I guess, my entire life, there has never been a time I recall not wanting more. Even through all the times I had too much, it didn't satisfy. It didn't end the craving.
I always wanted more. More of anything. More of everything.
But I will never forget this.
This, for me, is the one time I have ever stood up and said, Enough.
....I have never wanted anything more.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
I will never forget the first time I was really, really ill. I was seven. I ate something bad and got food poisoning. And as is the nature of sickness, your system is designed to get the toxins out by any means possible. I had been sick before, but this time... well, this time I thought the world was going to end. To this day, the thought of that combination of flavors makes me nervous, because I never want to feel that way ever again.
But what I learned there was something I will never forget. It hurts. But the toxins have to leave your system. The poison has to come out, before you can move on.
It sounds dramatic but there's been something bad in my heart for years. I've dressed it up with different faces and called it by different names and it has led to some hilarious stories, but it was just the same thing.
And so many times, I've let it out. I have sobbed and I have blamed. But sometimes, only once or twice, I thought the world was going to end. I cried as though my heart was broken. I felt seven years old again.
I got it half right. But I got it half wrong.
Because the world is not going to end.
But goddamn it if it doesn't make you never want to feel that way again.
And fuck. There are some tears that hurt. They hurt down to the bone. But not a single one of those is for a guy. Not a single one is for anything coming to an end.
It's because the poison has to come out. So the next thing can begin.
But what I learned there was something I will never forget. It hurts. But the toxins have to leave your system. The poison has to come out, before you can move on.
It sounds dramatic but there's been something bad in my heart for years. I've dressed it up with different faces and called it by different names and it has led to some hilarious stories, but it was just the same thing.
And so many times, I've let it out. I have sobbed and I have blamed. But sometimes, only once or twice, I thought the world was going to end. I cried as though my heart was broken. I felt seven years old again.
I got it half right. But I got it half wrong.
Because the world is not going to end.
But goddamn it if it doesn't make you never want to feel that way again.
And fuck. There are some tears that hurt. They hurt down to the bone. But not a single one of those is for a guy. Not a single one is for anything coming to an end.
It's because the poison has to come out. So the next thing can begin.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Katy Perry Has Your Number, Manstrater.
Before I tell this story, I feel the need to reiterate: I am not trying to be malicious. I am not putting this shit out here to make anyone feel bad or to make myself look better. It isn’t about power. It isn’t about shaming someone. It’s all 4 Non Blondes, Hey! What’s Going On! business as usual. So if you don’t like it, write me. Hell. Write something I can post here. Whether you know me or this situation or not.
That being said.
You know those situations where nobody’s gonna leave with any dignity?
You know how most of my life/blog is all about those situations?
Well, here’s one that I’m not happy about. I hope it makes you laugh, too. Because damn.
This guy and I dated. It didn’t work out. Big deal. Happens all the time, certainly not the first nor the last time something romantic won’t work out. As I am often a fan of dramatic gestures, I didn’t want him in my life after it didn’t work out. I decided that I didn’t want something nice dangled in front of me that I couldn’t have and that I didn’t care about him enough (given that he’d already done some questionable things during our time together) to keep him around if it wasn’t gonna work out anyway.
When people go back on their gut decisions, it’s funny. Especially when they were right all along.
So we didn’t talk for a few months. And it’s my birthday. And I’m feeling magnanimous: Hey… maybe I was wrong. Maybe we can be friends, just friends, and everything will work out great.
That’s the first night we hook back up.
We have The Conversation. Shit gets real. I feel hurt and rejected. But ya know, it’s over. He still doesn’t want me and that’s ok, cause I don’t really want to be with him. So we can move on.
…..
Nope.
A little while later. We hook up again--during my birthday party….
After another round of “Right… there’s a reason we don’t need to do this…” perhaps NOW, now we can have some peace. But nope, looming around the corner is a themed quiz night and we know how we looovveee our trivia in these parts. You guessed it… hooked up again. Again with the talks. Again with the oh, god, is it fucking over?
Cinco de Mayo comes. Sigh. There’s no polite way to put this. I got blotto. I was doing some sadness drinking partially ‘cause of this situation and partially ‘cause Ex About Whom This Blog Was Intended to Be and I didn’t get back together and I’d kinda thought we would (that’s another story, that I prrrrrroooobbbabbbbllly won’t tell).
But regardless, I got horribly undignifiedly drunk. He ended up carrying me into my house. Both he and my roommate were concerned that I would stop breathing. I’m obviously a rather garrulous individual and I COULD NOT MAKE WORDS. I tried to tell a story about Tacky Redneck Bar (we once hooked up there, when I invited him out for karaoke) that I like to go to and I physically couldn’t. But hey! We didn’t hook up!!
A few nights later. There’s a tricky night where he comes and haunts my bars (where he NEVER hangs out, btw) and looks for me. He finally texts me at last call.
We hang out talking til like four in the morning and he tells me that I can spend the night, since I’d decided he was too drunk to drive and I gave him a ride home. I decline and we end up going back to the bar to get his car and we hug. I almost weaken. But NO! I am strong. I am strong like an Amazon.
Now, my feelings at this point are pretty convoluted. I don’t particularly trust this guy. Nor did I have 100% certainty of my feelings whilst we were dating. I do NOT want to get back together. But I do have feelings for him. And moreover, I am sick of this shit.
Another weekend comes where we hook up. And I finally decide I am done. But I don’t know what to do-- I am clearly not strong enough to resist this gentleman‘s siren song… and he isn‘t strong enough to keep himself from singing to me.
Oh! Alcohol! The cause of and solution to all of life’s problems!!!
My friends have a sketch comedy and film production company. To celebrate their upcoming trip to an Irish film festival they’ve been accepted into, they have a showcase with their films and performances downtown. The best part? It’s sponsored by a whisky company!! A guaranteed good time, right?
Wrong. But that was my choice. Just like all the times I let this homeboy bookmark me, calling me up when he had nothing better to do, pulling me out like leftovers when the restaurants were closed.
Regardless. The Showcase.
He leaves a party for his Sports team, where he received an award and got liberally sprayed with beer. A veritable beerkkake. He, my best friend and I go downtown. I am bursting with pride for my film friends. And I’m drinkin’, ‘cause drinks are free. There’s a pennyfarthing and fake mustaches. It’s all lovely.
We’re talking to one of the stand up comedians and I reach for his hand. We’re holding hands. And something icy cold and terrible drips down my spine. I have to make this stop. I am going to end up tearing my heart out over someone whose only interest in speeding my pulse up involves me naked and his roommate having to turn up his stereo (…. sorry, buddy… I’m usually quieter?)
Then like a fucking miracle from heaven, comes a line from the book Confessions of A Recovering Slut by Hollis Gillespie. How do you get people to leave you alone?
“Don’t do mean. Mean don’t work. Do CRAZY. People’s scared o’ crazy.”
Crazy, huh? I can do that. So I drink more. And I let it all hang out. I mean, the mushiness. The sweet nothings. The snuggles. This is the stage I remember being at during my last drink. And I’ve seen photographic evidence that we were there well after the last drink I remember. And I was obnoxiously clingy. We’re talking EMOTING all over the fucking place. My embarrassing drunk texts are oddly ambiguous “You actually said you weren’t going home with me.” Was I relieved? Was I actually sad? Was I simply broadcasting? The follow-up where I invited him to come pick me up from Best Friend’s was even more precious, not to mention when I had trouble using my phone and sent him a picture (of my skinned knee, get out of the gutter) to his email, rather than his text inbox.
I woke up the next day and bawled. I felt dead. We had what I was praying to God would be the last of our fucking talks. The words “I have some kind of feelings for you, but I don’t know what to do with them” were shared. I think I actually stamped my feet as I ran out his front door so he wouldn’t see me cry. But it was over. I was never gonna feel like trash again. My battered dignity and slightly bruised heart could finally rest. We. Were. Free.
HAHAHAHAH Psych!
