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It is the eve of my birthday.  Tomorrow I will be officially, unequivocally, physically and mentally unable to bear children.  Oh I am sure doctors would say there are possibly a few stray eggs left down there, swimming around still hoping for their big break, but it’s like I said to my Aspiring Actor boyfriend, you are too old, give it up.  Luckily, I have prepared myself for this day, for the past three years I have been telling myself that it is not the end of the world if I do not have a child. It sucks, but the world will still go on, I will not die.  It’s funny because I still feel around 34.  I think I look about 36, but I feel exactly 34 years old.  Old enough not to drink so much tequila that I puke out of car doors, but young enough to do a shot of tequila and make out with a stranger every once in a while.  My life this past year has been filled with a strange and unbelievable calm the likes of which I have never experienced, having lived a life of tumult and pain since before I can remember.  I always thought if I had such a year, a year with very little pain, a year with only an almost imperceptible undercurrent of ambient noise and nothing else, I would achieve great things.  Finally, I would publish my novel, sell the television rights, spend my days fielding emails from ex-friends wanting to reconcile and I would fall in love with the type of man who does not tolerate drama in his life of any kind.  A quiet and strong man who wants to sit on various docks discussing books and our favorite plays and who would scoff at the chaos that plagued me in years past would decide he loves me for my solitary nature.

None of this happened really, I barely remember the past year.  I was recovering from the kind of grief that stops you in your tracks and takes your breath away for a whole year.  Grief such as this is incurable: it is a lifelong affliction much like the MS that litters my spinal cord and brain.  I did, however, finally find a way to live with the grief, not survive as I was doing for the first six months, barely breathing, plodding to work and home as if my feet were stuck in buckets of ice, I found a way to breathe out after long last and here I am, on the eve of my birthday, living with my grief a few blocks from the Pacific Ocean, thinking that now that I have that pesky pressure to birth babies out of the way, maybe now I will do something with my life.

Doing something with my life, of course, means to finish the novel for which I have a book deal that has now most likely expired, but the book, or books in me have not expired, book deal or not, they are in there clamoring to get out, begging me like the periodical well-meaning emails I get from friends every once in a while asking when my next column will magically appear online.  I don’t just want to finish my novel, which has been written in many forms for years, I want it to be great, to honor all of the books I have ever read, so many thousands of books that have helped me through a hellish childhood and a confusing and sad adulthood.  I know it won’t be great on every page, my substandard education and proclivity for crippling procrastination will prevent that kind of brilliance: I would be happy if it were great just for a second, a line here or there and a small whisper of the story that has been writing itself inside my head for years, I need to write it all down and so I shall.

Read more…


Nobody ever talks about the bliss of falling out of love. It is an unbelievably freeing feeling, finally, as the stranglehold of worship and longing eases up ever so slightly. But this euphoria of getting over someone is rarely glorified in poetry or song: the poet describes the ache of a broken heart rather than the happiness one feels when one’s heart is set free. I am currently experiencing such joy, as I quietly slide out of the grip of a six year semi-romance with a half-boyfriend. I suppose he was my boyfriend for more than half of that time, but he was always only partly there, with one foot out the door and his eyes peeled for a prettier, younger girl – someone with financial stability, I suppose, and without a penchant for half-truths. So here I stand, on the precipice of things to come. I will now go back to longing for unspecified companionship. I have found that it hurts less to wish for more general things.

When I was in high school I wanted to be an actress. I had no talent, was only moderately cute, and my voice went up about ten octaves when I acted. Nevertheless, I was somehow given the chance to star in a production of Crimes of the Heart. One of the girls from the play died a few years ago, and I believe the last remaining VHS copy of the tape of that performance died with her, thankfully. I eventually gave up my dreams of stardom for the less glamorous world of backstage, and fell in love with the idea of becoming a Director. I liked the idea of being the only female in a male driven world, and I was happy to hand the job of starlet over to the likes of Michelle Pukey, who had an angelic face and the personality of a soggy magazine. It has been a few decades since high school, and next week I will finally be given my shot at the spotlight as I star in an episode of reality television posing as a customer of an illicit website. Aside from the fact that my mother would disown me if she ever found out about it, I can’t see how this brief foray into playacting will harm me. It seems to actually be a natural progression of things, as I spent most of my last relationship making things up, and my younger self spent a brief time dabbling in the seedy world of sexual perversions. It feels fitting that I should wrap up my life of sin with a National television show devoted to my fabricated wonton ways. And then I shall move on, from unrequited love and life’s rotten underbelly and emerge a new person, less interesting to be sure, but wholesome and pure as I enter the next chapter of my soon-to-be boring life.

