I never did like jigsaw puzzles.

Remember when I thought you liked me?  I remember when I liked me too. 

With less than 5 months to go, I wonder if  2011 will go down in my memory as the year I shattered, burst into a million pieces on the 5th day of the year.  Or will the last few months of the year finally wipe that memory away?  Perhaps 2012 will rush in and make me wish for the mundanity and silent pain of 2011?  Perhaps I should save the yearly retrospection for my News Year Eve post?  Yes, I think so too.

I laugh more deeply and sweetly with strangers.  The more you see me, the less I want to see you.  I do miss you.

I stare into his eyes, and I tell him I want to be happy.  I want to put it all behind us.  I want to move on.  I want to put all those pieces back together and see what my happy face once looked like.  Before, I knew how fake it all was. Funny, now I can’t help but see the fakery, in my smile, in my eyes, in my words, on our faces. 

Fickle, fickle little girl.  Fraught with vanity over your cleverness.  Wasting time with falsehoods while reality whirled. 

We went to the beach.  It was lovely. Sunsets, sand and sunscreen, all the cream-filled yumminess filling up the perfect vacation.  The sex is wonderful.  Blowjobs and cum shots galore, fuck me’s yelled, and I love you’s whispered.  Sex in bathroom stalls, lips caressed in theatres, cocks licked in cars, just like teenagers.  Is the sex better, or are we just clinging to it more as we avoid the jagged edges of the broken pieces scattered all over the bedroom floor?

Cuts and bruises heal.  Memories of unfaithfulness and other loves linger.

Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding.  I dream of wild animals, murderers, death.  I wake up and call out for you.  It means I still need you.  Need your arms around me.  Reassurance, reminiscing, rewind…  If I think of someone else, does that mean you do too?  Is assuming you don’t like hiding somewhere where I can’t see you and assuming you can’t see me?   If you find me, does that mean you’re overwhelmed with images of others?  No one concrete, just random images of someone who can make you happier. 

The idea that you have to make yourself happy, before you can make someone else happy is a crock of shit.   What if being a selfish, fucking unemotional prick makes you happy?  Think that’s gonna make you a great partner for someone else?  Doubtful.

I am happy when I make you happy.  I am happy when I press against you in the middle of the night and feel your immediate response.  I am happy when I press my lips against yours for a quick kiss as we stir cake batter or get dressed in the morning.  I am happy to know that we’re still here trying. 

And coming up after the break, we have the 33rd birthday of one Miss Daila Holder.  Stay tuned for there’s more to tell.

I may even figure where some of those missing pieces are…

Don’t despair, I’m still an amusing complication.