I didn’t care the room reeked of stale cigarette smoke, or that the fixtures had weird stains on them from age or otherwise. The firm mattress with a blanket that attempted to be a comforter wasn’t an issue or the soap that fell apart so easily when it hit water, leaving behind a slimy residue that refused to rinse off or its failed effort to hold the scent of cucumber melon. None of it mattered.

The loud hum of the air conditioner that failed to keep up with the building body heat between us, the shitty view from the balcony that may have not been up to code or the lack of towel hooks in the bathroom were merely minor inconveniences I paid no mind to. It didn’t matter because something bigger was happening that made that room feel insignificant.

It was you, it was me, it was us.

Your embrace that made me feel safe, loved, and giddy was the only thing I needed. My head on your chest as I was nodding in and out of consciousness, and you, using your one free arm to play the Friday crossword was a perfect moment. Two lovers on a hotel bed, forgetting the horrors of the world for a moment, and experiencing joy in being in each other’s company. What’s better than that? What’s better than us?

Last week when I saw the Talking Heads concert film, Stop Making Sense, I didn’t expect to get choked up when they played, “This Must Be The Place”. David Byrne sung with one of those standing lamps that was used to illuminate the stage. A simple symbol of home, a place filled with comfort, warmth, love. The epitome of the track itself: Finding that one person you consider home, and always wanting to come home to.

The standing memory I have associated with this track is when [REDACTED] told me he was moving. Crushed isn’t the right word to use in this context because it didn’t properly describe how I felt when I received the news. The news itself forced me to face these feelings I had denied for such a long time. I was heartbroken, and had come to terms with the fact that [REDACTED] was much more than a simple crush. I was no longer dealing with puppy love. It was Love, and I was scared shitless.

For most of the night, I had tried to gain the courage to plead with him to stay. I thought I could be cute, and say something along the lines of, “Let’s start a jazz band together”, or at the very least say, “I am going to miss you”. I don’t think I could even utter that, and the closest thing I landed on was, “What am I supposed to do now?” I’m sure he was trying to avoid the messy discussion of Feelings, as would I, and retorted with, “Scream into the void”. It wasn’t the answer I was looking for, and if anything, it made me feel like I was hanging on a breaking tree branch with my ass hanging out.

At some point, we decided to eat. Or rather he suggested we get something to eat, and I agreed despite the fact my appetite had dwindled to nothing since he broke the news to me. As I was forcing the food down, I heard “This Must Be The Place” playing. It took me a minute to recognize it. I thought he would know the track, and eager to make him think I wasn’t nearly as heartbroken as I was, I asked him if that was the track. He stated he wasn’t sure, and made a comment about 80’s music and it all sounding the same.

A track that summarized beautifully how I felt about him days after finding out he was moving felt like the universe was laughing at my expense. Here I was—making a poor attempt to bare my soul to a man I was in love with, and being stifled by a veggie burger as I tried not crying into my plate. All while this track is playing in the background. I couldn’t have been any lonelier than I was at that moment in time, and I don’t think he ever had any idea.

As the weeks passed, I decided against pleading with him to stay. He needed to do what he needed to do and chase a dream, plus I don’t think my pleas would have changed his mind. Looking back on it years later, I’m sure this plan was in motion long before we started hanging out together on a more regular basis. It was a case of bad timing.

I never wanted him to resent me and I didn’t want to seem selfish, even though I never hated being an adult more than I did then. I’d much rather have him live thousands of miles away from me and still like me than have him in the same county and hate my guts. Something about if you love them, set them free.

The track has become a reminder there is a person who represents home for me. Hopefully I make my way back one day.

A couple of months ago when I was riding the bus, we picked up a man in a wheelchair. His body was contorted in a way that appeared as if he was paralyzed or suffered from a neurological disorder that made him immobile.

From how he got on the bus, it seemed as if he was new to using the wheelchair—it was electric. My step-mom has one, too, and it took her a while to learn how to drive it before she was able to maneuver around with ease. He had a hard time getting on the bus and parking so the driver could strap the wheelchair in. We were at the stop for a good five minutes. It didn’t help the driver seemed impatient with him. Having a bus load of passengers stare at you as you attempt to parallel park into a small space while the bus driver is looking at you like you’re ruining her day can’t help if you’re new to operating a motorized wheelchair. Eventually he was able to get in the spot, but not before bumping into numerous passengers. Half the battle was over.

