Do you remember that time you met me at the Greyhound bus station? It was meant to be a surprise, but I saw you through the window before you saw me. And what a sight you were, such a beautiful young man. In that moment you were not the wild bad boy that everyone knew you as. You were expectant, hopeful. Smoking a cigarette, your eyes scanning the windows. Smiling when you finally saw me. Such an intimate moment, so sweet and revealing. I was a little flustered to see you and grateful that I was having a good hair day. You took my bag and we started walking back to your apartment. It was late May and the air was soft, it felt like little feathers tickling our faces. We were quick talking, frenetic, like the romantic leads in a 1930’s movie. You were not accustomed to women disagreeing with you, arguing their point, making you work for their approval. But you loved it.
“What are you actually upset about? This can’t really be about my coffee table books.”
“Yes it is legitimately about your stupid, expensive books that you never even open, it’s all just for show.”
“First of all, I do occasionally open them. Second of all, what if they are just for show? Why does it bother you so much?”
“Because it’s superficial. Just like those big fall planters you bought to put outside our front door. They’ll be dead in less than a month.”
“Yes they’ll be dead in less than a month but they make me happy. They’re colorful and they remind me that even though our world is fucked, there is still beauty.”
“It’s kind of frivolous.”
“You mean I’m kind of frivolous. Enjoying beauty doesn’t make a person shallow. I would argue that a person capable of appreciating beauty, is actually a person capable of feeling and thinking on a deeper level.”
“I don’t agree.”
“You don’t have to. But if my books and planters bother you so much, you also don’t have to stay.”
“Now you’re just being a drama queen.”
“Not at all, I’m dead serious. This is who I am, it’s who I’ve always been and it’s who I’ll always be. Your criticism is ugly and I don’t do ugly.”
I’m wearing your silver knotted ring as I drive your skull and bones cardigan to the cleaners.
“Smoke. Smells like smoke,” says Tina, the owner of the dry cleaners.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry” I say.
“Smoke, so much smoke. I’m going to cough. Why are you suddenly smoking?”
Jesus. Here we go.
“I’m not, this belongs to my friend.”
“Tell your friend not to smoke,” Tina says grimacing.
“I can’t tell her, she’s dead. This was one of her favourite sweaters and her husband gave it to me. He also gave me her beautiful ring, see?” I say, dangling my hand in front of her.
“Sorry she died. Lung cancer right?”
“Umm, no. Anyway, how long will it take? Can I pay extra to put a rush on it?”
“No, no. No rushes on smoke items. Smoke items are very very hard. Next Friday.”
Sighing dramatically, Tina started writing up a receipt.
“Your friend died too young. She should have taken vitamins. Do you take vitamins? I take 18 vitamins every day and I haven’t been sick in fifteen years. No COVID, no nothing. Perfect health.”
“I’m glad you have perfect health,” I say, wanting to throttle her.
“You have very dark circles under your eyes, you need more Vitamin C. Here, eat this orange,” Tina said, pulling an orange out of nowhere like a magician.
“Oh that’s very kind of you, but I’m okay. Thank you though.”
Glaring at me, Tina made a clicking sound with her mouth.
“Dark circles is just the beginning, then doctor appointments every week, you’ll see. But if you take your vitamins you’ll live a long life. You won’t be dead like your friend.”
Oh My Fucking God.
“I appreciate you trying to help, it’s just that right now I’m feeling sad, I’m missing her. I’m just trying to get through this.”
“Ah yes, you’re hanging on by a thread, not a good feeling. Look at this black thread – see how it’s frayed? It’s about to break, that’s how you feel right?” She ripped the thread in front of me.
Why Universe? Just why?
“Listen, you’re a loyal, longtime customer and your friend died and I feel your bad energy. So, I’m going to give you something to help with the sadness – give me your hand.”
Oh no.
“Hand, your hand, open your hand” she said, making the weird clicking sound again.
I gave her my hand, palm open.
JesusLordPlease Help Me.
“These look like candy, right?”
“Yes, they look like cinnamon hearts,” I answered.
“Well they’re not, they’re medicine hearts. The recipe is an old one, passed down from my great, great, great-grandmother.”
“Oh wow, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, these are powerful – no monkey-arounding with them. Take one heart every morning at exactly 9:00 AM for seven days. Do NOT miss a day.”
“Okay, got it. What do they do exactly?”
