(Warning: this was written in the amid a psychotic breakdown, it’s dark, depressing and low vibrational.)

Welcome to the straitjacket era but I promise as the months go by the paragraphs will show less lifelessness. Within these months upon months, I had succumbed to desensitization, feeling nothing, and its time to FEEL. And here’s the thing, I usually don’t write a blog unless I’m disturbingly upset, confused, or annoyed, hence the lack of said penmanship.

So here it goes, while “Dream a Little Dream of Me” by Doris Day plays on my Apple playlist.

This blog? Way overdo, but then again when are they not? And for all I know, I’m talking to myself, by myself, with myself.

Now, I’ve exiled myself into solidarity like Gollum in his cave deep within the Misty Mountains obsessing over the magic ring but all I have is my word. My obsession. Write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write; thats all I fucking know, thats all I see when I close my eyes, the moment I open my eyes from a blink, when I’m over-the-moon elated, and especially now when I feel as though my last two brain cells are hard at work rubbing two sticks together to ignite the smallest photon particle on the darkest, wettest, gloomiest day of March in California. It’s the loneliest of times, and I make it worse by putting on my DO NOT DISTURB notification, deleting all my socials, disengaging in group chats, shutting down the OnlyFans with the ick, and all in all avoiding society as much as I can help it. And still, with all that, my eyes are deeply hallowed and as dark as the tunnel I’ve been trying to steer out of. Not even my face recognition on my phone can interpret this darkness. Dark eyes, not from lack of sleep but because I sleep too much. And even the parallel world I join at the other end of my conscience remains uninviting. And in between the world of sleep and nonsleep those unruly seconds between reality and unreality, the rapid eye movement period, where characters from the physical world and the dreamworld world conjoin in efforts to corrupt me and I them. Mmm, yes lucid dreaming, but those details will be saved for another time.

This isn’t going to be about love, hate, passion or even scandals.

It’s about dispassion, depletion, desensitization, First World problems, doubts, and undeserving boredom amid a crumbling, chaotic, and clinically ill world. And within this rotating world, is another vicious cycle of the same old social media shit rotating above our consuming and addictive minds.

It’s as though I memorized everybody’s routine, memorized the mainstream media news cycle, and every morning I would tune in already knowing what was going to happen and it always did and almost always at the same time as the day before. The same equations with different variables.

Everything, including myself, was completely maddening.

I look for something to blame my dispassion, disinterest, and stoic-glare, and part of me wants to believe that cutting alcohol by 80% has taken a toll on my bearable but beautifully composed life. Well, I’m here-ready to remorselessly complain about its First World “prison”.

As the holidays crept by, they steadily reminded me of my impending birthday, that would arrive right after the new year.

Before the first of the new year, my mother, daughter, and I would make our customary, unpredictable drive to Reno through the snow as we couldn’t rely on the airports which often shut down during the snowstorms. Though this annual journey is a testament to the devoted love we share as a family, this drive will also forever remind me of the Donner Party Saga in which, allegedly, a group of migrants traveling to California in 1846 was snowbound in the Sierra Nevada mountain range and in a desperate act of starvation resorted to cannibalism having to eat the already dead or the weakest.

The morbid thoughts loomed overhead as the snow fell harshly on the desert and eventually on the sequoias. Finally, we were in like sin as we reached civilization. The coldest knock would be greeted by the warm and melting hugs of my sister, my brother-in-law, my nieces, and most importantly halmeoni, my sisters’ mother-in-law whom we had fallen madly in love with and especially her homemade kimchi.

My sister Anita would throw her New Year’s party, so the house was filled with a frenzy of mouthwatering Korean delicacies, and my five-year-old niece’s laughter, constantly asking if my sisters cousin-in-law was my husband since we were the only single adults there. We chuckled it off per usual and I restrained myself from pinching my niece.

New Year’s Eve unfolded as follows: at 9:00 p.m., I greeted my sister’s guests, a crowd predominantly comprised of couples. I would entertain “coupley” stories, clinging to a glass of whiskey, but not drinking, (sobriety was the quest). 10 p.m., I retreated upstairs, seeking solace in Netflix. My alarm at 11:56 p.m. roused me just in time to rejoin the party briefly, before slipping back upstairs into the quietude of my designated loft. Five minutes past midnight found me wandering through Dreamlandia.

