I feel like you just threw me away




Yet days before I was welcome at your door

You said you’d missed me

Wanted to see me more

How do you let go of two and a half years

Just one day decide to not call

With no word of explanation

No verbal proclamations

Just an argument


And then you’re gone

I feel like you just threw me away

Tossed me aside like a bruised old banana

But don’t you know

That the brown is just for show

It still tastes good

Still tastes fresh

Makes for a great pie

I feel like you just threw me away

So much for the I appreciate you compliment

More like I was just passing time

Waiting for someone better

More delectable


But don’t you know that there’s no one better

That I am my unique person, I am me?

I am the one who would cook for you, clean

Take such joy in feeding your fat cheeks

And when I say fat

I don’t mean that you’re chubby

Well yes you could lose a few pounds

But I loved you as though you were perfect

Michaelangelo’s David

My love unconditional

Without bounds

I feel like you just threw me away

Like a piece of gum gotten stuck to your shoe you were quick to eradicate all evidence of me

The detritus of me sticky like glue

But your house is a visual memory of me.

I fill every single room

So even though my physical body isn’t there

I am a presence

An energy

in every room

Pictures and paintings

My lipgloss

A pen

A hair clip

My razor

My toothbrush

My side of the bed

The mattress that’s curved

To the shape of me

Tendrils of my hair

All over


You may have pulled away from me

You may have thrown me away

But I will always be a part of you

Me, your muse, Desiree.


The Girl Who Cried LOVE


We’ve all heard the story of the boy who cried wolf. Essentially he kept “pretending” to need help when he didn’t really need any help at all. So when the time came that he actually was in dire straights and needed help, no one believed him.

As I sat for lunch with Laura, my friend of 27 (!) years, she asked me, yet again, “So what’s going on?”

And I, yet again, launched into what had happened between my man and I. I almost felt like I was repeating myself, having shared similar frustrations and asked the same ‘why is this happening to me?’ questions I’ve asked and said to her so many times before.

“I feel stupid talking about this. AGAIN.” I play with my zucchini zoodle pasta dish, having entirely no appetite. “I mean, it’s been 2-1/2-years and we’ve broken up how many times? And I’ve been all tears and sadness, unable to function. It’s just ridiculous. At least this time I’m eating, but not so much from hunger but because my body needs it. And if I don’t, I’ll faint. Although I’ve always wanted to faint. I’ve always wondered what that would feel like. But I digress.”

Laura laughs at me. “It’s okay, you just believe in love. And that’s what I love about you, that despite the many set backs and failed relationships, you still LOVE. You believe in it. Wholeheartedly.”

“Yeah, but I just feel like the girl who cried wolf, you know? Because this scenario keeps happening.”

“No, you’re the girl who cried Love,” she said “but understand, this isn’t about you. You’ve done nothing wrong. This is him. It’s all him. He clearly has commitment issues and he keeps certain aspects of his life secret.”

I think about the time he went on a trip to Fiji and he sent me a photo of the place where he was staying. I noticed on the deck there were TWO suitcases. I zoomed in, looking at the suitcases. “Why are there two suitcases? We only packed you one,” I text him, my heart racing. Because what I really wanted to text him was, “Why are there two fucking suitcases????!!!! What the fuck?!”

Him: “I met my friend here, she gets a deal with the resort, and so I basically get to go for free.”


“Don’t worry, she’s married. She lives in Australia, so it’s super close for her.”

And like a FOOL, I just say, “Okay,” but inside I’m seething. And upset. I mean, how would he feel if I pulled that shit on him? ‘Oh, yeah, I didn’t tell you but I’m going to Fiji, a very romantic, beautiful place and I’m meeting my friend who is married, oh yes, happily married, and there’s nothing weird about me not telling you, the person I’m fucking, BEFORE the fact. In fact, nothing weird at all about the fact I’m only telling you because you saw there are two suitcases!”

IF I hadn’t discovered the two suitcases, would he have even told me at all? I mean seriously. What. The. FUCK.

And so begins the LIST. The list in my head that I begin to write down of all the things that gave me pause. All the little things that are, in retrospect, hindsight, whatever, RED flags that I painted green. For go. Because I ignored them and just kept going on seeing him, loving him, falling for him more and more.

