Reily, My Ex

I had dinner with my ex-boyfriend, Reily, tonight. He's the one I've always referred to as simply the EX.
When my cab pulled up to the gourmet diner, I stepped out, called his name out, and ran to him to give him a hug.

I pulled back from the hug and absorbed the beauty of his face. The bright sweet eyes, his stubble, and the warm effusive way he smiles at me when we're not fighting.

We're at a strange point in our friendship because we both have finally taken the steps to move on. More than dating other people, its a sense of finality that hangs between us- a sense that we'll be just friends, and nothing more.

Over dinner we talked about work, or rather how talking about work seems to stress me out, and we talked about our love lives.

The subject of your love life is tricky with any ex, but its especially strange with Reilly because as insane as it sounds, I'm still in love with him. In love with him like an alcoholic is in love with liquor. I know the relationship is horrible for me. We fight. We bicker. I break out. And all of our friends plead for us to break-up for good.

But as we spoke about the new men in our lives, it was comforting to know that Reily will most likely move on, and will find love again post-psychotic me. And that I will too.

And that no matter what the future brings, he'll still occasionally wait on a bench outside a restaurant for me, me always 10 minutes late, willing to give me that big hug once again.

Soak it up

On June 27th I celebrated my birthday. Actually it was really celebrated on 16th. On June 22nd, Gay Pride was celebrated and I sobered up out of that blackhole sometime on June 29th around 5:30 pm....ish. On June 30th, a big gaggle of faggles got into two rent-a-wrecks and headed to Ptown for five days of glorious sunshine and reality-show-level dramatics. Lets just say that many gays cried, make-up was smeared, and we all left that town with plenty of war stories, sore noses, and new friends (and for some of us, less friends)

On my actual birthday, June 27th, I had to run an errand for my boss here at the magazine. I walked into Midtown and the expanse of New York just seem to envelope me.

Those kind of moments happen every so often. When life becomes apparant, and you realize that shit....this is your life. And I started to cry. I couldn't fucking help it.

And it wasn't like I was outright sobbing like some fucking nut. But I was tearing up. I had to wipe away the tears and avoid eye contact.

Because I had one of those moments when it hits me how lucky I am. I've had an amazing ride so far, and if I were to die tonight, I could say that I've lived a great life, and I thank God for letting me be the crazy little shit that I've been. But I'd have to say His biggest gift has been the amount of love I've had. From my friends, my family, and all my ex-boyfriends (especially the big one).

And I can say this after 4th of July in Ptown, which was quite honestly akin to a stay at Abu Ghraib prison.
Start off with ten gays- several of whom are on a steady mix of prescription anti-depressants, anti-anxiety meds, and frequent users of the biggest import from Colombia- put them all together in two small hotel rooms, add a Tea Dance outside on the pool deck and you got SO MUCH shit that I'd rather jump into a porta-potty than go back into that hell again.

I'll fill you in on all the deets later. right now i have to leave work and breathe some fresh air.