A couple weeks later. Last call. I get a text. “Hey. I’m leaving the Montgomery area. Are you still out?”
The only reason we didn’t hook up then is because I didn’t see the text until after he’d already given up and gone to bed.
It’s at this point I start having a real problem with this situation. I acted like a fucking crazy bitch, on purpose. I did everything I could and this kid STILL wants me? What gives? Is he in love with me and just can’t handle it? Is really enough of an asshole to keep hooking up with someone like a frat guy? Is he really the kind of dude to just get me drunk and bang me, because he can? All of my rampant insecurities come into play. I can’t eat. I start smoking two or three times as many cigarettes-- shit, I actually start buying them again instead of just bumming. I get conflicting advice from every sector. What it all boils down to is, he doesn’t know what he wants and I get to suffer for it.
Some time passes. He comes to hang out the night before the 4th of July, even though he “knows it’s probably a bad idea.” I started drinking heavily the minute I heard he was coming. We’re at the bar. He buys us each a shot. Then he buys me one drink, two drinks. I’m doing ok not flirting with him. I’m mostly just terrorizing this guy trying to hit on our mutual best friend. Then suddenly it all hits me at once. And the idea that he’s gonna come over to ‘see my scooter’ is decided. But I’m trying to be sneaky and using parts of my conversation with best friend to make it all seem ok. Because this situation is that fucked. I can’t summon any decent response. Thankfully, best friend cockblocked us (which as I put it in the text “is probably ok.”) When I insisted they both come over anyway, we pretty much sat there and watched him fall asleep on the steps of my house.
And I wish I could say that getting cockblocked by our mutual best friend stopped us. But nope.
I apologized for my behavior the next day. He didn’t for his, just accepted my apology. He restates his position, that he isn’t trying to have anything but a friendship with me. Just like I don’t want this situation to happen any longer. Sounds pretty rich, right? Neither of us want this situation to continue. Well, no wait. If that were really true, it wouldn’t happen anymore, just like it wouldn‘t have happened any other time in the last six fucking months. I don’t know what his reasons are. But I am starting to understand mine. Because it’s fucking intoxicating to be chased. Even when you know it isn’t real, it feels like something you should want.
If you give someone that much power over you, it’s sad. It really is. I should have more respect for myself. But given who I am, it’s completely natural that I’d want someone to chase me like he has. Hell, I’ve had honest-to-God committed boyfriends who put less work into chasing my ass down. The amount of energy this guy has put into fucking me is pretty impressive. For all that he says he “doesn’t want anything other than to be friends,” it is pretty hard to believe that when you add up all the times we ended up in bed together. As I'm pretty sure I actually yelled at him during our LAST session, "So do you have to get drunk to want to fuck ALL your friends then, or am I just special?" I dunno if I used those exact words. I was pretty drunk.
Because I want to believe that he isn't just coldly using me, that he isn't That Guy. I want to come up with some fluffy reason behind it that makes me feel better about myself. I'm sure the mental gymnastics I put into justifying it everytime I'm drunk or defending it make fucking beautiful word pictures. But it isn’t real. I’ve spent too much time trying to make the math add up and it never will. As nice as it is to think “well, maybe his feelings are just too confusing,” in actuality, the situation doesn’t have a lot of depth. You can justify it a thousand ways but like I said it in an earlier blog, ladies:
Homeboy don’t think you’re rad. Homeboy just wants to fuck.
It’s kinda weird being on the other side of homeboy. Oh well.
In five years time, when I look back at this, it'll be another story of a time I made a decision with my feelings, not my brain-parts. And if what he says is what we go by, he'll look back and see the time he used someone who happened to have both a soft heart and a soft head. It isn't that big of a deal. Because while nothing and nobody can ever make me feel like a victim, it's for damn sure that he'll pretty much feel like a dick.
(Originally published 7/22/2012)
That being said.
You know those situations where nobody’s gonna leave with any dignity?
You know how most of my life/blog is all about those situations?
Well, here’s one that I’m not happy about. I hope it makes you laugh, too. Because damn.
This guy and I dated. It didn’t work out. Big deal. Happens all the time, certainly not the first nor the last time something romantic won’t work out. As I am often a fan of dramatic gestures, I didn’t want him in my life after it didn’t work out. I decided that I didn’t want something nice dangled in front of me that I couldn’t have and that I didn’t care about him enough (given that he’d already done some questionable things during our time together) to keep him around if it wasn’t gonna work out anyway.
When people go back on their gut decisions, it’s funny. Especially when they were right all along.
So we didn’t talk for a few months. And it’s my birthday. And I’m feeling magnanimous: Hey… maybe I was wrong. Maybe we can be friends, just friends, and everything will work out great.
That’s the first night we hook back up.
We have The Conversation. Shit gets real. I feel hurt and rejected. But ya know, it’s over. He still doesn’t want me and that’s ok, cause I don’t really want to be with him. So we can move on.
…..
Nope.
A little while later. We hook up again--during my birthday party….
After another round of “Right… there’s a reason we don’t need to do this…” perhaps NOW, now we can have some peace. But nope, looming around the corner is a themed quiz night and we know how we looovveee our trivia in these parts. You guessed it… hooked up again. Again with the talks. Again with the oh, god, is it fucking over?
Cinco de Mayo comes. Sigh. There’s no polite way to put this. I got blotto. I was doing some sadness drinking partially ‘cause of this situation and partially ‘cause Ex About Whom This Blog Was Intended to Be and I didn’t get back together and I’d kinda thought we would (that’s another story, that I prrrrrroooobbbabbbbllly won’t tell).
But regardless, I got horribly undignifiedly drunk. He ended up carrying me into my house. Both he and my roommate were concerned that I would stop breathing. I’m obviously a rather garrulous individual and I COULD NOT MAKE WORDS. I tried to tell a story about Tacky Redneck Bar (we once hooked up there, when I invited him out for karaoke) that I like to go to and I physically couldn’t. But hey! We didn’t hook up!!
A few nights later. There’s a tricky night where he comes and haunts my bars (where he NEVER hangs out, btw) and looks for me. He finally texts me at last call.
We hang out talking til like four in the morning and he tells me that I can spend the night, since I’d decided he was too drunk to drive and I gave him a ride home. I decline and we end up going back to the bar to get his car and we hug. I almost weaken. But NO! I am strong. I am strong like an Amazon.
Now, my feelings at this point are pretty convoluted. I don’t particularly trust this guy. Nor did I have 100% certainty of my feelings whilst we were dating. I do NOT want to get back together. But I do have feelings for him. And moreover, I am sick of this shit.
Another weekend comes where we hook up. And I finally decide I am done. But I don’t know what to do-- I am clearly not strong enough to resist this gentleman‘s siren song… and he isn‘t strong enough to keep himself from singing to me.
Oh! Alcohol! The cause of and solution to all of life’s problems!!!
My friends have a sketch comedy and film production company. To celebrate their upcoming trip to an Irish film festival they’ve been accepted into, they have a showcase with their films and performances downtown. The best part? It’s sponsored by a whisky company!! A guaranteed good time, right?
Wrong. But that was my choice. Just like all the times I let this homeboy bookmark me, calling me up when he had nothing better to do, pulling me out like leftovers when the restaurants were closed.
Regardless. The Showcase.
He leaves a party for his Sports team, where he received an award and got liberally sprayed with beer. A veritable beerkkake. He, my best friend and I go downtown. I am bursting with pride for my film friends. And I’m drinkin’, ‘cause drinks are free. There’s a pennyfarthing and fake mustaches. It’s all lovely.
We’re talking to one of the stand up comedians and I reach for his hand. We’re holding hands. And something icy cold and terrible drips down my spine. I have to make this stop. I am going to end up tearing my heart out over someone whose only interest in speeding my pulse up involves me naked and his roommate having to turn up his stereo (…. sorry, buddy… I’m usually quieter?)
Then like a fucking miracle from heaven, comes a line from the book Confessions of A Recovering Slut by Hollis Gillespie. How do you get people to leave you alone?
