A Dignified Queen, I Am Not

Every single day I think of you and every single day I think of some different thing I did or didn’t do while we were together that made you think “hmmm, you know what?  FUCK THIS.”

Because obviously it was a big Fuck This from you.


What’s that stupid shit they love to throw around all over Reddit?

If it’s not a HELL YES it’s a HELL NO.

I guess it wasn’t a HELL YES for you then.

I go back and forth between being sad and heartbroken to angry and confused.  I don’t know which place I’m supposed to dwell in until I don’t think about you anymore because I’ve stopped caring one way or the other if I was a HELL YES or a FUCK THIS.

I want to ask you how come you couldn’t love me but I don’t dare because that is considered weak and pathetic and I’m supposed to know that I’m a QUEEN who doesn’t need answers because obviously it’s your loss only and 

this one is my absolute favorite:  IT’S NOT ME, IT’S YOU.  

But also, there’s this thing called DIGNITY and apparently I’m supposed to want to possess it and therefore can not go flailing about all out of control (who makes these fucking rules!) because that will look bad to the person who broke my heart (you) and I am supposed to want them to RESPECT me later on down the road when they’re with someone who is NOT ME!


Have some motherfucking dignity, Stephanie.  Make her your bitch  and walk around town with her tattooed across your forehead so everyone will know that when your heart breaks in half you do not fall down or even stumble.  



And when that man asked you to take your final bow for him, you curtsied all the way across the stage like the good little girl you’ve always been and let him go gently into that good night, back from whence he came.  

Good Day, SIR.

That’s how someone with DIGNITY behaves when her heart shatters. 


What a load of absolute molasses!!!

But, Stephanie! TWENTY SEVEN people on this one post on the internet said it’s true and there was also an article on Medium written by an accountant who almost majored in psychology but didn’t and she said it was true too.  Plus, there’s this sad old woman who writes this pathetic blog about how much she loves all the men who don’t love her and she said it’s true too….


No, she didn’t.  

She definitely didn’t say it was true.

She says all the things that no one really wants to hear because we’ve all convinced ourselves that we are gods and goddesses and anyone who thinks otherwise was simply just too dull to bathe in the beauty of our light so they need to GET GONE.  We have bigger fish to fry than to worry about a thing like self-reflection.  FUCK THAT.  The only person who needs to do any kind of self-reflecting is the absolute moron who could have possibly taken a pass on you, Queen.  There is obviously something wrong with him.

It’s not you, Stephanie.  Of course it isn’t you.  

He only thought you were amazing for a whole year before he met you in person.

Do you think it was your chin?  Or  that you wore too many clothes?  Maybe you should have let your titties hang out more?

But seriously.

What the fuck did I really think was going to go down when you met me?  I mean, the week before you said “This feels more like a dead end than a new beginning because it would be an insurmountable challenge for you to move to Corn City and I don’t want to move to Loserville so…..”

I will tell you what I thought.  Honestly and Sincerely.  From the bottom of my overflowing heart.

I really and truly thought we’d fall madly in love.

Or, at the very least, we’d like each other so much that we’d want to see each other again.

That’s what I thought.

FUCK ME SIXTEEN WAYS TO FOREVER, I never imagined it would be a one and done.  Totally did not see that freight train barreling right on through the station.  I guess I was too busy looking at you and laughing when we stared at that map of Mobile on the wall of that little house we stayed in.

I was really hoping I’d see you again sometime….

I’d give you back my whole heart if I could rewind time to that day in October when you left your apartment up there to drive down here.  I wish when you locked your door behind you, you were just on your way to the market and not on your way to me.  Then your name would still light up my phone and your voice would still be in my head.

I miss you.

I hope 2021 is everything you need it to be.

Modern Day Love Affairs


Do you think people who can write words like

There’s a hole in the roof for the stars to fall in
I gather them up for you

Ever considered attachment theory or love languages or any of the other bullshit that places like Reddit like to peddle as fact? 

