All We Need is Love (and Great Boots)

Today, I have decided to celebrate love. Not the love that is manufactured by Hallmark and perpetuated by chocolate and pink hearts, or even the love that is between two people in an exclusive relationship, but the genuine and much broader definition—the kind for which I am so grateful.

And, true to the title, I will make this long story short. Bulleted, even. Let you get back to loving those that you are fortunate to have in your life.

• While I am celebrating this year on my own, I couldn't be happier that my sister has a dear man in her life. It is enough to just hear her share stories of their dates, laugh about their time together, to know that she's being adored and taken care of. I am so grateful that George came into Lauren's life, and I am thrilled that she has her very own special Valentine.


• I am hosting a few of my best friends over for dinner and drinks tonight, and that is just so great. I'm thrilled to open my house and my kitchen so that we can all merge our favorite dishes and celebrate each other this way. I'm serving chocolate mousse martinis (with raspberries, chocolate cookie sticks and chocolate shavings) and I'm pretty sure that at least one of us will say "I love chocolate." That's a good thing.


• Opening today's mail proved worthwhile—I got a small square box from my parents that held a bag of chocolate candies, a t-shirt for St. Patrick's Day that says "Everyone loves an Irish girl" and the nicest card I've received in quite some time. I am lucky to have their love every day and today is no exception.


• My dear friend Jill left me a lovely little card as a surprise with my doorman, and her lovely parents sent me one in the mail. They sent me a Valentine! I couldn't believe it, and can't quite express how good it feels to know that I'm appreciated for the role I play in Jill's life. She is definitely always going to be one part my Valentine—I'm pretty sure her husband will share.


• As I subtly mentioned yesterday, I have a new "pen pal" and just getting the lovely little chatty emails has brightened my days and made me realize that I am pretty awesome. I will survive. And, I realized this week, that I will love again, and that if it could be that good with the not-so-right guy, think about how great it will be with the right guy!? I'm encouraged.


• I am back working, doing what I love, and so far the people I'm working with couldn't be kinder, funnier and smarter. I'm in the right place, and isn't that a feeling we all love and treasure?


• I got to reconnect last night with my good friend, and former client, Melissa who has since moved from Chicago, traveled the world with her husband, and has landed back in her hometown of Sydney, Australia. When we talked last night, it was as if a 17-hour time difference, thousands of miles and two years since we last saw each other didn't exist. Good phone calls like that? I just love.


• I bought myself a huge bunch of bright lemon yellow hydrangeas today, to fill the grass green pitcher that I use for a fresh flower vase, and they are smiling at me from across the living room. Who says the flowers have to be red, pink or white? And, more importantly, who says they have to be sent from someone else? I think that keeping beautiful things close by is something that we deserve, and it makes me feel self-loved.


• And, finally, I stopped into Nordstrom Rack on my way home from work last night, and spotted, buried in a chaotic shoe aisle where only the tall girls and big footers go, a pair of buttery, brown, leather riding boots (with soft dark brown sweater accents), nestled there in the rack with clearance Ugg-knockoffs and stiletto pumps. I picked them up, only to discover that they were the exact same boots that I'd admired a few weeks ago (back in my unemployed days) while "shopping" the boutiques on Southport with Jill. They were $275 there, and not my size anyway. I longingly left them there, but wished I could spend that kind of money on frivolous boots. Well, looky here people, the universe brought them to me anyway. How's that for footwear karma? And, as you guessed it, they were my size, and the only pair in the store. Oh, and they were WAY discounted from that boutique's price. They're in my closet, just reminding me that every now and then, it is ok to love yourself. With new shoes.

See? I am in a good place, and am thrilled to celebrate the love we share with friends, family and each other. And, you know what?

I love myself. And, that feels pretty darn good.

Go hug someone.

That feels good, too.

Step One: Connect A to B

This world is an interesting one.