Four days later, back in California, once again surrendered into reclusiveness, the countdown would begin to forewarn the inevitable arrival of February 2nd.

And with that, the day of my birth was spent in bed, nestled into the permanent concave imprint shaped by my body. The “hole” in my mattress my mother pokes fun of, “dejalo descansar!” She says, begging me to allow the hole to rest…which I find silly and ironic.

In any case, the overused hole and I engrossed in The Golden Bachelor, a show featuring 22 women in their 60s and 70s vying for the affection of a senior bachelor, I laughed and cried alternately, yet I couldn’t help but think, “that could NEVER be me! Or could it??”

I received lovely birthday gifts, but the one that stood out the most was my best friend’s gift, a fertility test kit- a stark reminder of the stage of life I am to enter. My daughter swiped it from my hands, opened it and next to the kit, picked up a button pin-shaped into a uterus. “AWE” she giggled. I snatched it back and said we wouldn’t need this kit any time soon.

“When will you do the test kit?” She asked. I looked at her shyly, “Let’s wait until I reintroduce myself into the dating world.” My daughter has known of my vow of chastity and we’ve talked about how important abstinence is. She is no stranger to my journey of revitalization and rebirth. And ever since I’ve had “the talk” with my daughter, I rerouted my sexual appetite.

The longer I remain true to the moral direction of my compass, the more I feel nothing, no desire. Castration.

She hugged me and we stored the gift into my closet.

Now, Valentine’s Day was spent on watching documentaries about scorned lovers who ended on untimely deaths.

I basked in the tranquility of blissful unawareness, in the serene realm of my unknowingness, avoiding the realities of the outside world. War where? Murder where? Rape where? For a while, I was ashamed of this purposeful ignorance but escapism for the moment would be my saving grace. The desensitation hijacking overstimulation.

Let’s be clear, all of the above writing didn’t just snap me to reform.

All the reclusiveness, desensitization, clasping like an oyster; the emotionless steadfastness, and me, excommunicating myself for long periods of time into the four walls of my tavern. The unraveling began, (once again) with my weakness with run-ins, temporary muses, my attempt at something with longevity.

This is about THEM and the possession that takes over; their contraband being successfully pigeon-carried past the confines of my bar-wired ribcage.

Over the course of two years, this is where it began:

Four words, six syllables have lingered in my head, and that is of my brother-in-law, Steve’s voice, as he sipped on a glass of 1792 bourbon with a ball of whiskey ice melting on his hot words, “You’re too picky Angie.” Which followed a sigh.

Naturally, I assumed he was sighing about my ongoing fear of committing to the wrong person.

Whenever I brought someone home, they lit like a candle, amongst the shimmering faces of my sisters, my mother, my aunts, and uncles, and in particular my nosey interfering cousins. In the end, the candle was blown out and lit elsewhere, flickering amongst the faces of his new girlfriend’s family that were probably together, belly-laughing about his underwhelming and overbearing and probably emotionally abusive ex-girlfriend, Angie.

I’m to be held responsible for our family’s “incompletion” so there I stood unsteadily, convicted and reprimanded by my own thoughts, where fingers were pointed at me and the pointed shadows of the fingers pierced through my faults and insecurities.

Maybe judgment was sewn in my mind, the needle pricking up and down, zig-zagging stitches into my conviction.

Yes, I’m picky, but even three hundred pounded, lard eating ogres sitting in front of their Panasonic LCD TV remain particular about who’s going to win Miss Universe.

And if that offends you, so cancel me already. If not then lets continue…

Yes, I am picky, and these next few men whom I spent a fair amount of time with were just as picky. As they should. I know every millimeter of my flaws, physical and mental.

The Implosion of Flash

To reiterate, AFTER having my tantrum-induced outburst, aka ho phase, post Scorpio,(if you have read the disastrous blogs before, they remain as such: unhinged).

I cleaned up my act for the most part. Of course then in-came Flash.