“Well, first you’re going to feel weird, a little out of body. So no driving for two to three hours after taking the pill. Then you’ll notice that your heart feels strange – don’t freak out: your heart is stitching itself back together with the broken thread. Your sadness will be quieted. By the end of the week your sadness will be sitting in the nose-bleed seats, not the front row – if that make sense.”
“It totally makes sense.”
“Good. I see you next Friday, here’s your receipt. And don’t forget about the vitamins: if you want to get old and beautiful like me, you need all the vitamins.”
“I won’t forget. Have a good day.”
Back in the car I start crying, then laughing. Then crying and laughing some more. That was such a trippy scene, like something out of a movie. I want to text you about it, to describe Tina and the medicine hearts and the orange. But then I remember that you’re dead. And that just makes me laugh harder: like Mary Tyler Moore in the episode where she’s laughing at the clown’s funeral.
Photo of Andrea & I, taken by our mutual friend Pam. Late 1990’s I think. Andrea died on July 7th 2023. This story is dedicated to her.
“The salmon will be ready in a few minutes and I made a salad.”
“Dear God, no.”
“No what?”
“I cannot eat another piece of salmon for dinner. Why can’t we just have cereal?”
“Because we don’t have cereal in the house. Because we’re not teenagers.”
“I’m tired of being so virtuous. We don’t even have kids – we can do whatever we want! But somehow we’ve become the “Salmon & Netflix” couple – it’s depressing.”
“Are you in perimenopause? Is this like a peri-meltdown?” Keith asked with full sincerity.
Staring at him incredulously, Jessica grabbed the car keys and bolted, returning home twenty minutes later with three boxes of cereal, a container of 2% milk and an expensive bottle of white wine.
Keith had already finished eating and watched as Jessica combined equal parts Froot Loops, Lucky Charms and Captain Crunch into a large bowl.
“Do you want a glass of wine? It’s from British Columbia, it’s insanely good.”
“No thanks. That looks revolting by the way.”
“Really? I was just thinking how fun this bowl looks. How colorful, like a bowl full of joy” said Jessica, crunching her cereal.
“I’m going to watch Anderson Cooper.”
She gave Keith a thumb’s up and continued eating. Her last memory of eating sugary cereal was a little hazy, but the more she thought about it the more the memory returned in saturated colors:
It was the early 1990’s, she and Adam were sitting cross-legged on his purple futon, eating Count Chocula from bright orange bowls, while listening to Pearl Jam.
“Have you noticed that we always eat cereal after having sex?”
“I know, we’re such weirdos,” Jessica answered.
“I don’t trust people who don’t eat cereal, know what I mean?”
“Totally,” Jessica agreed, nodding her head.
“Should we plan our next break-up? Maybe send out Save The Date cards to all our friends?” Adam suggested.
Laughing hard, Jessica almost choked on a piece of cereal. Their relationship had been on again off again for the last six months, with dramatic fights & the most amazing make-up sex.
“You almost killed me! Imagine if I had died on your futon eating Count Chocula?!”
“I can think of worse ways to go. Can you look at my philosophy paper? I feel like it’s either really really good or total crap, I can’t tell anymore.”
“Sure, no problem. Do you miss my editing skills when we’re in a break-up phase?” Jessica asked, making her way to Adam’s desk where his giant computer sat.
“I do actually,” he answered honestly.
As Jessica sat down Adam stood behind her, making sure his paper entitled, “The Myth Of Sisyphus: A Guide to Living in the 1990’s,” was up on the screen.
“I’ll make some coffee” he said, kissing Jessica’s neck as she started reading. She mumbled something, already deep in editor mode.
Jessica’s memories of this period of her life and specifically of Adam, flooded her with emotions and bad ideas.
I bet he’s on Instagram, he always was an amazing photographer.
She grabbed her phone and within a few minutes had found him: @adam74photos, he lived in Vancouver. His account was public, so she clicked Follow. He had almost ten thousand followers. Wow. As she sipped her wine she scrolled through Adam’s feed. His main grid was a perfectly curated assortment of arresting street and travel photos, funny quotes and #throwbackthursday pics of him throughout the years. No mention of family, kids, a wife…
Then, there it was: a #throwbackthursday photo of them together, circa 1993. Adam in his favorite plaid shirt and Doc Martens, Jessica wearing a tattered sweater over a slip-dress, with sequinned flats she’d bought in Chinatown. For privacy Adam had covered her face with a purple heart emoji. But it was definitely them and Adam’s face looked madly in love. She took another sip of wine.
