164. I was supposed to get married a year ago today.
Sadie, Sadie, divorced lady.
Unrelated to the hot goss but important: come hang out with me at Hoboken’s pride events this month!
I was supposed to get married a year ago today.
I wouldn’t notice if I did not have the recall of the elephant from Watchmen and remember every date, every word he said, how after he left for parts unknown (some hotel, probably a 2-star on the highway, and then his parents’ house as he began searching for apartments without telling me, leaving his empathetic, altruistic grandmother to let me know out of kindness) I conducted the world’s slowest waltz around the apartment, taking down his framed Ray Harryhausen art in catatonia. (The custom portrait I had done for him of him riding shotgun with the Mystery Inc. gang, bedecked in that one red and white hibiscus button-down he always wore, rapt next to one Detective Columbo smoking a cigarette in traditional rumpled flair, was too high for my little arms to reach, so that remain hung. For quite a while. I am very good at buying gifts.)
I wouldn’t notice because so much has changed. This apartment, once cratered by the loss of Matt’s 73 Godzilla figurines, pumps of psoriasis salves, buckets of paint pens, axes (yes, multiple, why), fart smells, resin and reptile dioramas, Theragun, migraine head condoms2 is now filled with a 16” disco ball, Point Break art3 gifted to self as divorcial consolation, an impressive collection of photographs and art renderings of my children4, walls infused with the meeting minutes of weekly 250 dollar, 50-minute therapy sessions, no Godzillas (I miss the Godzillas) but no axes.
I lost 20 pounds. I got two tattoos. I slept with