Today I saw the first adult boyfriend I've ever had. It had been over two and a half years since I saw him last.
I've never had any partner treat me better than he did and I honestly cannot say a bad thing about him- and I am usually venomous enough for all of us.

I went down to the four corners in our little seaside town, where a festival was being held. He was playing with his band and he got me all soakey with his guitar playing. I was not sure whether to flee in anxious dread or begin to cry, so I chose neither of those and just enjoyed his set, staring and smiling at him as he played and hundreds of hours of memories came rushing back.
I walked home as soon as he was done and have been thinking of him since. We sent each other a few texts this evening, very platonic and friendly.
But what I really want to text him is: I am done, I've gotten out of my system all that I needed to. I am ready for you again. Dump your lady and I promise I will be yours for life.

And I mean it.

I must have some sort of disease that causes me to be this impassioned and emotive all the time.



But for real, I am going to say that to him. Except I'll do it in person.
I hate every goddamn boyfriend I have now, they are all the worst in their own terrible and boring ways. Hate them.

HOW DID THEY KNOW

I just spent the past week of my life with a severe allergic reaction to my medication, and being heavily medicated in a an effort to subdue the painfully itchy hives and rash all the fuck over my body, and thinking what a terrible way this would be for me to die. And as I ate lunch in long sleeves and jeans in the sweltering heat of Central Park, I got melancholy and a little nostalgic about my childhood as I prepared for death which I was sure was coming for me, because even my scalp was itchy and after I ate my lips would get really red and it was NOT ATTRACTIVE.
But I also thought about my best friend from childhood, who is still one of the most important people in the world, not least because we both grew up without a whole lot of money around families that seemed to have too much money, and because when I needed an escape from my own morose self and the stress of my family, she was there to restore my sanity. Every time I talk to her, I feel warm and happy and I feel eight years old again, sitting at her dinner table, gleefully eating white people food (salad and grilled chicken and ice tea) by candlelight and then falling asleep on the couch to Ghostbusters. I treasure her because she traveled with me through time. We became, or are becoming, adults together, but more importantly she reminds me of how I grew into my own skin. She is one of the last people who knew my father, which feels weird to say and even weirder to think about. One time, my dad beat her in arm wrestling with one finger. When she ate dinner at my house, she didn't flinch at our weird soups, the fact that we had two forks in the entire house, or that everyone chewed with their mouths open. We were endlessly jealous of the way we were beloved by each others' parents and how they wished we would behave like the other. I took my shoes off by the door at her house and her mother swooned, she ate two bowls of rice in a sitting and my parents cried tears of joy. I like to think that when we're older and have kids of our own, we'll be able to casually drop by each others' homes for dinners, drink together and eat melty Reisen, and then cry together while we watch Mulan.