“I’m going to be on jeopardy. In like eighteen months.”
We’re talking on the phone. It’s late at night, and he’s far away. I’m drunk and high, laughing away and almost falling asleep. It’s in that moment, as we’re discussing the mundane details of our distant lives, that I realize: we’re friends. Fuck.
We’re both 30 now, which means that life is vastly different from when we met five years ago. He’s heading to rehab, I’m heading to career moves. He’s in a relationship, I just had an abortion. We’re talking about our lives, and it’s not that there’s no sexual tension here – it’s that neither of us are going to impulsively act on those urges in the name of ruining the things are going well for us now.
This blog no longer serves me. After the assault, the STDs, the abortion, the break ups, the suicide attempts, it’s time to close this chapter of my life and start living the rest of what’s out there for me.
We hang up the phone, and we go about our different lives. Our lives are different, so different from what they were when we first met. We still talk, like a consolation prize for the mutual insanity, but I wonder how long this will last and what will come next. I’m waiting for what will come next.
The next chapter of my life, my 30’s – this isn’t the chapter where I’m a sultry sex blogger slinking around bar to bar. It’s going to be something completely different, so I’m deleting this from existence so I can start pretending to be the person I will be in five years.