Remember Flash? The tall naughty, ex-boxer who swooned me to outer space within 24 hours only to ghost me 48 hours later? (Refer to blog: 3 Days and a Hundred Years) Here’s what happened: He astral projected back into my peace.

Year 2022, I was on my way home from a date with…we’ll name him after the archangel Raphael, because he was an angel indeed.

Raphael had reserved a gorgeous table at the Montage in Laguna Beach. We talked about his goals, in which remain a mystery as the day he tried to explain them to me. He then took me to this hidden spot near the ocean and we cozied on this little wooden bench surrounded by a sea of brittlebushes. We spent the rest of evening making shapes and figures out of the dark clouds like two playful uncorrupted children.

That night we sat on that isolated bench, we went down my list of things I want in a man: kind, understanding, fair, healthy, instrumentally gifted, gym rat, communicator…etc. As we went down the list of boxes he was checking, we made a halt at “dark hair and features” as he looked dirty-blonde to me. He spent the rest of the night trying to convince me that his hair was dark brown.

As the night was ended we then headed to his beach home overlooking Laguna, he played Moonlight Sonata 3rd Movement on his grand piano which he had painted white, then we watched The Grinch.

During this time of my life, I was still moderately drinking…and especially during dates because of the nerves. However, Raphael did not drink, so I respected the fact and remained hydrated with a glass of water.

Raphael knew I was on a sabbatical, my quest to detoxify myself of any kind of intercourse. So after our date, he graciously and respectfully sent me on my way home. He was on his own retention journey as well. Not to say he didn’t make a move, because he certainly did, however there was no spark enough to make me go against my newest moral voyage.

I was barely on the 133 freeway when incomes a text from Flash asking me if I could go to his Huntington home. He wanted to speak to me. I was rattled. I didn’t want to feel sleazy and disrespect the date I had just left but I was beyond curious as to why he ghosted me.

I rerouted the Uber. We hopped back onto PCH and my watchful eyes followed the Laguna Beach waters until they finally became Huntington Beach waters. The air felt colder and darker and he was standing outside waiting for me as I arrived.

He stood, drunkenly swaying along with my confusion, back and forth.

When we walked in, he poured me a glass of Blanton’s Gold Label.

I stared at the cup in my complete sobriety.

His words fell out distorted and quickly. I tried to grasp why he required me to have me hear the pain he felt.

He confessed to reading the blog I wrote about him, “I don’t think I even knew some of the things you wrote about me.”

And in a sea of tears, he chaotically explained his childhood traumas, his insecurities, secrets, dark secrets, and deeper dark secrets…

I don’t know who looked more bewildered, me or his two French Bulldogs.

It was then I realized I was there to listen. Not to criticize, not to judge, nor to ask questions, not to retaliate, and especially not to tell him how fucked up it was that he ghosted me.

God was showing me, yet again why a 12-karat bullet that had my name inscribed in cursive was dodged.

I listened and watched him mop up the tears from his face. I stayed until he fell asleep. And in my haste, I grabbed a handful of pills from a bottle of ashwagandha on his kitchen countertop and fled. Clearly…perhaps…he wasn’t using them, and I had just ran out. I swear I’m not a thief. Just sticky-handed once in a while.

When I left and closed the door behind me, I’m sure I heard the slam of the door say, “It was nice knowing you!” We both knew that was the last time I would ever return. And between me and the door, until this day, this has remained true.

Raphael the Archangel

As we transition to Christmas 2022, the memories have taken its time to process in my consciousness.

Now, Laguna Beach Rafael had been searching for what he called a “holiday girlfriend.” Whether this was a flirtatious jest or genuine intention remained ambiguous. By his definition, a holiday girlfriend would accompany him to Christmas parties (specifically his own annual party), indulge in festive movie nights, glide on ice skates holding hands, and savor the warmth of hot chocolate.

And that we did. He embodied chivalry, taking my jacket and carefully tying my ice skates when we went skating. We took pictures next to the brightly lit Christmas trees, moments he hoped would become cherished memories, but that’s exactly what they would be. Just memories.

