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I’m no Nicky Arstein, it seems. But I still love yellow roses.

You’re not possessive, at least not so far, but when I set a risqué post to draft- I realized I was curating my smut. That perhaps we have something going that I don’t want to risk fucking up.

This cursed blog has always been a corner for unedited musings, reckless abandon, and the heart-on-my-sleeve ramblings that befit me. A junkyard of brutal honesty. I am a foghorn of a woman, calling men to shore with a warning. The most off-key singer of any siren, the most asthmatic mermaid. I’ve been on the beach, waiting.

Hey Sailor, come home to me.

Best of luck to any man I go quiet on. Your girl is not a gambler. Your girl.

There’s this old movie, this old broadway show, really. Funny Girl. Fanny Brice falls for Nicky Arnstein, prince charming and poker player, he shows up wearing a starched collar and he brings her yellow roses. She follows him across an ocean, wilted roses in hand. He gambles her fortune into oblivion. She bets everything on him, and loses.

I’m pretty good at asking for exactly what I want- until I really want something. Until it’s a thing I am afraid to lose. I am not a gambler. Never take a bet from me.

But, I realized tonight that maybe, just maybe, I should shut up for once. Maybe, you are a man I am afraid to lose.

Perhaps that’s a compliment, perhaps you complement me.

Perhaps I’ll publish the risqué post anyway.

Perhaps I don’t have to be silent for you to chase me. To choose me.

Maybe we should be adults, should talk it out, maybe I should extend this metaphor beyond its grasp- put my cards on the table, and such. Is this an ocean or a poker table? It’s both- it’s Funny Girl. The metaphor makes more sense if you’ve seen the film.

Maybe, if you want me to be your girl, you should tell me before I get anxious and fuck everything up.

Maybe, if I want to be your girl, I should just do it.

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A Gentle Reminder

I dreamt of my mother last night. I had foster children and she was helping me move them into the house. It was wonderful, she was a great help. I bounced a boy on my hip. Maybe it’s because I wrapped the gifts for my godchildren before bed? Who knows. But mom was there, we made pleasant chit-chat, she laughed at my jokes.

Of course I miss her laugh, this is the thing everyone misses about their dead mother.

Anyways, it’s been a long time since she died, and for years after I waited to dream of her- and when I finally did we were always fighting, screaming at each other. Then years later she would appear, but I would remember she was dead, and awake in a panic, hyperventilating, having tried to warn her.

I know a lot of people who lost their mothers, some more recently than others. When mine died, my boss told me “You’ll have the dreams, you know, and sometimes it hurts in the dream and other times when you wake up- just try and enjoy it.”

So, to my friends who are in the same position, I want you to know: You’ll have the dreams, you’ll see her, enjoy the visit.

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