What was the harm in leaving a little comment?
“I 💯 remember that outfit” #90sgirlforever, Jessica typed.
Within minutes Adam had liked her comment and replied:
“You had the best style, always the coolest girl in the room…”
Jessica’s cheeks flushed.
“Do you want to watch that new Netflix series – the political thriller?” Keith yelled from the living-room.
“Okay, be there in a minute,” Jessica yelled back
Looking down at her phone Jessica saw that she had a private message:
“Hey, glad u found me on IG. How are u?! I just found a box of old college photos, so many good ones of us. You’re in Toronto, right? I’ll be out there in a couple of wks for work, can we grab a drink?”
OMG.
“Would love to,” she answered.
“Jess, are you watching this show with me or not?” Keith yelled again.
“Coming!”
Girl chill. You’re not doing anything wrong. It’s just one drink with an old college friend. Or make that probably two drinks with an old college boyfriend, but still. It’s no big deal.
She took her wine glass – and the bottle – into the living room.
“Do you mind if I tag along to church with you this Sunday?”
“Umm, no of course not. Except what the fuck? Why are you suddenly interested in going to church?”
“Because like George Michael says, ‘I gotta have faith.’ And I have none. So I need to find some.”
Sipping her Bordeaux Carrie eyed her friend with suspicion.
“Are you microdosing? Are you on shrooms right now?” she asked.
“No I’m not on shrooms. I’m completely sober – other than this wine. I’m just feeling really lost and like the opposite of grounded. What’s the opposite of grounded? Flailing? I’m flailing. And I feel scared about everything. I need to believe that things are going to be okay. I need to have faith.”
“I totally hear you and I support you. But, please know that you’re not going to suddenly feel a deep sense of faith from going to one Unitarian Church service. It’s not like the Minister waves a magic wand.”
“Wouldn’t it be cool if she did though?”
They both laughed.
“No confession booths in the Unitarian Church right? Which is too bad. I’ve always wanted to go into one of those.”
“Ya but it would take you too long to confess all your sins. The priest would probably cut you off and kick you out.”
“Ha!”
“Having faith is kind of like having a garden, you need to tend to it regularly with love and intention, otherwise it withers away. At least that’s been my experience with it.”
“Do you think some people can have faith and others can’t? I’m worried I’m one of those people for whom faith will remain elusive. I feel like in order to have faith you kind of already have to believe that it’s possible and I’m not sure I do.”
“Well hello Miss Self-Sabotage, nice to meet you. Anyone is capable of having faith, but you need to be open to receiving it. And if you’ve never been to church before, then even my religiously liberal one is going to feel weird at first. But don’t reject it right away, give it a second date you know? First dates are always awkward.”
“How did you get so wise?”
“I’m not wise. I just spent a month’s rent on a pair of shoes. That’s the opposite of wise.”
Carrie and Jen fell into one of those fits of snorting laughter that was hard to stop. The people sitting next to them were seething with irritation, which only made them laugh more.
“What do I wear? Do I dress chaste?”
“You’re hilarious. Just wear what you’re comfortable in. Most people look sort of casual Friday-ish, but some get a little more dressed up. It’s totally up to you. I mean I wouldn’t show up in a body-con dress, but other than that…”
“I’ll wear that new floral midi-dress I bought, the one with poufy sleeves.”
“Unitarian-chic, love it. Let’s toast: ‘To you my dear precious flailing friend – may you find faith – one way or another. May you remember that you are beloved and if worse comes to worse, I can have faith for the both of us. Don’t worry.’”
“Yes, thanks. Do you have a face cream that will give me back the last ten years of my life?”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh and I also need an eye cream to return the color under my eyes to a medium-ivory. This dark blue shade is not doing anything for me.”
“We have a lovely new certified organic, certified cruelty-free, certified clean facial beauty system called: “It’s All Happening.” Would you like to try some samples?”
“No. I like chemicals. Nothing too clean. Give me hardcore products that mad scientists have invented.”
“It’s not fair to our environment to fill it with hash chemicals, that’s why skincare companies are finally going clean and green.”
“I don’t care about the environment right now. I care about getting my face back. My face looks like I’ve given up on life.”
“Well have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Have you given up on life?”
“Not yet, but we’re only a few months into the new year. Please just show me the products that have all the chemicals.”
“Fine, but you’re ruining the planet just for vanity’s sake.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re young with flawless juicy skin. Get back to me when you’re my age.”