The advent of technology has made our lives better, yet it has also crippled the essential truths of our lives.

We are so completely connected, yet we still keep our distance.

We are so totally visible, yet we still hide behind so much.

We are terribly open, yet we still seize up when someone gets too close.

We reach out, yet are not really touching each other.

These observations came to me full hilt today as I communicated back and forth with someone that I've never met in person, a blog reader from thousands of miles away, but with whom I was being startlingly honest.

I write a blog. I have a Facebook page. I have not one, or two, but three email accounts. I have an instant messenger account with a lengthy buddy list. I have a LinkedIn profile for professional networking. I have three iPods in varying sizes and capacities. I have two laptops, one on each platform. I pay bills online. I have a TiVo and a DVD player. I have a cell phone that is also a Blackberry. I have photo sharing accounts with Picasa, Flickr, Snapfish and Kodak Gallery. I have a Twitter account that I barely understand.

I text. I type. I write. I call. I answer.

I'm always connected, always available, always visible, always communicating, always ready.

Yet, I find myself still dodging the eye contact of strangers in an elevator, for fear that they'll strike up a painfully awkward casual conversation.

Yet, I still wear headphones, connected to a miniature iPod, to drown out the hum of the buses, the vibrations of my own mind, and most importantly, the idle chatter of strangers on the bus.

Yet, I dodge calls when I am unable to make the chatty pleasant conversation that the friend so desperately deserves.

Yet, I read about everyone else's lives, through blogs or Facebook status updates, but don't reach out to actually talk to those that I'm so seemingly interested in.

None of this likely makes me different.

It just makes me sad.

We're so visible, yet desire an invisibility.

We're so in touch, yet often go days without touch.

We're so open, yet live with such closed minds.

We're so starving for relationships, yet we refuse to put ourselves out there.

We're so communicative, yet we don't know how to talk to each other.

We're so free, yet behave so restrictedly.

We're in hiding, aided, supported and facilitated by the very technology that is intended to create a seamless, interconnected, highly transparent world.

We're so connected, yet so afraid to connect.

What kind of technology will it take to get us to be what we should innately know how to be?

What will it take for us to, finally, be in touch?

Dear Mr. President

I'd like to make a teensy weensy request of President Obama.

Just a small one.

It doesn't require Congressional support, media coverage, lots of zeros or even a fancy suit, tie and podium.

Nope.

So, here goes.

Dear President Obama,

I am a faithful, law abiding, concerned citizen of your hometown state of Illinois. I reside and pay hefty taxes and ridiculous gas prices in your banner city of Chicago.

I wear my seat belt, I use my blinker, I park legally and I drive with caution.

I vote in elections, even in the lame Alderman and Court Judge ones, despite the political corruption that you've luckily (and hopefully) evaded thus far.

I put up with the snowy winters, short summers and crowded street festivals, all in the name of living in this great city.

I read books (and not just online blogs), I buy newspapers (and not just for the crossword puzzles), I watch public television (and not just for the celebrity charity concerts) and I legally buy music (and not just the iTunes free download on Tuesdays).

I work hard, filed unemployment legally, pray at night and call my parents regularly.

I give money to homeless people (who in turn use it to buy not so nice things, I'm sure) and I help little old ladies cross the street and board the bus (and not just so I can get out of the cold faster).

Basically, I'm a good person.

So, with all of that said, I ask a tiny little insignificant favor of you, Mr. President.

Can you please just create a ban to outlaw advertising of all things Valentine's Day? Just this year?

This would include, for your reference and convenience (I know you're a busy man) the following products and categories:

-jewelry companies
-lingerie brands
-florists
-vacation getaways
-chocolatiers
-fancy restaurants
-all boutique gift stores
-Walgreens, CVS, Hallmark, American Greetings and local card shops
-Match.com, Chemistry.com, eHarmony.com and even those late night infomercials for tele-loving

That would be great, thanks. Could you please enact this bill immediately?

