Wednesday, August 29, 2012


I am just about at the end of my rope with you.

Dear Special Lady,

Hi. How are you? How're things? Things good? So happy to hear that.

I don't know if you remember me. But I was at this coffee shop two days ago. And we sat beside each other over at the banquette tables along the front window. Remember that? No? It’s cool. You were obviously preoccupied. Being the WORLD’S MOST ANNOYING HUMAN BEING surely requires intense focus and concentration.

But I wanted to tell you, I really admire your dedication. Like the inimitable Merryl Streep, you are a master at your craft. In fact, I was so thoroughly impressed with your talent to annoy, I stopped pretending to write in order to catch your curious street act.

And, I gotta say, you did not disappoint. It was a riveting, pitch-perfect performance!
From the moment you took the stage, shuffling past in those unironically worn mom jeans and floppy straw hat, I knew we were in for a treat. And the way you went limp and dropped your exhausted, carb-laden body into the long banquette seat, landing with the ferocity of a falling timber. Dear God, I jumped right outta my seat! Literally.    

What. An. Entrance.

I’ll admit, I had a hard time following much of the dialogue of your one-woman show--Oh Yeah, This Is Really Happening Right Now--where you spoke into a smart phone in loud, random bursts. At first, I thought you were recording daily reminders. But no one with the possible exception of the Lord, or perhaps Mr. Seacrest, is so insanely busy. So I assumed you were capturing brilliant nuggets for a future literary masterpiece that would no doubt rival E.L. James' prolific works, earning raves for its added dose of Southern sass.

To be honest, I missed a good portion of this act, because I became fixated on a faulty pair of ear buds that I discovered were ineffective in blocking out disturbing outside noise. But after tossing the piece-of-crap buds aside, I gave you my undivided attention, as I wondered: what in holy hell, fifty shades of utter nonsense sounds like. 

This is it. I’ve found it. I’m in hell.

And that's when I saw the true brilliance of your patented brand of annoying. 

Because who could've guessed that you were having a conversation? A "text" conversation no less! That's right. You. Were. Texting. WITH. YOUR. VOICE. 

I didn't even know that was possible. I had to google it to convince myself it was a real thing and that you weren’t, you know, f**ing with me, with some brilliantly improvised monologue on the decay of our modern tech-obsessed society. 

Nope. It was not an act.   

Apart from the short staccato bursts, I have to say I was really impressed with the subtle way you worked modern movement into your performance by making several hasty, unwarranted exits. By my count, there were nine. In one hour. I kept a tally. 

Without warning, you’d sprint from your squeaky vinyl seat with the urgency of a cat who suddenly decides, Shit, I really need to be over there. And after text-shouting at various spots throughout the cafe--working the room like a true showman to ensure everyone enjoyed the strangely unsettling performance--you’d plop right back down in your indented spot with the same oomph that heralded your arrival. It kept things lively, that's for sure, and made it impossible for anyone to ignore you. 

Take note amateurs: This is how you keep an audience captive.

But if I had to pick my favorite part of the afternoon's entertainment, I would have to say it was the humming. Sweet Jesus, the humming. How to describe it: These whimsical little unmelodious ditties, penned by Saint Lucifer, that assaulted the brain like a hard open slap, triggering a rush of murderous thoughts. Personally, I wanted to choke a whistling Dixie Bitch every time a new tune found its way to my ears. An hour into the show, I found myself staring down at balled hands, clenching and unclenching them in an effort so stay calm. 

One finger won’t make an impact, but you ball all those fingers
into a fist, and you can strike a mighty blow.

It's a testament to your talent the way you were able to illicit such strong emotion. I almost cried. TWICE!! Unable to resist the strange allure of your God-given gift, I gave up the futile fight, closed my laptop and bowed my head in silent surrender.  

Bravo, wicked nymph. BRA-VO

Sadly, I missed the second act, as I became obsessed with replacing those defective buds and had to bolt early in order to beat traffic and make it to the electronics store before closing. But I am back for today's matinee. And this time, I came prepared, armed with my brand new, oversized professional DJ head phones that the salesman assured me would TUNE OUT EVERY LAST ANNOYING BITCH IN THE ROOM. 

That eager young man was not lying. I don't hear a damn thing right now. 

