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Welcome to Dakotawitch Speaks (or The Dakotawitch Doctrine). Sit back and listen to a little SR-71 for your standard disclaimer...

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LJ Idol: Salty

It is a curious fact of human biology that we need salt to live. It is salt that drives the engines of our cells, that fuels a myriad bodily processes that happen without our awareness every minute of every day to keep us alive. Consumed principally in the form of table salt, NaCl, just a few milligrams of this vital nutrient each day keeps us breathing, digesting, pumping blood and thus oxygenating our cells, and a thousand other vital processes. Without salt, we would literally slowly whither and die.

Salt is the stuff of life.

The other curious fact about human biology and salt is that, for as much as we need it, the lack of salt awakes no craving. Nothing in our body sends up the message that we need to get some salt on board, stat, before things start going horribly sideways. In spite of this, however, one of the earliest human innovations we see is a variety of techniques to extract salt from the environment -- through evaporating sea water on hot sticks, scraping it off seaside rocks, evaporating urine (really -- the Aztecs did it). Somehow, intuitively, maybe even spiritually, we know that we need salt to live.

We spend the first 9 months of our existence afloat in salty water, and when we're born it's in a rush of this salty fluid. The saline sweat and tears of labor are what welcome us Earthside, as we squall and surf the aminotic tide into life. Sometimes I wonder if our bond with salt, our intimate bond with it, is formed in these prebirth months, in these moments when we transition from the relative safety of the womb to the wonderful and perilous world outside. Do we carry with us the memory of floating in our own private piece of ocean? Are we always on some level aching to return?

Salt is with us in the most profound of ways. The most significant moments of our lives are awash in salt, are bathed in salt, are encrusted with salt. At moments of deep joy, of heart-wrenching sorrow, of adrenaline-fueled stress and fear, we produce salt, leak it ouf our pores and let it issue forth from our eyes.

Salt is somehow baptism, blessing, redemption, cleansing.

Salt is tears, and sweat, and the hot fluids of passion. It is the purging of despair, it is the ecstacy of celebration, it is the soothing balm of side-splitting laughter. It is the crystalline structure of love, of hate, of grief, of loss, of endings and new beginnings.

Salt is our constant companion.

If we are lucky, we live a life that is by turns sweet and bitter, and if we are really lucky the sweet outweighs the bitter.

But no matter how life tastes in any given moment, at its heart, it is always salty.

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LJ Idol: The Blue Hour

Well the sun rose
With so many colors it nearly broke my heart
It worked me over like a work of art
And I was part of all that


Mornings aren't easy for me. The pull of sleep, of dreams, of rest is so strong. The warmth of my bed, the coziness and safety of the nest of pillows and blankets I've built, the hazy light coming through the curtains -- I'm always looking for a way to make it last a little longer. It's not so much that I don't want to face the day, my job, my life. At least not anymore. It's more that there is something in that liminal space between sleeping and waking, between my internal dream life and the waking life of walking the world, that I want to hold on to. But I always pry myself out of bed, usually lured by the smell of fresh-brewed coffee wafting from the kitchen across the hall, and start my day. The best days are when I can start it gently, by wrapping in a blanket or robe and lingering over that first cup of coffee. Most days aren't like that, though. Instead, I've got to shake off the last vestiges of sleep, drink that first mug of dark roast, and get on with the business of getting on with life.

Even on the hardest mornings -- well, on all but the very hardest mornings, let's be honest here -- I stride into my day feeling, if not optimistic, at least ready for whatever the day sends my way. Usually by the time I'm out the door, I'm full-focused on the day ahead -- work, research, activism, recreation, whatever my full, busy life has in store.

I don't take a lot of time to look back, to reflect, to wonder what if.

I keep going forward -- because that's the only way to get where I'm going.

But there's a time at the end of the day, after I've taken the bus and the train home, and navigated the traffic from the train station, when the light turns golden then pink then pale, pale blue. A time when the shadows lengthen and the night begins creeping closer on little cat feet. Things are soft then, not soft like they are in the morning, but hazy and blurry around the edges.

It never lasts all that long -- I blink and the shadows have turned to indigo and the moon is shining.

In this time, this time-inbetween-times, in this blue hour, sometimes....sometimes I look back. Sometimes, in these few brief moments suspended in the space between day and night, in the liminal space between the work of the day and the dreams of the night, I wonder. I wonder what if. I wonder what might have been. Sometimes regret comes and gently puts her head on my knee.