“Don’t do mean. Mean don’t work. Do CRAZY. People’s scared o’ crazy.”
Crazy, huh? I can do that. So I drink more. And I let it all hang out. I mean, the mushiness. The sweet nothings. The snuggles. This is the stage I remember being at during my last drink. And I’ve seen photographic evidence that we were there well after the last drink I remember. And I was obnoxiously clingy. We’re talking EMOTING all over the fucking place. My embarrassing drunk texts are oddly ambiguous “You actually said you weren’t going home with me.” Was I relieved? Was I actually sad? Was I simply broadcasting? The follow-up where I invited him to come pick me up from Best Friend’s was even more precious, not to mention when I had trouble using my phone and sent him a picture (of my skinned knee, get out of the gutter) to his email, rather than his text inbox.
I woke up the next day and bawled. I felt dead. We had what I was praying to God would be the last of our fucking talks. The words “I have some kind of feelings for you, but I don’t know what to do with them” were shared. I think I actually stamped my feet as I ran out his front door so he wouldn’t see me cry. But it was over. I was never gonna feel like trash again. My battered dignity and slightly bruised heart could finally rest. We. Were. Free.
HAHAHAHAH Psych!
A couple weeks later. Last call. I get a text. “Hey. I’m leaving the Montgomery area. Are you still out?”
The only reason we didn’t hook up then is because I didn’t see the text until after he’d already given up and gone to bed.
It’s at this point I start having a real problem with this situation. I acted like a fucking crazy bitch, on purpose. I did everything I could and this kid STILL wants me? What gives? Is he in love with me and just can’t handle it? Is really enough of an asshole to keep hooking up with someone like a frat guy? Is he really the kind of dude to just get me drunk and bang me, because he can? All of my rampant insecurities come into play. I can’t eat. I start smoking two or three times as many cigarettes-- shit, I actually start buying them again instead of just bumming. I get conflicting advice from every sector. What it all boils down to is, he doesn’t know what he wants and I get to suffer for it.
Some time passes. He comes to hang out the night before the 4th of July, even though he “knows it’s probably a bad idea.” I started drinking heavily the minute I heard he was coming. We’re at the bar. He buys us each a shot. Then he buys me one drink, two drinks. I’m doing ok not flirting with him. I’m mostly just terrorizing this guy trying to hit on our mutual best friend. Then suddenly it all hits me at once. And the idea that he’s gonna come over to ‘see my scooter’ is decided. But I’m trying to be sneaky and using parts of my conversation with best friend to make it all seem ok. Because this situation is that fucked. I can’t summon any decent response. Thankfully, best friend cockblocked us (which as I put it in the text “is probably ok.”) When I insisted they both come over anyway, we pretty much sat there and watched him fall asleep on the steps of my house.
And I wish I could say that getting cockblocked by our mutual best friend stopped us. But nope.
I apologized for my behavior the next day. He didn’t for his, just accepted my apology. He restates his position, that he isn’t trying to have anything but a friendship with me. Just like I don’t want this situation to happen any longer. Sounds pretty rich, right? Neither of us want this situation to continue. Well, no wait. If that were really true, it wouldn’t happen anymore, just like it wouldn‘t have happened any other time in the last six fucking months. I don’t know what his reasons are. But I am starting to understand mine. Because it’s fucking intoxicating to be chased. Even when you know it isn’t real, it feels like something you should want.
If you give someone that much power over you, it’s sad. It really is. I should have more respect for myself. But given who I am, it’s completely natural that I’d want someone to chase me like he has. Hell, I’ve had honest-to-God committed boyfriends who put less work into chasing my ass down. The amount of energy this guy has put into fucking me is pretty impressive. For all that he says he “doesn’t want anything other than to be friends,” it is pretty hard to believe that when you add up all the times we ended up in bed together. As I'm pretty sure I actually yelled at him during our LAST session, "So do you have to get drunk to want to fuck ALL your friends then, or am I just special?" I dunno if I used those exact words. I was pretty drunk.
Because I want to believe that he isn't just coldly using me, that he isn't That Guy. I want to come up with some fluffy reason behind it that makes me feel better about myself. I'm sure the mental gymnastics I put into justifying it everytime I'm drunk or defending it make fucking beautiful word pictures. But it isn’t real. I’ve spent too much time trying to make the math add up and it never will. As nice as it is to think “well, maybe his feelings are just too confusing,” in actuality, the situation doesn’t have a lot of depth. You can justify it a thousand ways but like I said it in an earlier blog, ladies:
Homeboy don’t think you’re rad. Homeboy just wants to fuck.
It’s kinda weird being on the other side of homeboy. Oh well.
In five years time, when I look back at this, it'll be another story of a time I made a decision with my feelings, not my brain-parts. And if what he says is what we go by, he'll look back and see the time he used someone who happened to have both a soft heart and a soft head. It isn't that big of a deal. Because while nothing and nobody can ever make me feel like a victim, it's for damn sure that he'll pretty much feel like a dick.
(Originally published 7/22/2012)
Friday, July 20, 2012
The Hottest Hipster Of All Time.
He's tall, he's beautiful. I've described him previously as looking like Clark Kent and Cillian Murphy had a baby, but he gets Clark Kent and Gotye more often. We're great friends now after an awkward period where I flirted with him in the lamest and most awkward way possible.
This is the story of how I met him.
When I was single and looking for nothing but nut, if you know what I mean, I happened to notice this guy at my Usual Bar. And BAM, he is my TYPE. Just gorgeous. I noticed him for several weeks, mostly 'cause I saw him wear a purple cardigan and my god, cardigans? Grrrrowl.... lemme tell you, a henley or a cardigan.
But I kept seeing him around, always playing pool, never with a girl. So, one night, I happen to point him out to the group by saying, "Oh my god, do you see that guy? The hipster?" and in MY bar, that's like being on a boat and saying, "Did you see that wave we just passed?" And after my friends began to question me about which one, I blurted out, "Oh come fucking on. How do you NOT know which one?? The purple cardigan! The fucking Buddy Holly glasses! That jawline!! He's the Hottest Hipster of All Time!"
After that, it became a game.
I'd wait for him to appear. I'd always want to just look at him. He's just so damn PRETTY.
Until one fateful night, I was hanging out with Superhero Friend and myfriendswhoareacouple. The female half knew well my infatuation with the aforementioned HHoAT. And while she has many alter egos that appear while drinking, my personal least favorite is Helping Hands Friend, who has advice and a solution for everything.... and that's who I happened to be drinking with that night. Now, I was actually actively boning a guy who was in fact hanging out with us. But... Superhero Friend had feelings for him. And being Helping Hands Friend, the female half of myfriendswhoareacouple started talking to me about that guy I kept talking about all the time. More than that! She offered to go TALK TO HIM FOR ME.
Now, I hate unsolicited advice at the best of times and when it comes to men, I have a lot of problems/issues/baggage, but clearly, if I'm getting involved in these situations in the first place, going up and talking to a dude isn't something I have a problem doing. So I politely declined her offer. Even though she made it about six more times, assuring me that it'd be fine and "not a big deal." I said no, a little less politely than before and she said, "Oh. Ok." She looked a little startled that I'd snapped, but c'mon, dude. I already said it once. 'Bout five minutes later, I look up and is anyone surprised to know that she'd gone up and started talking to him? No? Yeah.... I wasn't either. She brings him over to our group and in what may've been the least subtle drunk whisper of all time says, "Hey, my friend thinks you're hot!!!!" He looked at me (yeah, he looked at me BEFORE giving her a response), replied that wasn't interested, and thus my humiliation was complete. We moved on to other humiliating instances for that evening (my favorite story is still "I just wanna blow him, what's the big deal!" but thankfully that one is NOT about me). Now for most people, this would be embarassing enough.
But oh darlings, it's a story about me. So we all know it's not over yet.