Do you think Bukowski when he was fucking one of the big tit women from the race track ever thought “I wonder what her love language is.  I better find out so I can write poetry about her later.”

Do you suppose when Romeo fell in love with Juliet he gave two shits what her score on the Myers-Briggs personality test was?  When he drank that vial of poison do you think he stopped to ponder if maybe he was getting just a bit too attached to ol’ Juliet over there?

If he had, what would Shakespeare have written about?

What kind of modern day love stories will we be reading about in 20 years when this generation of kids meet on places like Tik Tok and their love songs to each other begin with “Bitch, I’m a ghost.”  And then they dance for each other through heavily applied filters that hide every crease or blemish on their faces.

There’s a hole in the roof for the stars to fall in
I gather them up for you
Fill up my pockets, start walking again
I’ve got these worn out shoes



I wonder if you even think of me at all.
Why should I waste my mental and emotional energy on you?
According to everyone on the internet it is unbelievably unhealthy.
It must be an indication that I have attachment issues.

By the way.  Have you studied the theory of attachment and do you know which attachment style you are?  

And while we’re talking about that, can you go take this test and get back to me and let me know what your love language is?  This is super important before we proceed into any type of partnership.

There’s also this emotional IQ test I need you to take and where exactly do you fall on the Myers-Briggs?
I need you to input that into your data when you plug in our compatibility.

Less important is your zodiac sign and which phase of the moon you were born in and if the stars were shining super bright or just mildly bright when your head crested your moms hoo-haa.  Or if you were a C-baby and born during the day, was the sun behind a cloud or was it raining??? Snow?  Tornadoes??  Oh my.  This might take a while.  

You’re super cute and fun but it’s just not going to work unless I get your spec sheet soon.

I’m already starting to lose interest. 

You pronounced your “th” more like a “d” and that’s just not going to work for me. 
You’ve got a hole in the corner of your eye.  You said it was from your mom popping a chicken pox or something like that.
It’s a no for me.
I’m really sorry. 
Actually I’m not sorry at all. 
There are 16 other people in my inbox right now and they’ve already sent me their test results and at least 4 nudes and 12 boob shots so I’m sorry but that selfie you took in the car is just not doing it for me. 
Can you bend over and show me your ass?  I need to know if I might want to stuff my dick in it before I call you later tonight.  


If you spend any time on the internet, you will inevitably come to understand that nothing is ever your fault.  It’s so obviously their fault and you should just pick your heart up from off the floor and dust it off and put that sucker right back in your chest and shake your ass provocatively as you walk out the door and wait for all the man-meat that is now going to appear in your DMs because the world is literally your mother-fucking oyster and there is an abundance of pearls out there just waiting for a chance to do the two step with you.

So Fuck Them and Fuck Them Again.


This is what we’re doing now. 

I mean, duh. 





I don’t peddle sunshine.
That’s the first thing you need to know about me.
If you’re here looking for a dose of dopamine,

please exit stage left.

take a seat.

Maybe a dopamine rush is not really what you’re looking for anyway.

Maybe you want to be entertained in some other way. 

Some dark horse,
some black night,
some stale bread,
some congealed soup left on the kitchen table for one too many days in a row now.

Maybe that’s the kind of rush you’re after

Maybe that’s the thrill you’re seeking.

Check underneath that coffee pot over on the counter. 
I bet you’ll find last weeks coffee grounds still under there. 
Don’t open the pantry door unless you want to see yesterdays trash still on the floor. 
It fell out when the trash can overflowed and we didn’t bother picking it up. 
That makes too much sense, you see. 
And we don’t make sense around here. 

We’re feral.

We’re all the way up in the mess and we don’t bother dusting that dirt of our shoulders like Jay-Z told us to do.


We wear that shit like a mother fucking badge.

We take it with us out into the world when we open the front door and let the sunshine all the way in to every corner of our unmade house.

Our unmade house.
Our unmade beds.
Our unmade lives.


I used a platter from the china cabinet just last night and written in the dust behind it was:


I don’t remember writing it.

How long do you suppose it’s been there?