Not the steaming, gurgling sounds of the espresso machine. Not the screaming toddler across the room. Not the unemployed actor one table over, sharing yet another profound insight he'll later post on Facebook for his less enlightened "friends". Nada. All I hear is the tranquil sound of ocean waves crashing against a rocky shoreline, which is currently blasting in both ears in glorious, high definition stereo. I am in a far better place, looking forward to today's muted performance as I get back to work googling more random shit.  

Wait. What's this now? Oh, I see you've added toe tapping to your already impressive repertoire. And hold on, are you dancing right now?! In your seat?! 

Damn it. You. Are. Good. Way to keep it fresh girl! 

This is going to be a really good show. These folks have no idea. Knock 'em dead!

Your biggest fan,
Mad Shady

1. STEEL MAGNOLIAS (1989) Writer: Robert Harling
2. SOUL FOOD (1997) Writer: George Tillman Jr. 

Sunday, August 26, 2012


It’s Sunday. And I woke up with a craving for some Dominican style eggs, like my grandmother used to make back when she was alive and chasing my demon child ass around her house with a thick, rubber soled slipper firmly clenched in her hand. 

The smell of those eggs in the morning would always stop me in my tracks. As I vowed, with fingers crossed, to stop engaging in fun-to-do-hoodrat-stuff behavior. My fave cousin and I would sit at the table like two slovenly little angels savoring that plate of mouth watering deliciousness. Until breakfast was over, and we'd regroup, hatching our next brilliant scheme to torment the old lady. 

We were bored. And poor. Our options for entertainment were very limited.

Now, I wouldn’t call myself a “cook”. (this is where my tiny Rican mom rolls her eyes). But I can follow a recipe easy enough. And it so happens that I am also a gluttenous pig who REALLY, TRULY, DEEPLY LOVES TO EAT. The desire to stuff my face with something sinfully decadent will motivate me on occasion to pick up a seldom used pan. Also, I am poor. With limited options. I need to start cooking. Or starve. 

So, here's what went down this morning in the Mad Shady kitchen:  

Recipe courtesy of

These are actually two separate recipes: one for the eggs and one for the mangu. Because my gluttenous Dominican half decided that I needed authentic Dominican mashed plantains to go with my Dominican style eggs. Also, I had mine with toasty corn MEXICAN tortillas. It just felt right. Plus they were in my cabinet.


I made a few modifications...

I cut the recipe in half, because I live alone, and I am not trying to feed the neighborhood. Also, I took one tbsp of olive oil and sauted some garlic in it. Then I added that with the remaining plain olive oil to the plantain mixture (I used two tbsps total of oil. Because half of 1/4c=2 tbsps. I googled it).

I cut the recipe in half. 

Also, I only used 1/4 red onion, even less of red pepper, just said no to green pepper, just a sprinkling of cilantro, no salt or pepper (prefer to let my imaginary friends add their own to suit their tastes) and said no thank you to parmesan cheese. I also minced the onion and peppers to an inch of their lives. Because I'm lazy. And I don't like to chew. I used less water, even less than the 1 cup I would've used by cutting recipe in half. And I added two tsps of cider vinegar. My grandmother's secret ingredient! (Oh yeah, Abuela, I paid attention). You can certainly add more water after it simmers, just have to play around with it. I don't like it too watery. So I'd rather add it at the end. You'll know you've nailed it, when the taste makes you stomp your foot, yell out DAY-UM to the heavens and then erupt into a joyous song

You can also scramble the eggs. After the sauce is done, pour into a separate bowl. Then scramble the eggs. When the eggs are cooked, pour in sauce and saute.

Tell me that don't look good! One con: No dipping with this version. Keep that in mind.


--DO break the yolk, mix it with the sauce and try a mouthful with the plantains
--DO try the sauce with just the plantain. Do it! You. Will. Not. Be. Sorry. 
--Maybe try the eggs folded up in the tortilla? Why the hell not?
--Have you tried adding a slice of avocado? You are a TRUE Dominican, now. 

Friday, August 17, 2012


Reasons why Teddy is NOT an a**hole and why his actions are totally justified:

1. Maybe that bottle was really annoying him. And it needed to be GONE.

2. Maybe he just didn’t like the way that stupid vitamin bottle was looking at him with that smug “hey, look at me, I’m so thin and healthy” look of superiority. Stupid vitamins. *smack*

3. Maybe the bottle was telling a painfully boring personal anecdote that went on a little too long. And Teddy wanted it to end. He’s got a lot of shit to do.

