Cold Italian Pizza

Cold Italian Pizza

Rachel Butera


"They're writing songs of love, but not for me." --George Gershwin


I understand now that I was born to suffer so I can make the world laugh. It’s the only explanation for why I’m forced to be alone when all I want is to be with someone. For too long I wondered why I couldn’t find the amazing love I grew up seeing in the movies. It’s not fabricated by Hollywood—it exists. I’ve seen it happen to real people. Whirlwind romances with true passion and devotion. Love that plumbs the depths of hell only to rise again unscathed. Sex, crazy intimate, soul-purging sex, where you stare in each other’s eyes and lose all sense of time and space and people and you’re the only two that exist on the planet. I think I felt that for a minute or two in my twenties. In the basement of a bar on the lower east side with a tall, beautiful boy. Or maybe it was just the pot.


For the last few years of my life, people have been fond of saying, “You’re going after your dream! You’re making your dream come true!” I don’t correct them, but the truth is I never had this dream. I didn’t dare dream of going to LA to make it in the entertainment business. I never had any kind of confidence or wherewithal to think that that would have been a possibility. Dream? Perhaps a fantasy. A fleeting, forbidden thought. “Maybe I could—no way.” “But I do believe I have somethi—but I can’t.” But hardly. It was definitely not my dream. My only real dream was to find love. To be understood. Not by the masses, the millions, the madding crowds, but by one special person. For what could be more powerful, more moving than that connection? It’s rare and elusive, and when you think you’ve found it, if you’re me… you’re wrong. You haven’t found shit.

"It seems unfair when there's love everywhere but there's none for me." --Jeff Fortgang

I’ve spent a good portion of my life adoring men who don’t adore me. Oh, they dangle the carrot, so to speak, and they’re somewhat fond of me and find me attractive and want to have sex with me. But they don’t love me. They won’t move mountains to be with me. And I’ve come up with all kinds of excuses about why they won’t. He’s got emotional problems…  He knows he’d be bad for me and he doesn’t want to do that to me... He likes me TOO much (that one’s my favorite)…. If he wasn’t married he’d be totally in love with me…. He knows I’ll make him too happy and he wants to be miserable (second fave!)… He’s gotta be with someone he can control... He’s gotta be with someone who’ll control him.


On and on and on this nonsense goes in my twisted brain when I know the truth is simply that I have made up these imaginary relationships in my head. There were no relationships. I make it convenient for them to use me when it’s convenient for them. Hands on my tits on the dance floor while he swayed to the Ramones, hands down my pants in the afternoon when his wife was away, holding his hand at a Sunday matinee when that other girl cancelled on him, screwing him on a Monday night while he leaves the game on in the background, hand jobs on deliveries in his truck while his wife worked at the hospital, stroking his cock after hours in the office before his birthday dinner with his family, being eaten out in his Jeep in the parking lot between bitter arguments with his ex, with whom he was still in love, one last unprotected fling before he married that cunt who would divorce him 6 years later…


I don’t blame any of these men. They are men and this is men’s nature. I pick these men. I pick the same man over and over and over again. I’m attracting them. I know this. I don’t know why or how to stop it. Perhaps the thought of that real love scares me so much I chose men I know can never give it to me. Unavailable men, beautiful men, emotionally disturbed men and yet… these are the only men with whom I feel a connection. But the connection is a farce if only one person feels it. Or acts on it or believes in it.


Dreams indeed. I’ve been walking through my life in a dream believing that these men give any real kind of thought to me. The one who can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t do anything but think of me? That’s for other girls. And it is not just a matter of time. I’m 41 years old, how fucking many nights do I have to come home to an empty house and go to bed alone? The answer: every night. Because I’m a comedian. I was born that way. I’ve been doing the dance for love and acceptance and laughter since I could figure it out. Observing, watching, imitating, imagining—that’s what makes up all the flesh of my body. It’s pretty tough armor and it works to keep the real world out. So how can I expect to get love when all I do is make fun of it? I cant—but I also can’t stop making fun of it. I believe you have to choose between love and your personality. My personality is going to be a challenge for most men. I’m not the easy pick. I’m not “hot” enough to look past the pain in the ass personality. So it’s gonna be a tough road. No, it’s gonna be a fucking ripped up, gravelly, raised manholes ahead road where love is concerned.


Either that or I drop the act.


"So I made my mind up, I must live my life alone, though it's the easy way I guess I've always known I'd say goodbye to love." - Richard Carpenter

By the way, check out the original version of Rod Stewart's "Some Guys Have All The Luck."

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