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The Locked Diary #9: It's In My Blood

It doesn't matter how you get there. So long as you get there.


I meet my friend Dakota for a late dinner in Williamsburg. The restaurant we choose is called “Sundays In Brooklyn” and is right down the street from Violet’s apartment. We call it “Sundays” for short.

Sundays is like most Brooklyn restaurants in that it serves water out of a mason jar. Is it just me or do mason jars instantly make you think of the Pinterest board of a bride-to-be planning her farm-chic wedding? Is it just me or do you *also* think mason jars are too contrived to be chic or cool for that matter? When irony becomes a Pinterest-able trend, is it even irony anymore? These are the kinds of questions that keep me up at night.

I posture in front of the mirror for a while before I leave to meet Dakota at Sundays. I haven’t had an appetite in months but my face has managed to quadruple in size. If there was a prize for post-crying water retention I'd be the surefire winner. I squint into the mirror, almost impressed by my moon-like face. In fact, it’s not just any ordinary moon; it’s an extraordinary moon. A harvest moon. Shiny, perfectly round, and tawny orange from another sunscreen-less summer. I marvel at my feral hair, too. She’s wild: A hodgepodge of mismatched curl patterns crash-landing into one another, saltwater split ends sixteen shades lighter than her crown falling into my bra-less tits. I haven’t had it in me to straighten out the kinks of my hair, or much else. I haven’t had it in me to really wear a bra, either. My nails are cherry red but fabulously chipped, a real work of art. My lips are cherry red too, but they've been painted perfect. I always wear red lipstick when I’m going through something. Don’t we all?

I kiss my dog Luka on the top of his head marking him with my lip prints. I stomp out the door feeling kinda hot. In a damaged way. There’s just something about heartbroken women. We ooze a dangerous unpredictability that can not be manufactured or bought, and things that can not be manufactured or bought are the most authentic, thus the most coveted, thus the most sexy. I *know* you get it, sis.

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