He drove me his Batmobile-esque Audi with the utmost care, as though I were the most precious of cargoes. He handed out 100$ gift cards to homeless people on the streets, offering them not just monetary aid but also words of encouragement. He was the perfect gentleman, ticking boxes I didn’t even know should be on my checklist.

“Hey, do you know why I nicknamed you Puff?” He asked me adoringly.

“I have no idea, tell me,” I replied incuriously.

“Well, the first time I saw you, you had on a white puffy jacket and you love cat memes. So, I saw you as a small, and fluffy kitten named Puff.”

Aside from being a perfect gentleman, he shared my obsessed with cat memes. So WHY didn’t I feel ANYTHING for this tennis-playing, holistic, organic-consuming, classically good-looking yoga enthusiast with deep blue searching eyes. He was everything I thought I wanted. Whenever he saw anxiety in my gaze, he would stop everything to guide me through calming breathing exercises.

Despite the charm of it all, my heart aches to admit that I found myself bored. The old toxicity lingered, craving excitement, passion, and the tumultuous presence of confusion. I wasn’t prepared for the Hallmark narrative. He was too perfect, I began to imagine bodies hidden in the walls of a secret basement. Surely he was the Laguna Beach serial killer…if there was one…kidding.

When I told my friends he was completely straight-edged, they laughed hysterically, as if knowing me dating someone so virtuous was a joke. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was me. I am the problem. I waited to feel something—some desire that never came. He sensed this and with a profound understanding, he dismissed himself angelically with dignity and decorum, leaving me to hate myself even more.

What a righteous man.

The Angry Dr. Green

This next subject was going to remain unmentioned, but for the sake of explaining what led me to my current state of mind, let’s just throw him in. It was an on and off situationship, casual but we spent more time together than I had with anyone else.

Dr. Green, a young doctor residing in Huntington Beach, weaseled his way into my life. (Talk about PTSD on PCH).

Meticulous about his consumption, he had a daily ritual of walking, would reprimand himself if he indulged in a donut, drank far too much coffee, and then complained when he couldn’t sleep at night. Although stunning, he bore a devilish look and grew a bristly beard to appear older. “Shave that beard already,” I would beg.

“Angie, no one will take me seriously if I don’t have this beard. Why do you want me to look like a child?” He’d counter, he swore he looked like a kid without the beard. Younger, yes, but not that young. “It just looks scratchy,” I would claim, and scratchy it was.

Dr. Green adored his mother, a devout believer in Jesus, had a strong community of successful friends, and seemed financially responsible. He didn’t adhere to a gym or yoga routine but was religious about his football Sundays. “Angie, I have to be honest, don’t expect much from me on Sundays during football season,” he warned. “And don’t be upset when I get called in the middle of the night for work; it’s just the way it is with doctors.”

From the moment we began seeing each other, he pinned up a list of laws, decreeing what would be and what would not. It was evident these were ongoing issues with his ex, as you could hear a smidge of panic in his voice. I made a mental note as he yelled at the football game through his TV screen.

I guess you can say it was a cute little fling. The day he decided to open his practice, he met my sister Tatum and her husband Chris, and we celebrated together. We had ice cream dates, met each other’s friends, and he was surprisingly sweet in his sleep. “Let me take care of you,” he would whisper while we were cuddled in his bed. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. When I mentioned it the next day, he had no idea what I was talking about.

This was my fear. When a woman can take care of herself, and very well at that, alpha men repel themselves and feel stripped of their obligations, naturally. I did, however, let him take care of me when I was mauled by an English bulldog named Winston. Dr. Green opened the hospital on a Saturday when it was supposed to be closed, had his staff, who had the day off, come in and tend to my wound. He was gentle, soft, kind, and dare I say…desirable. I finally felt something…a tingling of excitement. And he knew because he was the one who checked my pulsating vitals. I was embarrassed. It seemed like the beginning of a love story.

However, as time went on, I realized how much he despised his medical staff. He was always complaining about something. He grew angry and unsatisfied with what he had earned around him. I began to grow weary, feeling as though I was forcing something that wasn’t meant for me.

