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Inked as a commitment to write always

Inked as a commitment to write always (2013)

by Jennifer Dryden

It has nothing to do with rebellion
Or the sting of the needle.
It creates a high at first
But then a numbing feeling,
Sort of like the first moment of the morning.

My pain goes away…
And my breathing becomes less controlled.
I close my eyes as the beats continue in my chest
And only break the stare at the scenes in my mind
When someone speaks.

I lose myself.
The colors are perfect and
The writing echos my heart’s desire;
The entire process like I’d imagined, like I’d hoped,
All those times alone.

I grow wings.
Reach my hands out into the air,
Look into the mirror in the end, and
Believe in myself, in my ability.
My ability to finally let go and be…


First tattoo to free my heart and start anew

Right-side rib tattoo to free my heart and start anew (2009)



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Living for me, looking for no one

The last time I remember real emotions… (or what they now call “the feels”) is in Ames, my junior year of journalism school. I was on my parking ramp in the drunken college neighborhood called Campustown. It was in the middle of winter – six inches of snow surrounded me. I was blaring “Crush” by David Archuleta and in tears, pounding on my steering wheel, dreading the lonely walk down a metal staircase, across two parking lots, between a fence opening, and into the madness of life without him. I remember telling myself it wasn’t fair and that life sucks. I remember screaming in my car from physical pain that no one was inflicting on me in reality. I remember that I couldn’t breathe.

I pressed the << button uncountable times. And even though I knew it was a pretty stuffy, dumb song, it was speaking the words that for a long time needed to come out of my mouth. I felt dumb. I felt broken. I felt it.

I reminded myself that he wasn’t my world or the real reason I loved journalism. I reminded myself that even without him I would have become editor and lead the way for many. I convinced myself that I was good at so many things without him, mainly just one thing: work. That was a big part of our relationship: him pushing me to do better in writing, editing, and getting it right and first. After I taught myself to breathe evenly again, I dried the tears, walked inside and washed the pillowcases that smelled of him. The next day, I went to work, hoping for some breaking news.

I asked for more responsibility, helped develop the Business section of my college paper, I managed rookie reporters (even though I was basically a rookie myself), and stepped up, leaving behind the emotions. That spring he graduated and moved away. I always tease that my heart is buried in the boxes from junior year in with my football shaped beer mug I stole from a frat party and Cy face tattoos from football games.

Honestly, it’s probably still there.

Anyway, after that I had a couple boyfriends (at different times, I’m not a hustler), but I never count those times because the relationship, if you could even call it that, didn’t last long – two months top and six of those weeks, he lived out of state. This is when I learned I like the idea of a boyfriend instead of the actual, in the flesh boyfriend. He came back in the fall from an internship and I was so excited, ecstatic even. Two weeks later, I was working on deadline and he was calling my phone, asking me where I was and if we were still hanging out. We weren’t; I was working. I was good at copy editing and loved it and how much the entire newsroom depended on me – especially this particular night when all other copy editors called in and I edited the entire paper. What a rush! I made that my priority, declared him as too needy, and moved on, unfazed. Resume obsessed.

You can make your judgmental face now because many of you who have someone to love or have the “feels” whenever you watch “P.S. I Love You” or “The Notebook” might not understand. And some of you might clean your glasses and understand me a bit more. Either way, this is America and you can stop reading anytime.

So my resume was great and growing and I was looking at going big or going home after graduation. I freak out from a boyfriend wanting to spend every night with me, yet I moved to New York City over a weekend, slept on a futon in Brooklyn, mainly homeless with no plan except Craigslist-searching for an apartment. #Craigslistkiller And damn, it was quite the dream job at the time – children’s educational publishing, corporate Barnes & Noble, Park Avenue, skyscraper, and opportunity. I thrived. I’ve never been so in love. New York was the first time I started loving things more deeply than people. You could point at this incident and place blame for my coldness or insane attachment to this city or my work ethic. I didn’t become an alcoholic out there like some of the famous chums I bounced with (*shakes head* I didn’t have any famous chums…), but I did become a workaholic. And it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

I gained purpose, proved my reliability, and reached for more. Even the middle of Manhattan wasn’t enough for me. Well, for one thing, the money was tight—woof! I felt bored sometimes in the midst of the entertainment and lights. It wasn’t big enough. My college resume got me there, now I wanted to see where this addition to the resume got me next. I challenged myself to a marathon of resume add-ons with the perk of keeping busy and productive at the same time. My favorite kind of crazy.