That’s how long it’s been since I moved dishes around to dust.  We only touch up the places people can see.

You See?

I see.

You used to say that a lot.

I see.

Did you ever see?
Did you ever see me?



I saw you.
I saw all kinds of you. 
I saw you in every way I could see you.  

Unmade.  Made.                   
Kind.  Cruel.
Hilarious.  Stoic.
Brave.  Weak.     
Beautiful.  Ugly.


Did I enter your atmosphere or did you enter mine? 
Did I orbit around you or did you orbit around me?  

These are questions I ask myself late at night when I crawl into my unmade bed after I’ve forgotten to brush my teeth or apply moisturizer to my tired skin.  

These unanswered questions are the chasm between us.   

And I see you over there on the other side but I can’t get to you.  

The chasm is filling up with water.  

And it’s hot.  It’s dangerous.  

It swirls and swirls
and there are drowning promises in there
and gelatinous blobs of words
we lobbed
back and forth to each other  

and they’re so pretty

oh my!

they’re so dangerous.  

We don’t dare take a stick and poke at the beautiful blobs of words because then the blob would just burst and fill this hot swirling water with all the goo that’s holding them so perfectly together.

(All the goo
Is that all the pretty words ever were?)

The water would become so thick then,
like the mucous in my throat and nose
when I cried on that horribly uncomfortable bed

the one our love never got made in

except for that half-hearted attempt
on a Wednesday night
after it all came unraveled.

Forever and ever.  


You didn’t know then that unraveled is where I live. 
It’s where I exist.

You thought it was in a two story house on Main Street in some small town in Alabama.


That’s just the place I keep my chipped dinner plates and mismatched cutlery.  That’s just the building that holds my stained wash rags and plastic food containers who’s lids have all traveled on to places unknown.

That house on Main Street in Alabama is just a shell.


Continue reading

The First Taste

How do I tell you I love you?  What language do you understand?

I’d speak it to you if only I knew.

I know it’s absurd,

unheard of.

I know it’s pathetic,

this silly rhetoric

How do I tell you I love you when you’re so far away from me now?

You’re gone, baby.  

I don’t know if you’ll ever be back.  

And these declarations of love I want to give to you seem like pathetic attempts at holding you.

I don’t want to hold you.

I can’t hold you.

You wouldn’t let me if I tried.

I wouldn’t want you if I did.

Love is never holding. 

Love is a release.

It’s a letting go, 

a protrusion,

never an intrusion

but often a recess.

I’d be your recess.  

I’d be your place to lay down when the road got too weary.  

I’d be your pot of soup on a cold, dark winters night.  


I did not struggle in your web.

It was always my aim to get caught. 


The Last Chapter

 It’s 7:19 a.m.


I’ve been awake since 2:22 a.m.  

I’ve read and re-read the messages we sent yesterday seventy two million times already and will likely read them seventy two million more before I can accept this dark, new reality I have to prepare myself to live in after an entire year of living in your light.  

That’s the pits.  

And it will be the pits for an unknown amount of time until my heart and my brain align and resurrect themselves into an even more beautiful version of me.

That’s what will happen.

And I will shine just a little bit brighter and my glow will radiate just a little more warmth. 

I will love harder and faster and truer.

Love makes us better.  Never worse.

You made me better.

I didn’t want to tell you goodbye.  I tried very hard not to have to.  I wanted to keep you around, floating in my atmosphere forever.  I could have done that.  I wanted to do that.  

But it was so hard.  

It hurt so much.  

The non existent conversations with you, that before had been so filled with life and humor and love, became unbearable.  I knew you were over it before the week even began but I tried to hold on for dear life. I clung to every sign of hope I thought I saw in your words until I realized those weren’t signs of hope at all.  They were just the dying embers of our burning ship, the one we accidentally set fire to the week we met.

You on a life boat over there and me on a life boat over here, each of us drifting to a separate island, our eyes strained against the dying of the light and the distance between us until we each disappeared from view.