One thing I realize is this: if a man gives you pause, for ANYTHING, be it a big thing small, or something in between, stop the relationship. End it right there.

Staying is only going to create more feelings, more intimacy, and at least in my case, more hurt.

When he told me about a certain indiscretion that had happened two months into our relationship (but he didn’t tell me about it until 8 months later), I should have walked. I should have bounced. Actually, I should have paid attention more when he shared with me his reservations about us, where we were going and what we were. But now I realize that that conversation was at the same time he was fucking someone else, so OF COURSE he was having reservations about he and I. He was too busy reserving a space on his DICK for some other bitch!!!!

But anyway. It is what it is. Or in my case, what it most decidedly is NOT.

I do have wonderful memories of us. But I keep thinking of them, and it makes me sad. If I hadn’t stayed with him, I would not have SO MANY memories and then would I maybe be less sad? I don’t know. I seriously wish I could just Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind myself and move on.


I need contact lenses or glasses to see. Without either of them, I couldn’t be in the world. Without them, I can’t see far away or even up close, even my boobs are blurry. I’ve torn one contact lens and been forced to wear just one for a few hours, but it’s hard to see that way, my equilibrium is thrown off and I find myself closing the lensless eye to better see, something I’ve also done when drunk and seeing double.

I liken my breakup with W to living my life wearing one contact lens. I can function, I can make do and get by, navigating through life just fine, but it’s not easy. I can’t see as well as I used to, I feel off kilter, as though I was walking along the beach and suddenly there was a dip in the sand that the waves prevented me from seeing. I’ve lost my balance.

W is, was?, my best friend. He was my person. I would share everything with him, any good news or bad, and all the things in between. He would be the first person I would think of when I woke, and the last person I think of before falling to sleep. I put him even before my own children, making so many concessions to make him happy (many he didn’t even know about), doing things for him because I loved him, his pleasure was my pleasure.

I’ve never been so solicitous and giving in a relationship, so submissive and patient. I wanted to be with him ALL THE TIME. Seriously, I would never want to leave his house, his bed, his arms. I loved being in the Nook. That was my favorite place ever. My head resting on his hairy chest, resplendent with black and gray hairs, I could hear his heart beat from there, and I would lay my head there, my right hand pulling gently upon his hairs, our legs and feet intertwined.

He had video of me like this, sleeping and snoring softly. He had video of me writhing in ecstasy from his ministrations. Video of me crying after he made me cum, disbelief, shock, wonder, gratitude. All the videos and pictures, they’re all gone, erased, just like our relationship. In the course of two weeks, I lost my man, broke my phone, and got in a car accident. I suppose it’s better in a way to not have access to all those pictures and videos, to not be able to scroll through 2-1/2-years of text messages. Because I’m sentimental and I reminisce, I look through images, videos, texts, and I think why? How? Why would you say that you appreciate me and now you’re gone? How can the man who says “I wanted you to know how much you mean to me and I value the positive impact you’ve had on my life and how much you’ve improved it,” just WALK away from me? How is it that 15 days have passed and he hasn’t called me? Hasn’t texted me? Nothing??????

“Well, I wouldn’t say nothing,” says my friend Laura, “based on his social media posts, it sounds like he is reaching out to you.”

“Well that’s true,” I say, “I hadn’t thought about that.”

But if that’s true, what is he saying? His not a care in the world posts, his singing songs with lyrics like “I’m a player, and I’m playing just to play,” or “I’m living the single, single, single….life!” well, all those do are tell me that he is moving on and yet underneath it all, I think he’s hurting too.

Social media is like a highlight reel of what’s going on in peoples lives, but there is more than what meets the eye, like the divot under the sea that causes you to lose your balance, or the riptide, the undercurrent, that pulls you out and can cause you harm. It’s not pretty, it hurts, it’s scary. But people don’t want to hear or see that which isn’t enviable or fun. People want the highlight reel. W’s highlight reel would never give anyone any idea he was grieving the loss of me. In fact, it never even showed that he had me in his life.

We were never Facebook or IG official. I attributed it to his career of choice, that he had to seem single for his fans. But now I wonder about that, wonder if it was more because he was playing the field. I mean, think about it. When we first meet, so many years ago, I was the side-chick. He had a girlfriend and yet he would have me come to his house, even stay the night on occasion, and he didn’t even suggest I park my stand out like a sore thumb classic car one street over, no, just park right in front of his house!