4. Maybe the bottle was trying to tell him how he really needs to get out of that sad, messy house, go outside and EMBRACE LIFE! And Teddy thought, who are YOU to tell ME how to live my life. That bottle needs to mind its own damn business.

5. Maybe Teddy had a sudden feng shui attack and felt compelled to remove some clutter.

6. Maybe the bottle was perpetuating some Beiber-like, fake swagger and needed to be set straight: Stop it. Embrace your whiteness. *smack* That bottle is lucky to have a genuine friend like him who keeps it real.

7. Maybe Teddy experienced a rare rebellious impulse and remembering his former friend’s advice to embrace life  opted to go with the flow and surrender to this new, exciting feeling. He felt empowered! Then he was emotionally drained and needed a "cat nap". 

8. Maybe the bottle was standing too close. Give a bitch some damn personal space!

9. Maybe Teddy had a really hard day, sitting there, contemplating all the shit he needs to get done. And he felt a tiny bit overwhelmed, because he knows that as soon as he completes even one task there will still be twenty more things left to do. Because there is always something else that needs to get done. And you know what? He's freakin' tired! Because it just feels like life is this never ending to-do list of SHIT THAT NEEDS TO GET DONE. One vicious cycle. With no end in sight.  And what the hell is the damn point?! So yeah, he hit the bottle out of frustration. He's not proud. But he was having a moment. And needed to vent. 

Haven't you ever had a DAMN MOMENT where you felt like just lashing out?!! 

Think about THAT before you go judging a bitch and calling them an a**hole.

P.S.  Or maybe he was just hungry. And it made him irritable. I get like that.

P.P.S. Did I seriously just write an entire post about a cat?! I am really bored.

P.P.P.S. I don't even like cats.

Friday, August 10, 2012


There's one thing I want you to do for me. Win. Win!

If wasting time were an Olympic sporting event, I’d be the reigning world champion.

And my strongest event would be stupid internet searches. This is where my innate gift for doing nothing even remotely productive while somehow managing to always look busy really shines through. I spend hours, days honing my skills in this one particular area googling all sorts of random, totally useless crap. Why? Because I want to be the best, damn it! Also, I'll do just about anything to avoid actually writing. And this is the most entertaining way I've found to pass the time. (I don't have cable)
Not wanting to break a week-long winning streak, I googled WORST HAIRCUT OF ALL TIME today in a sad attempt to make myself feel better after my hairdresser decided to go all Edward Scissorhands on my curly mane. I wanted to see where I ranked on the list and size up my competition. And not write my script.

These are the top contenders vying for the coveted title:


No amount of smoky eye makeup can hide the sadness behind those eyes. I feel your pain, girl. I was pretty once too. Don't worry, it'll grow back eventually. That's what I tell myself to get through. Wear some big hoop earrings in the meantime. It helps.


You've got a lot of spunk, kid. I admire that. Don't ever change.


Not many would have the courage to sport such an intricate geometric design on their head or the ingenuity to blend it with impeccably drawn, matching eyebrows. But to top off this masterpiece with the long abandoned SIDE PONY?! Pure. Genius. 

The world isn't ready for such a bold visionary. Give 'em time, boo. 


I tip my hat to you, sir. No one can touch you.You soar with the eagles.


W.T.F. Did you lose a bet? Pass out drunk at a frat party? Piss off your girlfriend who wants to send a clear message that SHE IS NOT THE ONE TO BE CHEATED ON?! 

There's a story here. This is just craziness.


I have no idea why you came up on this search. You really have no business being on this or any other "worst list".  You get a lifetime free pass for your SHEER AWESOMENESS. Be gone, bitch. Bzzzzzzzz


I rocked the wet curls back in high school, during my Michael Jackson phase. Can't. Even. Front. I'm not proud. But this hardly qualifies as the worst haircut of all time.


Wait. A. Second. Here. Long, loose layers..of varying disproportionate lengths...that FALL IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES? OH, HELL NO... 
Am I sporting A DAMN, FRIENDS CUT?!!
Why, God. No seriously...WHY?!  
I can't believe I didn’t see it before. But that’s my haircut right there. If you just added a few more inches to the back, because I asked my scissor-happy stylist to keep it long this time. And then cut some really short, fringy bangs. For added awfulness. You will have achieved my new, furthest-thing-from-cute jacked up Summer hair look.

