missed connections via Roma, we slept in the station on our bags, it smelled like feet

A slew of red-eye flights out of Heathrow that summer. The days were unseasonably hot for London. Clear skies, mild rain. Skipping the tube and making our way home from St. Peter's Cathedral via Trafalger Square, through Piccadilly Circus and down Tottenhamcourt Road in the drizzle of a July night. We picked up strongbow and digestives at Tesco. You would've loved it.



"How big was he?" Because size does matter, unfortunately.

"Where are the decent men?" Because we're seldom satisfied by the selection of men who hang around.

"What's wrong with us?" Because really, what's wrong with us?

Girls nights are about wine and candor. About all things related to the opposite sex. How else are we supposed to figure where the line between normalcy and crazy falls? Therapy through strings of related experiences. Yes, crazy bitch moments are understandable. Yes, there's no such thing as a platonic friendship, no matter what you believe. Yes, she fucked him, again. Yes, she stayed in an abusive relationship. Yes, for her, sex was just sex, but for her, it wasn't. Yes, she hooked up with a man who was taken. Yes, some guys are assholes. No, it doesn't have to be that complicated. Yes, love is blind.




"He ruined sex for me."



The thought occurred to me for the first time tonight.

I don't know what it was.

In retrospect, you mattered a hell of a lot more than I ever admitted.