We wouldn’t have sex, but we did make out, A LOT, and have lots and lots of oral sex. He wanted to fuck me but he said out of respect for his girlfriend, he couldn’t do it. He didn’t want to cross that line. We did this for some time, but he eventually proposed to her and we went our separate ways.

I should have remembered this mentality more when we got back together again, 13 years later. Does a leopard change his stripes? A dalmatian change his spots?

When he tells me that two months into our relationship, he slept with someone, a FAN no less, someone he met on Periscope, I should have been blinded by the red flags waving away in front of me. But did I leave? No. I lay in his bed crying. He of course lay beside me, but did nothing to calm me, except sigh. He eventually said he didn’t mean to hurt me. He would understand if I wanted to go. I then wondered if maybe I should, but then thought he needs to hear and see how hurt I am, to be in this fucked up moment of his creation with me.

I made a list of all the things that gave me pause, that made me think that maybe he wasn’t being true to me. There are 27 things on my list. I read them now when I am romanticizing him. The problem is there are way more than 27 things on the Good List. He made me feel special, he made me feel bad. He made me feel appreciated, he made me feel untrustworthy. He made me feel ecstasy, he made me feel blue. He made me fall in love, unequivocally.

In 2-12-years he only verbally said, “Love you,” one time, on July 23, 2017, as we hung up the phone. I thought I almost didn’t hear him. And then again, in December 2017, he texted, “Luv ya,” when I was questioning him about why he never takes me on his trips with him. “Luv ya, we will go on a trip.”

Now I sit here in this hotel bed of white sheets and pillows, on a trip, all by myself. I think about you constantly W. I think of you ALL the time. When I wake, when I sleep, even in my dreams. I keep crying, I’m crying now, I have to pull over sometimes because I can’t see through my tears.

I don’t want to have a life without him in it. But I guess that isn’t my decision. It’s like he was the sunshine and now everything is overcast, dreary and grey. Gives new meaning to don’t take my sunshine away.

It’s been 15 days since we last communicated. He has gone away, disappeared, left me. But he haunts me. Like a ghost, he permeates my being without even being present, and he lingers even though he isn’t there. And by cold turkey not calling or texting for 15 days, he’s ghosted me.

I wish I could be strong and not stalk his social media, but I can’t help myself. I look at his IG. I don’t look at his stories anymore though. I am trying to just stop looking all together. Of course when I got back to the hotel last night, as I’m channel surfing, WHY does his movie come on? And like, right at the beginning? Perfect timing. I started to cry and changed the channel. Now if I only I could do that in real life.

I Take You….

He said ….

I told you why, right? I didn’t pursue you because I take you seriously. So I don’t want to start anything with you because … I don’t want you to hate me. I would rather be your friend forever than your lover temporarily. I mean, we could get married, have kids, but I don’t know. I mean. I’ve thought about it. I sometimes regret like maybe I should have just been with you. I would love to be with you. But. You’re too good for me. I’ve thought about it. But I want to achieve more. I mean, I know financially I’m okay. And in a better position than most my age. But I want to achieve more. I want to be more solid. Secure. And now? I’m still in school. For my Masters, yes. But still. And I just, with you. I just look at you differently. You are beautiful. You’re strong. And you obviously take care of yourself. But you have your kids too and I don’t want to be just so so. I don’t want to have you ever hate me or be mad at me. I like you too much for that. I know it sounds corny. But I’ve thought about this a lot. I do that if I am serious about someone. Or take them seriously. And I do, you. You’re just. The whole package. And then I think — it’s kind of like an insecure thing. But also maybe a machismo thing. I think, well, she works there. And I’m sure. Every night you work you get guys hitting on you right? Yes? Yes. I thought so. And so I think – well, wow. I mean, damn. I don’t want them asking her out. I don’t want anyone else touching her (he puts his arm around himself as though giving himself a tight hug). I want to keep you close. So, I don’t know. That’s why. I sometimes regret it. But. If you said yes, and you want to come tonight, come over tonight. I would say okay. And we can be together. You want to be my girlfriend? You want to be my girlfriend? Do you?