My single friends and I appreciate you. David Plouffe? If you're reading this, I owe you one. And a hefty donation.

It would be worth it.

Kind regards,

Lonely in Lakeview

Enclosures: Bittersweets Candy, shown below in this year's "dumped" edition!

Next Up, Skydiving

This may come as a surprise, but I'm an extreme sport athlete.

Don't believe me?

Have you ever tried to ride the 135 bus home wearing stiletto boots?

That were slippery from the ice packed around the bus shelter?

Were you there when the driver took the Oak Street curve going upwards of 50 mph?

Hanging on to the bar with one gloved hand?

While reading a book?

That you couldn't put down?

Wishing you could sit?

Knowing that sooner or later you would end up in someone's lap?

That is extreme...

Lest you still disbelieve my extreme sport skills, I give you this:


Me. Surmounting the crest. In 14" of snow. Wearing snow shoes. Winded, smiling, triumphant. At the top. Completing the journey.

(Of the 3rd hole on the Waveland Park golf course.)

Ok. I am not that extreme. But, I may have to take extreme measures.

I am considering investing in cleats for my bus ride home.

New Year, New Blog Home

Welcome to my new home! If you are joining me from my other blog, "Chicago Commuter Commentary," then I welcome you with open arms, and appreciate you following me all the way over here to "Long Story Short..."

I look forward to connecting with new readers, and to re-connecting with my beloved followers. To explain the move over here I provide you with the below explanation. And, this is to reassure you travelers who joined me from my other blog home that you've found the right place.

Welcome home.

I have always been a storyteller.

It started when I was young, and would tell and retell stories to anyone who would sit still long enough to listen.

As I got older, and my friendships grew deeper, my girls would laugh and listen and provide me with an attentive audience for my stories. However, they noticed quickly that if distracted, or inspired, I would travel off track of the original story to embellish a detail or to expand on a part of the side or back story that, in my mind, allowed the listener a broader and more thorough understanding of the main story. They immediately tagged me a "backtracker" who often got so off track that I had trouble finding my way back to the gist.

They were wrong, however.

I could always, given the chance, find my way back to the intended story, and felt that the level of details only improved their listening experience. In order to keep the stories on track, and to a reasonable length of telling, they teasingly granted me two "backtracks" per story.

I insist that these limitations don't do much for the quailty of my stories, but I must trust my audience and grant them that much at least. I also must recognize that my friends are heavy talkers too, and often stop or stall the story midway through to tell their side, their point of view or their recollection of said incident. My one friend, who knows who she is, always listened intently without interruption, and rarely received much acclaim in this area - except for a knowing glance from me.

As I got even older, and learned the art of storytelling requires the creation of a true two-way street, or a dialogue, I realized that the storyteller must also be a good listener, asking questions of the audience. This communication skill has served me well in both my personal and professional life. I would hope that my friends would recognize that I'm not a belligerent talker, but rather I create a conversation through my stories.

It hasn't ever hurt that I have a good memory, and can often recall a story with incredible detail and recognition, but this too has changed as I have aged. I sometimes now forget the details and require some assistance in my storytelling. The stories can get long, albeit not arduous (I hope!) and my friends have requested that I re-tell the same story often to spark a laugh, a conversation or to relive a moment we had previously shared.

I will admit one thing, though. I must.

My stories are long. Like my blog posts. If you've been reading for some time, I have a way of describing something so it really digs into the truth, or the details, in order to convey a feeling, an observation or a moment of time.

This situation has created a silly little habit. I often find myself saying, "long story short..." before I continue.

It never really is.

I admit it, and am willing to take the blame.

And, use this habit as the segue into this newly re-located, newly re-named blog.

I designed my own header because I believe captures very much the truth of who I am. Featured above, it shows an open book (because I am, and I am also a lover of words, writing, reading and everything book-related), a photo of Chicago (because so many of my stories include her as a central character), a photo of me (because really, it's all about my point of view) and a peach on the vine (which demonstrates that I haven't lost, or forgotten, my Georgia roots).