So I must congratulate my hairdresser on this crowning achievement. After five long years and numerous failed attempts, you’ve reached a career milestone, blowing away the competition by giving me THE WORST HAIRCUT OF ALL TIME.

Way to go, girl. I’ll see you at the victory stand. Seems we're both winners here today. 

Note to stylists: The "Rachel" doesn't work on brown girls. Neither does short bangs.

Note to my five readers: This is what comes up when you google jacked up hair. In case, you were wondering.

1. ROCKY II (1979) Writer: Sylvester Stallone

Monday, July 30, 2012


I can’t with this whole thing right here.     

I love Mondays. Hard to fathom, right? There’s just something about the start of a new week—ripe with possibilities and new opportunities to cross things off the smug to-do list that taunts me mercilessly on my desk—that fills my soul with glee. I wake up brimming with ideas, eager to get started on the MOST PRODUCTIVE DAY EVER.

My enthusiasm starts to wane though as my priorities inevitably shift. And smacking a random idiot senseless suddenly moves to the very top of my list. 

Because there are folks in this world, who test my limits daily, working my frail nerves until they’ve drained every ounce of human compassion from my body. I know, I'm not alone here. Ever share the road with a lycra-wearing, Lance Armstrong wannabe, who refuses to stay in the bike lane? Or suffer through co-worker small talk about morning commutes? Kill me now. Or stand behind someone at the express lane paying with a check…in 2012…who makes a mistake and HAS TO START OVER! Sweet Jesus, SAVE HER. You want to slap the annoying right out of these possessed fools. 

Often times, a bad hair cut and my vain fear of a potentially tragic mug shot going viral are the only things stopping me. Or perhaps, it's that tiny voice telling me, they ain't worth it. Stop letting stupid things bother you so much. I try. But it's really hard.   

Maybe if I vented, rid myself of any lingering hostility, I can sustain this Monday high? 

With that in mind, allow me to share some of the silly stupid stuff that annoyed, aggravated and just plain irritated me....henceforth known as...


--POP UP ADS. I was right in the middle of reading an article! Arrrrrggggghhh!!!! 

--People who say "ir-regardless". *smack*

--PINTEREST. I want to slap everything on it...Well, except for this. And this is also pretty awesome.

--FAMILY DRAMA. I've been there. And it's never pretty.   

--I wanted to slap the crap out of this MUSIC VIDEO. Until I caught J Lo's new video. The neon. The harem pants. FLO RIDA?! That's just a tall glass of nothing good.    

--CANCER. A talented actress. And a kind, generous soul. Lupe will be missed. 

--The world's WORST HAIRCUT. A distant cousin of this tired bitch.

--The guy at El Torito's who ordered a happy hour margarita with salt..."ON THE RIM, PLEASE." *smack* 

--TWILIGHTMELTDOWN 2012. Get. A. Grip. Twihards. Listen to NuttyMadam, the sole voice of reason and the only good thing to come out of this whole sad, sordid affair: LEAVE. ROBSTEN. ALONE.

--JUSTIN BIEBER. I had to really think about this one. I couldn't figure out why this kid annoyed me so much. Is it his music? No, I actually like some of his songs, though I'd never admit it publicly. Is it the hair? Not so much, now. His face? That's just mean. Is it his...swagger? Oh my God, YES, thank you! It's the damn swagger. I'm just not buying it. First of all, you're 18. You have no swagger. Sorry, Biebs. It's a fact. Plus you're White, HELLO. There are very few White people can pull off swagger. Eminem: absolutely. Timberlake: astonishingly, yes. Justin Bieber?! Nope, sorry. I find your attempts at swagger personally offensive, and honestly, a bit insulting. You're not some hardened criminal, out on parole, who has been through some real shit. You’re a kid. From Canada! Who sings bubble gum pop. You have not EARNED your swagger, young man. Pick up your pants. And have a seat. The streets thank you in advance.

Wow, I feel SO much better. Thanks for letting me get that all out.

And now, a moment of Zen to start the week on a happy note. Enjoy.... 

Wednesday, July 11, 2012


Every morning, I drag my lifeless, uncaffeinated body to the bathroom and stare with contempt at the flabby mass spilling over my granny panties in the mirror.