“I’m going to embrace aging. Aging is a privilege after all.”
“Oh my God, I can’t even…please, just point me to the lotions and potions aisle.”
“Over here. This is your section. It’s a new, highly toxic, chemical-y skincare line created by a former CIA weapons analyst.”
“Perfect. I appreciate your help. I promise to make a donation to Save The Planet to offset buying these evil products.”
“Spoken like someone who hasn’t experienced a lifetime of bitter pills.”
“But hopes and dreams fuel us, we need them.”
“Dreaming is a luxury. If you’re in survival mode all you’re looking for is a meal to fill your empty stomach. Even entertaining the idea of having a piece of cake and ice cream after your meal is insane. That’s what dreaming is to me – it’s like cake and ice cream when what I really need is just meat and potatoes.”
“So do you think I’m entitled because I believe in dreaming?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Wow. I never knew you felt that way about me.”
“I still love you though.”
“Gee, thanks. But what about our future together? I mean as a couple we’re supposed to have at least a few shared dreams, aren’t we?”
“That’s just what the capitalistic establishment pushes: dreams equal people spending more money. The whole system is rigged. Let’s just live our lives.”
“I feel like you just hit me.”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t touch you.”
“I know, I know. I said I feel like you just hit me. Like an emotional punch.”
“Well, it is what it is.”
“I hate that fucking expression.”
“What are you so upset about? Why are we arguing about dreaming?Real life is harsh.”
“Real life is harsh, but it can also be poetic and divine. You don’t allow yourself to be touched by its beauty. It’s your loss.”
“For the love of God, what is this music?” Jessica asked her daughter.
“Gloom-Core,” said Olive.
“Well it’s certainly not creating a happy vibe for the school commute.”
“Creating a happy vibe is toxic positivity Mom. I’m not going to pretend the world is not fucked. This music speaks to that reality but it’s also beautifully poetic.”
“Okay fine. Changing topics. Don’t forget – tonight we have dinner with your father and his new girlfriend. If you want to be morose that’s fine, but don’t say anything snarky. Last time you insulted his date.”
“No I didn’t. I just said that her dress was very Prairie-Chic Meets Forever 21. What a mortifying night that was. She was like college-age and kept styling our plates to post on Instagram.”
“I agree, that evening was brutal. But his new girlfriend is older – I think she might even be thirty – so let’s give her a chance.”
“You are way too understanding mom. And why aren’t you dating? I see men checking you out all the time at Whole Foods. You could have a fling with the man-bun guy who’s always near the Kombucha fridge.”
“I hate flings. Plus, I’m loving being single. I even signed up for a pottery class.”
“OMG MOM – you can’t take up pottery! That’s such a sad cliche of a middle-age woman giving up on life.”
“Olive, that’s very misogynistic. Plus, you know I love ceramics.”
“Whatever, you do you mom. But Tristan is coming to dinner tonight, I already invited him.”
“Who’s Tristan? What happened to Leila? I thought you liked Leila.”
“I thought I did too. But then we went thrifting together and she spent an hour getting ready. Like she put on a whole face just to go to The Goodwill. Can’t deal with that. AND she was using Kardashian makeup. As if I would ever date a Kardashian supporter.”
“You’ve got high standards Olive, I respect that. Okay hop out here, I don’t want to get stuck chatting with Mrs. Gotham, she scares me. Have a good day, love you sweetie.”
“Love you too mom. Oh and I forgot to tell you – Tristan’s dad is picking us up today.”
“Alright, but please text me his father’s number right away, otherwise you don’t have permission to go with him.”
“Will do. Now go cancel that pottery course and find the hot man-bun guy!” Olive yelled loudly as she got out of the car.
Chapter Two
“Olive, are you and Tristan ready? We need to leave now or we’ll be late!” Jessica called out.
“Hey Jessica – Olive told me to call you by your first name – thanks for having me to dinner tonight,” Tristan said as he sauntered down the hallway.”
“You’re welcome. I like your hair.”
“Thanks. I worked really hard on creating the perfect shade of florescent pink. I don’t know if Olive told you, but I’m an artist. Abstract expressionism but like abstract expressionism on acid; I’m not afraid of color.”
“Well as you can tell from our house, I’m not afraid of color either. In fact I hate neutrals. Where’s Olive?”
“I’m right here mom.”
“Honey, I’m not sure that outfit is appropriate for the restaurant we’re going to, it’s a very upscale Italian eatery.”