New year, new job, new blog.

A fresh start.

Please update your bookmarks to reflect this change, tell fellow readers about the move and visit me here as often as you like. I look forward to a shorter, more concise URL and a new home for my future stories.

With limited backtracks, I hope.

Get Outta Here

I've gotta be honest.

I will not be sorry to see January come to an end.

It has been brutally painful.

It has been nightmarishly cold, covered with snow, blustery winds, salt covered sidewalks, negative temperatures, broken down buses, grimy snow piles, dirty boots and soggy jeans.

But, for those of you that have been reading for awhile, it has also been tough emotionally.

One of the roughest months I've endured in quite some time.

It has been brutally painful.

It has consisted of joblessness, financial stress, borrowing money from my parents, filing unemployment every two weeks, the meager check from the government, waiting for call backs, interviews, more interviews, more waiting and more waiting.

Sadly, it has also consisted of a broken heart, loneliness, wishing to turn back the clock, sobbing, questioning myself, anger, frustration, lack of affirmation, unanswered questions, missing something so badly that you know you can't have and self-doubt.

So, no. I won't be sorry to say goodbye to the miserable month that is January 2009.

I just wish that welcoming February into my life didn't include stealthily dodging the Walgreens aisle and the Victoria's Secret window filled with pink and red hearts, sappy cards, romantic dinners and candy. I've already lined up my girls to get together that night and drink too much, eat too much and laugh too much.

Let's hope that this time, too much will be just enough.

Goodbye January. Get outta here. Wave your urban snowman arms one last time.

You won't be missed.

Two Roads Diverged

With advanced apologies to Robert Frost, I give you this slightly poetic, slightly frenetic explanation of the last few days of my life, regarding the job search.

--
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
[two great job opportunities became offers this week}
And sorry I could not travel both
[one was new consumer experience, one kept me as a B2B marketer]
And be one traveler, long I stood
[trying to make my decision based on my heart and not my bank account]
And looked down one as far as I could
[and called everyone that I trust and consider a career mentor]
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
[to try to see into the short and the long term where I'd most fit.]

Then took the other, as just as fair,
[I read everything about the consumer agency's, history, creative, vision]
And having perhaps the better claim,
[one agency was exposure to new expertise and the other was financial gain]
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
[at an agency that is very conservative, smart and corporate]
Though as for that the passing there
[it was in my B2B comfort zone, but would I grow and learn anything new]
Had worn them really about the same,
[where could I really rise to the challenge and step forward in my career.]

And both that morning equally lay
[talking back and forth to HR and my recruiter]
In leaves no step had trodden black.
[I was a tad bit panicked about having to make a choice]
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
[and I had to keep waiting to find out official offers and situation]
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
[I must follow my gut instinct on where I'd be happy]
I doubted if I should ever come back.
[because this is a commitment for the next phase of my life.]

I shall be telling this with a sigh
[more like the hooray of celebration!]
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
[after three months actively searching for a new job]
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
[I had a decision to make and feel confident that I have done the right thing]
I took the one less traveled by,
[and took a leap into consumer marketing to manage a global brand at a huge agency]
And that has made all the difference.
[and I hope that my heart has led me the right direction!]
--

I will write more about the position I've accepted when all the paperwork is final. It has been a stressful week of self-analysis, introspective thinking, mentorship, waffling, compensation review, gut-check feelings and a lot of discussion.

But, know this - my moaning, groaning and moping about unemployment is officially over. I am thrilled, honored and excited about the next step in my career.

I'm back, people. And I'm terrorizing the respected work of a famed American poet as I go.

Published!

I totally missed it, but looky here, people.

When I was feeling particularly broke, desperate and creative one day, I responded to a Craigslist ad that mentioned paying people for blog rants.