A few weeks later, I'm at the bar with a different friend. Now this friend is anxious for me to get involved with someone other than the person I'm currently involved with and made no secret about that. So, when I pointed out that this mythical creature I'd described had just walked in the bar, naturally, she saw an opportunity. So she walked up to him and with even LESS finesse than Helping Hands Friend gave him the same routine. Same result. Only this time... I was that stranger who wasn't attractive enough for him to be interested in, I was a repeat offender who couldn't even man up and talk to him myself. Woof.
At this point, I was hoping he'd never come to my Usual Bar again and was halfway considering emigrating out of sheer shame. By this time, the situation that my two friends had wanted me to disentangle myself from had imploded and I was kinda looking around for something new. Lo and behold, he walks in. And to my surprise, starts talking to a very good friend of mine, Not Beetle. I can't resist! I have to know! I NEVER LEARN!
I walk up to Not Beetle and say, ok, how do you know that guy? Turns out they went to high school together. Turns out they're great friends. Then I make my mistake. When he asks me how I know him,I tell the truth. That I don't, but I see him around and I think he's really hot. I believe the next bit of dialog out of my mouth is something like this:
me: Oh, Christ, you cannot tell him I said that. Seriously, dude.
Not Beetle: Oh, don't worry, I won't.
And of course, NB wanders off, 'to get a drink.' Ha. Yeah right. Not five fucking minutes later, Not Beetle and I are having a completely different conversation and I compare a different embarrassing moment to all the times my friends have taken it upon themselves to talk to the HHoAT for me. Not Beetle blurts out, oh yeah, he mentioned that.
OHNOHEDI'N'T.
Oh yes. He did. Uh huh. Three friends in as many months. I wanted to die.
After this third encounter, I have to say something. I walk up to him at the bar and say, "So I hear my friends decided to humiliate me yet again in front of you. I didn't ask them to talk to you." He says, "It's cool. I'm glad you think that way." I didn't know if that was a dismissal or a line. I didn't know what to say. But I knew that this guy and I were FINALLY talking. And it could've been a terrible awkward mess. It wasn't. Thankfully. This story has a happy ending. Because thus, our friendship began. We exchanged numbers. We became text buddies.
There were awkward interactions and such, but the possible flirtingish time passed, we overcame our mutual awkwardness, and established a relationship based on pure platonic wholesomeness. Now we're frens. And maybe someday, The Hottest Hipster of All Time himself can be my awkward wingman.
It's territory he knows well, after all.
This is the story of how I met him.
When I was single and looking for nothing but nut, if you know what I mean, I happened to notice this guy at my Usual Bar. And BAM, he is my TYPE. Just gorgeous. I noticed him for several weeks, mostly 'cause I saw him wear a purple cardigan and my god, cardigans? Grrrrowl.... lemme tell you, a henley or a cardigan.
But I kept seeing him around, always playing pool, never with a girl. So, one night, I happen to point him out to the group by saying, "Oh my god, do you see that guy? The hipster?" and in MY bar, that's like being on a boat and saying, "Did you see that wave we just passed?" And after my friends began to question me about which one, I blurted out, "Oh come fucking on. How do you NOT know which one?? The purple cardigan! The fucking Buddy Holly glasses! That jawline!! He's the Hottest Hipster of All Time!"
After that, it became a game.
I'd wait for him to appear. I'd always want to just look at him. He's just so damn PRETTY.
Until one fateful night, I was hanging out with Superhero Friend and myfriendswhoareacouple. The female half knew well my infatuation with the aforementioned HHoAT. And while she has many alter egos that appear while drinking, my personal least favorite is Helping Hands Friend, who has advice and a solution for everything.... and that's who I happened to be drinking with that night. Now, I was actually actively boning a guy who was in fact hanging out with us. But... Superhero Friend had feelings for him. And being Helping Hands Friend, the female half of myfriendswhoareacouple started talking to me about that guy I kept talking about all the time. More than that! She offered to go TALK TO HIM FOR ME.
Now, I hate unsolicited advice at the best of times and when it comes to men, I have a lot of problems/issues/baggage, but clearly, if I'm getting involved in these situations in the first place, going up and talking to a dude isn't something I have a problem doing. So I politely declined her offer. Even though she made it about six more times, assuring me that it'd be fine and "not a big deal." I said no, a little less politely than before and she said, "Oh. Ok." She looked a little startled that I'd snapped, but c'mon, dude. I already said it once. 'Bout five minutes later, I look up and is anyone surprised to know that she'd gone up and started talking to him? No? Yeah.... I wasn't either. She brings him over to our group and in what may've been the least subtle drunk whisper of all time says, "Hey, my friend thinks you're hot!!!!" He looked at me (yeah, he looked at me BEFORE giving her a response), replied that wasn't interested, and thus my humiliation was complete. We moved on to other humiliating instances for that evening (my favorite story is still "I just wanna blow him, what's the big deal!" but thankfully that one is NOT about me). Now for most people, this would be embarassing enough.
But oh darlings, it's a story about me. So we all know it's not over yet.
A few weeks later, I'm at the bar with a different friend. Now this friend is anxious for me to get involved with someone other than the person I'm currently involved with and made no secret about that. So, when I pointed out that this mythical creature I'd described had just walked in the bar, naturally, she saw an opportunity. So she walked up to him and with even LESS finesse than Helping Hands Friend gave him the same routine. Same result. Only this time... I was that stranger who wasn't attractive enough for him to be interested in, I was a repeat offender who couldn't even man up and talk to him myself. Woof.
At this point, I was hoping he'd never come to my Usual Bar again and was halfway considering emigrating out of sheer shame. By this time, the situation that my two friends had wanted me to disentangle myself from had imploded and I was kinda looking around for something new. Lo and behold, he walks in. And to my surprise, starts talking to a very good friend of mine, Not Beetle. I can't resist! I have to know! I NEVER LEARN!
I walk up to Not Beetle and say, ok, how do you know that guy? Turns out they went to high school together. Turns out they're great friends. Then I make my mistake. When he asks me how I know him,I tell the truth. That I don't, but I see him around and I think he's really hot. I believe the next bit of dialog out of my mouth is something like this:
me: Oh, Christ, you cannot tell him I said that. Seriously, dude.
Not Beetle: Oh, don't worry, I won't.
And of course, NB wanders off, 'to get a drink.' Ha. Yeah right. Not five fucking minutes later, Not Beetle and I are having a completely different conversation and I compare a different embarrassing moment to all the times my friends have taken it upon themselves to talk to the HHoAT for me. Not Beetle blurts out, oh yeah, he mentioned that.
OHNOHEDI'N'T.
Oh yes. He did. Uh huh. Three friends in as many months. I wanted to die.
After this third encounter, I have to say something. I walk up to him at the bar and say, "So I hear my friends decided to humiliate me yet again in front of you. I didn't ask them to talk to you." He says, "It's cool. I'm glad you think that way." I didn't know if that was a dismissal or a line. I didn't know what to say. But I knew that this guy and I were FINALLY talking. And it could've been a terrible awkward mess. It wasn't. Thankfully. This story has a happy ending. Because thus, our friendship began. We exchanged numbers. We became text buddies.
There were awkward interactions and such, but the possible flirtingish time passed, we overcame our mutual awkwardness, and established a relationship based on pure platonic wholesomeness. Now we're frens. And maybe someday, The Hottest Hipster of All Time himself can be my awkward wingman.
It's territory he knows well, after all.
Friday, June 29, 2012
That Time I Got High & Didn't Sleep With The Bartender.
I hate weed.
Anyone who knows me knows that. I can't stand the smell and I don't like to be around people who are altered (drunk people are a little easier for me, but if I'm sober, sometimes they're a bit much). Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of friends who smoke regularly. They aren't bad people or necessarily potheads, even. And I love them and for the most part, don't make a big deal out of the fact that they smoke, I just prefer they not do it around me... it also kinda sucks to ride in their cars afterwards, so I often make them roll down ALL the windows if we have to go somewhere together.