It never lasts all that long -- a quick shake of my head brings me back to the present, to the life I chose, to the life I built, out of the ashes of what was.

Sometimes, in that blue hour, it's almost like I could reach out and touch the self I could have been, might have been.

If I could, what would I say? What would I do?

I like to think I'd touch her face gently. I'd tell her that she was strong. I'd tell her that she was more than he told her she was. I'd tell her she had choices.

I'd tell her that if she'd reach out in the fading lilac light, and if she believed, someone would take her hand and pull her through to the other side.

Now I'm sleeping fine
Sometimes the truth is like
Second chance

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LJ Idol: Take a Hike

And I see the permanent damage you did to me
Never again, I just wish I could forget when it was magic
I wish it wasn’t four am, standing in the mirror
Saying to myself, you know you had to do it I know
The bravest thing I ever did was run


The single greatest act of courage I have ever performed was locking that door behind me, leaving the key on the patio table, and walking away. You will never know what it cost me to do it, to not turn around and look back. You'll never know that, as soon as I got around the corner from our apartment, I pulled into the Walgreens parking lot, put the truck in Park, and cried for 15 minutes with my face in my hands. And then I wiped my cheeks, blew my nose on a fast-food napkin, and drove away. You'll never know that there were nights I laid awake asking myself if I had really done the right thing, even while my heart and my gut knew that I had. You'll never know how close it all came to ending up another way.

You'll never understand why I did it. You'll never understand whyI couldn't forgive you, like I had always done in the past. You'll never understand why it was that moment that finally broke me, broke us, broke the fragile peace that passed for normal and sometimes even passed for happiness. You'll never understand that I left because if I hadn't have left, I'd have died -- whether at your hands or my own, doesn't matter. You'll never understand that we would have just slowly destroyed each other until there was nothing left, that at the end we weren't fighting for us but only to avoid personal annihilation. You'll never understand that there was no fixing it.

I know that there's a story you've told yourself about why I finally had to go. I know that you had to tell yourself that story, had to make yourself both hero and victim, because otherwise you wouldn't be able to live with yourself. I don't know if you really believe that story you tell yourself, that you tell others when they ask about me and about what happened. I am going to guess that on some level you know it's not true, or at least that it's not the whole truth. But I also don't know if you have, if you even can, fully admit to yourself the role you played. Can you face up to what you did, to me and to us? Do you even get that it was wrong, that it was violent, that it was ugly?

I wish I could explain it to you in a new way, a way that you could understand, a way that you could accept.

But if I couldn't do it then, when I still mattered to you, then I sure as hell can't do it now. Not after all this time, after all that's passed, after all that's happened.

I've spent a lot of sleepless nights trying to make sense of it all myself.

I can list my justifications, list my reasons, take you through the whys. But it won't matter.

When the time comes, when everything is broken on the ground and the only thing you have to hang on to is yourself -- well, then it's time to take a hike.

And once that decision has been made, there's no going back. There's only forward. There are detours. There is rough terrain.

But you can't turn back, you can't look back. Because that's not the way you're going.

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LJ Idol: Trolley Problem

Ain't that enough?
I turned your dreams into lightning
Ain't that enough?
I held the world back for you
Ain't that enough?
I loved you past the point of dyin'
Ain't that enough
Of me
For you?
    ---
Melissa Etheridge


No one who loves you will ever require that you annihilate yourself to prove your love.

I need you to repeat that to yourself until you believe it.

We live in a culture that feeds us narratives, from the time we are small, that equate love with self-sacrifice. If we truly love someone, if we truly love some, there is nothing we won't give them. Nothing we won't do for them. Nothing we won't give up for them. We learn pratically from the cradle that love is on some level about pain, that real love, passionate love, is filled with equal parts agony and ecstasy. That part of loving is fighting with and for the person that has our heart. That we endure bad times, no matter how bad, because the good times are so good. That part of romantic love, if it be truly love, is drama and suffering and sleepless nights.

This is all a lie, and it's a set up.

Because it convinces us -- and especially women and femmes, though no one is immune -- that we don't have the right to put the brakes on, to say NO, to set a boundary. Because who would object to what are clearly the signs of deep, passionate love? Who in their right mind would relinquish passion for safety, would give up our chance at a fairytale ending just because things get a little scary?