Perhaps he felt the same because after a doctor’s convention in Anaheim, he asked to stop by to bring me dessert from the event. He spent over an hour complaining about the doctors he had to work with and how much he hated them. The energy was dark, and I having read much about energy exchange, did not want that darkness within me. He wanted to be intimate even though I had told him of my sabbatical journey, and when I resisted, he persisted. I joked, “No means no.” He was annoyed, and the two years we spoke on and off faded into silence and I never heard from him again.

Lucifers Melody

This next guest doesn’t epitomize Satan, but he does Lucifer. Lucifer, the celestial maestro, was the appointed musical talent in heaven, and so he is, in this earthly domain. While I tried to move past this particular time gracefully, I haven’t, or didn’t, or I’m not sure yet, but there is a reason why I have to tap into this strange, bothersome, and loveless time. It is this that propelled me into my final frenzy.

We crossed paths in the dawn of our youth, amidst the digital realm of Myspace. He, a Finnish wanderer chasing his musical dreams, and I, a curious soul drawn to his musical allure.

He convinced me to visit his house he shared with his band on Hilldale Avenue.

I googled the address for directions, and an article popped up saying Marilyn Monroe had rented the home for 6 months in 1952. Naturally, I was amused.

As I arrived to their home in West Hollywood, my Ford Escape wheezed in protest, and the Mapquest directions now barely readable from being crinkled an exaggerated amount of times. I had just learned how to navigate a freeway, let alone the ones in LA. Navigating LA freeways was still new to me, a student at Biola who rarely left campus except when sneaking out to work at Imperial Showgirls between classes and after my campus job duties.

Walking into their home, instruments scattered everywhere, Lucifer (yes his pseudonym will be Lucifer) led me to the outside balcony that wrapped around the second floor. He introduced me to his bandmates and I stupidly introduced myself as NYLA. My Imperial Showgirl ALIAS. I was MORTIFIED, I quickly corrected myself and said, “ Angie, my name is Angie!”

As much as this time is a blur, I remember the days, weeks, months we spent talking and bonding. We would speak to his family and friends in Finland, and then he would suddenly leave to travel with his band to shoot music videos or do shows, leaving me paranoid and confused.

There is ongoing tradition at the Biola campus where the students say “Ring before Spring!” The Christian students were overzealous to find their forever partners during the Fall, and indeed they did. So what was I doing, living this double life, leaving my campus bubble, chasing a mirage?

When Lucifer left for Finland to visit his family, I continued my semester at Biola University. During this time, I met my Jordanian UFC fighter ex, and eventually, Sadan, the man who would become the father of my child. (Refer to blog: A Love Letter to Everyone Except my Baby Daddy). Across a ten-hour time difference, I shared the news of my pregnancy with Lucifer. I assured him the baby wasn’t his. I envisioned my child as a big-eyed, brown-skinned athlete rather than a green-eyed, olive-skinned, musically inclined one. And so, with a soft click of my pink Razr phone, our situationship came to an end.

Years passed, and when Kamille was four, Lucifer reached out via email. By then, I was working in advertising and PR, dating a small-town guy from Switzerland whom I had met during LA fashion week, while Lucifer was still making music. Our correspondence was light. He sent me music he was making and I would listen and send him my praises. Occasionally, I would hear his music on TV or see him running amok with his friends near the Roosevelt Hotel. It inexplicably bothered me, a blend of intrigue and annoyance.

It was like our bond distorted itself into nothingness without a second thought. I didn’t understand why I missed him after so much life had moved on by. I had no reason to be bothered. I was the one who had gotten a boyfriend and pregnant while he was away. In the end, I allowed bygones to be bygones.

Fast forward post Flash the naughty boxer, post Raphael the angel, post the angry Dr. Green, no one could say I hadn’t tried to maintain a partnership. But that was all I had left to give; that was all I had in me, so I renounced partnership and headed back to singleton-ville, and the continuation of my re-virginization journey, aka the sabbatical era.

I proudly blocked the exes on my phone and cleared my toxic contact list. I was finally happy within my own space, focused, and more transfixed on healing parts of my damaged aura more than ever.