I never dated anyone in New York, unless you count my boyfriend for two weeks around Valentine’s Day. It made complete sense – college friends for three years, we made out at a wedding, and a really nice, trustworthy guy – but the moment he was on my NYC turf from Iowa and with me 24/7, I was over it. Almost immediately. He even made me spaghetti for lunch after I worked at church on one of my only days off and held my hand down Broadway – you feely people like this. He’s still a great guy and will make some woman really happy one day, just again, not me. I lived among more than eight million people and not one made me blink a flirty eye. I was living for me, looking for no one.

That could be my sad/hilarious title that just came out of my subconscious writing brain… “Living for me, looking for no one! on the next Maury.” Basically, yes, that. So let’s recap… Jenn can’t commit to anything except her job, but not for the lack of trying. Oh, and she’s crazy. Let’s explore the current sitch.

First year teaching high school English after declaring I shall teach young people and it shall be grand and everything I could hope for! Huzzah! So I did that school thing again… this time all the financial loans were on me and only me. I enjoy paying for two apartments every month when I only have one. #debtcrisis To get this first year teaching gig, I sat down with the principal at a career fair with more than one thousand people waiting in lines behind. He asked me a list of questions on a worksheet he did with every other applicant, but after watching five needy college graduates go through the line, I knew that when he stopped at question three, pushed the paper aside and said, “Okay, talk to me… what’s with this resume. It’s impressive,” I was different.

The smile I smiled at that moment reinforced I was on the right path. Among a thousand others, I stood out. I got up on a Saturday during student teaching, and sold myself, and landed a teaching position in the city I wanted. I turned down four other schools with which I had interviews. I don’t say this to brag because I’m not a braggy person, I am just giving you background… ya know, writer stuff. So that year I partnered with a teacher I trusted and we killed it. I worked my ass off. I planned week to week, adjusting for pacing and differentiation. I thought of my students first and my sanity second. I was now determined to make a difference and teach them some cool shit along the way… that sounds too cool, I followed the curriculum guide and tried to do some cool shit to make them pay attention, like rapping Coolio’s “Gangster’s Paradise,” because the students didn’t believe I knew it. I showed them.

Then get this… a new high school finds me out from another teacher and asks me if I would be interested in having my dream job. #goonbrushyourshoulderoff Teaching journalism, senior English, AND advising a student newspaper? Uhhh, yes! Wait, let’s be real, there wasn’t an “uhhh” in there; maybe for a minute when I freaked about leaving my coworker to whom I have serious attachments.

So here I go into another school year, turning 27, having more serious conversations with family and friends about when I’ll settle down. Jokes about grandchildren float as jokes but not really. I pray often that my mom will live long enough to have grandchildren. I joke about getting around to it, but that’s how I feel about it all. I’ll get around to it. Or I won’t.

People say God will put your soul mate in your life when He sees fit. I believe it completely because well, I’m not going out there voluntarily, am I? But I have to question if I’ll ever be ready or open to even looking twice. My personal resume says I won’t. I have thought about going to eHarmony to write a personal resume. I’m a writer. I can write myself into any light – even an unfavorable one like this one maybe. #YOLO I look great on paper, I always have, even back in j-school. I’ve worked my ass off for this career path, for this two-page worthy stacked and jacked resume. It’ll take someone extraordinary to make me prioritize it differently… which is sad and not sad at the same time. It is what it is. ß I say that way too much.

To be cheesy, it’ll take The One to make me change my objective to “Looking to spend life with someone who supports current obsession at being the best I can be at my career and sometimes reading hundreds of pages at once on the one night we see each other.” Or to be more emotional, “Looking to be someone’s other half.” There ya go! It gives you the feels, doesn’t it? No? Me neither.

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I wanted to lean over to put my head upon your sure shoulder because it was the perfect moment and if I wasn’t so conscious about my emotions I would have naturally. But instead I resisted and let the moment pass because the reading you’d claim would not be reality and I can’t hurt you again. Not like that.

