The Shape of a Heart

John and I broke up. I don’t care who’s reading this. I’m in the “fuck you” phase. As in:“Hey, shut the fuck up—if I wanted what you have, I’d do what you’re doing.”And trust me, I don’t want what you have (respectfully). Also:“No, you can’t talk. You can shut the fuck up. And if you want to talk about your feelings, try calling a fucking therapist, because you’re going to have to (respectfully) pay someone to listen to your dumb-ass bullshit.”

I’m spiky, and in part it's because everyone knows John is a good and kind man, and I’m the hot wire. They want me to explain why, and it’s none of their business, because the only people who know a relationship really are the people inside it.

Also, I’ve done this before. I’ve lost everyone and everything. I’ve hurt my kids. I’ve had my closest relatives ask, “What’s wrong with you?” before asking what happened.

So now, I’m not exactly armored, but I know what to expect. This is so raw that I’ve lost any filter I have left. Divorce is like death, except you feel like you should have been able to do something about it.

I’m naked, bloody, ready.

It’s the fantasy scene from Half Baked I’ve always dreamed of… unfolding with the iconic,“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you’re cool, fuck you, I’m out!”

I don’t feel particularly angry or dangerous. Just clear. Clearly in need of some space, and if that boundary isn’t met, some truthiness comes out. At first nicely, and then less nice each time after.

What happened, you may wonder? Recently, some innocuous bullshit went down that changed my life. This was not some sudden thing. This is 43 and 15 years of buildup and many of the same conversations. But the elements all came together in such a way that it finally flipped a switch. Case in point.

I was engrossed in a weekend morning gardening affair, sipping hot coffee, blasting hip hop, and hauling shit around the yard, feeling like a general badass while casually chatting on my AirPods with various relatives. One by one, each of these fucking dudes I’m related to—the actual lineage of men directly tied to my core guy issues—mansplained some dumb-ass bullshit to me, one by one, and then ignored multiple requests to stop, and I finally, after 43 years, met my goddamn threshold.

I realized I would rather be a crazy lonely cat lady than listen to one more minute of this dumb-ass shit.

It started nice. I was like,“Hey, I won’t listen to your racist, sexist, homophobic, hurtful, political bullshit anymore. Let’s find something else to talk about.” or "hey, I need a clean, clear space to do focused work without interruption without being told I'm not asking nicely enough. I though paying half of everything would suffice.

And then they were (all) like,“Yeah, you’re not saying that nice enough, you’re not respecting my opinions, you’re not letting me speak. You're bad, bad, mean wrong and never nice to me.”

Here’s what I have to say about that: If you’re about to waste my time with some dumb-ass bullshit, just don’t. Ain’t nobody got time for that. No, I can’t listen. No, you can’t finish. Nope, not listening. No, I don’t care. Shut the fuck up.

Especially men. Almost all. And especially smart, capable men. If some smart, capable-ass man mansplains some dumb-ass bullshit to me and I have to be held hostage to the literal sound of his voice while breath escapes his mouth, I’m telling you—the answer is no.

Especially if he’s holding a bag of chips at the same time. Anything crunchy plastic. Or talking and chewing. That is some shit I cannot handle.

I’m sort of making my rounds with the family and old friends at this point, in some cases with friendships like 20 years old. I'm like: “wait a minute, why am I apologizing. I just realized you are the actual problem." and "Who the fuck do I have some shit to say to that I haven’t been saying?” Y’all are blocked, blocked, blocked. But not before I say some shit I’ve been meaning to say all along. Omg you guys, I've been ruthless and I'm not trying to be hard on people's hearts here. I'm literally just walking around with a mirror held up by two middle fingers.

It’s not meant as punitive (well, some of it is). It’s more like, I don’t know, a checklist of telling all the fuckers to fuck off. I got other shit to do, man. I don’t want to hear it. And if I have been holding the relationship for both of us, I'm dropping it. Done. No more chances. Ain't nobody got time for that.

