o i feel so tender lately ! am I the strong, silent type yet? cue laugh track. of course I missed my newsletter last week because I went on a vacation (now, and only now, have you heard everything) for a belated 30th bday trip for my beloved. the sheer idea of vacation is so sitcom-adjacent, but that’s what I did. ultimately, I went for pleasure and left business behind for a few days. we flew to LA, rented a house in Ojai, and then drove up the PCH to SF to visit my lover’s sister (Play Title Alert). Whenever I land to LA from NYC I say out loud “we could be in Paris right now if we had gone the other way. I should have gone to Paris. That’s where I should have gone.” as I turn my phone off airplane mode to reveal one American text message from the CVS.
our trip was fab, however. I feel very lucky and loved. I am now drained and california is still california (surprisingly cold & sporadically gorgeous). the pandemic taught me how to love time alone and after a week of much-needed social engagements I am currently high off the thrill of being solo in bed, pantless and post-bath. being lonely in new york is more romantic than being lonely in california or anywhere for that matter <3
moments ago, after a hearty cup of smooth move tea, I was feeling tender thinking about the much discussed “end of the pandemic” and remembered a short essay I wrote about a year ago on a whim that never went anywhere. what are newsletters for if not for sharing essays you forgot you wrote that are no longer relevant but still ring true to you and your heart?
anyways, it’s about my two favorite things: food & love. how simple is that? yet we find ways to want………
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True Life: My Boyfriend Doesn’t Like Pasta
5/28/20
Last night I got overheated while trying to absorb the central tenets of the real estate market via the Netflix program “Selling Sunset” as I sipped my second 16oz craft IPA of the evening. Instead of getting up to turn the fan on, I took off the filthy blouse I’ve been wearing for the past six days and kind of just draped it over my tits (scientific term) as I continued slurping my liquid bread. I say this not to arouse you sensually, but to give you a sense of my current willingness to be a productive member of society.
Before quarantine, or as critics and fans alike are calling it, “quar,” I loved my life—screaming about my butthole on stage every Wednesday night at Club Cumming in the East Village, walking past the Greenwich Ave Equinox I pay for to get a bagel with butter at Grounded, jetting off to London to flirt with people who say “squirrel” weird. In The Producers, when Leo Bloom screams “stop the world I want to get on!” I used to think “it me!” But now, I spend my days watching old seasons of Love Island and YouTube watercolor tutorials where a woman named Camantha says that painting a sunflower from a sideways POV is actually more “emotional.”
In fact, the only thing tethering me to reality right now is Food. Food! God really had a treat up her beak when she created food. From an early age, I always thought the height of luxury to be a languid meal of Fettucine Alfredo by candlelight on a white tablecloth. So, when I mentioned I was excited to cook Fettucine Alfredo for dinner a few weeks ago, I was taken aback when my boyfriend seemed less than enthused. “I’m just not crazy about pasta,” he said. Not crazy about pasta? I turned to the nearest mirror and squawked, “honey, blink twice if you’re okay!” Who doesn’t like pasta? It’s categorically exquisite—like orgasms or the way Camantha captures the lilt of a lavender bunch. It’s a hug for your mouth. It’s simple and elegant, like the time I responded to a breakup text with the nail polish emoji. How could my dear partner in quar not feel as I do? I had no choice but to take it personally! How else are you supposed to take things?
I took a second to reflect (for dramatic effect of course) and realized that maybe…just maybe…this wasn’t that big of a deal. After all, there’s so much we don’t have in common. He’s obsessed with rap; I only listen to music that sounds like Adam Driver laughing in a canoe. He cares about sports; I only care about myself. He knows about Joe Rogan; I only care about myself. So I figure I’ll just add pasta to the list of things we’re allowed to feel differently about as we sit side by side on the couch, loving each other.
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here’s some pics from our trip <3 I LOVE U!
Thanks for reading sweeties. As always, this newsletter is free, but if you subscribe, 100% of proceeds go towards The Loveland Foundation, which helps fund therapy for Black women and girls.
not liking pasta......... i really used to respect brian