Months of peacefulness and solitude go by and so within the space of my newfound hermetic life, a little ding from my phone alerted me to a Facebook message. Lo and behold, it was Lucifer. I hadn’t heard from him since we exchanged emails in 2014. As I looked back all those years ago at our email exchange, it was clear that I had been more interested in his well-being. But he was the one who reached out to ME, while he had vanished into the vast expanse of Los Angeles or even perhaps returned to Finland.

Anyway NOW, here he was, finding me again. We exchanged words and soon moved our conversation to text messages. We reminisced and spoke for hours on the phone, catching up on the significant years of our lives. Both of us were excited, sharing the intricate details of our journeys and reconnecting on a level that felt both familiar and new.

That time of confusion grew to clarity and the romance thickened with every phone call and text. Hours and hours and hours and hours of phonecalls and texts.

Reluctancies aside, the borderline of friendship and romance became less of mirage, he downloaded a baby prediction generator app and put his picture and a picture of myself to see how our baby would look like.

He thought the baby was cute, I thought she looked…interesting.

We continued to regrow our bond and open the corners of our memories and found room in our minds to cherish each others memories that we never experienced with one another.

He sent me pictures from his childhood: his mother pushing his young, prodigious self in a stroller with the Nordic air whispering through the ends of her bright, white-blonde hair. He had inherited that hair, which remains a crown of golden threads to this day.

He told me that for a while, after he left the band in LA, he had lost everything, and was couch surfing, making his music, clinging to the American dream. His persistence bore fruit; he was now a Grammy-winning producer, residing amidst the palm trees of Beverly Hills with his adopted dog…we’ll name her Beauty. He had made it. They had made it.

Suddenly this urgency in the pit of my stomach. What happened to the sabbatical? What happened to finally being alone! What happened to my peaceful space? And healing my aura?

Was I being tested? Did God want me to make room for Lucifer? Was I being prized or penalized?

Regardless curiosity had me in a chokehold.

So I let the love bombing begin: this was an invasion, missiles targeting the backside of my naïveté; the promises of travels, holiday plans, and whatever else comes with sweet nothings. During the time we were catching up he found my Amazon wish list on my Finsta and ordered my favorite perfume, Yuja Cologne by Jo Malone, the 3.4 oz one, not the 1 oz one. I was smitten, as the love language of gifts will always capture my attention.

So amid the political fiasco that plagued our thoughts and the chaotic propaganda that would come along with it, we had curated a movie list together in our iPhone shared notes. We were adamant about discussing every movie ending as a mere distraction from things we had no control over, such as war. Again, the guilt would wage warfare against my ignorance.

We planned to see each other, mirroring each other’s excitement and although hesitant at first, I finally gave in.

With my doubts came his assurances that our physical chemistry would be undeniable. But what if it was all emotional and possibly a way to heal my past confusions? Despite my reservations, his conviction made me believe that we were something meant to be explored and there was but one definitive way to ascertain the truth.

And so, while refugees made treacherous escapes to safety, Lucifer was ordering me a black car from south Orange County to the sanctuary of his Beverly Hills home.

While refugees fled rapidly and blindly from the countries that betrayed them, we were wrapped in the untouchable realities that remained thousands of miles away, succumbing idly to our first-world trivialities.

As I stepped out of the Uber, clutching my weekend bag, the anxiety of expectations that come with packing an overnight bag grew heavy.

The thoughts dissipated with the sight of his golden head and sly smile as he approached the car to grab my bag.

He still had that rustic handsomeness, if not even more handsome than before. Definitely more handsome than before. (And how lovely age is for men!)

We were greeted by what looked to be a cloud with four paws and two beady eyes. Beauty, his dog, was perfectly pure. I quickly bonded with her as Lucifer poured me a glass of Sauvignon blanc.

The kitchen island was littered with probably a dozen of half-used candles, empty candles, and candles that have never been touched by a flame.

The dark Hardman piano sat at the entrance of his music studio, and at the top of the piano next to a rose quartz crystal the size of a pineapple sat his Grammy award that said “THE RECORDING ACADEMY PRESENTS THIS CERTIFICATE TO ‘LUCIFER’.