Your feelings so genuine, mine friendly and just that. There are times when I wished you were more for me than the great company I surround myself with often. You’re a routine I don’t want to break, and the last person I’d want to wreck… again. Yes, we have chemistry and we can banter at a store to make the cashier gawk and assume we’re happily together. Sometimes we’re as convincing as a soon-to-be married couple, just without the ring. But really I’m sparing you from the high expectations of the bling I’d need one day.

You put up with my insane moods, my loud rants, and my innocent obsession with my imaginary and very real celebrity friend group. Who else would watch Taylor Swift’s RED tour concert for 2 hours and 21 minutes on YouTube with me? I mean, you’re screaming winner at the top of your silent lungs. Yet, I know there’s a piece missing, the most important piece of the puzzle that mimics the shape of my indecisive and damaged heart. And I don’t have the answers or the perfect words, for once, to say to ease the pain your hopes hold so tightly. I just know that if you’re not “the one” for me, you hold another place in my life and if you don’t want to be called a “good friend” because really we’ve always been past that, then pick the title and I’ll humor you with a laugh and accept.

Sometimes I’ll want to lean on you because you love me in a way only you can love. It is important to me, don’t get me wrong, but some day the right people will enter from stage right… or left… or be a stray in the audience finally making their move into our hearts. So tonight you might have said to ignore the emotions and lean on over, and really, I probably should have because I do love you in a very indescribable way. Hurting you isn’t on the agenda so I take control and resist, even though my neck has been growing tired of holding itself up for so long.

One day the shoulder will feel right and according to people who have the diamonds on their important left finger, my head will fall without a second thought. Until then your reassuring hugs and sarcasm will suffice as good company; I mean that is if you’ll have me.

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Always and Never Sure

I miss how in love I was with him. I miss that feeling – always sure. I don’t know how many times I have felt sure about anything in the past 10 years as much as I thought in my mind how sure I was about him. My heart was ringing true melodies throughout my veins and my whole body was numb because nothing hurt. Nothing hurts now even; it’s just that feeling of love that caused the numbing sensation, maybe it was some kind of a natural high. Now it’s just the familiarity-of-being-without-someone numbing. It’s that independence with which I’m so in tune. I daydream where we’d be now if he would have cared like me: openly. If he would have said it every time he thought it. It’s funny how time passes and you see love seal in marriage or promise in a ring. It’s funny that I attend all of these weddings without him even though we could have so easily been first. I use him as a joke most of the time now whenever his name is brought up. Can I still call it healing? Most of these years I’ve felt the other feeling associated with men — never sure.  It’s been years since the always part and sooner than later those years will double, and he’ll be left further and further into the past. But I’m really fine with that. I really am fine.

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Detox with Time

by Jennifer Dryden

It’s amazing what a few years of singledom – the art of being single – will teach you about yourself. It’s the time to feel heartbroken alone, cling to friends and family for love, and rebuild your heart just a little stronger.


Time’s always that one word you despise when you’re crying in a heap on the floor fresh from that last conversation with your (now ex) boyfriend. Time is the answer from your mom, your dad, and your friends who all agree that you’re great and it’s all his fault. Really, it probably isn’t all his fault, but go with what makes you feel better. “Just give it time.” But take it from me, time is the right guidance in this situation and it should be looked at in a positive light. It’s good advice. Wait and see.


At first, time drags on in sleepless nights upon your bed listening to sad songs that sing your soul. You play Sick Puppies at full blast just so your neighbors know you’re hurting; it’s that bad. You read the lackluster love poetry in books stacked on your shelves – more currently next to your bed. You really live within grabbing distance to a tissue box and you go as far as moving a trashcan from the bathroom into your bedroom right next to that stack of tear-stained poetry pages. You heave sobs into your pillows that still smell like him and pray out loud for God to give a little. “Please God!” Time is your enemy today, tomorrow, and most likely for the next eight months.

Eight Months.

I’ve heard from either Cosmopolitan or from my best friend who probably isn’t so credible that it takes twice as long to get over someone than the length of your relationship. So for my two-year relationship, it supposedly took me four years. “Ain’t nobody got time for that!” Cry for a few weeks, become pissed at men in general the month after that, then focus on you… and only you.  Some of the best advice I’ve heard is “Take an hour to be sad about it and then get over it.” Let’s adjust the time because it’s not like you locked your keys in your car and had to pay $40 for the locksmith, who, let’s be honest, must have seriously illegal skills he’s just not using. Lost love > Unreachable keys. Now that we’re clear, eight months is when I started to feel the first bit of relief… sober relief. Nights out do not count as feeling better. Think about it, a long island is not the answer… unless he is deserted on one.