 An image of you just now:

There’s a room covered in white canvas drop cloths.  There are several buckets of paint lined up in the middle of the floor.  I’m standing just out of frame.  You walk in, kneel down in front of one of the cans of paint and before you open it, you look up at me with a grin and a slight nod of your head and say “You ready?”  You open all the cans and stand up.  “We don’t need a paint brush.” We each grab a can of paint and splash all the colors all over those white canvas drop cloths until they are radiant and beautiful.  And we laugh.  And we are covered in paint.  And you look over at me and raise your eyebrows and say the only word there is to say.  


Yeah, Noah. 

Those white canvas drop cloths are me.  

I was tired and empty.

Stripped bare.

You knew what to do.


You said it wasn’t a conscious decision to drift away from me.

I believe you.

Love leads and you follow.  You held on to me as long as you could and gave me a safe space to explore a side of myself that I never knew existed. 

“I wish every woman could be lucky enough to experience you.”  I remember telling you that on more than one occasion.

I hope she treasures you for the gift you are. 

Thank you, Noah.

From the bottom of my aching but grateful heart.

I will always love you.

Blood Bool

I miss you.

I sat down to write something to you but something else came out instead.  So, this is my second attempt at getting all this stuff out of me that I can’t keep inside.  It takes up all the spaces that are vacant inside me, like hot lava flowing from a volcano and pooling in all the cracks on the ground.  That’s what the stuff inside me feels like and then I have to get it out.  Sometimes I cry to release it.  Sometimes I’m angry and I yell.  Sometimes I write to you here.  I have pages and pages of unpublished words that I just float out into the nether.  They hang around out there or around here but at least they’re not in me any longer.  I never know how much time I’ll have before the hot lava stuff starts pooling up again.

It always starts pooling up again.

It’s the bad-gunky.  And this is my blood-bool.


Maybe I should rename my blog “STEPHANIE’S BLOOD-BOOL.”  

It has a nice ring to it. 

Did You Die?

I really can’t believe I spent several months writing things to you here in the hopes you would read them and come back.  


That’s not true.  

I really CAN believe I spent several months writing things to you here in the hopes you would read them and come back.

That’s who I am.

Did you ever read any of it?

Are you dead?

Do you know I still check my email every single day, multiple times a day, to see if your name will appear in my inbox?


And the fake last name you gave me because the president of France died on that same day you sent me the first email so you took his last name as your own.

I didn’t know that then.

It was only after you left that I figured it out.

Remember that one time you were sick with the flu (I wonder if it was actually Covid) and in the hospital and I didn’t hear from you for several days?

Yeah.  I thought you were dead.

I called every hospital google told me was around you and gave them your name and your fake last name.  Only I didn’t know at the time that your last name was fake so every time the person on the other end of the line said “No, we do not have a patient here by that name” I breathed a huge sigh of relief. 

And here is where the old me would say something like “God, I was such a dumbass.”

But I’m not going to say that this time because I’m not such a dumbass.


I don’t hate you or anything and I’d forgive you in a millisecond if you came back around.  Actually, I don’t have to forgive you because I already have.  I don’t not forgive people for anything ever.  Unless you hurt Max, then I might have to kill you.  But you never hurt Max so your slate is clean with me.

A clean slate.

That’s what I would give you because that’s what I would give anyone.

Well, not Max’s dad.  I ran out of clean slates to give him.  I was giving him one about every other day towards the end and probably from the beginning too.  He’d scribble all over it immediately and hand it back to me like some 6 year olds artwork hanging in the hallway of the school.  Except the hallway was in my heart and I hung all his slates there for far too long.

But you?  You deserve another one.  

Most people do.

So here.  Take it, ok?

And then you can get back to telling me about Una and Robinson Jeffers and if you ever finished that book about the silent film actresses you were writing.  I’d really like to know. 


Maybe you’re dead? 


If you’re not dead, you should come back around so I can make you a hot plate of fries and feed them to you while I straddle your lap in the kitchen.


