feeling

While unpacking my weekend bag, I found a single blue argyle sock of his. and I actually put it up to my face in some misguided attempt to feel him again.

One weekend; four days of time together and I'm spun .

Gnawing

im one of those people who reads AM New York- the free daily handed out at subway stations by wind-chapped people.
I skimmed the fashion week coverage and first saw Eva Longoria who was at the Matthew Williamson show I worked at...and then I of course saw a short review of Rodarte, and it plunged me into a deeper black hole of depression.

Rodarte is a Vogue-darling- annointed by Wintour herself as fashion prodigies- which in itself wouldn’t depress me.
But Rodarte is designed by a duo of heavy-set sisters who still live with their parents in Pasadena. And they were girls I used to happy hour with at tacky Castro bars in SF.
Fashion Week is a seasonal abusive reminder to me that I have met people along the way who love what they do. Editors, designers, etc- some of whom I’ve dated or at least drank with on a regular basis who are successful and seem outwardly happy…who at one point were at the same level as I was…and somehow I’m now here.

And this is my life.
What happened?