And then by the time we think we might, just might, have the right to say NO, things have gotten so scary that we're scared to say NO. We're too scared of what might happen, of what people might say, of how we will survive. And so we don't say NO, even if we also stop saying YES.

And it is in this way that we start losing pieces of ourselves, little by little. We become smaller. And the smaller we become, the smaller we are expected to make ourselves. If you loved me you would. We internalize it. If we really loved him, we would. We would fold up all the dreams we have that don't fit with his vision of what a wife should be, put them in lavender, try not think about them. We would hold our tongues and keep our opinions behind our teeth, if we feared for a moment they might upset him. We would stay silent or, even better, smile and laugh when he makes a joke at our expense, all the time shrinking deeper and deeper inside ourselves, determined to take up as little space as possible. We would learn to accept that what we are being given, what we are being told is love, is the best we will ever get. We would be grateful for the attention, for the security. We would be grateful that it isn't worse.

The thing about it is that it's so fucking insidious. We are not stupid. We've taken the classes, read the articles on dating violence in Cosmo, watched the Oprah episodes. We know the red flags. But that's not how real life works most of the time. No. Rather, we find ourselves chipped away, little by little, piece by piece. We give ourselves away, and we convince ourselves are doing it for love. We convince ourselves that if we were just enough, if we were just enough
-- enough of what, we never seem to say -- that we'll get our fairytale ending, our fade out kiss, our happily ever after.

Here's the secret: We'll never be enough. Not because we are inherently lacking or intrisincally flawed. But because no one is enough, can be enough, to fill up the gaping hole in a man like that.

It's the same old trolley problem. You remember the one from philosophy class, right? Only in this case, the crowd of folks unknowingly awaiting death on the first track? That's everything you think you know. It's him. It's the life you've built together. It's everything he told you you should be, if only you loved him. It's everything you've convinced yourself you should be. And  the person strapped to the side track is you.

You can either have your illusions, or you can have yourself.

But you can't have both.

The cost of having his approval, of having the illusion?

It's allowing that speeding trolley to run you over, to destroy you.

And to save yourself? You have to let that illusion crash and burn. You have to be willing to let it all die in a fireball. You have to be willing to love yourself enough to let the you you thought you were supposed to be die.

You have to be willing to let your ideas about what love is, what they told you love is, become ash on the wind.

You will be convinced, as you let that trolley speed right through the center of the life you built, that you will die. You will want to die.

But you will not die.

You will get up off the track, miraculously freed.

Because all that, burning and smoking down the track?

That wasn't love.

Because love doesn't require you to submit to your own destruction.

Because love doesn't ask you to make yourself less than you are just to ensure someone else's comfort.

Because love doesn't require you to set yourself on fire to keep someone else warm.

I know you don't believe me right now.

But you will. When you need to, you will.

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LJ Idol: No Comment

I've spent a lot of time thinking about what I would say if I ever saw you again. If I ever turned a corner and came face to face with you. If I walked up to order my latte and you were the barista behind the counter. If I slipped into a train or bus seat, my eyes concentrated on my phone, only to look up and see that you were in the seat across from me. If I was sitting in any of our old places, drinking a coffee or a whiskey and ginger or a longneck beer, and saw you come strolling in. If I were in a distant city, on vacation or business, and saw you across a crowded hotel lobby, a dark restaurant, improbably dropped back into my life. I've played the scene out a million times in my mind, all the ways that our paths could cross, in places both familiar and strange. Sometimes I see you first. Sometimes you see me first. Sometimes you say something to me. Sometimes the silence stretches for miles.

At first, when my heart was still raw and bleeding, when the pain was too much for me to draw a deep breath, I imagined I'd say something heartfelt. Something out of a country song (not a good country song, but a country song, the kind with the whiny slide guitar and the cane-syrup-sweet lryics), something about how I'd never stopped loving you. And you'd put your arms around me and pull me close and the world would spin and everything would be good again.

Then, after some time had passed, and I'd allowed myself to get angry at you -- and make no mistake, I was angry at you, with a burning passion that sometimes frightened even me -- I thought that I'd probably just growl out a "Fuck you" and walk away. Or maybe I'd play it cold and distant -- "I'm sorry, do I know you?" Sometimes it was you speaking first, begging me to take you back, and I'd respond with something cutting and pithy before turning on the pointy heel of my boot and striding away from you, leaving you crushed and broken.