If you are dead, I hope there’s some sort of afterlife and you’re drinking Jameson while listening to punk music and reading poetry in bed with a sexy ghost.  Maybe you’ll think of me from time to time.

Either way, I mostly just came here to say

You’re rad.

Like super rad.

And I’m still out here.  

I really hope you’re still out there too.



Remember that one time I stumbled across that boy on Reddit and I sent him a message about filling up pages of notebooks with all the things that stir in my soul and then burning those pages in barrels on the beach because I was obsessed with that song ‘smoke signals’ by Phoebe Bridgers?  

And I thought there was no way he’d write back.

But he did.

He wrote back.

And then we wrote to each other again and again until he called me one Wednesday night at 8:30 and I stood in my kitchen, my heart thumping in my chest, his voice in my ear, thick – like the molasses in that jar on the shelf of my pantry.

And he kept calling.  

For some reason, he kept calling.

And then I got to meet him!

And I was so scared!  

My heart was thumping in my chest, his voice was in my ear – thick like the molasses in that jar – only this time not on the phone but in a bed 

in some remodeled fire station 

on a street named Mobile.



I read one time on Reddit that when you make a dating profile it is sometimes helpful, and also a little fun, to list three things about yourself; two that are true and one that is not.  The idea is that your potential suitor will have a blast guessing which thing about you is not true. 

And that is one reason out of 964 that I don’t have a dating profile.

I’m not doing that.

I’m never going to do that.

But if I were going to do that, here are the three things I’d list:

  • I enjoy human liver smothered in gravy over the regular beef liver smothered in gravy.
  • I asked the insanely ripped uncle of a friend to help me get in shape over the course of a summer before I went on a date with this man from the internet.  He  promised me he could get me ripped too.  And he didn’t lie.  I was super fly be the time the date happened.
  • While on that date, I reverted to a 16 year old girl and ugly cried during a game of disc golf so JuJu’s hard work of running football fields and turning over giant tires was a complete waste. I feel bad for him but he doesn’t know yet so I need you to keep that on the down low.

Can you guess which one is not true?  

If so, hit me up.  

We might be forever.  

I promise not to eat your liver until after you’ve fallen in love with me.


The Summer of You

I lost myself for you this summer.    

“Stephanie, I want to rip your clothes off.  I want to fuck you hard and make you cum on my cock over and over again. But the only reason I want to do that is because of you.  When I rip your clothes off, I’m not just exposing your breasts and thighs.  No, it’s everything.  The way you lay in bed with Max when he doesn’t feel good.  And the way you talk to him.  The way you show him how to love and be kind.  The way you admit when you’re wrong.  I’m ripping off your clothes to take everything you are in.”


I wanted your hands on my body.  

I wanted your hands on every part of my body.

I wanted your hands inside my body. 

I wanted your hands all over me. 

And when you put those hands on my body, I wanted to feel them. I did not want to  think about them.  I did not want to think about the way my flesh underneath them might feel just a little too soft.

I only wanted to feel everything you’d promised me I’d feel.


So yeah.

I got a little lost for you this summer.


But I don’t think anyone could blame me, really. 

Goddammit Diane. Signed, The Internet.

There are 36 trillion self help books and everyone on the internet has read them all.



Not only have they read them,

they have applied them and adopted them and molded them 

into the very fiber of their being 

so that when they go out into the wild and interact with other humans who have also read the 36 trillion self help books, they will know how to behave precisely so as not to show any, or maybe just not too much, emotion because






Flag or a GRF

and we don’t wave those fuckers around here, you guuuys.  

We bury them six feet underground and plant rows of daisies and begonias and tulips on top of the fresh dirt so that when a motherfucker comes along and stumbles upon us, they will only smell the roses, as it were, and not the dank shit that is the very reason for the vibrancy of their leaves.

 Everyone is doing this now so you need to do it too because it’s just unheard of to be 41 years old and still have unresolved issues from your past because 

THERAPY, Diane! 


and work all those kinks right the fuck out because after talking to our therapist for 26 years, we are finally ready to give ourselves to someone but we can’t give ourselves to you until you go to THERAPY because you are just a little too emotional and we are 41 years old for gods sake!  

