Written yesterday, posted today

No wonder you're in love with your therapist
Go to sleep my little time bomb

I am bone-weary tired, a variety of exhaustion that fixes in the still-dense, pre-quarter-life crisis bones, in the red lines pirouetting through bleached white irises. I have three meager hours of restless sleep tucked behind my belt buckle, with the bottle opener affixed to the front, a mechanism of my game.

"Hey sweetheart, you need help opening your Heineken?" His bedroom eyes light and I smile appropriately.

My therapist had a great pair of legs, always without the nylon membrane. She seductively chewed on the end of her Bic pen as I poured out my "irrational and unhealthy thoughts", both the sexual, and the mundane; her tongue flicking against the uneven cap, custom DNA scampering through the fourth floor office. Three months into our courtship, on a stifling Tuesday afternoon, she knowingly withheld prescriptions for elephant proportions of mind-numbing drugs – to be abused with alcohol. I dumped her. I am flying solo, and under mental distress.

I miss you baby.

Last night was the Atmosphere show [haters stand here]. I attended the highly anticipated event with a good friend – my better half to be unoriginal – whose beauty I could solicit [here], but instead I will just say fuck you. She would appreciate the vulgarity. The perpetually unseasonably dressed girl, also known as me, donned a flower print skirt, white lace, and tall grey boots (not of the "fuck me" origin). Chills and teeth chatter kept me company in the line last night, that and the toe-warming thought that boyfriends and knitted sweaters are for pansies.

I was irrationally excited for the show, my excitement on display in meticulously painted fingernails and eyeliner. The venue: The Fox, where I witnessed my first hip hop show at fifteen, ripe and still a virgin, coincidentally also conducted by Slug. While I find Boulder to be pretentious, teeming with daddy issues, located in the snakeskin of Gucci handbags, I was there for him, for Slug. Call me a groupie – I love groupies. It was the fall of 2007, in my Junior Social Psychology class, where I gave an ill-prepared presentation on the dynamics of a groupie. I received a C+.

I stared up from the 21+ section. Him: aged since our first encounter, chain smoking, and me: no longer a virgin, cynical, nodded my head and thought:

Dear Sean, I don't want to do you, I want to be you.

I worship the groupie, her insecurities, fronted confidence, and sexual favors, but I cannot ascribe to her faith. I have the skirt, the tall boots, and the black lace bra underneath a white t-shirt (spray bottle in my purse); membership is still barred. Perhaps, it is the interreligious marriage of my parents, a Catholic and a Jew.

When I should be inventing scenes of tour bus head, I am wishing he would switch places with me. Let me be the incessantly touring, playboy emcee, gifted with the ability to write music that stimulates, arouses, and comforts, the pushing-forty-man who can lure underage attractive girls into the underground world. I want a Y-chromosome and a record deal. Somebody re-wire this girl please.

My eyelids are wilting, the sting of sleep no longer tolerable. Before I drift to dream of money, girls, and fame, I want to tell you about my newest love. This contemporary love comes in a pair, on a two-for-one special. It eats forgotten candy found in the cracks of the couch, and wipes its running nose on the backs of its hands, to be dried on the tail of my interview blouse.

Post-graduation my boyfriend dumped me. In the pessimism of my youth, I thought my heart had dropped off, that only a rotten Grinch-like lump remained. I vowed to never love again. Then I did, again and again. I loved on repeat in the hopes that it could be the same, that eventually I would find an identical, but there was only the counterfeit. I drew a spinster life for myself, requested the HPV vaccine, and invested in monthly Brazilian waxes.

Tonight, as I made the 45-minute drive back from dinner to the home of my parents (I live in my room), I looked in my rear-view mirror at two necks stretched from sleep, thumbs in their mouths, John Mayer serenading from the back speakers. I knew then what an all-consuming, gut wrenching, I-can't-live-without-you love is. I know what it is to mean the words: I would kill for you. Ex-boyfriends just don't have what it takes.

In our minds we kept driving and stole a new life for ourselves. For now I will stay here and sleep down the hall from you.