“Mom, this dress is everything. It’s a late 1990’s Betsy Johnson.”
“It’s a pretty dress and you look stunning. But you also look like you’re about to stir up a cauldron and cast spells. I mean can you take the witchy vibe down a bit?”
Tristan started laughing uncontrollably.
“Respectfully mom, this is my look tonight.”
“Jesus. Okay, okay, let’s just go kids.”
Chapter Three
“Olive, my dear beautiful witch!”
“Hi Dad. This is Tristan. Tristan this is my dad, Erik.”
“Tristan, that’s quite the hair. What year are you in? You look like a senior.”
“Nope. I’m a sophomore just like Olive.”
“Well any friend of Olive’s is a friend of mine, my daughter has impeccable taste. Speaking of impeccable taste, this is Annabelle, she owns a wellness boutique in Silverlake. Annabelle, this is my daughter Olive, her friend Tristan and my ex-wife Jessica.”
“It’s a pleasure meeting you all. I brought you a few goodies from my shop, just little things to help you relax, meditate, center yourself…you know, to help you on your journey.”
“Good evening, my name is Paul and I’ll be your server tonight. What can I get you to drink?”
“Oh hello Paul – thank god for you. I’d like a Negroni please,” Jessica said.
“Perfect. And what can I get for the rest of you?”
“We’ll have a bottle of Castiglioni Giramonte. Olive?”
“A limonata please.”
“Same,” said Tristan poking Olive in the ribs.
Chapter Four
“Jessica, I’ve heard so many lovely things about you. I’m very impressed that you and Erik are on such good terms, so often divorce become toxic. Erik told me you two consciously uncoupled like Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin.”
“Umm…I’m not quite sure that’s us. But we both love Olive and we still care about each other and respect one another.”
“Well, I want you to know that I included something very special in your gift bag, it’s called Essence of Rose Quartz Serum – hand-made in Santa Fe. It’s not for your face, it’s for your heart. Every night you rub a few drops of it on your chest and the rose quart activates your heart, making it more open to receiving love.”
“Here’s your Negroni, I sensed you needed it right away.”
“Oh Paul you’re a life saver, thank you.”
“My mom’s heart does not need activating – not that that’s even a thing.” Olive said, glaring at Annabelle.
“It was very kind of you to bring us gifts. How did you get into the wellness industry?” Jessica asked, sneaking a sip while quietly kicking Olive’s platform boots under the table.
“It’s actually a really trippy story: three years ago while I was hiking in Griffith Park, I had a vision – I saw myself as a Wellness Curator: healing women by finding the most beautiful wellness products and selling them in the most beautiful space. And I’ve just started offering workshops too. Next week I’m teaching my customers – actually I prefer calling them my Goddesses – how to make their own smudge sticks – really pretty ones that you can display in your home for that earthy boho vibe.”
“The wellness industry is an elitist billion dollar empire. It steals ancient traditions from indigenous cultures, repackaging them for rich white customers,” Olive said.
“And here are the rest of your drinks. Let me just open the wine for you.”
“Actually Paul, if you don’t mind I think I’ll open it myself. We’re having a bit of a moment here,” Erik explained, his forehead glistening with sweat.
“Not a problem Sir.”
“Olive, I see it more as being inspired by ancient traditions. I have a deep reverence for their original creators and I want to share their wisdom with people who might not otherwise know about it.”
“Do you donate a percentage of your profits to organizations that help the cultures you are stealing from?” Olive asked.
Jessica kicked Olive under the table again, a little harder this time.
“Olive, enough with the interrogation,” said Erik. “I propose a toast: ‘To new friends and to a beautiful evening together,’” he said a little too loudly.
“Cheers!” Tristan bellowed theatrically, kissing Olive’s neck with a flourish.
Despite twice kicking Olive under the table, Jessica was proud of her daughter for speaking her mind. And how cute was she in her goth-y dress with her pink-haired companion?! What an incredible young woman she was. What a privilege to be her mother.
“This is the best Negroni I’ve ever had! Thank you Erik for putting together this lovely dinner,” Jessica said smiling, as she raised her glass and winked at Olive.
“Why aren’t you out there having sex? You’ve been single for almost three months.”
“I hate casual sex, it’s horrifying.”
“What? Casual sex is the best! It’s like trying on shoes to find out what type of heel you like – stiletto, square, platform…”
“Nice analogy. But no. Letting a man inside my body – like hi, come and put your penis in my vagina – without knowing anything about him is terrifying.”
