Dear Butch,

There is something so wonderful about brunch with friends.

Promises of fresh coffee and refreshing mimosas call you from your drunken slumber.  Gathering together on a Sunday morning to retell the adventures of the evneing before and hash out plans on how you are going to survive the upcoming week.  Everything seems so clear over bacon and breakfast potatoes, the light at the end of the tunnel seems closer with a fork in my hand.

Whether it be a party of two between old friends or a the whole fucking lesbian mafia squeezed together in the back corner of a patio, this is when my heart feels happy and safe.  It is where I have gone to celebrate my victories and mourned my defeats.  Where I am comfortable sharing, over sharing, or sitting in silence.  This is my green zone from the world.  It isn’t about the food or the people watching, it is about feeling at home.

For everyone who has ever joined me for lunch after a great night of sex or a horrible evening of heartbreak, thank you.



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