Revisit the site and read the last post here.

I can’t seem to forget

the absinthe we never did,

the joy of your sweatshirt

and the time I drank whiskey out of your boot.

(read on…)

My Dead Ex-Boyfriend would not want me to write about shit.  He would not want me to write about a dumb crush I have on a guy whose dogs I have spoken to once, and he would not want me to belabor the point in a morbid fashion that I miss him.  He knows I miss him, I tell him this when he comes to me in every single one of my dreams.  He would want me to write about real shit, but some things are hard to write about because I am always culpable, and I am never just a victim, and the Dead-Ex would mitigate this, by telling me I did not bring this on myself.  However, in this instance, the story I am about to tell is all me, I did this, and it was a mistake, and for this, they will likely find my mutilated body washed up in the Playa Inlet: I let back into my life my ex-Boss, the one who sexually harassed me.  He is British, and he is brilliant, and he taught me how to write notes on scripts, but he is also crazy and he thinks he has been in love with me for years, even though when we met he was dating a very powerful Development Girl.  At the time, I was new to Hollywood, two years older than him, but an assistant nonetheless, and I resisted his advances, although the friends of his girlfriend would contend differently.  West Coast Sarah and I would go out with him on occasion, and he would overtly lust after me, but I spent my high school years escaping the advances of men to the point the boys would write “frigid” on my locker, so I was adept at avoiding the cagey Brit, and I let Sarah spy on my tracking website as a thank you for taking care that I was not raped by my new boss.

It has been a few years.  I have moved back and forth across the country twice, and somehow, miraculously, kept in touch with the British, surly man who had professed his love for me when I was a lowly assistant at his company, to the peril of both of our jobs.  I moved on, and so did he and somehow, we stayed friends.  But not the kind of friends you have in real life, just Hollywood friends having lunch every few years and talking about sleeping together but wisely, not.  A few years ago I had just such a lunch with him, and he was getting married.  He still expressed interest in me, and that was the last I heard from him save for one email stating that he had sold a huge screenplay with a big Star attached, the same Big Star for whom I catered a New Year’s Eve party when I was still poor and struggling.  A few months ago, I got a call from the brooding Brit, in the middle of the night, his voice foggy, he misses me, wants to see me…. The next day I emailed him innocently, sure lets have lunch, and he sent back a picture of a lovely little one year old baby.  Apparently, however, his marriage was ending, and he said I am the girl of his dreams.  I have been through this before, men loving the girl I used to be but not the girl I am now.  My history with these guys, any guys other than my Dead Ex, is pathetically small, but I agree to a lunch because I respect the Brit’s standing in our fucked up little community, and the lunch started with nice pasta and ended with him chasing me around a coffee table at his house.  Somehow I managed to escape unscathed but the damage had been done, he loves me now, real love, even though I am a new person, I am no longer fabulous or successful or fast-moving, and his obsession grows anyway. I don’t see him for months afterwards, but I bask in the glow of feeling pretty enough to be stalked, and then finally I agree to go out with him for Valentine’s Day.

Read D Girl Diary immediately.

Because I grew up eating no processed foods, only able to eat food from our garden or slaughtered animals, I always thought the machines that dispensed things like turkey or ham sandwiches were the best invention known to mankind.  I wanted one of those stale, pinkish treats that did not exist in nature because, frankly, I was tired of nature. Living on 220 acres of nothing but trees and a cross-country ski path that led from Massachusetts to New Hampshire, there was no shortage of God’s creations around: five or six dogs, a few cats (if they did not crawl into our car’s engine to keep warm and burn to death when my Mom turned the car on), twenty-one chickens, two horses and two ponies (very stubborn, one with a hematoma), a black sheep, three pigs named ham, bacon and sausage, a cow named Bubba (who once went to the bathroom all over the inside of my Step-Father’s Land Cruiser) and, for two weeks, a  cockatoo named Jose Feliciano that got eaten by our old cat Tiger.  We had a huge garden, and grew things like rhubarb for pies, and zucchini, of which there was a seemingly endless supply, and for dessert we would pick wild berries and, if we were really lucky my Mom would whip some fresh cream she would skim off of fresh cow’s milk to top them off.  When I ran away from home to go live with my Dad in Ohio at the age of sixteen, I wanted nothing to do with nature, or anything healthy or fresh – I was still scarred from my Mom’s health food kick in the seventies that included dinners like refried tofu and carob cakes on our birthdays.  Columbus, Ohio, the fast-food capital of the world, was the perfect place for me, and when I called my Mom to tell her I had left camp a day early to fly to Ohio to live in a town house with my Dad, I am pretty sure her gasp of shock was because she did not want her offspring living in any structure built after the 1800’s.