This is a fun and festive midlife crisis phase! It really gives men the opportunity to commiserate as they say,“Hey, look at that stupid crazy bitch, just acting all crazy. Bitches be crazy like that,”with knuckles or however they say it. Locker room talk, you know. Like all my credible exes say (don't forget ho! If I had a penny for every time I was called a whore by a man I didn't like anymore I would have retired already guys). .

I actually had a vision of myself (and by vision I mean one of those daydreams where you’re battling people in your head and saying the stuff you didn’t actually think of at the time). In this vision, I’m underwater, holding my breath, suspended in time, on fire, and my posture is like the Vitruvian man. I’m calm and looking directly at the viewer—or myself, I guess. Someone please explain what they think this means.

So yeah. I’m spiky. Sharp around the edges, but clear and sober (except a lot more pako lolo lately). If you’ve recently gotten a very detailed fuck-you letter from me, I just want to say, I meant it sincerely. Fuck off for real, and never talk to me again. You don’t deserve me. I mean that truly.

And if you've recently gotten a sappy love letter—that was real too.

And I have to get honest with you all. There is not ONE person I’ve ever met in my WHOLE LIFE, or seen on TV, or read about, or anything, whose life I want. Not one. And now the earth is literally crashing. Do you know how many people we’ve lost just in normal life? Now with fucking Musk and Trump and imminent ecological collapse while these billionaires jack off to Mars missions. Can you even believe that this many people in our country are so fucking stupid? What the fuck do I tell my kids? I’m so pissed about this. I'm tired and disheartened and I cannot believe how many stupid people I have to talk to every day. It’s exhausting, and I mean that so viscerally.

But guess what? I have some superpowers, and so do you. The ones you were born with. The ones you were told, “Be quiet. Sit down. That’s enough.” The ones every creative, every neurodivergent, every energetic child secretly has.

So I’m going to use whatever time I have left like this world just got a cancer diagnosis. I'm going to do what the fuck I want, where I can, with what I have. I’m putting these superpowers to use. I’m turning lemons into lemonade, bish. I’m putting me first—if not above everyone else, at least level with everyone else. And I am not going to live the same way as so many miserable people, as I have been until two weeks ago, and 3 years, and 15, for 43 years. Which is to say, I won't comply anymore, and if that means jail, so be it.

I don’t even know what the fuck it looks like, but I have some ideas: Italy, Spain, France, picnics, making out on a picnic blanket with a beautiful brown man with full lips. And fuck all y’all. Keep up, or get the fuck out of my way (with love).

Speaking of beautiful brown men with full lips, I have a very fresh story to embarrass myself with. Yes I'm sharing it.

After John and I broke up, I moved downstairs. We’ve been building additional rentals on the property, so what started as,“I need uninterrupted space for focused work,”eventually turned into,“Do not step foot in here without knocking first.” This is all still very new and figuring itself out, and mostly peaceful.

Also I’ve never dated before. I had boyfriends in high school, which I don't think counts, except for this one (hi Craig). And I've either been a single mother or in a long-term committed relationship for the last 25 years. In between, I had some "kissing friends," which was the word I called poor men I would let kiss me with their mouths closed and no touching (shout out to y'all -- you know who you are). Someone NOT giving me a hard time about what I'm doing or not doing correctly. This was really meant as a punishment. I was fucking traumatized, and I just wanted comfort.

I’ve been raising kids my entire adult life. The only time I've ever been alone as an adult, ever, is when I serenipendously studied abroad in Italy the first time for a month on scholarship in college, igniting the wildfire of restlessness that continues to this day. The dual selves bit I always complain about. The fire heart paintings and all that inner torment about wanting to be a good mother and a present family member. At the same time literally eating shit because, while I live in beautiful Hawaii, in a house WE BUILT with our own hands, in a life I co-designed, the only place I have ever felt myself, with or without my kids, is when my flat red shoes are hitting the cobblestone streets in Florence, and I can smell the wet earth of ancient walls, and my hair catches the breeze, and I'm wearing red lipstick, and no one gets an explanation.