Now all the crying is done and if you are lucky enough to never set eyes on him again on a regular day, it’ll go smoother and quicker. I was lucky enough for him to move nearly three hours away and then I flew to the East Coast for a year. See ya, wouldntwannabeya! Distance, in this case, doesn’t make the heart grow fonder because it helps the heart heal.

Disclosure: When you see him out of the blue back for a homecoming game, your heart will still stop, your eyes will fill with tears, but you will blink them back in your eye sockets… because “you’re moving on!” Then soberly, walk past him. ß classic. He’ll call you back and you roll with the punches and ignore the one blown to your gut. You’re better off … he has a beer belly. Notice his flaws! You’ll need them on the one-year anniversary.

One year.

Count it as twelve months because it sounds longer. At one year, you’ll be sad for the day if it truly was love or you’ll play this song and feel empowered. I say feel empowered because you’re better off. Always rise to the top on a bad day because true strength is holding yourself together when everyone else would understand if you fell apart. I stole that from someone. I don’t normally sound like a fortune cookie. But lately I’ve been questioning that. At one year you can start creating your next ideal man in your head that will probably show different traits than your ex. Because let’s face it, in the past 365 days you’ve said, “But he was perfect!” and “I want someone just like him!” and “I want him back!” No! Stop. You don’t want him back. You will learn from him because I truly believe anyone you love is your soul mate in some way… just not your last soul mate. Watch this video if you’re confused. One year feels like you’ve finally accomplished something and you have. Reward yourself with cake – chocolate. Only six more months until I let you date again.

One year, six months.

A year and a half, huh? Still no dates? Good. You’re giving yourself time to get to know yourself again. Your single self… you know with free time and living by your own schedule. Isn’t it great? If you said yes, then high-five, but if you said no, you’re lucky I like you. If you’re loving exploring your own life and putting your priorities toward your career, your friends or your family then just ignore this step and shine like the stars in the sky. If you’re like, “Blahh, this sucks! I’m lonely!” then you’ve missed the point all together. Go back to your procrastinated homework. But one last thing before you go… you may go on a date now. Oh got your attention again? My plan is working… *rubs hands together maliciously.

A date. Singular. More than likely it won’t work. The man you’re attracted to is probably the same guy who hung out with you on weeknights watching Finding Nemo and The Holiday. He is in love with you but you really aren’t. You just like the way he takes care of you and maybe the way he looks in the shirt you bought him for Christmas. This is lust, and false lust. You love what he’s done for you; you desire to get closer because he treats you like a princess, and he listens to your rants about men. “He understands me.” You’ve been playing the friend card for the past 18 months and he’s hoping it’ll be more. So when I allow you to go on this date at 18 months, you think he’s the perfect choice. It won’t work out. The date will consist of dinner at your favorite restaurant, a movie of your choice, maybe a couple drinks to top off a first official date. He’ll probably bring you a rose. (PS: Roses are so overrated. It’s the cop-out flower. He should know your favorite flower. Mine is a tiger lily.) You’ll use the word “official” in a conversation with your girlfriends when you gab about it – probably even in air-quotes. “Official.”

When you come home you’ll fall into a loud and flabbergasted rant with your best girlfriend about the mystery of this friendship being great for months with him and then the “official” date didn’t work out. He was too clingy. Welcome to the first realization that you are learning stuff about yourself: you like a little space and for him to have an opinion, any opinion, on where to get dinner. Six months from now, you’ll be ready with a guy who’s not your friend… if you want.

Two years.

Look at you! In two years you’ve realized that there’s more to life than being with someone else. How’s that guy who broke up with you two years ago? Oh, you don’t know? Haven’t seen him since that awkward homecoming game? It’s almost like you’ve moved on. And you have. Your best guy friend has found a girl who finds it attractive to be at her beckon call all the time and willing to move across the country at the two-week mark in the relationship “just to be near you.” I hope they find happiness. You were right, too clingy, too desperate. Good lookin’ out!

