mercat de sant josep de la boqueria. barcelona. april 2012.

It was the night we raced through the Louvre. We wanted to beat the record, but we didn’t come close. It was more than a metaphor. It never happened. It never will. We didn’t know Paris together. I knew Paris alone; you didn’t know it at all. We knew New York City, but so do so many others. We are not special.

It was a February when we gave up the fight. Actually, that’s being dramatic. It was a fight that never existed, at least not on your end. I fought. But I only know how to fight. Kicking and screaming I came into this world; kicking and screaming has been my affliction ever since. It’s not pretty. It’s not glamorous. It just is… and you just happened to fall in the midst of my parade to the end.

I met you in a karaoke room on leap year, and that’s where I left you four years later. One could not have asked for a more poetic beginning and ending.

“You guys existed in a vacuum, a hole,” explained my friend Natalie, “It didn’t count. It was four years of vapid space.”

“That doesn’t make sense… I feel like you’re contradicting yourself.”

“But you know what I mean…”

“I do?”

“You do. Basically, it does count.”

Based on that, this is a series of stories that don’t count.

Yes, these stories to come don’t count… but at least I learned to love sushi.

“Favourite Food” by Tokyo Police Club:


brooklyn bridge. march 2010.

My greatest loves have always been steeped in a complicated combination of love and hate. I hate to love you, but fuck, how I love to hate you. It doesn’t make much sense really, or maybe it makes perfect sense and I’m just unable to rationalize it.

I love the Atlantic Ocean in the winter and the way it feels against me when I’m daring enough to jump into it, but I hate it for not swallowing me whole on command. I love this couch for being something I see in my memories, but I hate it for the memories I associate with it. I love this city for everything it’s given me, but I hate it for the pain, the emotional torture and the fact that I’m constantly in the need to leave it as a means to survive.

It has been “Love/Hate Week” at work. So I came clean and wrote some truths.

My Love/Hate Relationship with My Size 36D Boobs

My Love/Hate Relationship with My Drama Queen Ways


I’m addicted to open letters. There’s something gorgeously safe about writing to a person or entity that will not be writing you back… ever. It’s like therapy, but cheaper.

Sometimes I write open letters at work. Sometimes I don’t.

Open Letter to Christian Louboutin: Why You Should Hire Us to Strip in Your Show

Open Letter to Ewan McGregor: We’re Soulmates In Case You Were Wondering

Open Letter to Jake Ryan: I Don’t Care If You’re Not Real, My Love for You Is