He was messy and a little unkempt for a Virgo. His grand plant that rested on the living room window, half a quarter-life alive, and grew browner every next visit.

We landed on his leather bachelor couch and last words I remember, “Let me taste you.” There weren’t butterflies, the excitement in the pit of my stomach, or even nervousness. He had known of my invisible chastity belt, he had gone through his own sabbatical journey, allegedly, and we seemed to be thriving on the same vibrational levels.

It had been so long and the moment had built up, I just let it happen. He picked me up and took me to his room like a Neanderthal. “Wait! If I give you free milk, you’ll never buy the cow,” I laughed half-jokingly. My words remained soundless, and almost instantly, the moral reaper slipped into the echo chamber and revoked my re-virginized card. It was a brief tug-a-war with my resolve, but alas, I was defeated.

We rested in his bed, exhausted heads on his pillows, our bodies melded into his sheets, his tattoos a tapestry across his skin, and sweat beading on mine.

I noticed a pile of unfolded laundry on his dresser, Gucci and Fendi pants strewn across the half-opened drawers.

“Your hands are so pretty,” he said, diverting my attention and lifting my right hand, his fingers tracing mine. “You know, if your hands were alongside thousands of hands, I would be able to pick yours out every single time,” then shattering the moment said, “In fact, I could masterbate to those hands!” I snatched my hand back immediately and we both laughed.

We’re both left-handed. Left-handed people have always fascinated me the most.

I used to believe I would know who I would fall in love with by the shape of their hands, palm-to-finger ratio, palm-to-wrist, nail bud cleanliness, and if they bite their fingernails. For example, the father of my child has hands that reminded me of my fathers. I would tell him often, “You have my dad’s hands,” and he would laugh nervously, “how??” And chomp at the tip of his middle finger nail. He was a nail nibbler, and to me, his finger ratio was the size of his palm…I fell in love with him anyway, despite his brutish hands that reminded me of my fathers.

Anyway, Lucifer had pretty hands, and after we got ready to go on our date, he placed his pretty fingers on the keys to his piano, a beautiful string of melodies flowed out. I felt something. Desire, fluttering in my lower belly, a hunger of something I haven’t felt since…well probably since Dr. Greens office when he was taking my vitals and stitching up my bloody leg.

“Wow what is that sound, what is that song?” I asked attempting to cover my blushing cheeks. He smiled coyly, “I just made that up.”

AGAIN, I felt something. Something about his effortless talent was overly attractive. And that was it, that would be the first and only time he would touch his piano around me.

So now, he ordered us a black Uber truck and while we made our way to West Hollywood, he had friendly banter with the driver.

We arrived at the SoHo House in West Hollywood and again he made friendly banter with the elderly couple that would be entrapped with us in the elevator. The polite thing to do was to interact with society right? The recluse in me would be rebuked.

We had two drinks each and got the check, his card not working the first time, I chuckled and jokingly said I could cover it.

He was appalled, the alpha in him would never. The second try went through. We ordered our car to take us back to Beverly Hills, we had reservations to a live jazz concert and dinner. “Remember when we would go to the Rainbow Room and smoke cigarettes?” I giggled, reminding him of our humble days.

Now we were going to live jazz concerts and having extravagant dinners on the balcony terrace.

That night, after taking a THC gummy to sleep, he moved restlessly, even smacking me unknowingly in the middle of the night. I studied his routine, his sleeping patterns, and each morning he prepared the same exact breakfast. Eggs adorned with Everything Bagel Seasoning, carefully placed on toast. “This is a classic Nordic breakfast,” he would inform me with a touch of pride.

As I observed this ritual, I began to question the monotony that settled into our days. The redundancy of life with him lacked intrigue, an endless cycle that failed to captivate me.

I could write endlessly about the semantics that attributed to our fleeting romance, but I just erased over 800 words that will remain in my cold-filed notes. Because the truth is, there is no detail in life that we couldn’t have triumphed over, because love and chemistry can conquer all. But in our case, they simply weren’t there.