I wasn’t able to escape God’s Creatures forever though, because when I was in college my boyfriend and I inherited two tiny Boxer puppies after his Dad died of lung cancer, and suddenly we were living in an illegal sublet in Stuyvesant Town on the lower East Side of Manhattan with two dogs, something frowned upon severely by the Stuyvesant Town Gestapo, who had already banged down our door on several occasions to try and evict us, foiled only by my insistence that I was not in fact living there, but just the maid and that the tenant would, always, be home shortly.  I was only 20 years old, and I did not want dogs.  I didn’t want dog hair on my Marc Jacobs silk sweaters, but I loved my boyfriend, so we moved to an apartment that allowed animals, a little dump in Hell’s Kitchen with a patio, and soon those little puppies turned into eighty pound dogs that took up more room in our little full size bed than me, and I spent years in bed with my boyfriend and two dogs, curled up in a little corner with my feet hanging off so those dogs, who were brothers and best friends,  could be comfortable.

One night, fourteen years later, I was out with my cousin, and I came home a little drunk and very tired, and as I kicked off my heels I saw that one of the dogs had died on the floor of our apartment.  I called my boyfriend and he left his bartending job and came home and wrapped the dog in a blanket and took him to an animal hospital where they could properly dispose of him.  The other dog stood patiently at our apartment door waiting for his brother to come home for three months.  Once in a while he would let out a small whimper, but mostly he was just quietly waiting as he had no knowledge of death, so for him, it was just a matter of time before his brother came bounding through the doorway.  We got a cabin in Vermont that summer because I had a book deal and wanted to finish my novel, and the surviving dog got to go with me.  We thought he would love the open fields and refreshing little lake, but he had lost the use of his back legs by then, and he waited at the cabin door for his brother just like he had waited for him back in New York.  A few months later, he died.  I feel like that dog sometimes, as the bright sun shines through my balcony window and I can smell the ocean air on a quiet Sunday at the beach.  I don’t want to go run through the fields or jump off the dock into the cool lake water. I just want my best friend to come home.

D GIRL‘s last column.

It’s been six and a half months since the love of my life died, and it feels like a minute has gone by, time has stood still for me, my worst nightmare has come true, the ultimate abandonment, but somehow I get out of bed in the morning, brush my teeth, and sigh myself through each day. I have always felt lonely and sad, and no matter how many people surround me, there has been a slight panic and tightness in my chest even as I say a breezy goodbye to a lunch date. Now, the universe mocks me, as if to say: “This is real loss, this is despair, this is what it feels like to be alone and the rest of your life has been an overreaction: now is the true meaning of sad….” My worst self feels a small sense of relief, as horrible as that sounds, because my moral compass is gone, and nobody is checking up on me as I have random, meaningless sex and do other things normally reserved for college years, and I don’t have to explain myself to that caring soul on the East Coast. I have done some things my Dead Ex would have been proud of since he died, I begrudgingly admit, such as spending countless hours revising my novel that has been paid for and never published, and I am skinny as a rail and my gaunt face is finally finding its crooked balance, but mostly I have spent the last half of a year flailing around helplessly, making mistakes and hoping against all hope that there is no afterlife or any way for him to witness my downward spiral from under the snap pea leaf or through the eyes of a baby robin.