But yeah, I really hate weed and I'm pretty vocal about it. Which is why it surprises them to know that I have in fact been high. And not just sorta stoned. I was baked like a fucking cake. Here's how it all went down.
I was drinking myself through my breakup with my military ex, which is around where I started hanging out at my Usual Bar and making friends with the group of misfits that populated my life for a few years. There's a bartender at this bar that a lot of people find initially attractive... he's just your generic scallywag: longish shaggy brown hair, skinny, shorts, a hat. You know, that kinda slacker-looking type. But either way.
We were sitting outside on the patio and I was on drink number.... well, at least two past too many. I was gently swaying to the rhythm of my poor decision-making skills. Suddenly, I became aware that the Scallywag was sitting next to me. RIGHT next to me. His legs were touching mine, in fact. And he was sorta leaning into me, kinda rubbing his shoulder against my shoulder. It's like the face-to-face equivalent of sending a text message that only says "sup" at two thirty in the morning. It's a universal preamble for a hook-up. In spite of the fact that I was sort of seeing someone at the time (someone he'd met before, in fact, since eventually I subject all of my would-be paramours to my Usual Bar, typically sooner than later), I totally responded with the appropriate stupid-ass-grin and rubbed my shoulder right back on his.
About five minutes after the bar closes, I offer him a ride home. Now, as we mentioned before, I was gently swaying. And I mean that literally. I could barely drive my barstool, I should never have been behind the wheel of a vehicle. But I was and thank God it was like five blocks away in the same neighborhood. I had to make L's with my hands up to tell left from right as he gave me directions to his house... which I had been to before.... and I still got it WRONG. That kinda drunk is never going to lead to making the right choice to not hook up with your bartender while you're involved with someone else. Something had to happen or else I was going to be forever awkward at the bar and somebody was gonna end up hurt.
So we meander back to his bedroom. We're making out. And he sits up and grabs a little pipe. He asks me, "So do you smoke?" And, turning my back on my entire philosophy, I say, "You know what? Tonight I do." He takes a huge puff, keeps some smoke into his mouth and blows it into mine. I hear this is called "shotgunning" and lemme say, it was rather smecksy when I was in this condition.
But much to his disappointment, the bomb was about to drop.
During the kissing, right around the time where he was trying to snake his hands up my shirt, suddenly I felt tingly all over. It was that fast, just one second to the next, I was high. As a fucking kite. It felt FANTASTIC. It was incredible. It felt like the best part of being drunk. I suddenly realised why people do this so often. I realised how they fall in love with it.
I also realised that were about eight buttons and two zippers away from making a mistake that did NOT need to happen. Because as Bob Marley says, marijuana introduces yourself to yourself. And apparently when I am both drunk and high, I am a LOGIC MACHINE.
I sat straight up and said, wait. Why are we doing this. And he gave the reasons everyone gives for hooking up: he had just gotten out of a relationship and wanted a simple hook-up. He picked me because he thought I would understand that nothing more would come of it. To which I immediately responded with, "Uh huh, that's what I thought. So, listen, if I'm going to cheat on the guy I'm seeing, it should be for better reasons than that. So I'm gonna go to sleep now. You do whatever it is you need to do and let me know what time you need me to leave in the morning."
And that's the story about how I didn't fuck the Scallywag bartender.
Anyone who knows me knows that. I can't stand the smell and I don't like to be around people who are altered (drunk people are a little easier for me, but if I'm sober, sometimes they're a bit much). Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of friends who smoke regularly. They aren't bad people or necessarily potheads, even. And I love them and for the most part, don't make a big deal out of the fact that they smoke, I just prefer they not do it around me... it also kinda sucks to ride in their cars afterwards, so I often make them roll down ALL the windows if we have to go somewhere together.
But yeah, I really hate weed and I'm pretty vocal about it. Which is why it surprises them to know that I have in fact been high. And not just sorta stoned. I was baked like a fucking cake. Here's how it all went down.
I was drinking myself through my breakup with my military ex, which is around where I started hanging out at my Usual Bar and making friends with the group of misfits that populated my life for a few years. There's a bartender at this bar that a lot of people find initially attractive... he's just your generic scallywag: longish shaggy brown hair, skinny, shorts, a hat. You know, that kinda slacker-looking type. But either way.
We were sitting outside on the patio and I was on drink number.... well, at least two past too many. I was gently swaying to the rhythm of my poor decision-making skills. Suddenly, I became aware that the Scallywag was sitting next to me. RIGHT next to me. His legs were touching mine, in fact. And he was sorta leaning into me, kinda rubbing his shoulder against my shoulder. It's like the face-to-face equivalent of sending a text message that only says "sup" at two thirty in the morning. It's a universal preamble for a hook-up. In spite of the fact that I was sort of seeing someone at the time (someone he'd met before, in fact, since eventually I subject all of my would-be paramours to my Usual Bar, typically sooner than later), I totally responded with the appropriate stupid-ass-grin and rubbed my shoulder right back on his.
About five minutes after the bar closes, I offer him a ride home. Now, as we mentioned before, I was gently swaying. And I mean that literally. I could barely drive my barstool, I should never have been behind the wheel of a vehicle. But I was and thank God it was like five blocks away in the same neighborhood. I had to make L's with my hands up to tell left from right as he gave me directions to his house... which I had been to before.... and I still got it WRONG. That kinda drunk is never going to lead to making the right choice to not hook up with your bartender while you're involved with someone else. Something had to happen or else I was going to be forever awkward at the bar and somebody was gonna end up hurt.
So we meander back to his bedroom. We're making out. And he sits up and grabs a little pipe. He asks me, "So do you smoke?" And, turning my back on my entire philosophy, I say, "You know what? Tonight I do." He takes a huge puff, keeps some smoke into his mouth and blows it into mine. I hear this is called "shotgunning" and lemme say, it was rather smecksy when I was in this condition.
But much to his disappointment, the bomb was about to drop.
During the kissing, right around the time where he was trying to snake his hands up my shirt, suddenly I felt tingly all over. It was that fast, just one second to the next, I was high. As a fucking kite. It felt FANTASTIC. It was incredible. It felt like the best part of being drunk. I suddenly realised why people do this so often. I realised how they fall in love with it.
I also realised that were about eight buttons and two zippers away from making a mistake that did NOT need to happen. Because as Bob Marley says, marijuana introduces yourself to yourself. And apparently when I am both drunk and high, I am a LOGIC MACHINE.
I sat straight up and said, wait. Why are we doing this. And he gave the reasons everyone gives for hooking up: he had just gotten out of a relationship and wanted a simple hook-up. He picked me because he thought I would understand that nothing more would come of it. To which I immediately responded with, "Uh huh, that's what I thought. So, listen, if I'm going to cheat on the guy I'm seeing, it should be for better reasons than that. So I'm gonna go to sleep now. You do whatever it is you need to do and let me know what time you need me to leave in the morning."
And that's the story about how I didn't fuck the Scallywag bartender.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Resignation.
It struck me today that I am no longer MVP of the Ho Superbowl. In fact, I may have officially retired. I have slept with exactly one person since December. Hell. I haven't even kissed or made out with anyone new this year. Past Me would be super disappointed.
Well. I guess I can always hope this is just the off season. Here's to Farvre-ing the shit outta the Ho Superbowl? Maybe.
More like here's to hoping that whoever I pass the crown on to is as lucky as I was--no diseases, no babies, no problems.
Good luck, aspiring hos. Just remember: through low self-esteem, no standards and a heap of sass, you too can play in the big leagues!
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Like A Boss.
I have been thinking lately about how grateful I am for my 20s. I really feel like my 20s are really just a booze-splattered, glitter-covered chrysalis of crazy that I will someday emerge from-- not to be less crazy just... a different kind. Not an insecure-making-up-for-my-childhood-traumas kind. Just... my own natural, short-tempered, overempathic kind. The kind I feel myself becoming more every year. I become more myself every year. I love it. I adore it. Don't get me wrong. I can still do crazy (and oh, btw, people's scared of crazy) but it almost universally works in my favor these days. I feel at peace most of the time and really excited about the future.