Maybe I’ve seen one too many Disney movies. But I truly believed the evil gelatinous creature holding my carved abs hostage would’ve been vanquished while I slept by some mystical, benevolent force. Like fairies. Or night elves. Or a guardian angel who after witnessing my pathetic attempts to NOT EAT ANYMORE FRIED FOOD CRAP, along with my minimal yo-let’s-not-go-crazy workouts, takes pity and asks God to grant me a “flat abs miracle”. Because shit stopped being funny and grew sorta sad.
But the flabby bitch refuses to leave, like an overly clingy friend, who doesn't quite get that I don't enjoy her company. She smiles up at me, excited at the prospect of a new day filled with sugary sweet possibilities. I'm glad one of us is happy... 

Flabby Gut:             Good morning, sunshine!
MS:                           Why are you tormenting me. GO. AWAY. 
Flabby Gut:             Hey, let's have donuts! You know you wanna.
MS:                           I hate you so much right now.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012


I want my freedom!
I am having the most dreadful hair day. I just can’t seem to do anything with it!

I blame my hairdresser and her unwillingness to accept my curly hair's defiant nature. Like most of her colleagues, she operates under the false belief that with enough “product” or the right straightening tool, she can tame the frizzy beast and torture it into submission. I’ve got news for you woman. You can’t tell a Latin woman’s hair what to do. She is a shady, unruly bitch. AND. SHE. CANNOT. BE. TAMED.

Anyway, she gave me this God awful choppy-layered cut that clearly would’ve been better served on the head of a cool, edgy Asian chick with pin straight hair. 

On my head, well, let’s just say it ain’t pretty...

The hell you looking at, bitch?!

After many lost battles with a flat iron, I’ve given up any feeble attempts to style it. So I decided to just let it dry naturally last night and do its own thing. I can’t say what greeted me in the bathroom mirror this morning was a vast improvement. 
Good Lord, my hair is HUGE!... 
I look like a 70s disco queen.
All I need is a bright orchid over my ear and some shiny plum gloss.
But I refuse to let it ruin my day. In the words of Indie Arie: I am not my hair.  

So I’m owning it. And I'm gonna rock this massive, tangled mess of curls with brazen confidence, like a trailblazing brown-skinned sparkly diva. I’m bringing this look back. 

Note: This is how you own a bad hair day…with a defiant stare...and serious attitude.


Wednesday, July 4, 2012


To begin...To begin...How to start?
So I’ve been M.I.A. for a while, which has got folks asking some serious questions:

….Are you o.k.?
….What you up to these days?
….Did you die in that tiny, sad apartment?!
….Why. You. So. SHADY.

These are the worrying thoughts that show up most frequently in my inbox and neglected Facebook page. Mostly from well-meaning friends with genuine concerns for my welfare. And a few sad bitches, awaiting news of my demise, so they can celebrate with a victory parade down the streets of L.A., where copious amounts of shredded paper are thrown exuberantly from high office windows as Mayor Villaraigosa hands them the key to the city and proclaims, “YOU win, bitch. Happy?"
You know who you are.
Those Deepak quotes on your Facebook page ain’t fooling nobody.

The truth is that I’ve been busy writing. Or at least, that’s what I like to tell people. 

Most days, I just think really hard about writing, as I sip a glass of wine on my sofa. Or I read a lot of blogs on the subject. Or engage in numerous other "productive" activities, like making daily writing schedules. Or re-organizing my desktop folders. Or watching Oprah’s Lifeclass clips for inspiration. Or catching up on my reading, because hello, WRITERS NEED TO READ. Or. Googling. Endless. Random. Topics. That. I. Might. Eventually. Want. To. Write. About. Someday. In. the. Near. Future.

It’s exhausting. And it leaves me little time for any actual writing. But judging by this video, it seems I am not alone. It’s all part of the creative process. Or at least, that's what I like to tell myself.

Note: This is what my writing days look like. Without the fur. And a lot more naps.

I'm gonna get back to work now...savoring this juicy-ass burger at my uncle's July 4th BBQ...and think really hard about all the brilliant writing I am going to get done...
Happy 4th of July, ya’ll!!


Monday, February 20, 2012


**Following is a post I wrote months ago shortly after I broke up with my boyfriend. I chose not to publish it, because I mostly wrote it for myself. I was pretty mad. And writing about it seemed like a therapeutic way to work through my feelings and release some anger. But in keeping with the theme of this blog to "be bolder" and “hold nothing back”, I thought I’d publish it now.