As much as I want to just squander away the rest of my days in the soothing embrace of victimhood, or the haze of wine and prescription medication, I cannot because, alas, there is a guy. A really cute guy with blondish curly hair and blue sweatpants with two red stripes running down the sides who walks his two biggish dogs on the beach every morning and every early evening, and not knowing him at all, save for a friendly wave every day, seems to be reason enough to blow dry my hair and change out of my Dead Ex’s double XL wool sweater every so often into a small tee shirt that shows off the new tiny waist I have acquired from the Grief Diet. This guy, who I have seen every day since I moved to the beach last May, and who, for all I know, could be married, gay or boring, is my reason for living right now. I refuse to talk to this guy because I find happiness in not knowing anything about him, just as I find some solace in the fact that I have no idea where my Dead Ex is right now. Hopefully my Dead Ex is languishing between some tall stacks of rare books somewhere, and the Beach Guy is single and has a penchant for skinny girls with sunken eyes who haven’t slept for months. I am happy to leave these questions unanswered.


D GIRL‘s last column (8.17.10) is here.

So I will admit it now, get this out of the way before the protestations grow.  I had never actually lost someone.  I mean Lost Someone, for good.  I had an Aunt die when I was in high school, and all my grandparents are no longer alive, but we are a very spread out family.  I feel silly now as I look back over my life and realize how desperately I held onto so many people, afraid of losing them – afraid they might not go to parties with me anymore, or return my phone calls – for I had no idea what loss really meant: I spent my life upset because of things like a best friend of a few years deciding not to be my friend anymore, crying over hurt feelings or crying over a lost job or an unrequited crush.  Not a tear in my life was shed for any good reason, I have decided, because I had really never lost someone: until now.

Life after my Dead Ex-Boyfriend has been a series of awakenings.  Immediately after it happened, I tried to lose myself in the News of it All.  As long as there were people to tell and arrangements to be made, I didn’t have too much time to sit around and think about what had occurred.  I sent a bunch of emails I now regret, to the East Coast and West Coast Sarah’s, specifically, and did not hear back from either ex-friend.  At the time I was just hurting, and wanting to connect with someone who knew how much my ex had meant to me, but now that I never heard back from either of them, or Fifi the celebrity chef, not even a “sorry for your loss” email from the Angry Indian who had been my friend for years, and not a word from my little sister, who knew my ex well: through all this, I can see that something good has happened to me.  I have finally learned to hate people.  Its freedom, this hatred, I should have discovered this a long time ago.  The freeing feeling of never caring about a person again is something I have never experienced – quite the opposite, I so clearly cared too much, about all these people who never cared about me, and my ex who is now dead.  So this has been a month of firsts for me.  My first Dead Ex-Boyfriend, and the first time in my life I have ever hated anyone.

D-GIRL was a development girl in Hollywood and New York City for many years. While finding projects for actors, directors and producers to make into movies, she amassed a number of salacious tales of questionable morality that became an internet column entitled “D-Girl Diary.”

(Please read last week’s D Girl Diary.)

“I have never really written a word until today. I had written a blog, but you hated that word. I had written some screenplays and other things but you wanted me to be more than words on a computer screen, or a movie never made. You wanted my words to live longer than us, I realize that now: you wanted to walk into your favorite place: a bookstore, or for someone, anyone, to walk into a bookstore, one day, and pick up something I had written, it’s all you ever wanted for me, and so now I will finally really write, for you.”

D Girl Diary is back today.  It’s a very poignant piece of writing and should be read directly.

Please have a look.

I have been struggling lately to write, because I am not sure anymore what being a writer means for me specifically, and what it means to the people around me. Am I a chronicler of events, I wonder, is it merely the case that I write down what happens around me, or is it inevitable my perspective on things pervade my every sentence?  If this is the case, should I simply stop writing, because that seems to be the only way not to hurt anyone?  I remember Nelly the Billionaire’s Daughter once told me that I have a “snake tongue”.  And she was right, for all her histrionics and fits of rage (and there I go again, instigating my point of view as I try to retell events) she had a moment of clarity: I do have a gift for being able to reduce a person not only to tears, but also causing them to reevaluate their entire character, just because I know how to spin a phrase. People like Nelly, unarmed as I am with the weapons of language and heightened perception, fall prey to my barbs and I’m left wondering why I have lost so many friends; why someone as kind as I am has a list of enemies that would rival only that of Hitler or Bin Laden, and it’s all because I can write, so I have been thinking perhaps its time to put down my pen and quiet the snake tongue for once and for all.

