The Poet

Ahhhh, the poet. The way I ended things with the poet may have led him to believe that I do not look back kindly. But I do. He was awesome. Beautiful, kind, sincere, and a fucking train wreck of epic proportion.

We went out a few times. I loved writing with him. His grasp of the language, his way with words, and his ability to articulate his emotions with words gave even me a run for my money. But he was unsure of the life he wanted, was still suffering the doldrums of adjusting to Los Angeles (it happens to all newbies), and was a career student with no career aspirations. He was just fledgling about. And while that’s certainly okay, ‘tis not okay with me, and ‘tis not okay for someone on the south side of 35. Though I don’t have all the answers, I have a pretty good idea what I want and to sign up to be the babysitter to a whiney artist isn’t on my to-do list.

And then there was the flakiness and his non-commital blasé attitude toward scheduling. He didn’t want to make plans, or consider having to pencil anything in, and I’m a busy girl with no time for that shit.

The end.