we're all underf*cked from our own overdependence

I recently had a moment. After watching the most orangey-pink sunset, I swayed my hips, wrapped in a cotton sarong, and walked barefoot, my feet still covered in Balinese sand, into an Italian restaurant. They sat me down on a red leather couch and handed me a rose even before handing me the menu. (No idea what the rose was for but it added to the vibe) Anyway, picture this: me, covered in sand, no makeup, salt in my hair, sitting in a restaurant lit solely by candles, with bookshelves full of second-hand books in every corner. In the background, soft music played—the kind that could easily belong on either a sex playlist or a soft, feminine energy playlist. As if the whole scene wasn’t already divine enough, they brought me my favorite food on earth as an appetizer—bread.with.olive.oil. There I was, one hand holding an English-Italian dictionary, the other holding a piece of ciabatta dripping with olive oil. And in that moment, I swear, it felt like I had sex with God.