Each visit to his home saw the space between us on the couch grow wider, as if a chasm of cold indifference had formed. He was mercury—one moment radiating heat, the next, an icy distance.

We would walk his dog around his Beverly Hills neighborhood, engaging in friendly banter with the locals. I would envision our lives 50 years from now and think, this is it, this is what my life would look like. And I didn’t love it. And my friends would call me out, “what the fuck are you doing walking a dog…in a stroller? Who are you? You hate dogs!” And I would defend Beauty, every…single…time, “she’s different! She’s not like those other dogs. She’s special.” And I truly believed it. I adored her. But my friends were right, what the fuck was I doing.

As time passed, the courtship faded. No longer did he take me out; instead, we resorted to ordering in, our interactions becoming increasingly mundane.

We rarely laughed at the same things, our humors standing in stark opposition. Little things began to gnaw at me—a hair tie found under his bed, which he insisted belonged to an ex-girlfriend from long ago, and his Netflix account still bearing her name. These persistent reminders chipped away at my comfort, leading to my toxic outbursts. He would counter with, “I worked too hard for this peaceful life to deal with an unpeaceful one.” Forget Mercury; he was the Pied Piper of Hamelin, the man who used his magical pipe to lead the unsuspecting to their doom.

In the end, Kamille was relived, as she was convinced he was a part of the Illuminati. When I showed her an unreleased song he had made for Lil Nas X, she begged me to stay within the confines of Orange County, but I didn’t, I couldn’t until this puzzle was completed, and now it is.

I look back and try to discern what made me upset. It was like the momentum never decelerated; it just halted. Well maybe it did decelerate. By the end of it all, he was ordering regular Ubers instead of black luxury ones. Our final goodbye came as I was sent home in a Mazda, and he waved goodbye, wearing the same gray sweatpants for three days in a row.

Did I get bitter? I did, and I hated that feeling because I know how it feels to be so deeply in love with myself and suddenly feel worthless when things don’t play out as imagined.

I was also left feeling bamboozled, having my re-virginized card revoked. All for what? For nothing? It felt like a cruel jest of fate, saving myself for so long only to give myself away in a moment of vulnerability. The sacrifice seemed pointless, a hollow gesture lost in the void of unfulfilled promises.

Hence, the beginning of this blog, where depression and failure spilled forth like word vomit, painting a dark and somber landscape. This is why it was a particularly heavy read, steeped in the shadows of my despair.

After months of contributing mass to this large hole in my mattress, the bitterness began to dissipate, and I began to evolve into something stronger.

I grasped the corner of my queen-sized mattress and lifted it with all my might, arms shaking. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. I dropped it, thought about all the reasons why I was alone, why it was okay to be alone, and told myself that the second I flipped the mattress, it was time for a new era. With renewed determination, I grabbed the corner again and lifted it until the top almost touched the ceiling. I pushed it until it fell on the other side, situating the brand-new surface onto my wooden bed frame. I plopped on top of the new surface, back straightened and flat. This was my new beginning.

Do I sometimes think about the hole that lies hidden on the underside of my mattress? I do. We’ve traversed so much together.

And do I contemplate whether Lucifer has recycled those used candles that once sat on his kitchen island? Likely not. Sustainability was never his forte; he left his lights ablaze all through the night. And does my mind wander to Dr. Green, wondering if he’s found a partner who joins him in yelling angrily at football games? Or if Flash has found relief with a therapist? And has Raphael discovered someone who showers him with boundless affection? I wonder.

Have myriad adventures unfolded after Lucifer’s melody? Yes, their tales are bountiful.

But here I am, soaring over 35,000 feet en route to Switzerland, beginning my personal sequel to Eat, Pray, Love. It is time to channel this newfound energy. Immersed in writing projects, preparing for classes at Cal State Fullerton come August, I settle back into my monk era, levitating my ass to Europe, prepared to transcend my past.

I end this paragraph at the opposite end of the spectrum from where this blog began, happy, content, alone, and blissfully in love with myself. The moral of this story is try, try, try again, and without hesitation fall in love with yourself before someone else can.

Until next time, xo.

Ends with the song: Sienna by The Marias