Can’t think of a more fitting way to end Valentine’s Week than with this last goodbye. 

A relationship is like a shark, you know? It has to constantly move forward or it dies.
And I think what we got on our hands is a dead shark.
If you asked me right now if I had a boyfriend, I really couldn’t give you an answer. Because I honestly don’t know. But I can tell you that I’ve been dating an idiot for the last sixteen months with overwhelming certainty. 

He-who-must-not-be-named certainly didn’t start off as an idiot. In fact, when I met him he was a smart, confident and thoughtful man, always quick to open a car door or pull out a chair for me. He was definitely NOT like the others. We had incredible fun together, and I genuinely enjoyed spending time with him. It was easy. Effortless.  

But there was one problem. This kind, sweet man came with a LOT of baggage. 

He was divorcing his ex-wife who chose to walk out after ten years of marriage, plus he had custody of their kid and was making the rough transition to single fatherhood.
Of course the shady bitch inside who finds fault with every man threw a yellow flag.

Mmmm-hh. There it is, right there! Bitch is DAMAGED. 
You don’t need that kind of drama, girl. 
Trust me.  This will not end well.

But this was a good man. In pain! His vulnerability only made him more attractive. On some deep romantic level, I probably imagined I could save him; that I would restore his faith in love and we’d live happily ever after. Some. Bitches. Never. Learn.

I’m going to destroy you.

His problems didn't really phase me. I had my own issues, recovering from losing my job and having major surgery to remove a cyst the size of Kansas, just weeks before we met. The truth is he was a welcome distraction from all the self-doubt and uncertainty that threatened to drown me at the time. And he made me really happy, giddy even, so I decided to trust my gut for once and open my heart to this man.

Eventually things got a bit more serious and feelings began to surface. But feelings were another "problem". And suddenly, Mr. Wonderful became Mr. Cold & Distant. 

I like you a lot, but this is all I can give right now. I'm just not ready for a relationship”. 

Hold. Up. Um, I'm sorry...

Men NOT interested in a relationship shouldn’t pursue disinterested women watching football at a local dive bar, ask them out on repeated dates, take them on romantic getaways, make them a sexy mixed cd/tape [oh yes, he did!] say stuff like ‘you’re really important to me’ and basically string them along for AN ENTIRE YEAR. 

Cuz  they might start to think you really care. Just saying.

I gave him his space to work through his issues. Then we settled into a comfortable stalemate as he continued to put up walls while I pretended it didn’t bother me.

So what if he shuts down whenever things threaten to get serious. Or that he goes silent on the phone when I say: I miss you or can’t wait to see you. Or that I’ve never met any of his family or close friends. Or seen the inside of his house! Or that I felt compelled to apologize for introducing him as my boyfriend at a party, because I sensed his discomfort even though we’d been dating OVER A YEAR. Nope, doesn’t bother me. Not in the least. I understand. He’s been through a lot, right? RIGHT?! 

Yeah, pretend it’s not happening.

Who was I kidding. I wasn’t happy. And I couldn’t keep lying to myself.

He once told me that this relationship was incredibly unfair to me. I began to see that he was right. It was all about him. And his needs. I chose to believe that what he wanted was more important, namely someone to take his mind off all his damn problems. And I tried to be everything he needed: fun, supportive, nurturing, understanding. But what about me? And what I wanted? What I wanted was a REAL boyfriend who was there when I needed his love, support and encouragement. 

I made up my mind that I would speak to him as soon as he returned from his business trip abroad. We tried to connect a few times, but he was always too busy or stressed with work to meet. It's been five weeks now since I last heard from him. 

Perhaps, he has come to the same realization I have--that this “relationship” has run its course. Maybe he’s just really, really busy. Too busy to send a text. Maybe he’s embarked on a noble quest to middle earth with some hobbits. Or maybe, he’s just a cowardly idiot. It doesn’t really matter. Much like him, I’ve stopped caring.

It's a pity Bilbo didn't kill him when he had the chance.
I’m moving on. Even though it still hurts and there are days where I must resist the urge to just pick up the phone and call him. Because I wouldn't be happy staying in a dead-end relationship, simply because it’s easy or comfortable. It's just not me. 

Deep down, I know I deserve better. And I want to be with someone who loves me without restraint, who'll stand beside me, happy to call himself my boyfriend.