When we got to his stop, I thought he might have an easier time getting off the bus since he didn’t have to worry about parking. I was very wrong.

As he was getting out of the “space”, he continuously bumped into the girl sitting next to me. I tried to not look at him so that it was one less set of eyeballs staring at him, quite possibly giving him performance anxiety. At this point, the bus driver was laughing at the situation. I had my headphones in, and I’m sure I was blaring something with a lot of screaming, but I could faintly make out the bus driver saying, “You need to take that out to the parking lot and practice!” I got the feeling she was trying to genuinely help him so he could get more comfortable with operating the wheelchair, but her tone gave off the vibe she was teasing him. Something felt icky about it. Part of me wanted to tell him how to park in and out of the space based off of what I’ve seen my step-mom do, but I think it’s fucked up for an able bodied person to give a disabled person advice on how to operate a wheelchair.

After a few minutes of his failed attempt at trying to get off the bus, a maneuvering style that harkened back to the infamous scene in Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery where Austin was trying to get a go-cart out of a tight spot, the gentleman finally was able to get off the bus, but not before running straight into a trash can. I only noticed this when the bus driver went “Oh no!” and started laughing. I turned my head, and there he was: Stuck between the trash can and the ramp that connected to the bus. A group of people outside the bus stared at him, unsure if whether they should let him figure it out himself or assist him. This poor guy was not having a good day.

I made sure not to laugh, even though in my head I was cackling. The experience felt like something out of a dark indie comedy, and I still feel bad even finding the whole thing comical. Throughout the whole experience, he kept a calm and even demeanor. He didn’t say much. I’m sure he was just trying to get to where he needed to go in one piece, but the bus driver and his issues with operating the wheelchair made it that much more difficult.

After that, I would usually see him on my bus rides on the weekends. He seemed to slowly improve his driving skills, and wasn’t nearly as much of a mess as the first time I saw him. A few weeks ago, he graduated to a walker. I was happy to see that whatever his ailment was was improving or he was just having a good day.

I saw him again yesterday, and his mobility is strengthening. He’s still using the walker, but he is a different man from the one I saw on the bus that fateful day.

In a way, I think resonated with his experience. My health issues that plagued me in the first part of the year made me think I was doomed to being continuously exhausted, and that I was going to be bogged down with health issues the rest of my life. Not to mention my depression and anxiety were at a peak. I just figured this was Life, and I just had to get acclimated with it. Who knew a little pill would flip everything around?

The last few months I’ve been feeling great, and that’s something I haven’t been able to honestly say in quite a few years. Life is in an upswing, I’m actually…happy…? Sure, I have my moments where I’m angry, sad, or anxious, but I’m not buried in those emotions. A few weeks ago, I was a dummy and left my wallet at the museum . My head has been high in the clouds these days, and I was lost in La La Land. I discovered this when I got home. Prior to the medication, I would have been anxious and upset with myself for the entire week until I got my wallet back. Post medication—granted, I freaked out a little. But then I used logic, and realized the only time I had my wallet out was when I was at the museum. More than likely, I left it at the front desk after I paid my admission to the museum. After I thought about it, I canceled my cards to be on the safe side, and set the thought aside until I could call them on Tuesday to see if they had it (which they did). It worked out in the end, and the world magically didn’t burn and no one died. This is a major win for me even though it is so minute.

I’m trying to practice letting go of things. I’m not perfect at it, and it’s going to be a while before I get to that point where it’s habit vs. practice. The other day at work I sent an email to someone where I addressed someone by the wrong name. Since my name constantly gets fucked up, I’m pretty diligent at making sure I get people’s names right, especially because I am terrible with names. I vocally started turning this minor error into a catastrophe. My manager heard me, and told me, “There are worse things in the world that could happen and messing up someone’s name is not one of them, trust. You’re fine, it happens.” Of course she was right, and I pulled my head out of my ass and didn’t give it a second thought after. Prior to the medication, this would have ruined my entire night.

