Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • Too much time has passed.
    It has become the past.
    I can't catch you up,
    because I have moved on.

    I'm sitting in bed writing this.
    Laptop on my outstretched legs.
    Warm under the blanket that my Step Grandmother knitted me 4 years ago for Christmas.
    The Step Grandmother I no longer speak to, due to that night last November.
    The melancholic and wistful breath of Damien Rice's "Cannon Ball" circles the room.
    "It's not hard to fall."
    I'm sipping Rutherglen Muscat from the bottle.
    I've eaten stollen. In bed. Icing sugar on my sheets.
    December at our heels.
    The London traffic is loud outside.
    And this is me, now.
    Completely current.
    Happy inside and out. Warmed. And not just from the alcohol.

    The last month has been tense. No handbook for reference. No rhyme nor reason.
    Z made a confession, a revelation.
    He'd been cheating on me since August.
    With a Spanish girl he met in Barcelona.
    She became pregnant with his child.
    He said of this, " I would've have continued to lie to you about this and still carried on cheating, but she got pregnant, I want the baby. So I that's why I'm telling you. I wouldn't have otherwise."
    Who talks like that?
    I didn't cry over Z.
    There was no need.
    Did I love him or did I love the state of not being single? The facade of security.
    We argued, we drifted, were we ever compatible.
    My best friend came over. He bought prosecco with him.
    I drank copious amounts.
    I went back online.
    I went on many dates.
    I brunched with an Australian Lawyer. We kissed after flat whites.
    I drank espresso martinis with an Irish chap. There was no chemistry.
    I had fun.
    I am having fun.
    My estranged mother decided to email Z.
    She had never met him.
    A whole year she stalked him on Facebook. Obsessing every part and person in my life.
    She emailed him to thank him for making me happy.
    As if I couldn't be happy on my own without her.
    She didn't believe I could be courageous enough to live fully on my own.
    Highlighting how detached she was from my relationship with Z.
    With the cheater.
    Knowing nothing.
    She wrote other things. Things that hurt.
    She wrote things that hurt me to a total stranger.
    I was on a date with the Lawyer when I got a phone call from this f**ked up ex boyfriend saying my psychotic Mother had emailed him.
    Where's the handbook for that situation?
    No rhyme nor reason.

    I digress.
    I am happy now.
    I really am.
    So I'm writing about now.
    I have a new job.
    One I enjoy, and I can do.
    It's to do with wine.
    You can guess the perks. I'm sipping one now.
    I've met someone else.
    Someone I was instantly attracted to. Looks and personality.
    I have never had that before.
    Immediateness of lust.
    I couldn't speak.
    I couldn't say a word.
    I hardly make any money.
    But it doesn't matter.
    I have a web of friends.
    They've listened. We laugh. We love.

    The past is that.
    Sunken and sodden like the Titanic remains.
    Lost and decaying.

    The present is organic. Fresh and budding.
    Sweet blossoms and citrus.
    Sauvignon blanc.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.