And I always hear these horror stories about dating on the Big Island—because it’s actually so small, and everyone knows everyone. I've wondered if I’m going to be gay now. I’ve “dated” women in high school—by that I mean, kissed and secretly loved. Everyone knows women are smarter, more mindful, and just better humans overall. And if women were in charge the planet wouldn't be dying. And that's why women love Pedro Pascal -- not just because he's hot, but because he is among the rarely not stupid men, and he accents that look with sexy shorts that say he's ready for fun.

And I don’t want anything. Y'all know about to have a boyfriend (or girlfriend) in every country like I always been sayin. I just like the option of play and fun with someone beautiful, somewhere nice, once in a while. Hand holding and closed-mouth kissing. If they’re smart and cute and well-behaved.

One evening recently, I went on the Tinder out of curiosity. I paid the $14 or whatever for incognito mode because I didn’t want to have to interact with anyone. I’m not even sure I understand how Tinder works. Then I accidentally liked several people, but it was mostly as underwhelming as I imagined, and I deleted it. But not before I accidentally noticed the most beautiful man I've ever seen in my life.

Here’s what caught my attention: He was water.

He looked like he came out of it—like it shaped him.

His hair, his mouth, his eyes, his skin, his curves. I fell in love with a photo.

This is not a light thing for me to say. To me, water is the closest thing to God.

Water is everything. I don't say this about everyone.

I go underwater to suspend myself in surrender and remember I am nothing and everything and all of it.

Then I see this picture. This man is water. Why am I seeing this? Why now. Who even is this guy? Why the stir? WHY the TORTURE!!!

Because he had his Instagram noted, I reached out pretty directly. And he responded and agreed to my carefully curated daytime public plans (because stranger danger). And then he bailed, and I think it’s because I scared him (like I do).

But now this is an interesting experiment for me. I gave him a challenge with a deadline. He shows up or stays away. This may seem weird to a stranger. Why is this crazy lady coming at him this way?

But if he actually shows up...

I have so many questions. I want to touch his hands. I want to see if he’s actually real.

Who even is this unicorn?

And what this incredibly beautiful man, who resembles the sea, is smart and good? What am I even supposed to do with that? I don’t even know what this is. I don’t know what his voice sounds like, or who he is, or anything. I have things to do guys.

And if he doesn’t show up—this is interesting, because it reminds me of a time I heard myself once telling my daughter to “dumb down” her expectations to spare her heart the disappointment (of men—her brothers specifically—falling short of her dear and thoughtful consideration). But I did catch myself that time. I told her that it was wrong to dumb down her expectations to meet men who fall short, and to stand by her needs.

John is a good man. Others were not. I’m breaking the generational curse of women who stay when its over.

I don’t know if I’m capable of loving one person. I think monogamy is a patriarchal cultural control construct designed by insecure men. I barely tolerate them, and I'm saying this with some level of experience, as a daughter and granddaughter and mother of 2 grown sons who I did my absolute best with, and 5 brothers who I love, but whose asses I will whoop at the drop of a hat.

I can feel it—my heart is still guarded. It’s rare when someone is this distracting.

Like if he doesn’t show up, I’ll be underwhelmed, unsurprised and heartbroken. Can you IMAGINE what a great painting this will be? God knows exactly how to get me back to art. And I mean this God.

I so want interesting conversations with a cute boy that challenges me and makes me think.

I want good food. I want to kiss at golden hour while the wind brushes over our faces and I don't want to argue anymore. I deserve that. And I guess I'm just figuring out what that looks like again.

And it’s none of your business.

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PS -

For those of you who would like a more in depth explanation of what I'm talking about, because you are like invested in our relationship and think we're all that and a bag of chips or whatever, please let this song explain.

and lastly

Love, Anne