The fucking future!! If it's this good now, I just can't imagine what it'll be like when I am even better. Gaah! I just can't wait.
I think about my future husband a lot. I wonder if I know him. If I don't, where will we meet? I hope it's at trivia. I hope it's a great story.
I wonder if he'll see past the dumbass who keeps this blog to the girl who has a really simple dream. I don't say this often but all I really want is to work with kids and talk to them about books and literacy. I want a clean, safe, pleasing home with (a) kid(s)/dog who know both parents love them first, best, and unconditionally and who know that it's ok to be as fucked up as you are, whether it's a lot or not much at all. My feminist friends always want me to have more ambition. I just don't see why my dreams are anybody's business but my own. I mean, money or some sort of... renown? would be nice, I suppose. But everyone has frustrations in their lives and to quote another friend's blog, I would rather be unsatisfied about material things than anything else. I grew up poor. I know how to do poor. I really, really hope he gets that.
I wonder if he'll know that this blog is partially a gift to him, so he can see, in a way that's more effective than any baby album, how I grew to be his wife, someone he could love. Someone who could love him. Like some twisted love letter in snippets and stories for him to laugh at with me. I hope he's a little twisted. I hope he has empathy for the human being who really lived all these things and managed to make them mostly funny stories about some real pain and that he knows the scraps of bitterness passed.
I hope he has a nice laugh. I hope I can tell him that I am so glad he's here randomly while doing dishes after a fight or tell him that I am glad I didn't die before I met him while I am quietly sewing after like three years of marriage. Or that he won't think it's stupid or insane for me to sing about the dogs or memorize Harry Potter.
I hope he is this kind of excited to meet me. I hope he's proud that I only rarely feel impatient for him to get here.
Because if he's not out there. Because if I never find this person, I hope I never forget that I am actual and whole and only getting better. I hope that he appreciates that I would rather be alone than with someone who doesn't get me or makes me sad.
I hope that even if he doesn't exist, he, too, is forever alone, like a boss.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
I think they make a cream for that...
I learned a really important lesson recently, which was during my birthday and involves several gentlemen and my distinguished ability to play bumper cars with my entire body and the world when I really decide to get down. And by down, I do mean weebles wobble and, unlike what you've been told, they do fall down, especially when this particular weeble decides to drink Rumpleminze and wear sparkly fantastic four inch birthday heels.
It was hilarious for all sorts of reasons but mainly reminded me that there was this ITCH I had to scratch, one I'd been trying to ignore for weeks. I gave in and it all went fine, especially once I really looked at what was going on. My roommate pointed out that the whole birthday week was a little nuts... I kind of single-handedly broke the world, honestly. No, I dunno. Everyone was a little crazy, and there was a wonderful and hilarious story in which my very awesome best friend ended up trying to stop me from wrapping myself around one of the gentleman like I was a starfish and his face was a clam and she accidentally broke our front window. Yeah. That happened.
But this really illuminated a lot of things I've had a difficult time working out, one of which is the difference between being attracted to someone and wanting a real relationship with someone.
This seems like something really obvious, but you have to remember, I am oftentimes a high-level functioning moron. Things written in letters four feet high and shoved under my nose sometimes aren't enough.
There's this guy I exclusively refer to as The Hottest Hipster of All Time, who I am not actually interested in or attracted to, but I like to talk to. There's guy I met at St. Patrick's Day. There's the Trivia Guy who stuff didn't work out with. And there's The Ex About Whom This Blog Was Intended to Be. We'll find a better nickname soon, I'm sure.
I've made a lot of situations WAY worse by being unaware of the difference between those two things. And it's not just me. I've seen a couple people I love way hard fall into this same trap lately.
It's nice to know this. Seriously. It has made SO many parts of my life make so much more sense and finally got this nagging itch to go away... I think for good, which is awesome.
It was hilarious for all sorts of reasons but mainly reminded me that there was this ITCH I had to scratch, one I'd been trying to ignore for weeks. I gave in and it all went fine, especially once I really looked at what was going on. My roommate pointed out that the whole birthday week was a little nuts... I kind of single-handedly broke the world, honestly. No, I dunno. Everyone was a little crazy, and there was a wonderful and hilarious story in which my very awesome best friend ended up trying to stop me from wrapping myself around one of the gentleman like I was a starfish and his face was a clam and she accidentally broke our front window. Yeah. That happened.
But this really illuminated a lot of things I've had a difficult time working out, one of which is the difference between being attracted to someone and wanting a real relationship with someone.
This seems like something really obvious, but you have to remember, I am oftentimes a high-level functioning moron. Things written in letters four feet high and shoved under my nose sometimes aren't enough.
There's this guy I exclusively refer to as The Hottest Hipster of All Time, who I am not actually interested in or attracted to, but I like to talk to. There's guy I met at St. Patrick's Day. There's the Trivia Guy who stuff didn't work out with. And there's The Ex About Whom This Blog Was Intended to Be. We'll find a better nickname soon, I'm sure.
I've made a lot of situations WAY worse by being unaware of the difference between those two things. And it's not just me. I've seen a couple people I love way hard fall into this same trap lately.
It's nice to know this. Seriously. It has made SO many parts of my life make so much more sense and finally got this nagging itch to go away... I think for good, which is awesome.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Here's the thing...
This is an unabashedly sentimental entry.
The thing is, ya'll, I am a guy's gal. I don't care how often I wear 5 inch heels. I don't care how well I can apply make up or read body language or that I kinda like astrology. I get along better with men. There's less drama. There's less competition. And there's less concern over when your female supposed-bestie is going to use a situation against you and justify it because of her emotions (re: her clitoris). I'm not saying I'm not guilty of the same damn things, but isn't that the issue? We wage this warfare against ourselves, against our own KIND, and that's why men rule the world. They don't discriminate as far as gender when it comes to wanting to dominate. We do.
I think this is kinda why I have a history of living with gamer boys and punk boys. I think this is why I find bi guys really attractive--a little bit of woman in a whole lot of man. I think this why I always end up being like every other girl, disappointed and hurt with a story of a former best friend, a SOUL SISTER, that did her wrong. It's just how it goes.
While I don't find it hard to make friends with women, I definitely find it hard to keep friendships with them. Love isn't enough. Not bullshitting them isn't enough. Something is going to come between you, and frankly, it probably made at least one of you cum. It's a tragedy, really; nearly worth of Shakespeare, if Portia would let something like that bullshit happen. (Ophelia, oddly enough, couldn't be revived for comment.)
But yeah, no, cute little quips aside, the way I cherish my schladies is sacred to me. Because in my life are some beautiful, hardcore, blunt, badass women. And every single day, I cherish the fact that these people love me. Because their love is proof positive that maybe, maybe, I'm learning to do something right. I feel that time after time of disappointment has simply been the process of weeding out those who will damage and keep me from growing. I left all the chaff behind and damn, can I just say? I got the creme de la creme. Ya'll should be jellyfish to the extreme or alternately, eternally grateful that you have these women in your life as well. I'm just sayin'.
I have a Superhero Friend who's willing to pull my Instead Cup out of me. I only get one, but still. C'mon!
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I have a very recent addition to my love fest. We met at trivia, we were interested in the same guy (unbeknownst to her) and he played games by being interested in one then the other without ever telling her what the score was (btw, I knew. It didn't end well.). We can both see past that, which is RARE. We should hate each other. Instead? We sing Vanilla Ice Cream by Stephen Lynch on repeat while going on Adventures. We talk and text every day and see each other most days. She drove me to the St. Patrick's Day Party where I took a shot every time the guy I had invited said something that irritated me (I will post a picture of the ensuing bruise once I get around to putting that moment down to posterity). She also drove me home, an act which has earned her a fucking medal.
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I have college Friend. She stuck with me through the The Gail Encounter (see Rebounds Can Be Ugly. for more details.) She has seen me through my gutter punk ex, the military ex, horrible roommates, dropping out of college, and a million other undignified moments in my post-pubescent life. She is a continuous source of encouragement, love, positive energy, and love. I can't imagine my life without her and I am so proud of her every success.
