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Tag: break up

There’s something really nice about being on the other side of fifty. You’ve seen it all and done it all (well, maybe not everything, but quite a lot) and you know that you don’t have too much tolerance (or time) for crap… your own or anyone else’s. You know what works for you, and conversely, what doesn’t. And if things fall into the “not working for you” camp, you can say without hesitation and without too much delay, I’m done. There’s a certain freedom that comes from knowing when you’re done, and calling it. It means you can walk away,

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Well, it appears that I did send that letter to John after all! I found this letter in my personal effects, hidden between a couple of old photos… Dear Diane, I’ve been thinking a lot about you the last few days. I was going to write you a letter sooner before your letter came today. Thank you for the letter. I’ve had a lot of good times with you too, and would like to say you’re a wonderful person with many interesting facets. The love and support I’ve felt from you over the last ten months has been greater than

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This is the 19th essay in the #26essays2017 challenge that I’ve set for myself this year. I’m doing this because I’m the first to admit I’ve become a lazy writer: allowing guest posts and series and cross-posting to make up the bulk of content on The Diane Lee Project across 2016. The brave, fearless writing that readers admired and respected me for has all but disappeared. This year—2017—will be different. I’m reclaiming my voice—my write like a motherfucker voice! I have been clearing out my belongings in preparation for my indefinite move to Vietnam and I found this letter in a bunch of old papers

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This is the 6th essay in the #26essays2017 challenge that I’ve set for myself this year. I’m doing this because I’m the first to admit I’ve become a lazy writer: allowing guest posts and series and cross-posting to make up the bulk of content on The Diane Lee Project across 2016. The brave, fearless writing that readers admired and respected me for has all but disappeared. This year—2017—will be different. I’m reclaiming my voice—my write like a motherfucker voice!  Dying. Dead. Buried. Everything about him that I respected, admired, enjoyed. Gone. Killed by a single gesture that extinguished all others that preceded it. The way he

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