About the Artist

I was linked into a group DM.  I was put there by a very clever 23-year-old from Chicago.  She saw through you and wanted to expose you to everyone else. She created something so very powerful - a global alliance of women. We laughed at the beauty of it. We even named the day in your honour. February 16th- the day of the artist. Let us all learn from her, even you. You, too, can learn from this millennial from Chicago. She had your number.  

 I did too.  

 You were kind at first. You saw that I was hurting and had to know what caused me so much pain. You said you had to know why I sat there, every day, and wrote. “What are you writing?” you pried. I told you about her. I cried as I told you my pain. I read to you from my tattered journal in the coffee shop that fall. You were my first new friend after her death, after the death of my daughter. You didn’t look at me with pity because you didn’t know me any other way.  With you, I laughed again. Fuck! - that felt so good. You were at my wedding - gave tickets to the theatre as a gift. Over the years we stayed in touch - texts and coffee. We talked about life and art. It stayed that way until the day that I cut you out. Cold. Unforgiving. Deserved.

 I had your number too.

 I never thought about you again - not at all until this young, beautiful, smart millennial contacted me.  She contacted me and about 20 other women.  You see, you lied to her, manipulated her, treated her like an object.  Wrong girl, I guess.  Oops! When I saw the subject line I was confused.  It read ‘About the Artist.”  “About the Artist?” I thought as I opened it.

 Here’s a few things we all learned about the Artist:

• Firstly, we all learned your age.  You are fifty-three, not forty-five. Fifty-three. I knew that already, but I will tell you, it was news to some of the girls. A quick internet search of your work brought the millennial’s roommates to this fact.  Did you think that nudes were more likely to be acquired if you were 45? 

• We learned a few things about your preferences in the bedroom.  This, I wish I didn’t know but now that I do, I will tell you, women want NONE of the things you listed. NONE! Stop watching so much porn.  Fuck you and your bedroom antics – from all of us!

• You like to show your dick to these women. Why?  Why do you like to show your dick so much?  Put it away.  Send a pic of a literally anything else, anything else would do.  No one wants to see it.  No one! 

• You talk about yourself too much.  Try asking one of the many women you are courting how her day was.  Try it and listen.  I felt that way too, just so we are clear.  Our friendship reached a point where you were just exhausting.  I’d leave coffee and realize that you talked the whole time…about yourself.  

• You sent stock messages to these women.  They put screenshots of it in the chat.  ‘Good Mornings’ and “I’m thinking about you” sent out, multiple times to multiple women. They all thought they were the only one. You were busy, we all determined. Imagine how productive you will be now, now that they have all blocked and deleted you.  

Here’s a few things we also learned about the Artist:

• You’ve got some trauma. Your trauma is serious.  It’s big and I imagine it dictates a good chuck of your past.  I am sorry for your trauma.  You didn’t deserve that.  No one deserves that, ever.  

• You desire love – we all do. But to recieve that kind of love, you have to know how to give it. Work on that and you will be good for someone. 

• You have a good family who loves you.  I didn’t know that you had made the move overseas to be with them, but I truly hope that you are happy.  During our coffee-house days, you spoke so fondly of your sisters, I’m happy to hear that you have them near.

• You’re sweet – we all agreed upon that. You had all these women charmed. You made them all feel special.  Imagine if you took all that energy and put it towards getting to know just one instead the continual attempt to acquiring nudes from multiple.

• You are a talented artist – no one can take that from you.  You seek and appreciate beauty in the world, turning that beauty into inspiration.  You found that beauty in multiple women around the world.

 You found that beauty in a millennial from Chicago, the mother from Estonia, the makeup artist from New York, an interior designer from Toronto, and a blogger from your hometown.  You wanted to take from us all.  Perhaps you should take away a few lessons.  

 First lesson – don’t fuck with the millennial from Chicago.

Kidnapping

I’ll never forget your kindness the night that you kidnapped me. I’ll never forget your sweet face in that small car, smiling at your own brilliance. I willingly got in, checking out the backseat.We drove until neither of us were aware of our location. They can’t find us if we don’t even know where we are, right?

Rewind the story, love.

I cried to you on the phone that day. I had tried to express to others how this year felt so different but it fell on deaf ears. Your ears heard everything I said and knew everything that I needed. I was confused, angered and exhausted. You knew it all - you felt it all. You devised a plan for me.

Rewind the story, love.

I’d been here 8 times prior - you had too. Yet, I’d never felt so fucking angry that I was here again. Why are we here again? How many more times do we need to do this, love? Forever, you respond. Forever. Our small frames were not built for this kind of anger. For 8 years our small frames pushed this anger deep, it was bound to happen.

Rewind the story, love.

I met you and fell instantly in love with how your handled yourself. Here! - here is a woman that I can adore. Here is a woman who understands this new me; this new me that I don’t even understand yet. Here is a safe place to drop my mask. Here is a forever friend.

And then you kidnapped me.

Fast forward, my love.

You took me into the dark, you car loaded with supplies. The rain was pouring and the only light was your cigarette and the headlights. The rattle of the bat on my hands with the first smashed plate hurt. They stung but FUCK! it felt great. I smashed about five before I gave you a turn. There we stood, two bereaved mothers, in the rain, smashing plates and old computers. All that anger had somewhere to go, finally. After nine years without our girls, all that anger was released. We moved from crying to laughter as we proceeded to destroy plate after plate, screen after screen. I tossed you a plate high, “everything happens for a reason,” I said as you took a swing.

Fast forward, my love, way way forward.

I am here for you, as you are for me, forever.

Apparently, forever is how many times we will have to do this and I could never do any of this without you.

24 - Down

We used to have a dictionary on our bedside table and a crossword on the edge of the tub. Over the years our shitty apartments became less shitty - our tubs growing with each apartment upgrade - but these items, the dictionary and the crosswords, remained.

Each night we would reach for the dictionary, taking turns thumbing through the pages and carefully selecting words for the other. Snuggled in, half-dressed, we would share the words that caught our eyes and their respective definitions. It was just a thing we would do; a way we learned each other.

On particularly hard days, you’d climb into the tub with me, holding the daily crossword from the paper in one hand and a chewed pencil in the other. There we would sit, until the water cooled, trying to finish the daily puzzle. Not a lot would be said during those tubs as we were both so focused on solving 24-down. It was just a thing we would do; a way we learned to work together.

Our current tub is glorious in comparison and our king bed is dressed in all white and flanked with a table on each side. We’ve definitely moved up from that shitty basement apartment on 5th and Arbutus. These items, the dictionary and the crosswords, they aren’t there anymore. The dictionary replaced by Google and the daily newspaper no longer delivered to our doorstep. We are better connected than ever, aren’t we, love?

So, love, if you find yourself needing to learn me again. Grab the dictionary from the guest room shelf and climb into my half of the king. Place the dictionary in my hands and ask me to choose three words and read them out loud with their respective definitions. Learn which words grab my eye and listen why. Snuggle me, fuck Google.

And love, if you see me storm through the front door, carrying the weigh of the world upon my shoulders, you should head to the corner store, grab the last copy of the London Free Press and rush home. Slide in behind me in that gloriously warm tub and remind me that we are the best team that ever existed, the weight of the world is never on my shoulders alone. Sit with me, fuck the world.