You’ve met a guy from work and he’s usually studying in the library on Tuesday and Thursdays in between his graduate classes for his MBA. He’s into biking, football – da Bears, and can dance like a madman… in a good way. You’ve only “bumped” into him twice and only stayed for coffee once. He has a clear career goal and sometimes he jokes about traveling the world for a living. He goes home to help his mom around the house every third weekend of the month because his dad left years ago and works 30 hours on top of being a teacher’s assistant for an undergraduate intro to business course. He’s got his own stuff going on and his own life. You’re nervous he won’t have time for you. He’s the next guy to date but you love the chase. He lives for himself just as much as you. He doesn’t come with cling symptoms. Go in for the kill! But you might realize you don’t want to because you’re happy where your life is heading as a single young woman. Single women do powerful things too. It’s amazing how many single women I’ve met who are extremely confident in who they are, strive for their dreams, and live happily each day. One of these women is me.

Two years and one day.

Whether you chose the happy ending of going in for the kill with the successful MBA student or chose to do you for a while happily, bravo! You have been making decisions for the past how many months on your own terms and without what’s-his-name. You can trust your gut instincts again and feel better about yourself. This singledom is all about perspective and all about time. Figure out who you are before knowing anyone else and let him figure out who he is without you. Maybe you’ll find yourself in his eyes, but how can you know who you are without washing away the remnants of your broken heart and giving it time?

Who You Are Without Me – Kate Voegele

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Your Family is Yours

You know when we all were teenagers and we wanted to be a part of a different family – one more perfect than ours? We would complain about our distant father or our mother who always wanted to know where we were going and when we’d be home. We’d write sad poetry and share them with our friends who also wrote sad poetry. We swore we hated them and swore we wanted “so and so’s” life. We wanted another family; anyone’s but ours’.

Well then you grow up and you realize that was a bunch of crap. Your family still isn’t perfect, but it’s yours. Even though you fall into weird holiday routines with an absent sibling or parent, you adjust to enjoy it anyway. Eventually your childhood home may be sold and you’ll start to call wherever your mom or dad is, home. You hate missing your brother or sister being so far because of their busy schedule or yours. You hate the new routines and taking on adult responsibilities like paying bills, being broke, and trying to make life matter on your own.

Some people may fall in love and marry their perfect man or woman and some may not. Some may hold on to emotions from long ago and still prefer a different family. Some people haven’t grown up yet. But as I’m approaching my 25th birthday when evidently part of your brain matures enough to start thinking about other people besides yourself first, I’ve pondered what really matters in a family.

1. Love – you gotta love them… you kinda have to.

2. Support – you gotta know which way to lean for a steady shoulder, even if you have been your own for so long.

3. Each other – My family is spread apart and on different sides of the country, and another one between my freedom and his restraint, but we’re all alive and sometimes that’s what should matter.

It’s taken me a long time to see my family as they are, accept who they are as they are, and want them to be who they are. It’s taken me a long time to want a brother again. But even though nothing’s perfect, they’re still my family who loves and supports me. My teenage Jennifer wanted a different Jennifer as well as a different family. But looking at things today: I wouldn’t change a damn thing about who I am. So why should I want to change my family?

The basic point is this: When you’re a teenager, your life sucks. And growing up and taking on responsibility sucks. But calling your mom after a hard day at school or work and her still saying, “It’ll be okay” is why you wouldn’t change her. Hanging out with your dad as he tells you he’s proud of you and he admires your drive for going for what you want is more than enough to keep him the way he is. And punching your brother in the shoulder as a joke at the vending machines in secured visiting room feels just the same as punching him on any regular day at home, except that it’s not. But there’s the hope that some day, my brother and I will be good friends with families of our own. And our kids will probably want different families while they’re hormonal and discovering deodorant. It’s only a part of life.

And we all know, life’s not perfect.

(Love your family – they’re the only ones you’ve got!) ❤

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Will you ever go back to New York?

