I didn't talk about when I left New York - both times. I didn't talk about sleeping in his bed, talking in ambiguities about the future. I didn�t talk about my friends (one female, two males) and I having a breakdown in an empty dorm, taking swigs of vodka and crying about the people who didn�t love us. I didn�t talk about breakfast the next morning, it felt like the end of an era and it was.

I didn�t talk about being in a hotel in Boston, so drunk that I could understand Spanish. We talked on the phone and watched George of the Jungle. That weekend I was afraid to go home because I was such a fuck up.

I didn�t talk about the following Thanksgiving, when we were broken up. I couldn�t stop shaking, and you kissed me in a way that I will never recover from.

I didn�t write about the time the teacher came out to dinner with us, and it was endlessly hysterical. Or the time he made my friend mad, because he was so oblivious to the way he treated me, and his drummer had to try to gloss over it so everyone would be happy.

I didn�t talk about the time my friend had a psychotic break, suddenly becoming paranoid and homophobic. We sat in the pub and held hands, while he tried to get me to see what he was seeing. We were still able to laugh somehow. I never saw him again after that night; he was hospitalized and then went back to Eastern Europe.

I didn�t talk about my birthday, when my ex wouldn�t come to the funeral, he sat at my house watching tv instead. My cousin and I sat at the back of the church, crying, and then suddenly the congregation turned to us because we were supposed to bring the gifts up. We laughed all the way to the altar. Everyone in my life was a disappointment that night and I cried myself to sleep.

I didn�t talk about meeting my boyfriend, or the first time we kissed, or the first time we slept together. I didn�t write about how goddamn sad I was for the first 7 months. I didn�t write about my aunt dying, the same day his ex showed up at our house. She cried on our porch and I kept having to run inside to throw up because I was hungover.

I didn't write about how I became afraid to drink too much, because I'm basically a monster.

I didn�t write about moving in with him, or getting a dog.

I left so many things out that seem so important to me now.