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tis the breakup season

I write a lot about love because that’s what we know. And whether we know it because our hearts have been broken once, twice, or three times we all have, or all will be there. My best friend is going to the most tumultuous break-up I have witnessed in a while and when you become so closely intertwined with a friends’ life their experience becomes your own. Having been destroyed last summer, I’ve stepped up to the plate with my words of advice ready at the tongue because “I’ve been there,” and “I got through it.” And it’s true…as Conor Oberst wrote in Cassadaga “I walked into the winter and came out the other side.” I am here, having been through another relationship since, and developed a whole new different kind of love, and viewing relationships in a brand new way. But as I walk further into friends relationship woes, and stories of breakups, and cheating, and the massacre of hearts all around me-I feel that every single word I have to offer is the shell of that I really want to say. That the love I have spent so many years pining after has become further tainted by my own and others experiences of disdain. My views are becoming increasingly slanted into a cynical single bitter chick that hasn’t heard of a good guy (or encountered one) in well, ever. And so after consoling my best friend for days on end after yet another asshole dude has struck again, I have to untie the knots in my stomach because words that I preach and theories that I believe and strive for, are beginning to float into the cynical basket of “the things that never ended up being true,” forcing me to consider the retirement of all things yellowbird.




This is about…

This is about giving advice to friends, pouring out words of “you should,” and “if I were you,” and of course, “I’ve been there,” when truthfully you are the one that needs the bedside life coach; to prompt you off your ass and into the sharp cold of realities awakening. 

This is about spending all of your energy, 3/4 of your conversation with friends, driving home nearly blinded because you’re crying,  and being in love with someone who hasn’t learned what it is to be loved. Or hasn’t earned it. This is about hearing the words “you deserve someone better,” so often you wonder if you really do.

This is about relishing in mistakes, reading old journal entries, spending money to feel better, and writing only to be more exhausted after knowing you haven’t changed a thing. 

This is for every single promiscuous mistake, or pleasure. For phone calls unanswered, and text messages ignored, and running into each other in public and holding your secret so tight its suffocated. For affairs that you would prefer to be seen as something more pure, for pretending you had something that you didn’t, for nights in another’s bed that grew into your own and had laced each aspect of those fours walls with you and him.

This is for wasting almost half a semester on the internet to ignore and excuse how you can’t find the energy or the interest to delve into a third year of school. 

For the friends that are more like small, but significant reasons to keep writing, keep going. For the friends you say are your sisters, your human secret-keepers.

For the way your stomach sits steadily and your veins pump rapidly when you’re lying in bed and listening to your favorite musicians and going over each of these things that have consumed who you are right now and knowing in every present moment that’s going to change.