I’m not going to lie: Getting a dog—particularly a trauma dog with a slut-shaming problem—has been hard. Despite Romy going on Prozac for his anger issues (yes, dogs take Prozac; this is America), life post-dog is less spontaneous in myriad unsexy ways. Gone are impromptu nights out until 4 a.m. and lazy mornings in bed looking at before/after celebrity plastic surgery photos—RIP two of my greatest joys. It also hasn’t been great for my self-esteem that our dog only bites one of us (sexist).
But then, there will be these desperately cheesy moments where I’ll look over and see Romy and my boyfriend rolling around in the brittle California grass and think, “Wow, you guys are the coolest people I know.” And whether or not you plan to have kids, in these instances it’s impossible to not catch a glimpse of what parenting an actual human together could look like. For me, the biggest takeaway has been that mutually loving something is really powerful. Sure, I miss sex where the pain is strictly consensual. But now, every evening at 5 p.m., the three of us take our antidepressants. As a family.
“I need an Ossoff fan fic,” a friend messaged me via Instagram over the holiday break.
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