Then I started to think that I'd play it out like a scene out of a John Hughes movie. I'd stride up to you, Molly-Ringwald cool, and stand in front of you, forcing you to look at me. I'd look you straight in the face and say, "I just wanted you to know that you didn't break me." And then I'd walk away. I wouldn't even look back to see how you reacted.

These days? After all this time?

I don't think I'd say a thing. Oh, I wouldn't hide from you or hope that you didn't see me. I'd make damn sure you saw me. I'd fill up your field of vision with everything I've become over the last decade, I'd pull myself up to my full height and throw my shoulders back and meet your gaze. But I'd make no comment.

And that silence would tell everything you need to know -- that I didn't just survive you, I fucking thrived without you.

 

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LJ Idol: Where I'm From

But way back, where I come from,
We never mean to bother
We don't like to make our passions other people's concern
So we walk in a world
Of safe people
And at night we walk into
Our houses
And burn

      -- Dar Williams, "Iowa"

I come from a place where most people prefer 18 inches of personal space -- 24 if we can get it -- which is a bit at odds with the 10-12 inches preferred by most Americans, at least according to my fellow professional anthropologists.

Midwesterners are well known for being "nice" (although if you actually know anything about the infamous "Minnesota Nice" phenomenon, it's actually less nice that it seems). We're the kind of people who show up at your door with a snow shovel, a basket of zucchini from the garden, a set of jumper cables, or a tater tot casserole when you need it. We're the kind of folks who wave at other people in traffic, including those with our state license plates when we're driving out of state. We're the type of folks who take forever at a four way stop because we're too achingly polite to be the first to go if we're not sure we actually did get to the intersection first.

I'm from a place where people have long, long conversations with short, short words that include long, long vowels. I'm from a place where "youbetchya" can mean anything from "Sure, I'll pick up a gallon of milk while I'm in town" to "Yeah, I'll be at the pancake supper next Sunday" to "It was no problem at all to make 300 egg salad sandwiches for your mother's wake." (If it comes to that, I'm from a place where egg salad sandwiches are considered appropriate food for a wake, which, incidentally, we refer to as "the visitation.")

I come from a place where we don't let people too close to us -- not physically, and not emotionally, either. We're sometimes described as being distant or reserved, and that's probably true, at least on a basic level. We're not so big on the physical touch -- it would mean allowing someone inside that 18-to-24-inch bubble of personal space. Even family members and close friends refrain from hugging on all but the most emotionally charged occasions, and only for an alotted 7-10 second count. That hug is likely to be finished off with a firm pat or pound on the back, just to reinforce that the huggee is still solid and strong.

I come from a place where we keep a lot inside, and so people think we don't feel much. Stoic is a favorite word to describe us. Buttoned up is another. (But for real, it's -45F out there. You'd be buttoned up too.)

And yet I come from a place where the sky reaches to the horizon, and where there are still more coyotes than people. I come from a place where, on a clear day, it's like you can see all the way to Heaven and back, and if you just stand still for a moment you can hear the prairies breathing.

I come from a place where sweat and dedication are still valued, and where an honest day's work in the soil is as respectable as one spent in an office.

I come from a place where there is so much to feel that it can overwhelm you. A place where you end up using those short, short words with those long, long vowels and those even longer silences because there's no way to adequately describe in human language everything you feel, hear, sense, know.

Where I come from, you learn early that there's no use trying to describe it, because those who know, know. And those who don't know, well, you'll never be able to make them understand.

But those that do get it? Those that do understand everything that's packed into a single "whatchyagonnado" or "...yup...."? Those are your people. They burn inside the same way you do. They'll never tell you. They'll never let it show. But they'll pour you a cup of coffee and give you a slice of rhubarb pie, and that says everything that needs to be said.

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LJ Idol: Heel Turn

When it's time, you'll know.

I know that sounds cliche, but you will.

There's no magick line in the sand, no definitive sign that it's time. It's different for everyone. But everyone hits their point of enough, and you'll know when you've hit yours. You'll know in the pit of your belly, in the darkest and most secret corners of your heart, with every fiber of your being down to your finger and toe nails. Every piece of you will know that it's time, and you won't even stop to question it.