God, Diane.  You’re so fucking yesterday.


you’re also super hot

and hilarious 

and you give the best head 

and you’re fun in the bedroom 

and we laugh constantly 

and something about you just feels so goddamn familiar. 

And your tits!  They’re just the right amount of perky and sag for a 41 year old mom.  They’re kinda perfect, Diane.  

In fact, you’re kinda perfect,Diane.

 But only just kinda.

 That shit you pulled at that park in Mobile CANCELS OUT your generosity and kindness and overall hotness. 


You are embarrassing yourself

And everyone else on the internet who does yoga at 6 a.m. and drinks hot lemon water for breakfast and laughs at appropriate jokes only and has a rich and full life and who does not actually need us at all (being needed is so 1950 now, Diane) because their life is so full of wonder and joy and enriching things like museums and enlightenment

 What   do   you   even   mean   that

the light shining off this crevice in his forehead 

reminds you of that canyon 

you went down in 

when you were 14 

and  it was so dark, so dark, so dark

except for that tiny shaft of light 

peeking through at the top.  


That’s so fucking weird! 



You’re kind of a psycho, Diane.

Kind of like for real, Diane.

 But god you’re so pretty! 

And you’re so funny.  

And you’re so sweet.  

And you liked that Indian food you had never tried 

and you climb fire towers in the middle of the forest when it’s raining

and you rub our arms when we’re not expecting you to 

and you play with our beard 

and scratch our head 

and you put your arms around us just because 

and we’ve never had a woman feel so soft and so warm.

Fuck, Diane.

Can’t you just get it together for now?  

He came all the way down here 

from all the way up there.


Why’d you have to go and drive across four states for him?

Didn’t your brothers ever tell you not to do a thing like that?

Didn’t your daddy ever tell you a man who wants you will come and get you?

Didn’t your mama ever tell you to hide your crazy?


He almost 

Sort of

Could have

Wanted to

Love you.


He maybe

Sort of


But won’t


Love you again.


Everyone on the internet has read all 36 trillion self help books and have applied them and adopted them and molded them into the very fiber of their being.

And we don’t live here in this space where lines get blurred

and greens give way to browns in the same square of grass 

and ketchup clumps at the top of the bottle and we  don’t wipe it off 

and t-shirts get torn from that splinter of wood on the picnic table 

and everyone is a walking disaster all done up in their Sunday best and when they take those dresses off there are tears in the stockings underneath and sweat stains on the armpits of their slips.  

 No, Diane.

 We live on the internet where we behave precisely 

and choose our words carefully 

and time our responses perfectly.  

We live on the internet where we’ve all been in therapy for the past 26 years and are finally ready to give ourselves to someone who has also tied up all their loose ends and cut off all the frayed edges.  

We are just sitting here waiting for our perfect match.

 We thought it was going to be you, Diane.

 But that shit you pulled at that park in Mobile…….



One Hundred Forty Hours

We were two for one hundred forty hours

give or take

subtract the hours you slept

you’re down to one hundred four hours now

give or take 

subtract the hours i slept

i’m somewhere around one hundred twenty

give or take

you picked my towel up from off the floor

not once 

but twice

the slight nod of your head

when you told that man ‘thank you’

i wanted to take my towel off for you then

let it fall back to the floor

of course, i wasn’t in a towel 

we were in my car

and you didn’t notice

the desire that dripped 

like the ice cream down the sides of those cones

we licked and licked

on that red bench 

the same color as my nose

from crying all that morning

and most of that day

“well where can this go”


“someone will get hurt”

this street we took from ‘hello’ to ‘goodbye’ 

long and winding

partly uphill

the road signs all overgrown


you the navigator


i the helmsman

going up and up

to that fire tower we weren’t supposed to climb

but did 

and that other one back there in the forest somewhere

a notebook with our names written together

blue ink

the only evidence

that we ever existed anywhere


for one hundred forty hours

give or take