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This is a quote from a friend, a conversation we had drunkenly in the bathroom at my Usual Bar:
"I ran into Superhero Friend at Dropkick Murphy's and we were talking about how brutally honest you are, and how it sometimes hurts our feelings, but you know, that's why we love you."
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I have a non-biological sister who has been a continual presence in my life for 20 years. She is everything I could ever ask for from family. She is beautiful, smart, a wonderful mother, person, and friend. Everyone is continually astonished by her and I don't blame them. She is better than anyone I will ever know and that's just facts.
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I have a best friend who is always there to pick my ass up and I am there to pick hers up. The distance between us is irrelevant but sucks. We take joy in the time we spend together on the phone, texting, facebooking; hell, even thinking about how the people I'm physically with aren't as good as her ends up being a great night because I get to remember all the things we've been through. Driving for six hours straight to pick up a phone that was an hour away. Our exes. Sangria from the grocery store. Going to her apartment after I was stuck in a barracks room for 21 days. She is my other half. I don't know how I got this lucky.
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Me: Oh, honey. I go through The Mens like cheap vodka on 2 dollar well nights.
Her: cheers to that. eventually you'll get stuck on one. then you'll get so goddamn drunk.
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I have a friend who wants to write a memoir together when we hit our mid thirties. We have lived some shit. She gave her boyfre'n a Plan B box filled with conversation hearts for Valentine's Day while I was sitting around trying to be super casual with the guy shit didn't work out with.
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And on and on it goes. I could keep posting our conversations, but you know who you are. And I have said before, and I'll say it again, you guys help make me realise that I have to be doing something right. I have friends like you who keep me on my toes and love me anyway. Because it's like you guys see into the heart of all the stupid ass things I do and understand that I'm just trying to make it through.
Oh god, ya'll, that's the best part.
My friends get me.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
They Don't Love You Like I Love You.
I don't think I'm ever going to be able to stop splattering my heart like so much roadkill across Magnolia Ave.
Maybe it's a problem I have. Maybe I should look into reading some Pia Mellody and become my own Self-Help Guru.
I won't though, ya'll.
I'm flirting with this guy. I made a joke about being in a flirtationship. Which is a cute little portmanteau, but I honestly really hate this kind of ambiguity. It makes me super neurotic because I don't know what he wants, and to a very real extent, neither do I. I had a legit jealousy fit last night as I thought he was flirting with my last ex best friend. And honestly, it was more because I really have issues with her, especially when it comes to her behaviour concerning dudes. But it's a nasty pattern that I'm familiar with, feeling this anxiety and nervousness about a dude because I don't know what's going on or what's going to happen... I should probably just call it quits and save myself the brain issues.
I think part of the issue is that I'm getting really used to being alone. Or maybe this is what having standards is like. Or maybe I'm doing it wrong. I dunno.
It's getting pretty messy up in my head lately. I guess I took the not-quite-break-up with Trivia Guy a little more seriously than I thought I did. That and his indiscretions as far as giving other people information that wasn't necessary. It's sticking in my craw. And I see him every single week, twice a week without fail. I never got any sort of closure or a resolution. And I still want one, damnit. I want him to admit that he did something really fucked up, several times. I want to know that he feels bad.
.... and dammit, guys, I want my friend back. I have years of knowing this dude. I don't like this feeling. I don't like it at all.
See, this is where the being my own guru thing would really help out, because I could tell myself that I don't need his input to validate me. I know that he did me wrong. And I know that's what I've actually been upset about the entire time.
But I also know it's been a long time since somebody actually liked ME. It's like they get drawn into being attracted to me, they like my energy and the attention that I give them. But that's as far as it goes and it takes them too long to figure that out. We're already regularly in bed together or "basically" dating... or ACTUALLY dating. This one guy even told me last year how bad he felt that he just didn't have feelings for me. That he tried and really, really wanted to, but it just wasn't there. This one guy? Man, it feels like all the guys.
And I guess that was the problem with Trivia Guy. It's like, in my head, the conversation went like this:
TG: I just don't have those sparkley feelings for you.
Me: Oh. Well... thank you for being honest with me, Guy I Boned When I Was Sad. OH! Sorry, I meant Future First Ex Husband. OH, dammit, no... I know which one you are, Military Ex. SHIT! Trivia Guy! You're Trivia Guy! Right...
Just like that. Pie after pie in the face. But I've started to realise.... mostly, I am asking for just that. I don't want to be with these guys any more than they wanna be with me. I just want the idea. No wonder it makes me act a fool. I am not in a place for a relationship right now. I mean, hell. I have a lot to do, for ME. I guess that's why I haven't been with anyone, really, since he and I stopped seeing each other. It's one thing to be interested in this guy who is SO out of my league. But that's not really what I want. I mean.
It's like someone pointed out to me... if I wanted to be married by now, I would be. And possibly divorced. Because it's not like I didn't have prospects. And it's not like I won't have them again.
So do I keep doing this? Talking to these guys (if I'm honest, it's guys) that I know I don't see anything with, other than possibly a friendship? Or do I just want to let this all work itself out and stop working myself up into a froth? Am I ok with having a dance party by myself in my bedroom, singing Maps to my dogs on a Friday night? Am I cool with the fact that I went on a date with my smartphone the other day in a very crowded bar, where I just ignored everyone?
Honestly. Yeah.
Cause wait.
Maybe it's a problem I have. Maybe I should look into reading some Pia Mellody and become my own Self-Help Guru.
I won't though, ya'll.
I'm flirting with this guy. I made a joke about being in a flirtationship. Which is a cute little portmanteau, but I honestly really hate this kind of ambiguity. It makes me super neurotic because I don't know what he wants, and to a very real extent, neither do I. I had a legit jealousy fit last night as I thought he was flirting with my last ex best friend. And honestly, it was more because I really have issues with her, especially when it comes to her behaviour concerning dudes. But it's a nasty pattern that I'm familiar with, feeling this anxiety and nervousness about a dude because I don't know what's going on or what's going to happen... I should probably just call it quits and save myself the brain issues.
I think part of the issue is that I'm getting really used to being alone. Or maybe this is what having standards is like. Or maybe I'm doing it wrong. I dunno.
It's getting pretty messy up in my head lately. I guess I took the not-quite-break-up with Trivia Guy a little more seriously than I thought I did. That and his indiscretions as far as giving other people information that wasn't necessary. It's sticking in my craw. And I see him every single week, twice a week without fail. I never got any sort of closure or a resolution. And I still want one, damnit. I want him to admit that he did something really fucked up, several times. I want to know that he feels bad.
.... and dammit, guys, I want my friend back. I have years of knowing this dude. I don't like this feeling. I don't like it at all.
See, this is where the being my own guru thing would really help out, because I could tell myself that I don't need his input to validate me. I know that he did me wrong. And I know that's what I've actually been upset about the entire time.
But I also know it's been a long time since somebody actually liked ME. It's like they get drawn into being attracted to me, they like my energy and the attention that I give them. But that's as far as it goes and it takes them too long to figure that out. We're already regularly in bed together or "basically" dating... or ACTUALLY dating. This one guy even told me last year how bad he felt that he just didn't have feelings for me. That he tried and really, really wanted to, but it just wasn't there. This one guy? Man, it feels like all the guys.
And I guess that was the problem with Trivia Guy. It's like, in my head, the conversation went like this:
TG: I just don't have those sparkley feelings for you.
Me: Oh. Well... thank you for being honest with me, Guy I Boned When I Was Sad. OH! Sorry, I meant Future First Ex Husband. OH, dammit, no... I know which one you are, Military Ex. SHIT! Trivia Guy! You're Trivia Guy! Right...