What sparked this recent bout of self-loathing was the fact that my older sister, the one of the white-blonde hair and watery blue eyes, lost her mind last week, and I am not sure, but her downward spiral might have been sparked by a mention of her in my column a few weeks ago.  I didn’t mean to hurt her, I rarely ever mean to hurt anyone, but that is beside the point, because I brought her up, and her troubled past with her children, and she sent me a message after she read it, fuming that I had characterized her actions as some sort of abandonment of her children years ago, and I was mildly surprised because I was there, at the time, and there is no other way to recount what happened.  I was merely speaking the words out loud, telling the story as it had occurred, even conscious of handling it gently, and it’s as if just reading the words sent her into a tailspin – multiple emails followed, as I quickly backtracked and apologized, and things settled, even seemed loving and sisterly and I glowed into that evening thinking my writing had brought me closer to a sibling I had not communicated with in years.

A week later, my sister lost her mind.  Quite literally, and seemingly sparked by some incident with her husband, who was the best man in my other sister’s Wedding From Hell (at which my Mother had threatened my Dad’s life and there were fist fights and champagne thrown in faces, police called and ambulances summoned), but I am left to wonder if my snake tongue has struck again, and if my role as The One in Our Family Who Writes it All Down has landed my sister in a mental hospital.  It’s a bone-chilling thought, and as I question my part in her breakdown and my self-anointment as Narrator and begin to see myself as someone who is now not just recounting, but possibly causing events to spin out of control around me, the strangest thing is happening to me: I find myself unable to not write about the events of my sister’s past week.  Sense needs to be made of it all, and I realize I am the writer’s equivalent of the Inmate Running the Asylum but there is no way to leave this out of My Story: the tale must be told.  And then, perhaps, I will finally write the two words that need to be written the most right now, because there has to be calm in all this lunacy, there has to be a way to quiet the demons that swirl in and out of my life and the people around me, and the only way to end it might be to simply write, for once and for all:  The End.

D-GIRL was a development girl in Hollywood and New York City for many years. While finding projects for actors, directors and producers to make into movies, she amassed a number of salacious tales of questionable morality that became an internet column entitled “D-Girl Diary.” She left show business to become a full-time writer in 2001.

(d girls image artist Tashina Suzuki)

My Uncle is getting married, which is nerve-wracking because my Mother will likely attend, and any family gathering with my Mother involved is likely to attract police, ambulances, curious townspeople, and will require years of therapy to erase from all of our brains.  My Uncle is her youngest sibling, and they also had a sister who was next eldest, but she passed away in a car accident a while ago, when she was only 26 years old.  I was fifteen when she died, living in Ohio with my Dad, and I had been to her wedding a few summers before: a glorious affair and a testament to her loveliness that she married her long-term boyfriend’s best friend and her ex-boyfriend was not only okay with that, he was in their wedding party.  She had long bone-straight black hair, an Italian beauty, and was gentle natured and kind to the flock of nieces and nephews my Mom would parade through her apartment in Boston every year for the Boston Marathon.  I remember she always had M and M’s for us, and we never had candy in our house so that was a treat in itself.  She ran the Marathon every year, and we would stand by the roadside at the bottom of Heartbreak Hill and give the runners oranges and wait for her to come by.  Shortly after her wedding, my Aunt was in the back seat of a car when it was hit by a drunk driver and she went right through the roof.

She survived, and was in a coma for a while, and woke up blind.  I still have the note she sent me in Ohio after she woke up which looks like it was written by a third grader.  She lived another year, and then died on a postponed honeymoon to Jamaica, I guess her head could not handle the traveling.  It is beyond heartbreaking that somehow she was taken from this Earth and my Mother is still here, making all of our lives a tiny bit less bearable.    I am hoping my Mom passes through this family event without incident, but it would be shocking if she could concede the spotlight.  She has softened over the years, with age and ailing health, so we might have a chance of escaping this wedding without her usual bouts of hysterical blindness or severe Munchausen’s syndrome in which she suddenly takes on, for example, the symptoms of my disease.  For my birthday this year she sent me an easel, and canvases and paint supplies, not even knowing my penchant for painting the words of T.S. Eliot crudely on canvases and distributing them to friends who all, in seemingly unrelated incidents, dump me soon afterwards.  It was an incredibly generous gift, completely unlike her, and although it was preceded by hundreds of phone calls announcing its imminent arrival, it was deeply appreciated and gives me a small bit of hope that she will attend my Uncle’s wedding graciously and surprise everyone, just like I was surprised two weeks after my birthday when the package of art supplies actually came in the mail.

