In a letter to Henry Miller, my best friend Anais Nin wrote the following:
“I have become an idiot like Gertrude Stein. That’s what love does to intelligent women. They cannot write letters anymore.”
Love like that makes you smoke American Spirits and shave your head, but real love comes like a witty houseguest and hangs up its towels and helps with the dishes. It is quiet after 10PM on days when it knows you have to get up early for work. It has a nice bottle of wine waiting for you at the door. Real love tells a long, amusing story about meeting Barbara Bush.
In my life now I have hair, and my dishes are done, and I can write letters.
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