Uh, Craigslist?

I've got a blog here, and I'm pretty sure I could dig up some posts that qualify as rants.

So, I went to the site, RantBlogger and submitted a fair amount of old posts. And, I got an email response confirming that I was the author, that they were true stories, and that I was comfortable with being paid for a post.

Uh, RantBlogger?

Yes. Please.

So, I have been waiting, watching and curiously checking back on the site to see if it ever got published.

Nada.

Until today. I just saw this.

Apparently I missed it from last week. So, here it is. Enjoy.

And, do me a favor. Comment on it? Show me some RantBlogger love? And maybe berate the gross guy (who is misusing the Tribune site) who commented on it?

Thanks. And, yes, this really did happen to me. I wrote about it way back when.

Men amaze me. And not always in the good way.

10,000 Maybes

Maybe I'm impatient.

Maybe I'm a perfectionist.

Maybe I'm a control freak.

Maybe I'm eager.

Maybe I'm intolerant.

Maybe I'm an idealist.

Maybe I'm hard on myself.

Maybe I'm too analytical.

Maybe I'm unwilling to wait.

Maybe I'm stubborn.

Maybe I'm unable to see tomorrow.

Maybe I'm antsy.

Maybe I'm used to things coming easily.

Maybe I'm frustrated.

Maybe I'm losing it.

Maybe I'm lonely.

Maybe I'm bored.

Maybe I'm pessimistic.

Maybe I'm tired of myself.

Maybe I'm annoying.

Maybe I'm abnormal.


Maybe I just need to know when it will stop hurting so much.

This One's On Me

I didn't even recognize it at first.

It had been so long since I've heard it or seen it in action. I wasn't sure it still knew how to find me. The echoes of the doubt and questions in my mind had drowned out anything like it. Weeks had passed with none of it in my life.

When I was with my girls the other night, it appeared. Surprised us all.

I laughed. Out loud.

True, real, genuine laughter.

And I look forward to the day that it isn't rare, unusual or symbolic.

I should probably admit that the laughter came as a result of Comcast OnDemand TV Karaoke.

But that may be embarrassing.

Almost as bad as getting my Jeep Liberty stuck in a huge pile of snow today after an interview. I mean it. It is downright humiliating to drive what is probably the only Jeep vehicle in the Midwest that isn't equipped with four-wheel drive.

I bought it in Atlanta, get over it.

Anyway, teetering across the railroad tracks, after leaving the warehouse loft the design firm occupies, I slipped, slid and careened to my car, which was not so delicately entrenched in about 14" of snow, ice and general asphalt-grime. (Chicagoans know what I mean.)

I tip-toed through the snow, trying to avoid my heels digging in too far, and finally flung myself against the doorframe. Wiping the salt and snow dust debris from the front of my wool overcoat, I opened the car door and settled into the leather that was practically still warm.

It wasn't a long interview, thankfully.

I turned the car on, and put it into reverse. Turned around to back up, only then realizing how closely the yahoo behind me had parked. See how he likes a spare tire nudge. (Again, Chicagoans know what I mean.)

I gassed it, and went absolutely positively nowhere. I could feel the tires spinning in place. Since it is not my first rodeo (aka Winter), I put the car in drive and lurched forward. Or attempted to. I knew I needed to create some motion, to rock myself out of the miserable spot I'd landed myself into.

Drive. Gas. Brake. Reverse. Gas. Brake. Drive. Gas. Brake. Reverse. Gas. Brake.

The tires were useless. Is this thing on? Anyone?

Finally, I get out, wielding my plastic scraper (yeah, that's for windshields, Blondie) and headed to assess the back tire situation. There appeared to be a lot of snow everywhere (well duh) but nothing particularly icy or precarious or deep or treacherous blocking the tires.

I looked like a fool trying to scrape and hack my back tire out of the icy nothingness it was lodged into, but I had to try. Otherwise I'm helpless. In heels.