The majority of the girls who I work with are half my age. They are clueless when it comes to the art of the dance, meaning they just show EVERYTHING, there is no covering up their bodies, they leave little to the imagination.

They come into the club either dressed really cute or like they just got out of bed, baggy clothes and house shoes. No lie. But they all come out of the dressing room looking like they all went to the same junior college elective Stripper 101 class.

They wear high heeled platforms, usually a minimum of 5 inches high. The newest trend is wearing a tiny g-string with fishnets over that that you pull all the way up to your waist and then over those fishnets you wear another g-string with a bra or a tiny one piece thing Swimsuit or negligee type thing.

They don’t wear anything over their stripper gear. It’s just them in their stripper gear walking around and to me, what’s really gross, is that they sit bare assed on the damn bar stools or booths! It’s like damn near the equivalent of sitting bare assed on a public toilet!! Eeeew. Just, eeeew.

You have NO IDEA what could be on the damn chair or booths. Let alone the pole that the girls writhe, straddle, hang upside down from. If you’re hanging upside down from a pole, you KNOW there’s nothing a but a little bit of fabric protecting your Vagine from that pole where A LOT of other Vagines have been. It’s like double dipping into a strangers ranch dressing. You just don’t do it.

And you don’t want to know about what Security saw when we turned on the black light in VIP. You. Don’t. Want. To. Know. Let’s just say you wouldn’t ever want to sit bare assed there ever again, or even casually place your hand down.

If nothing else, that’s a good enough reason to wear something over your g-string. To protect from bacteria But more than that, I don’t see the point in walking around with all your wares on display for everyone to see. You go on stage and what do you have to play with? To “tease” if you will? You know it is called a strip tease for a reason, right? When you girls wear a thong, bra, garters, and heels, and that is all, what all is there for you to DO on stage or even when giving a table dance?

Back in the day, you wore a little skirt with a top, or a dress. It could be a super slutty dress that barely covers your ass, or one of a typical mini skirt length. But the point being that you are, to a certain extent, covered up. So when you are on stage or giving a table dance, you have a little something to play with. You can bend over a tad and reveal the underside of your taut ass, hike up that skirt a little and shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it. You can slowly unbutton your blouse and build up to removing it completely. And if you’re on stage and no one is tipping you? Keep your damn clothes on! You want to see the goods? Pay for them.

These girls, while charming and fun, have no sense! If I was a man, I’d appreciate seeing it all before me, the girls youthful bodies, so resplendent and nubile. But why would I be inclined to give you money on stage and/or for a table dance when you’re already showing me everything? Granted, some girls would be more motivated to get closer with the promise of cash, but other girls, if they’re drunk or high enough, they’ll be in a man’s lap anyway, that sweet little ass in his lap, beguiling him so he will want more, enough to get dances in the somewhat privacy of the lap dance area or even better, a private booth in VIP, where the lights are low and so are the standards.

But I realize that although they love hearing my stories of what used to be, they only care about what is. They are living in an age of instant gratification and satisfaction. Where one can become famous not because of their character, merit, or even talent, but sometimes just because of the lack of it. In a society that rewards you for being classless, uncouth, ghetto, trifling, ratchet (the Cash Me Outside girl, the success of Kim K., catapulted by a sex tape, the Amber Rose/Blac Chyna/IG girls), where many peoples sense of self worth and validation comes from how many followers, likes, and comments they receive, is it any wonder that the younger generation, the “millennials,” have a short attention span and aren’t much interested in what came before but rather what will be? And there is nothing wrong with forward thinking, not living in the past. But I feel like there was something truly valuable learned by being forced to wait for something.

Like if someone called you and you weren’t home. They left a message. On an answering machine. Or if they didn’t then all you’d know about that missed call was a hang up sound on the machine. There was no caller ID or star 69. Not at first. And what about music? If there was a song you liked on the radio, you’d have to either go buy the entire album for that ONE song, or get a blank tape and wait, and wait, and wait, for the DJ to stop talking so you could record it from the radio. Or what about the mixed tape? Remember making a mixed tape from CD’s? And Sky pagers? Beepers? The beginning of texting – sending 431 (four letters, three words, one meaning: I love you), 07734 (hello upside down), 1134 2 09 (go to hell upside down), 14 (hi), 911 (call me now)!