It will surprise you. I know it did me. You will be shocked at the absolute clarity the today's the day. It will shock you with its simplicity. It might not even be something that, objectively, is that big of a deal. In the days and weeks to come, you might find yourself wondering what that, of all things, is what did it. Why, after everything else you'd endured, is that what finally caused something inside you to break?

Afer all, you'd steeled yourself against countless blows (not always physical). You'd been called nasty names and everything but a child of God so often that you wondered if it'd be best to start answering to them, to give up your own name as you'd given up so many other parts of yourself in an effort to stay safe, stay off the radar, to accommodate. You'd been told you were crazy, or overreacting, or exaggerating so many times that your own sanity was always in question -- maybe it was all in your imagination, after all? You'd shrunk so far into yourself, trying to hold on to one tiny part of yourself that was real, that was true. You'd learned how to survive.

So if you had survived all that, could survive all that, why will it be such a seemingly minor thing that cracks the world open?

Or maybe it will be like it was for me, a moment so stark and so terrifying that I couldn't keep lying to myself. A moment in which he did something so fucked up that even I could see it, beyond all the gaslight fog.

I'm just saying that, you'll know.

And in that moment, you'll do a heel turn. You'll turn your back and walk away, and you'll do it without looking back. All those things that held you there for so long, they won't matter anymore. You will pull yourself deep into yourself, you will take a deep breath, and you will turn. And you will walk. And you will keep on walking.

When it's time, you'll know.

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LJ Idol: Fear is the Heart of Love

I fear I have nothing to give
I have so much to lose here in this lonely place..

When Inanna approaches the Second Gate in her journey through the Sumerian Underworld, she is asked to give up her fears. In order to walk forward, to continue the journey that will bring her the ultimate wisdom, she must be willing to discard her fears like a suit of outworn clothing. She cannot carry her fears and also complete this journey. The paradox, of course, is that she has undertaken to walk into a world from whence no human has ever returned, can ever return. She knows that when she passes through the final gate, she will confront Eriskegal, her dark sister, Queen of the Dead. The object of this journey is the embodiment of Fear Itself. And yet, she must lay aside everything she fears in order to confront that which she fears most of all.

And that which she loves most of all, because Eriskegal isn't just her dark sister, but the shadow side of herself. And while some look at this story as the story of a final showdown between Life and Death, between Lightness and Darkness, I tend to see it as Inanna's quest to reconcile the shadow side of her being with the face she shows the world. She seeks to reconcile the deep, cthonic power of her being with the earthly power she's been granted as Queen. And in the end she can only reconcile this by embracing Erishkegal -- not by slaying her, or meeting her in fair combat, or by trickery, but by embracing her and loving her, in spite of (or perhaps because of) the terrifying, horrifying face she presents.

At the hearf ot Inanna's fear of the unknown, of her journey to the last gate, is her love for her sister, even if she doesn't know it. And at the heart of that love is the fear. And they cannot exist without one another.

Indeed, I don't know that we can know profound love without a tinge of fear. And I'm not talking about the fear we feel of displeasing an abusive partner and becoming the target of their wrath. I'm not talking about the fear we feel that we will lose ourselves completely within a relationship, our being subsumed by the identity we take on as a unit. Those are gut-twisting, heartwrenching, avoid-anhilliation-at-all-costs fears. They are the fears that we experience as physical pain, as pounding heart and swirling brain, as sleepless nights. We experience them in the way we experience a real physical threat, and our only concern -- even if it lies in the subconscious and is manifested only through the body -- is to get away, to get to safety, to save ourselves. Those are fears that tell us that something is out of balance, that something is wrong, and we should pay attention to those signals.

No, the fear the heart of love is different. It's the fear we feel when we take a big risk, when we go over that first drop of a rollercoaster, when we feel our stomach drop into our shoes as the playground swing arcs ever higher. The fear at the heart of love is that this amazing feeling might end. It is the fear that we might, after having tasted love, have to then go through the rest of our lives without ever knowing its sweet honeyed notes again. It is the fear that comes with the vulnerability of giving our whole self to another person, the fear that they might somehow betray that trust, even when we know in the same instant (or at least hope) that they never will. It's the fear that perhaps our lives have been incomplete until this moment, and know that we've known that completeness, the idea of going back to our prior state fills us with dread. Our culture likes to tell us that it is the other person (or people) who complete us, but in fact it is the experience of love itself -- it opens us up, takes us to a place beyond our fears and into a new state of being that, once known, can never be unknown.

