I have never been good with dates,you know the typical journals type of writing things. So here I am, so undecided to write a lot about this girl who will never read these sticky notes that I kept leaving in her back pockets. How do I know she will never read them? Because I keep cleaning it off only to find the drafts where I left them.
Even after all this time, I have got to find it in me to love this life. Even after bad haircuts and flu season and nights spent staring at the ceiling, half-drunk and wondering what the point is. Even after my third slice of cold pizza and room temperature wine and pink eye. Hangnails, selfish sex, that little smudge on the mirror that never goes away. Even alone. Even in love. Even worse. The world, my mother used to tell me, is not my oyster. What she meant was, the world, too, is hard to love. Just like I. And even still. Even now, with all my carefully built walls caving in. Icy sidewalks lined with hungry people. Hopeless eyes. Empty hands open wide.
Here’s the truth: she doesn’t love me back. Or maybe it’s her. Shaggy-haired smart ass. she’s too far away to touch me the way I want, even then. A lover whose name I’m only now learning. Even after all this time. I Forgive her sharp edges. She, too, is doing all she can. She, too, deserves a chance at reinvention.”

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