Where in the World is FL?

Maybe you're thinking right now, what the hell happened to that damn Fragrant Liar? Which would be rude, because I would never use your name in vain, probably, but whatever. I get it. You're no doubt mad at me. And to that I say, Get in line.

Other than ensuring that the people who love me most can shake their heads and yell all Cher-like, "Snap out of it!", mostly I've been reflecting on and reconstructing—and deflecting and deconstructing—the last year, in which I invested considerable time and energy to a lost cause—precious and perfect though he was to me. Am I richer now, or poorer because of it?

Wasting a whole year of your life saps tremendous energy, leaving you little more than a shadow of your former self, which would be ideal for Halloween, but not so much for bikini season. But I'm not thinking it was wasted. Loving someone completely can never be a waste, though mostly the sting of loss prevents me from feeling much else—other than cravings for sappy rom-coms, pizza, and Corona. And frogs. Maybe if I kiss enough frogs, it won't sting anymore.

They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. For some, it cripples their emotional capacity and facility for love, and even someone who loves them beyond measure can't save them from themselves—though not for lack of trying.

Sometimes, he is the caliche to your monsoons, and your rich nutrients just can't seep deeply enough to oxygenate—or resuscitate—what lies beneath. Sometimes, even though he has every single piece of you—every. single. piece—you have to find a way to get you back.

I'm still looking for a way. But I am still here. If only it wasn't bikini season.
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