And that's scary.

The fear at the heart of love sometimes manifests in feelings that we are not who our beloved(s) think we are. That we are somehow not enough, that we have nothing to give that can measure up to what we've been given. It is the fear that somehow we will be unmasked, and that all the ugliest parts of ourselves, our inner Erishkegals, will be exposed. And that exposure will lead to the withdrawal of love.

But the fear at the heart of love also means that we are willing to not only face our own inner Erishkegals, but to love them and embrace them. And we are willing to help those we love face their Erishkegals, too. And we are willing to love the darkest and most hidden parts of those we love. Not to the detriment of self, no never -- because love that asks us to sacrifice ourselves is no love at all. But we are willing to go into the dark with our loved ones, to be their Ninshibur at the gate, ready to go and retrieve them when they go too deep. And we trust them to be the same for us, to be the one who will send the rescue squad in when we have been gone too long and risk getting lost in our own darkness.

We are willing, to borrow a phrase, to follow and be followed into the dark.

LJ Idol: That One Friend.

We all have That One Friend.

You know, the one that you tell everything to. The one that you can not see for months or years, and the moment you see or talk to each other again, it's like you just spent time together yesterday. That one person that you know, in your deepest of souls, that you have travelled through many lifetimes with. The person that you want to talk to when you have good news. The person you want to talk to when your heart is broken. The person you'd donate a kidney to without a second thought. The person you'd bail out of jail in a city hours away, at 3 in the morning. The person who will tell you the hard truths, and to whom you will actually listen when they tell you that your ass is showing. The person who would do all those same things for you. The one person in the world who you know is always proud of you, always has your back, who loves you unconditionally. You know the one I'm talking about.

We all have The One Friend.

You know, the one you probably shouldn't be left unsupervised with. The one you get into trouble with.  The one who helped you put on the black eyeliner they'd hidden in their backpack in the school bathroom. The one who let you drive their car without a license, and drive it way too fast. The one you shared your first drink, your first smoke, your first joint with. The one who helped you sneak out of the house when you were grounded, or sneak back into the house when you were out past your curfew. The one who let you tell your parents you were sleeping at their house on prom night, when you were actually in a hotel room with a boy (or a girl) -- and whose parents thought they were sleeping at your house, for the same reason. The one you skipped school with. The one who forged your mom's signature on an excuse note so that you could skip school. The one who hooked you up with your first fake ID, your first pack of cigarettes, your first too-old boyfriend. You know the one I'm talking about.

We all have That One Friend.

You know, the one that you were always secretly in love with. The one you dreamed about, the one you day-dreamed about. Maybe you still do. The one who you would swear is your soulmate, if only they could see it. The one you felt so close to, the one you were always finding excuses to touch, finding reasons to sit close to. The one you couldn't ever tell. Because they weren't the "right" gender. Because they were out of your league. Because they were with someone else. Because you were scared they would reject you, and you'd lose your friend as well as having your heart broken. The one you talked through endless crushes and hook-ups and relationships and break-ups. The one who did the same for you. The one you wanted to shake and say, "Why can't you see that it should be ME?" The one who you wanted to have a moment with, a moment straight out of an 80s movie, but never did. The one that you always, may be still, compared potential dates and partners to, always unfavorably. The one you would drop your life and run to if they just said the word. You know the one I'm talking about.

We all have That One Friend.

You know, the one who let you sit on their couch and drink yourself into oblivion when you knew that your longest relationship was over. The one who told you that you were strong, and you were powerful, even if you didn't believe it right now. The one who just sat in the silence with you while you cried yourself out of tears. The one who told you it was OK to leave your marriage, because love shouldn't hurt like that. The one who showed up with a U-Haul the day you had to get your stuff and you were too scared to go alone. The one who casually assures you that they have a knife at the ready if shit goes sideways. The one who helps you move everything you own into a 10x10 storage unit on a day when it's 105 degrees. The one you go and eat nachos and drink beer with after, and who somehow makes you feel like this is the greatest day or your life instead of one of the worst. You know the one I'm talking about.

We all have That One Friend.

You know the one I'm talking about.

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