Then I get back in and repeat the method/madness again.

Drive. Gas. Brake. Reverse. Gas. Brake. Drive. Gas. Brake. Reverse. Gas. Brake.

Then, on one of my many forward motions, I actually caught myself lurching, leaning and stretching MY BODY forward to see if that would help. You know, like when you scoot forward a chair and use your body weight to help it move across the floor.

Yeah. Blondie? You're inside a 4,000-lb Jeep. I know you've eaten a few "I'm feeling sorry for my unemployed self and am lonely and bored too" candy bars, but come on sister.

You're not moving the Jeep with your BODY WEIGHT and will power.

I laughed out loud.

The sound rang out. The surprise must've caused a brief interruption in the drive/reverse/gas/brake method, and the car literally sprang out of the parking spot, and dismounted the mountain of hard-packed and slippery snow I'd gotten myself into.

The laughter bubbled up inside again when I realized I'd been parallel-parked in front of the back door of a police station. Complete with a window with lead-plated glass. And curtains. They probably were all inside munching donuts laughing at me.

But, I was laughing too, so that's okay.

This one's on me.

These Small Hours

As a follow up to my very personal and humbling post Sunday night that expressed the pain I have been going through, I wanted to share this. I heard this song on the radio today and think it can say better than I could how I'm feeing right now.

As a meager attempt in my own words, let me say that I'm optimistic, hopeful, informed, comforted and bearing no regrets. It is a new day.

--
"Little Wonders" by Rob Thomas

Let it go,
Let it roll right off your shoulder
Don't you know
The hardest part is over
Let it in,
Let your clarity define you
In the end
We will only just remember how it feels.

Our lives are made
In these small hours
These little wonders,
These twists and turns of fate
Time falls away,
But these small hours,
These small hours still remain.

Let it slide,
Let your troubles fall behind you
Let it shine
Until you feel it all around you
And I don't mind
If it's me you need to turn to
We’ll get by,
It's the heart that really matters in the end.

Our lives are made
In these small hours
These little wonders,
These twists and turns of fate
Time falls away,
But these small hours,
These small hours still remain.

All of my regret
Will wash away somehow
But I cannot forget
The way I feel right now.

In these small hours
These little wonders
These twists and turns of fate
These twists and turns of fate
Time falls away but these small hours
These small hours, still remain,
Still remain
These little wonders
These twists and turns of fate
Time falls away
But these small hours
These little wonders still remain.
--

These small hours have been tough for me, but I'm healing and moving on to bigger and better things.

I'm hopeful that the job front will open an opportunity this week, and I have reason to believe that is true, and with that, I begin again. I will start something fresh, while putting to bed the memories that the last year enabled, the relationships I have made and the joys that I experienced. Those I will treasure forever.

I refuse to feel regretful for sharing, loving, giving and opening myself up to being vulnerable. I know now that I can and will love again, and a new start, a new president, a new job and a new day will help me see things more clearly.

Little wonders still remain.

I'm Just Not There, Yet

I've been asked a lot lately why I haven't been writing. There are several answers to that very complicated question, and my normal storytelling self would want to get into them all, but the simple truth is this:

I haven't felt like it. I'm just not there. Yet.

It is not that I don't miss the feeling of a great post, when the words are spilling out of me faster than I can type them, or the reactions that your amazing comments provide me, or the increasing pride I feel as I realize that people are actually affected by, amused by, or intrigued by the silly, mundane, casual life observations I make.

But, I'm just not myself lately.

On the upside, there have been some good things. Christmas was wonderful with my family and my sister's lovely boyfriend. We lounged, ate homecooked meals, watched movies, fixed computer issues, went to church, shopped, saw a movie, enjoyed the 60 degree days with walks around the neighborhood, played board games and opened gifts with relish.

