I want the story of us to be over. I don’t want to feel these feelings or think these thoughts or deal with this bullshit anymore.

The story of us is irrelevant because the reality of us is nonexistent.



I’ve been writing your name
in my journals
(on and off)
for as long as I’ve had journals.
You were always there.
And you’ll never not be here.

I hate it.

I don’t hate you.
How could I ever hate you.
You knew me when
I was shy
and not popular
and insecure
and had hair that didn’t fit with the trend.

I don’t love you.
How could I ever love you.
You knew I cared
and yet you teased
everything you wanted out of me.
It’s my fault too.
It takes two.

I miss you.
How could I ever not.
You knew me singularly
and I don’t want to stop thinking
about those nights
and that sunrise.

Maybe one day
I’ll dream about someone else.
I’ll write about someone new.
But until then
it’s you.

Summer school

Summer school

I’m sad to see the summer end.
It really is one of my favorite times of year.
Give me warm, sunny weather
and I can take on the world.
This summer was wild.
I learned a few things.
If your body says no, listen.
If your mind says go, take a breath.
When your heart says yes, that’s how you know.
Cheers to lessons learned.