It was really late, maybe 4 A.M one night when I had the urge to send Sarah an email. There is a reason these impulses only happen under the cover of night: in the light of day it might be embarrassing to chase down a girl who was at one time my best friend and has not wanted anything to do with me for years. But recent events have brought on introspection, regret, remorse, and most of all a desperate need to figure out what went so wildly wrong with my life. What’s funny is, I have been kind of – dare I say – happy lately, as happy as a single, family-less, ex-party girl can be, so I don’t quite know what I am searching for. I love my new apartment, it is spacious and comfortable and allows for beachside bike rides and barbeques, and I don’t like going out much anymore so I have more than enough friends. I have a relatively quiet job assisting a group of nerdy television writers who are quick to compliment my often sequined outfits and sun-kissed hair. I don’t have a boyfriend but I have a boyfriend-like guy who is great company and who makes out with me sometimes when I am not feeling well, and maybe I don’t have that girl I talk to a hundred times a day anymore, but I hate the phone anyway and I have a pen pal to whom I can tell anything, so there doesn’t seem to be too much more need for co-dependency in my life. But for some reason I emailed Sarah, just to tell her I am writing again, and show her the generosity of spirit I wish more people would show me, and she wrote back, cheerful as ever, as if we had continued talking eighty-five times a day this whole time, and I remembered that I always thought she should have a permanent exclamation point at the end of her name: “Sarah!” should be her legal name because she always seems happy to hear from you.

So we arranged to have drinks, and I am prepared for an ambush, but I don’t feel inculpable enough to prevent an onslaught of criticism, and I hope I don’t become so nervous I revert back to the manic and high-strung person she decided to abandon years ago. I miss Sarah terribly, just because it always made me feel great that someone as good-hearted as her would choose to have me as a friend, but I am not naive enough to think we will ever be friends again, for I am afraid too much has passed between these smiles. Still it will be nice to see her, I heard she is getting married and I am glad to see at least one of our lives turned out the way it was supposed to.

D-GIRL was a development girl in Hollywood and New York City for many years. While finding projects for actors, directors and producers to make into movies, she amassed a number of salacious tales of questionable morality that became an internet column entitled “D-Girl Diary.” She left show business to become a full-time writer in 2001.

(d girls image artist Tashina Suzuki)

I found out today that a friend passed away, he killed himself, which is even sadder than the normal death of a friend, and of course I feel like I should have done more to make him feel better.  But I have a complicated past with this guy, so I am not sure what more I could have done. I know that I have been really close to trying to kill myself before, I have taken bottles filled with pills and was made to drink charcoal in the Emergency Room, had my stomach pumped and I have spent many nights just staring at my scarily full medicine cabinet trying to gather up the courage to make myself fall asleep permanently, but I have chickened out every time, and one thing I learned from all that was, taking pills is not the way to go.  You have far too much time after you have swallowed them to think about what you have done.  I am not sure how my friend did it, but I am pretty sure I know how he was feeling and it’s hard to describe how helpless and lost you feel in that moment.  I had just gotten a message from him a few days before he died telling me how inspiring I am to him.  He told me he would tell me some day why that is, but now he will never get to tell me.

Our complicated past started when I was in college. My school was mostly girls, it had been a Catholic Girls School but had started letting boys in right before I got there.  My friend transferred into our college when I was a sophomore, and all the girls were weak-kneed over his looks: he looked almost exactly like the actor Montgomery Clift, he had a JFK Jr. shock of dark hair and hurt, searching brown eyes.  He was rumored to have a drug problem but I was only 19 and didn’t even know what drugs looked like, so I let him move into my one bedroom apartment on the Lower East Side of Manhattan that I was illegally subletting. He lived in my living room, and would run the bath water every time he went into the bathroom which I thought was odd, and only realized years later it was to hide the sound of snorting drugs.  He had a beautiful girlfriend at the time who he met in Central Park, she didn’t need makeup, was about 18, and had long straight brown hair and huge round eyes. They looked like movie stars together, and I remember he used to put his hand in the back pocket of her jeans and I wished my boyfriend would do that with me but he was from Bayonne, New Jersey and that’s just not how a Bayonne boy walks around with his girl.

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