via Instagram http://ift.tt/1o9ZpoN
I've been working like mad. All winter, really, and doubletime over the last few weeks. Work is a little like pain even if you love what you do, you have to get ahead of it or it will pull you under. I've been trying to get ahead of it, because I can see a potential bottleneck ahead that I really want to avoid.
The good news is I've had a dangling carrot.
First I'm headed to the Bay Area for the Lesbians Who Tech Summit. While I'm there I'll take care of various and sundry things, some more appealing than others.
And then, the carrot.
Or the dangling key, more like it. I have my eyes on the prize of a glorious, decadent escape to Key West. Key West is like our own little tropical frontier. Boundaries are different there. Sunset is a party. The ghosts are the types you want to have a tumbler of rum with--including my beloved Elizabeth Bishop, Tennessee Williams and Hemingway. I recently read that Tennessee Williams named his one-room writing studio in Key West "Mad House." That's really working like mad. He once told Miami Herald reporter Madeleine Blais that he loved sunrise on Key West, daytime's "great triumph over darkness."
I'm going there.
Southernmost Point, in so many ways. No place else is like it.
This is really, really good news, and I've been dreaming about it for weeks now. But first, to the other frontier.
Some of my trip is supported by the Key West Business Guild, and I'm grateful for their generous hosting.
Dear [The Way We Were],
I know my timing is not the best (Valentine's Day sure creeps up faster every year, doesn't it?!) and that this is more than awkward, but I need to let you know that I can't see you any more.
It's not you, it's your YOU ARE quiz answers.
I want you to know I've enjoyed the time we spent dating these last few months, but I can't see this thing we have going any further. Sure, at first it was so hot to explore your inner Cape Town with my Tokyo, and the C-3PO/Frenchy/Mario in you intrigued the Han Solo/Kenickie/Ms. Pac Man in me. I know you told me that your Present Day Bowie felt so inspired by my Ziggy Bowie, and that meant more than you'll ever know.
But I think we both need to admit that the further along we go, we're basically like Tartar Sauce/Statue of Liberty/Mitchell Pritchett vs. Sriracha Sauce/Sears Tower/Hailey Dunphy.
I admit I've being feeling this way for some time now. I know it started to truly concerned me that day when I saw you were Larry and I was Piper. Red Flag is the New Black, I think that worried you too, didn't it?
And then the evidence was just starring me in the face(book.)
You're Andy in Parks and Rec. Count von Count on Sesame Street. A Spatula. 90s Billy Joel--when I'm so obviously '80s Bono, I mean, so obviously, for better and worse. It's not your fault that I'm Grover, always have been, always will be.
You're Ophelia, Skittles, Cabbage Patch Dolls, Tom Selleck's Mustache and the Boomeranging Angry Bird. I am a Full Biker Beard, and it this point in my life I know I'm not going to change, and neither will you. I don't even like to look at the Boomeranging Angry Bird, he's so annoying, you know that, I'm a Burst Into Three, it's just how we are. It's just not meant to be, but there are other Boomerangs out there for you, or nice Big Reds who really appreciate Boomerangs, and you deserve that.
Just want to mention something you might want to think about before you start dating again, though. I am a little concerned with some inconsistencies I see. I mean, how is the same person Jafar one day and then Portishead on the next? How can you feel right about saying you are both The Soup Nazi AND Ophelia? And what did you say to get The Soup Nazi? It's like when you got Criss Angel and I was like what, who even gets Criss Angel? Trying to understand, I took the quiz a dozen different ways and I never got Criss Angel, I couldn't even fake Criss Freaking Angel. It's very stressful to be with someone like that and I don't think it's just stressful because I'm a Vogue Madonna/Flipper/Red Beans and Rice.
But I don't mean to sound bitter, and I know the Berenstain Bear Dad/Rose Nylund/Walter White Jr. of you will feel some measure of relief at my parting. I saw you roll your Bill Compton/Molly Weasley/Charles Dickens eyes when I got Lucille Bluth, and your silence spoke volumes to my Tom Petty/German Shepherd/Niles Crane/70s Water Bed.
And we both knew it was really over when I caught you trying to hide what you were doing yesterday when you were taking the "Which Al Roker Are You" quiz. You knew I wouldn't even take that one, it's so not what I'm about. But it's you, it's so you, and you shouldn't be ashamed to be who YOU ARE. You need to be free to first discover which Al Roker you are in the light of day, and then go so find the right person for whichever Al Roker you are, even if you are Crap Your Pants in the White House Al Roker. I mean that, even if you are Crap in Your Pants in the White House Al Roker. It would be wrong of me to stand in your way.
I hope this whole thing will leave you more of a Sliding Doors than a Forgetting Sarah Marshall or the High Fidelity you typically are. I'll be fairly Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, but I think you knew that about me all along. Let's stay Joey/Monica/Phoebe/Chandler/Ross/Rachel, okay?
All the Amelie in the world,