New Year's Eve was far more fun than I could have hoped for, and included dressing in 1920s garb for a speakeasy party in a renovated warehouse on Randolph Street. The party hosts had planned for rides home, and the warm sedan has never been more welcome. I ushered in the new year with a kiss and a toast with my friends. Unlike years past, the tick tock of the clock at midnight was a blessing, not a curse.

The Bulldogs got a win at their bowl game on New Year's Day. The birthday gifted tickets to "Wicked" were wonderful, and the show didn't disappoint. The snow couldn't put a damper on the celebration that entire weekend. For my birthday in Chicago, the girls and I closed down dinner at the lovely Jane's restaurant in Bucktown, and owned Marie's Riptide for several hours dominated by silly songs on the jukebox and cheap drinks from an 80 year-old bartender. All in all, my birthday was a week-long celebration with family and friends, and I feel so fortunate to be loved by so many, and so deeply. I ate well, drank well, dressed up and danced like no one was watching. Despite the 394 photos I know were taken to prove otherwise.

Lately, the job search is getting better, so that is a plus. I have two final last round "chemistry check" interviews this week, with two very different agencies, and am feeling like an offer is near. I also have two other interviews, one as a follow-up to a phone interview in early December, and one that is a "let's get creative and find a position for you because you're great" kind of thing. So, overall, this week could be it for the job search. I may actually get to open the bottle of Vueve Cliquot champagne that I've been saving for this occasion. The toast I will make, after twelve weeks without employment, will be with gusto and meaning.

On the downside, winter has been rough the past few weeks. It has been cold, bitter, disastrous, brutal, disheartening and far beyond any definition of cold that Webster's has ever drafted. It has sucked. Lucky for me, I haven't had to leave the couch all that often in the sub-zero temps. My car has remained put in the toasty warm garage, and my condo has never been cleaner.

But, the combination of the post-holiday blues, the unemployment blues and the winter blues is enough to make anyone feel not quite like themselves.

Frankly, I'd love to blame it on that.

The bitter truth is this: I'm heartbroken.

I won't divulge the personal, raw or painful details, but the fact is that I'm not quite myself in this role. I'm good at being the optimist. The positive thinker. The generous friend. The compassionate buddy. The loving and generous girlfriend.

I'm not good at being the one left behind. With so many questions. And so few answers.

I don't know how to begin. I'm waiting for the day when it isn't the first thing on my mind when I wake up, and the last thing on my mind when I go to sleep. I'm anticipating the moment when I can almost forget the pain.

I feel raw, opened up, exposed, vulnerable and ripped apart at the seams. I ache. I burn. I tire from running through all of the memories. I have forced myself to delete the images from my digital photo frame, to relieve myself of the 'kick in the gut' feeling that I had every time I entered the kitchen, faced with the past year of my life.

While I'm happy to recall the good times, they are the most painful of all. So much was good, rewarding, loving, kind, fun, hilarious, silly, comforting, generous, familiar, unfamiliar, new, fantastic, crazy, friendly, familial and great. But, apparently, that wasn't enough.

I'm ready to feel better. I'm anxious to feel normal. I desire to move on.

But, I'm just not there yet.

So, forgive my silence. My bitterness. My complete and total lack of ability to write about something else. Something funny, absurd, mundane and normal.

I'm just not there yet.

This too shall pass. Time will heal. Everything happens for a reason. Good things come to those who wait. I deserve someone who loves me fully, without abandon, devoid of reservation, as much as I do them.

Blah blah fricking blah.

I know this.

I'm just not there yet.

So, please—respectfully, painfully, honestly—I beg you.

Spare me the cliches. Save the "atta girl" comments. Keep the relationship advice to yourself. I can't take it. Just say hi to show your support. That is enough, for now. I'll know what you meant.

Trust me when I say that while it means a lot that so many people care, and want me to know how great I am, and how this will just be a blip on the radar someday, and how if this is not right, something else will be, and all that jazz...

I'm just not there.

Yet.