Sir Anthony

Sir Anthony

Since I don’t know where to start (and the beginning’s too damn ordinary), we’re skipping the whole “I was born…” jazz. You’re not getting herd mentality here. I’m not the one.

So here’s the short, spicy version of this story—no gruesome details yet. You’ve gotta earn those later. Maybe.

See, I sort my memories differently. I organize them by people, songs, moments—like my own mental Spotify playlist. And sometimes, I “adopt” people. Not in a creepy, Lifetime movie way. More like, “Hey, you’re my person now.” If you make it into my circle, I’m loyal as hell. Ride or die. Problem is, I’m not easy to digest. I’m loud, blunt, emotional, and I wear it all—heart, sarcasm, and sass—on my damn sleeve.

The number two seemed to be my social circle for a while. Literally two people I’d talk to. Let’s start with one of them.

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Once upon a time, back when I still had boobs that defied gravity and a six-figure salary (not the negative six I’m rockin' now), I was General Manager at Backyard Bowl and Big Swing Brewery (aka the old Blue Cat Pub). I had to sort through an army of washed-up, Hamm's-drinking entertainment “vendors” to find someone worth $150 or less (because the owner was the cheapest human to walk the planet).

Then boom—Mr. Karaoke walks in… and with him, a hottie.

Enter Anthony Reeves from 3 Years Hollow. I’d seen them at Pig Pen back in the day, and suddenly this rockstar is in my bowling alley. I was frumpy, he was not. I wanted to die of embarrassment. But also? Free marketing. Of course I was name-dropping.

Tony, as it turns out, became a regular in my chaotic life. He helped build my confidence through my divorce (yes, that’s its own story), and unlike everyone else who vanished, he’d pop in every few months with a dumb Snapchat, checking in like clockwork. Just enough to say, “Hey, you still breathing?”

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Then, about 2 years and 4 months ago, he reached out again.
“How’s life?”
My answer: “No.”

That was the first time I admitted—out loud—that I didn’t want to exist anymore. I told him how I hadn’t seen sunlight in weeks, how I’d been burning myself in the shower just to feel something, how I cried daily, locked away and forgotten in a basement. I don’t even know what it felt like to say that. Real, maybe. Ugly. Loud. But it needed to be said.

And Tony? He didn’t flinch. (Okay, maybe he shit himself a little—but metaphorically.) He was there.

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Then came Christmas.
My first one ever without my kids in 23 years.

My boyfriend at the time? Chose to spend it with his baby mama and her family. (Cool for the kids, sure, but I was shattered.) So what did Tony do?

He came and got me.

I spent Christmas pouring my quarters into that scammy Ghostbusters arcade game until we ran out of gas three blocks from his place. We trekked through a park in silence under crunchy, frozen grass. It was like the world was asleep except for us.

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New Year’s Eve.
I sat alone at the bar while my boyfriend played pool. At midnight, no kiss, no celebration. Just me, a bad Google News article, and an even worse realization.

By 2:15 a.m., I had packed my bag.
“I’m leaving,” I told him.
He stared at me.
“If I stay, I’ll kill myself,” I said.

Then I got in Tony’s Durango, shut the door, and cried while we drove into the dark. The stars came out just in time.

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Tony is colorblind, but he paints like a damn visionary. It’s messy and wild, but passionate and raw—kind of like him. He saved me. Literally.

He’s my best friend. My professor of perspective. My reminder that even when I feel like nothing, someone still sees the everything in me.

And now?
Now I’m the hottie.
(At least on a good day.)

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🎨 Check out Tony’s art: ReevAnth Original Artwork

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