A Letter to My Elusive Libido

My Dearest Libido,

I don’t really know where to start so I guess I’ll begin with the obligatory how are you? Or rather, where are you? Is it sunny where you are?

Screw this. I can’t do it. I can’t just sit here and send you a warm “thinking of you” letter when I’m pissed. Back when I was crushing on Edward Furlong, you swore you’d always be there for me — anytime, anyplace. And speaking of Edward Furlong, what special brand of effed up are you? ::Shudder::

It’s become pretty damn clear that your promise to always be there meant more to me than it did to you. Do you know how stupid it makes me feel to call on you when you’re nowhere to be found? God, I feel like such a sucker.

I’m not really sure when we began to go wrong, but knowing you, you’d blame motherhood. Yes, I was the one who wanted kids while you feared what that might mean for you. Yes, it was also me who wanted to hide my body after giving birth, but you have to understand that I never meant to make you feel like less of a priority in my life. Libby (can I still can you that?), every relationship has its ups and downs.

It hurts not having you in my life, or at least in my bed. I know you’re angry but the bitterness and resentment you’re exhibiting isn’t you. Just when I think I’m beginning to do OK without you, you show up like an asshole ex-boyfriend, remind me of what we used to have and then pack up your shit and leave again. Is it really fair that the moment a kid whines or you encounter a little exhaustion you run? Come on.

I’m not saying it’s all your fault; it’s not. I’ve denied you and unintentionally ignored you, but I never expected you’d run away like a coward. You should have talked to me; I would have listened.

I didn’t want to have to say all this in a letter. I was hoping for the chance to tell you how I felt in person, but every time I tried to call your voicemail was full. And just so you know, denying my Facebook friend request — ice cold.

Before you lecture me, I already know reading 50 Shades of Grey was a cheap move. I was grasping at straws, Libs; desperate even. I only did it because I missed you. I missed us. Tell me you still think about me.

All I’m asking is that we try again, like old times, even if only on a trial basis.

As an act of good faith, I’ll be listening to this sexy playlist on repeat in eager anticipation of your reply.

Missing you,


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