“It’s liberating. Not knowing them and just experiencing pleasure is freeing.”
“Three years ago I had a one night stand with a beautiful man. As I was going down on him, he started talking about how his mother still buys his underwear. I almost got up and left the house, except that we were in my house. So for the rest of the night, as we were having sex, all I could think about was his mother buying him underwear at Target.”
“Nooooooo! That did NOT happen. You just made that up.”
“I wish to GOD that I made that up. But it’s 100% true. You can stop laughing anytime now.”
“You have ruined Target for me.”
“Or what if I sleep with someone then find out afterwards they don’t believe in global warming? Or that they own like ten semi-automatic rifles?”
“Ha! That’s why you sneak out early, it’s a skill you can master, trust me.”
“Once I accidentally slept with a high school student. I’m not even sure it was legal. I felt so gross.”
“Dying. I’m dead. What happened?!”
“I thought I was having a weekend fling with a cute college guy – Jackson. He was 22 years old and I was 32 at the time, so it felt kind of naughty and fabulous. Sunday morning he woke up early to buy us coffee and croissants – sweet. Except that he forgot his phone on the bedside table and it wouldn’t stop ringing – it was his mother. But I mean lots of people chat with their parents on the weekend right? Then I started hearing pings from incoming texts and because I’m a horrible person I read them. They were all from his mother:
Jackson, where the hell are you?! You’re seventeen years old, you can’t just NOT come home at night. Your father and I are worried sick. Please text us so that we know you’re not lying in a ditch Also, you have to finish your American History paper Love you, Mom
“That kid had major moves. Kinda gotta respect a teenager with that much swagger.”
“True. But you see my point right? I’m not cut out for casual sex.”
“Ya, I get it now. I guess you just have to wait around until you meet another “Mr. Almost Kind Of But Not Really Mr. Right,” then you can have sex again.”
“Exactly. In the meantime, let’s go shoe shopping.”
“I miss living on the west coast. Would you ever consider moving with me?”
“California? Fuck no. America is a hell hole, or have you not been reading the news for the last seven years?”
“Just because there’s lots of bad stuff going on doesn’t make it a hell hole.”
“I could literally show you like a hundred articles right now to prove my point.”
“News flash: not everything is about winning an argument or proving a point. Jeez Louise you’re not even a lawyer.”
“You know what your problem is?”
“No I don’t, but I’m dying to find out.”
“You romanticize everything. Things are complicated, dangerous even, you need to be able to look at life through a clear, rational lens. There is no room for being a romantic.”
“But is there room for being a New Romantic? Like Spandau Ballet?”
“I’m being serious.”
“No, you’re being irritating. Who are you to go off on what you perceive to be my problem? Did God quit and put you in charge?”
“You know I don’t believe in God, religion is the opium of the people.”
“Ya, ya, Karl Marx – what are you, a first year philosophy student?Anyway, if we’re gonna argue, I would argue that now more than ever there’s a need for Romanticism. The world is desperate for it. The universe is asking us to look at each other through softer, sepia-toned lenses and to not be so binary. To come together, recite poetry, eat cake and drink wine. It wants to hear us roar with laughter and moan in ecstasy. The world isn’t interested in your clear rational lens right now, it’s desperate to be softly petted like you would pet your beloved dog. It’s hurting – the world is fucking hurting. It needs love and tenderness to help it get back on track.”
“That’s the biggest load of Instagram-y horse shit that I’ve ever heard. It actually scares me that you think like that. When we first met I thought you were an intelligent woman, even a bit of a nerd. But now it’s like you’re a sage burning, crystal wearing, astrology-believer. What happened to you?”
“I’ve actually always been this way, you just chose not to see it. And a person can be smart and burn sage, the two are not mutually exclusive.”
“But they are mutually exclusive. A smart person would never believe that burning a few leaves would clear out negative energy, because that same smart person would never believe in the idea of negative energy.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Just okay. Like we have four more hours in this car together so I’m gonna peace out of this conversation and put some music on.”
“Fine.”
“I’ve got a new playlist that I made last week, it’s really good.”
“What the hell is this?!”
“It’s an 80’s compilation of New Romantic music.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I know. Thanks.”
New Romantic Vibes c/o Steve Strange and Julia at The Blitz Club, London, Feb 1980. Photo by Graham Smith.
sparkledame 