Hanging out with NYC

There’s this question that when anybody finds out that I lived in the greatest city in the world (New York City, duh!) asks me. “Will you ever go back?” The responsible, adult answer is “Yes, but…”

Yes, but it’ll have to be for just the right reasons. Yes, but it’ll have to allow me to live like I live in Iowa. Yes, but it’ll have to be for my dream career… and only a career. Yes, but it will have to be the best decision for all of my family at that time… be it a husband, serious boyfriend, a child, children. This is my responsible side answering out loud, but in my heart…

I’m screaming, “Yes yes yes, tomorrow!” I’ve been in withdrawal. Now, I’ve never been into drugs, but I have been in love so I know what addiction is. The good kind of addiction where you absorb every drop (like a Sham-Wow) of his personality, his sense of humor, his beauty, his eyes, his half smile, his entire smile, his stable feet, his big arms, his entire being. Then one day it’s over. It’s gone; taken from you before you can breathe in his cologne once more to make a memory… even though your nose has memorized it for months. Your eyes seep more than you thought was humanly possible and you get pissed when the cheap store-brand tissues break in your hand; enough is breaking already. You read his last texts for hints that this is a joke or that you could have seen it coming. But there’s nothing new. You refuse to wash your bed sheets and pillow cases because they still smell like him. You go temporarily insane, nagging at easy targets, screaming at traffic, and lashing out at horrible television drama plots. You’re late for work and it’s his fault, even though you haven’t seen him in days. Your heart is a sodden, poor excuse for a muscle because a muscle is tough and gives you strength and just as you are thinking this you yell out, “liar!” in the middle of dinner. You’re in withdrawal.

But when you encounter a city that entertains you all night long, that can be your company on your loneliest days, that can surprise, shock, and tempt you all in the same 24-hours, that only loves you more than you love it, you know you’re having the love affair of your dreams. All of a sudden that man in your life becomes second best. You mute his ringing apologies because there is just too good of a street band playing. They flip and your heart flips. You space off and forget text messages from him for the holiday lights at Rockefeller. The city is just like having the perfect man, except you can’t hold its hand. Plus, how can you hold his hand when you are fighting a million people at once among crazies and sketchy Elmo impersonators? Your city sets the world at your fingertips; it greets you with diversity and introduces you to the best of everything, including fine dining and street dining, a chatty taxi driver and the one you want to punch, and the greatest friends who you would never have known existed without it. Your love affair couldn’t be more potent (and I’m not talking about the sour steaming holes on the streets) or worth it. But with all love (so far in life) comes heartbreak.

When I moved to Manhattan in June 2010, I was single. I was finally over the Midwestern man who selfishly stole from me. He had abused my heart for many-a-months and my mental status was always day-to-day. He threw me for the loopiest loop I’ve ever experienced. Roller coaster’s tracks would break trying to compare. I let him throw me because I loved him. You all know that feeling… love, the human kind. It’s hard-core.

But when you fall in love with a city like New York, you say it’s love because everybody will forever say “I ❤ NY,” right? And you know because you own a t-shirt proving it, right? I have one too and I lived there for 13 months. It wasn’t as much of a souvenir as a little part of the city I called home. When you wear your t-shirt from your weekend visit or week-long stint, do you long for its smell, kind of like your ex’s borrowed pillow that rests next to yours? Does your heart burn like that first week with Mr. Could-Have-Been-Right? Does your stomach get butterflies? Mine does.

I left in July 2011 and for the first three months I suffered like an addict in rehab. I was crying at a drop of a scene from David Letterman. I was crying watching Gossip Girl reruns on Monday nights alone in my new, one-person, no-roommate apartment. I was screaming and honking my horn at kind, law-abiding Iowa citizens. I was twisting my words and searching the yellow pages for New York pizza. I was hoping for this departure to be a joke even though I left on my terms. I cried before bed and every morning waking up to the quietest and darkest outside in the world; I may as well have been on Pluto (Yes, the nonexistent planet). I woke up from dreams in Tribeca dancing in my favorite club. I stared lacklusterly at the pictures in my living room I dubbed my NYC room. I was in withdrawal, utterly lost. So I put on that shirt.

That was shirt like putting on my ex-boyfriend’s old baseball shirt. New York gave me that shirt. It was a gift. And I’m sure if I could dress Manhattan, I’d give it a shirt that reads, “I ❤ Jenn” and it’d wear it with honesty. Because New York loves me too. The difference between an ex-boyfriend and an ended love affair with New York City is simple: New York will take me back in a heartbeat and as far as my ex goes, he can kiss my butt… okay! my ass! (Censorship, psh.)

So yes, I’d go back to New York tomorrow because no heartache will keep me from the city that would take me back with liberty to be myself. Logic might, but then again that’s always been my downfall in relationships. The city loves me for who I am and will forever give me its all. That love affair has topped any man I’ve ever loved. Mr. (human) Right, you’ve got big shoes to fill. Try 8 million.


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