I was just with my friend Sinead on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette in the rain, and we had one of those wonderful moments, where you feel that in-another-lifetime-we-knew-each-other connection and it was beautiful. She's just met this great guy, and even though I am not-so-secretly secretly jealous, mostly I am just happy for her--that unselfish happiness you can only feel for a person you really care about.
I'm in her room, now, listening to Rachael Yamagata's version of "I Wish You Love," which plays at the end of the movie Prime and is just one of the most heartbreaking songs I've ever heard:
My breaking heart and I agree
that you and I could never be,
so with my best--my very best--
I set you free...
That's the way I wish I could feel when my relationships with men inevitably go awry. Less angry and bitter, more settled and seasoned and able to understand the reason for it all. And somewhere deep down, I know I do. Somewhere.
So I guess this is the end of the beginning. It's messy and not particularly relevant to anything I know, but I am like that, too--who am I to judge?