Right now I’m happy, and there’s still a part of me that is thinking of everything that can go wrong. I’ve wasted so much time doing that shit. Very rarely did anything horrible happen, and when it did, it didn’t make me better prepared to handle it. If anything I went into a deeper spiral. There are so many things I cannot control, and thinking of the worst isn’t going to change it no matter how much it makes me feel like I am in control, it’s not. If anything, this line of thinking has controlled me.

I guess in this hodge-podge of an entry is that nothing has to be permanent. Things can change. Sometimes for the better, and sometimes for the worst. Bad things will happen, that’s just life. But good things will happen, too. Life is too damn short to be worrying about things that haven’t happened, and may never happen. The world is a mess as is, I don’t need to be messy along with it.

Lately I’ve been wondering if there is something cosmic out there that goes beyond what I can see with my own two eyes. I finished the book, Find Me, the sequel to Call Me By Your Name, and at one point Elio mentions how he goes to a certain wall where he and Oliver spent time together and he talks to the wall as if he were talking to Oliver, wanting him to come find him. He feels his presence, and sometimes can sense Oliver answering back. Oliver hears the call, and heads to Italy to find Elio.

There are things I will never understand. Circumstances that may be excused as coincidental, but could be some cosmic force, working its magic to make things happen. Who am I to say otherwise? Feelings are hardly enough physical evidence to prove something true, but it’s strong enough to make you wonder.

I do understand that deep connection with another person. I’m not sure if he can hear me in some fashion when he’s alone, but sometimes I will feel a deep longing, and I’ll miss him more than usual, and I have to wonder if that’s his feelings I am sensing on my end, or if my own longing is making me believe it’s him, crying out for me.

Sex has been on the brain a lot lately, but sex with one person in particular has been on my brain. Even in my fantasies, I’m still monogamous. I can’t recall the last time I thought about having sex with any other person other than him.

Maybe it’s the summer heat bringing this on. I remember reading somewhere people get hornier in the Summer, although the thought of having sex when it’s 90 and humid sounds like a bad time unless we are in an air conditioned space or fucking in a walk-in freezer.

Being more active also makes you horny. I have been walking a lot the last couple of weeks. Per my iPhone, my step count has been averaging around 8k, although I hear pedometers on your phone are off by 20%. Either way, it’s been a lot of walking. I’m actually annoyed today because we are experiencing bad winds and rainfall from Hurricane Hilary, which has forced me to stay home instead of going to the movies to watch Heaven’s Gate.

It’s been a busy month for me. I’ve barely been home. If I’m not at work, I’m at the movie theater. And if I’m not in the movie theater, I’m in the park reading or at the brewery reading. I’ve had plenty of fantasies about him, and reading with him. I don’t want to break out a Millennialism or sound like a Sapiosexual by saying “Reading is sexy”, but it can be sexy if you read within close proximity of one another, which we have done in the past. What made that experience exciting for me was how we inched closer to one another, in the middle of a bar, surrounded by a whole bunch of people. It felt like a weird game of intellectual foreplay that only we were aware of. Maybe that’s why I fantasize about reading with him a lot.

By the time I get home, I’m exhausted and too tired to even break out my vibrator, ignoring my sexual needs, telling myself I’ll do it the next day, hoping I will be less tired to please myself. Instead I just go straight to bed, hoping a dream will elicit a response within me, and I’ll have a hot enough dream where I can just come. It’s been a while since I’ve had one of those.

I’ve been reading Find Me, the sequel to Call Me By Your Name, and the book has made my motor run. It’s not sexy as in an erotic novella, but it just reminds me of said person I have been thinking about fucking, which has just exacerbated this aroused feeling I’ve had all week.

For many years, my thoughts about him have been so pure. Even my dreams with him in it have been PG where the naughtiest thing that happens is holding one another’s hand. Lately my thoughts about him have been filthy. In all honesty, I’m glad these thoughts have graduated to a more sexual manner. Dreams of hand holding are nice, but they make me feel like I’m fourteen all over again. I’m an adult woman with needs and desires, and my needs and desires are screaming for him to fuck me senseless.