Too sensitive

Lately I've had serious writer's block.

Maybe it's from the pressure and judgment I feel from my ex reading something, or the way I miss posting about our fabulous life and adventures. It's sad how when you break up, your life splits in half. There are the people who will keep talking to you, and the ones who wont ever again. There are the boyfriends who will remain your friend, and the ones that wont. The ones who will be bitter, the ones who will be understanding. I wish to have one be understanding, calm, mature. To think, I've always dated men well older than me, and have found that with age there certainly is no guarantee of maturity.

I've wanted to express my joy of the last week and a half. My shoot with Chip Willis was amazing, I got to see my sister.. after which there were more adventures of a Harley ride before continuing on to Rochester to shoot with Frank Petronio where we continued to get blasted (or, I did..) and ramble about nonsense, then on to NYC where I first spent a night of tequila and tonic and limes with my super cute high-school BFF. Then, the next day I shot with HR Marshall who was a delight, followed by a date with a young republican (Weird!) who is quite adorable and showed me a City through eyes I've never seen on the wheels of a red scooter.

However, my buzz was killed like a joy ride interrupted by blue and red flashing lights. It's funny how seeing the back of someones stupid head with his stupid long girly grey hair and stupid matching button-up that fits him oh-so-well.

And another back-view of curly brown hair. Not so stupid, though...

Part of me believes that my ability to do dumb things makes me tough. Or, how he's put it, "punk rock". Yet punk rock died with strung out hospital visits and suicide. Part of me believes these irrational movements of mine are romantic and charming. But look at me, here, sitting alone, writing for the world to see. And because I stopped caring, that, too is punk rock and romantic. Stupid "punk rock" because I sat out there for hours, waiting. Romantic because I was too sensitive to go the extra step to act like a crazy bitch. I watched them go in. I watched his bedroom light go on. I wrote a letter and folded it up like I was in highschool and left it on the stoop. I thought about his crazy down-stairs neighbor picking it up and I almost hope she did, just to create an extra dynamic.

Always dramatic.

And suddenly I'm not over him. I'm crazy and pounding and terrified and aching. I am not stupid, though. I knew from the beginning. I knew from the middle, and the End.

Bury yourself in photography, Meagan. Bury yourself.