There was something about having to work for and/or wait for things that made you appreciate them when you finally got them. Now I want a song and don’t know the name I can Shazam it and buy it or stream it for free in seconds. Instead of setting my VCR to record HOURS of TV just for that one Southpark episode, I can know record several shows simultaneously on my DVR, or better yet, fuck the DVR, I can just stream that shit for free with my BeastBox or Fire stick.

It’s all different now. And with the new technology and new mindset of millennials come a lot of cool things. But sometimes I yearn for life before the cellphone and social media. When people would call, not text. When you’d eagerly rush to one hour photo, so excited and eager to see how your pictures turned out.

It was like unwrapping a present. The anticipation, the build up, taking the pictures, then driving to the photo lab, then waiting for them to be developed and being slightly mortified/embarrassed that the photo guy was totally checking out those scandalous but fun pictures you and your friends took.

Waiting for the music, the messages, the TV shows, the photos to be developed, all of that built up anticipation and developed patience. Kind of like a strip tease, waiting for the big reveal is almost as good as the build up. Some would even argue it’s better.

But in this day and age, it’s instant everything, 24/7, 365. And that can be good, bad, and all things in between. Life. It is what it is and what will be will be.

Lisa is a beautiful woman, her Mother a doe eyed, brown lady, born in India and her father a debonair, white haired, glam man who reminds me a bit of Karl Lagerfeld.

Lisa’s got a spark. She’s like a flame that flickers and glows, her eyes sparkle and she speaks with verve and zest. Even when she eats food she does so with a sense or urgency and unabashed joy. She makes you want to eat too, even if you just ate and are stuffed to the gills.

She was telling me how she was dating this one guy who gave her a staph infection. And she didn’t know she had it and was also seeing another guy and so she inadvertently gave it to that guy. She had to take antibiotics for one month and during that time her Mom passed away and her sweet rescue dog was accidentally allowed to run out of the groomers and into the street where he was hit by a car and died. Soon after that she had to tell the other guy he probably got staph from her and he dumped her. So all this happened at the same time.

It’s a testament to her resiliency that she was able to move onward and upward without losing herself to drugs and alcohol. I understand having a pity party every once in awhile. Sometimes it can be beneficial to take time to just be sad. I mean, if you’re never sad, how can you know when you’re glad? Like, know and understand true joy when you’ve never been so sad you can’t breathe through your nose or see through your tears?

a day in the lyft “full circle”

In typical Lyft fashion, I go in circles. Like, literally, I drive in a circle contingent upon my pick up and drop offs. But also there are the circles of conversation.

Like today’s Lyft begins with my first pickup in Manhattan Beach, a passenger without any luggage flying from United to SF. “A day trip,” says Cole, who I find out has a twin brother. Cole went to undergraduate school at Penn State and is now in his third year of Law School at Columbia. His twin, Samuel, opted for UCLA and is now an accountant.

No sooner did I drop off Cole at Terminal 7 than I drove all of three feet to Passenger Pickup F and picked up a mother daughter duo fresh off of an overnight plane from Hawaii via Boston.

As I just mentioned, they live in Boston, which is exactly why the daughter chose to apply for colleges in sunny states, choosing San Diego State to pursue her degree. Do you see the circle?

Cole is from California and he went to school in Pennsylvania and New York.
The daughter went from Boston to San Diego. They are opposites, yet the same.

The Mom and Daughter duo had me travel to DTLA, to Urth Cafe.

Downtown amazes me. I am astounded at how much it is being developed, yet it still has grit and grime that no pressure washer will ever be able to fully dissolve. It’s like trying to cover up a bruise with makeup. If you get close enough, you’ll be able to see the blue black of the bruise coming through the makeup.

They treated me to a Honey Vanilla Latte, and then I was off to take Cynthia to the Convention Center where she had to deal with the powers that be regarding a booth. I learned from her that, “Curators can be assholes.”

Next was Helena, a fun, feisty, and pretty blonde who schooled me on the ways to make money through Social Media, specifically YouTube. She and I had a great conversation that was full of laughs, lasting from DTLA to LAX. In fact, the SAME Terminal, number 7, the very same place where my day began.

Do you see the circle? It is FULL. 🙂