Me and Timothée Chalome aren’t talking right now. I had written a horrible op-ed about a hallucinogenic affair we never had one summer, and he was dead-ass over it. He was like, “I don’t like the way I looked in that picture that you took, and I don’t want to be in love anymore.” I sat in a lonesome room for WEEKS on end. How was I to go on without him? He was the first thing I thought about when I woke up, and the last thing I thought about before I slept. I could no longer contain myself–I had to call.

“I told you we’re over, Brontez,” said Timothée very cooly but with a tone of love and caring.

“But Timothée, just grant me this one question I’ve had so long, it burns me up inside...”

“Fine lover,” said Timothée. “Go on, ask.”

“Yo, like, WHY DO YOU SPELL YOUR NAME LIKE THAT?” He hung up the phone with a very loud bang and blocked my number.

Emma Stones was madly in love with me—AND WHEN I SAY “IN LOVE” YOU BEST BELIEVE I MEAN LOVE, L-U-V. I got a cryptic telegram from her in the morning that was like, ‘I never promised you a rose garden, but I should...’ Later that day a plane ticket to Victoria, Canada arrived in the mail with a hand-drawn map of a forest by a pink cottage near Thetis Lake. The map read: “I never promised you a rose garden... but I should.” The sun was setting, and I was rather nervous (I am scared of airplanes), and I took a piece of notebook paper and wrote a note I never intended to mail: 

My dearest Emma, It’s a fucking Tuesday in November–I’M NOT FLYING TO VICTORIA, CANADA TO GO TRACING THROUGH A FOREST– EVEN WITH THE VAUGE PROMISE OF A ROSE GARDEN WHICH I SOMEHOW DOUBT EVEN GROW IN THE WINTER? OMG, GIRL WTF?!

I sat in my room alone, thinking very sorely about when Emma would hold me in her arms again–true, she had never promised me a rose garden–but it’s not like I ever even asked for one in the first place...

I had said to Florence Pew, “You know I have always wanted to be a Spring bride, but I don’t think it’s ever going to happen for me...” We were walking though London, on one of the coldest days ever, drinkin boba tea, and window shopping for nothing in particular.

Florence (in a very wistful tone) says, “My love, it’s Winter, but for you today, Spring is going to come early.” She called a cab and we mobbed over to a high-end gown shop tucked in a corridor of Camden Town. We walked in and the store was filled to the brim with all sorts of wedding gowns. She handed a credit card to the store owner and said, “My friend here needs a fairy godmother, and today, that fairy godmother is going to be me. Can you show us all the plus-sized Vera Wang gowns you have in stock?”

Within moments, I was standing in front of the mirror in a strapless full-length wedding gown, with a veil made of hand-stiched sequin and pearls that covered my head and stretched to the ground.

“Now, let’s practice your walk baby,” said Florence. The fabric had closed my thighs in so tight it felt like I had to tip-toe to keep my balance, but it didn’t bother me–I was no stranger to suffering for beauty. “This here,” said Florence. “This here, is the gown I’m to buy for you because I love you. Husbands will come and go honey, but this gown will be what you will depend on, believe me sweetie, they’ll bury you in it”–and my soul began to blush.

“But Florence, I have the wedding gown, but no husband!”

She hardly looked up from the credit card slip she was signing and said, “Oh honey, this gown will outlive you and all your ex-husbands combined. Men are easy, the perfect wedding gown is the hard part... trust me...”

Me and Jacob Elordé were sitting in a hot tub fully clothed and not speaking cause like, we both studied theater and can be equally annoying as fuck when trying to out-vibe each other. We loved playing “100 questions,” and I asked him, “Who was the first dude you ever had a crush on?”

I totally whinced when he said, “Brad Pitt”–and I was like, “That doesn’t count Jacob Elordé. Like, is Brad Pitt even a REAL person?”

He was like, “Well who was the first guy YOU fell in love with, then?!” And I was like, “Luigi from Mario Brothers?”

“LUIGI ISN’T A REAL PERON EITHER! FURTHERMORE, HOW COULD YOU FALL IN LOVE WITH LUIGI?!?!? HE’S NOT EVEN THE MAIN CHARACTER!”

I defended my stance, “Jacob, Super Mario Bros. is basically a drama, and as we all know, all dramas are only as strong as the main supporting character!”

He gave me this very queer look as if I had just given him some divine epiphany that he had never thought about before. “I hate the way you think... but I love the way you are,” he said, as he moved closer and gave me the strongest bear hug known to man.

Me and Kedar Williams-Starlink had both been cast in the new Windam Celine movie. A fantasy sci-fi piece about us being bounty hunters from the future chasing a time-traveling vampire in the Civil War South. We were hiding in Kedar’s trailer and moving slow cause of the humidity.

“Windam Celine is SUCH a bitch. They could have easily set this movie in a time period with air conditioning.” I was like, “OMG, YOU’RE SO RIGHT!”

We both agreed that the hardest part about staring in a Civil War biopic SHOULD be the violent depictions of chattel slavery, but for us it was mostly the drab costuming. Windam Celine had haphazardly thrown in a homosexual tension plot line to distract from the fact that the movie basically made no sense. We were both reading the ending of the script were we make hot passionate love covered in the blood of the defeated time traveling vampire, and I like died inside when he said, “You know it’s a good thing that you are so irresistibly handsome, otherwise this would be awkward for me...”

Bound by wild desire, I fell into a ring of fire. Charles Mellonton had burned his way into my senses, all along the nerve endings of my entire body. Obsession was not a strong enough word for it–he had become my skeleton–the calcium hardness that held my entire physical form together. I was laying on a blanket by Echo Park Lake on my back looking at the cloudless sky, even the bright blue Los Angles sky felt like a void. I was thankful for the cloudless sky. Had there been clouds, my lovelornness would have only projected onto them images of his from.

We met at an air plant pop up in Montreal, he was wearing these like 12,000 dollar MATSUDA sunglasses that he (for whatever misguided reason) paired with a wife beater and cargo shorts and was purchasing a rare Xerographica.

I walked up to him, and said, “I’m not gay–but like, I want you own me. All of me, not just my body either, but like, my entire soul.”

He was like, “Um, do you work here?” And I was like, “No, I just like wearing aprons in public.”He was like, “You know you’re actually kinda cute too. I’m not gay, but I’ll let you worship me.” We had been basically inseparable ever since. His plane was to arrive at LAX in an hour and I sat patiently for his call.