Just like that. Pie after pie in the face. But I've started to realise.... mostly, I am asking for just that. I don't want to be with these guys any more than they wanna be with me. I just want the idea. No wonder it makes me act a fool. I am not in a place for a relationship right now. I mean, hell. I have a lot to do, for ME. I guess that's why I haven't been with anyone, really, since he and I stopped seeing each other. It's one thing to be interested in this guy who is SO out of my league. But that's not really what I want. I mean.
It's like someone pointed out to me... if I wanted to be married by now, I would be. And possibly divorced. Because it's not like I didn't have prospects. And it's not like I won't have them again.
So do I keep doing this? Talking to these guys (if I'm honest, it's guys) that I know I don't see anything with, other than possibly a friendship? Or do I just want to let this all work itself out and stop working myself up into a froth? Am I ok with having a dance party by myself in my bedroom, singing Maps to my dogs on a Friday night? Am I cool with the fact that I went on a date with my smartphone the other day in a very crowded bar, where I just ignored everyone?
Honestly. Yeah.
Cause wait.
Monday, March 12, 2012
I found my ex's podcast today...
Anyone who hasn't realised by this point that I'm a little nuts is obviously not paying attention.
While I am not full on sack-of-hammers, I am more than sane enough to admit that I can be a little blardeeblar from time to time.
Well. On that note. Here's this story. This may be the only time in my life I feel justified in behaving in a completely nuts, over the top way. The only time I will not apologise for doing something balls-to-the-wall bonkers. I mean, come on, would you turn down the opportunity to do something completely nuts and get away with it? If you said no, you're lying. We have all wanted to tell a boss exactly what we thought of them. We have all fantasized about jumping up on a table in a crowded restaurant and leading the assembled grazers and munchers in an upbeat musical number. And c'mon, who HASN'T thought like Robin on HIMYM and wanted to throw a drink in some dude's face?
I had this ex that was an improv comedian. It's important to note that I love to date funny men. If you can make me laugh, honest to god, my legs are already spread like peanut butter. And this guy was seriously funny. Timing, a great voice, wit: he had it all. We had a cute relationship starting story. I was a HUGE fan of the improv troupe he was in, they performed weekly at our college and my friends and I almost never missed a show. At that point in my life, I had an insane amount of confidence and just decided one day, that funny guy? That one with the glasses? I want him. He will be mine. Oh, yes. He will be mine. And having decided this, I managed to finagle his messenger name from my College Best Friend and introduced myself. That's right, kids. It started on AIM... uh-huh, AOL Instant Messenger. At one point, we both had excerpts from our conversations posted in our AIM profiles. If that's not a sign of burgeoning early 2000s love, I don't know what is, really. We flirted all summer, cleverly phrased messages flying while I was stuck in my hometown and I could not WAIT to get back to school to actually hang out with him, to really meet him for the first time in person.
Summer flies by, I come back to school. We meet up and have cheap late night food together. In keeping with some cute joke I'd made, I brought him a stick pony and gave it to him in the parking lot of IHOP. We had a lot of fun, for a while. We were both obsessed with Buffy. We both liked to talk, a lot. We watched LOST together, laughed at all the same comedy videos. I thought he was hilarious. He thought I was great because I thought he was hilarious.
We were two stubborn, arrogant, self-centered nerds looking for love in all the wrong places. He was a 20-something very inexperienced nerd who wanted someone who was happy all the time to be his personal cheering squad. I wanted someone who gave a shit about what I felt enough to NOT make fun of my then-favorite musician (Bright Eyes) and I didn't care that he didn't fit that mold... goddamnit, I would MAKE him fit. It didn't work out.
And that, dear readers, is a perfect recipe for comic gold.
We broke up while I was on my lunch break when I still worked at Borders-- I thought he was being insensitive, I was feeling pissy, I snapped and broke up with him. It was painful, like it always is when you have to disentangle your life from another person's. It was also a HUGE relief because we weren't happy. But a lot of optimistic things were said, we hoped we could remain friends. Then a while passed. And he was dating another girl. I found out he was saying he broke up with me. He was talking about how crazy I was. And legit, guys, I wasn't the most happy person back then... in a completely different way than I'm crazy now.
He asked me to bring some stuff that he'd left at my apartment to his dorm. I texted him that I was there and he told me to leave the items by the doorway and then text him when I was gone. The final straw.
Call me crazy? Ok. Cool. I'll give you crazy.
I opened the bag and began to spread his possessions on the grass in front of his dorm. T-shirts, a couple books... I dunno, deodorant, chinchillas; whatever kinda shit college kids leave at each other's places. While arranging everything, my eyes came to rest on a tree and I thought, PERFECT! I very artfully (and carefully, I didn't want to damage them) arranged his CDs and DVDs like Christmas baubles on the tree branches. For the coup de grace, I grabbed the pile of tighty whitey undapants he'd left at my home and threw them straight up, letting them fall where they may.
I then called my friend who lived in the dorm directly facing his, briefly explained the situation and asked if I could watch from his window. He said sure, for some reason, and let me in. I immediately ran to the window so that we could watch.We all did: the friend who lived in the dorm, me, and well, oddly enough... one of the next guys I would date. I texted him that his stuff was waiting for him outside and then gleefully watched him pick it up, pick it up, pick it up like so many ska fans. Hilarity ensued, my reputation was damaged to some, others appreciated what I had done. My favorite version of this story that spread around after this was when someone told me that they'd heard that I'd lit his stuff on fire.
I took a stand the only way I could. I swear, that moment of seeing bits of sunlight in between the falling manties is forever burned in my brain. We weren't going to be able to sit and have a rational conversation, 'cause frankly, nothing either of us would've said would've made it any better. Once it was clear that he was lying about me, I wasn't mature enough to have dealt with it calmly, even before the possession grenade went off on the landscaping. So that moment was my catharsis, which was honestly the best thing I could've done for myself.
So here's that story. That time a handful of underwear and a childish prank helped me deal. No matter how stupid or irrational my choices seem to someone who wasn't there, I am so fucking happy that I could let go and give someone a heaping helping of exactly what they were describing me as, damnit. And while it's worth admitting that this ex is one of the VERY, very few that I am not pretty close friends with, we don't hate each other. We have even had a couple civil conversations over AIM and FB chat in years past. But never have I regretted this moment. And rest assured, this wouldn't be the last time I did something over the top to say, "Hey, you want something to talk about? I will GIVE you something to talk about," I love this story because, well, that shit is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S. And damn. Sometimes that's the best kind of fruity to be.
While I am not full on sack-of-hammers, I am more than sane enough to admit that I can be a little blardeeblar from time to time.
Well. On that note. Here's this story. This may be the only time in my life I feel justified in behaving in a completely nuts, over the top way. The only time I will not apologise for doing something balls-to-the-wall bonkers. I mean, come on, would you turn down the opportunity to do something completely nuts and get away with it? If you said no, you're lying. We have all wanted to tell a boss exactly what we thought of them. We have all fantasized about jumping up on a table in a crowded restaurant and leading the assembled grazers and munchers in an upbeat musical number. And c'mon, who HASN'T thought like Robin on HIMYM and wanted to throw a drink in some dude's face?
I had this ex that was an improv comedian. It's important to note that I love to date funny men. If you can make me laugh, honest to god, my legs are already spread like peanut butter. And this guy was seriously funny. Timing, a great voice, wit: he had it all. We had a cute relationship starting story. I was a HUGE fan of the improv troupe he was in, they performed weekly at our college and my friends and I almost never missed a show. At that point in my life, I had an insane amount of confidence and just decided one day, that funny guy? That one with the glasses? I want him. He will be mine. Oh, yes. He will be mine. And having decided this, I managed to finagle his messenger name from my College Best Friend and introduced myself. That's right, kids. It started on AIM... uh-huh, AOL Instant Messenger. At one point, we both had excerpts from our conversations posted in our AIM profiles. If that's not a sign of burgeoning early 2000s love, I don't know what is, really. We flirted all summer, cleverly phrased messages flying while I was stuck in my hometown and I could not WAIT to get back to school to actually hang out with him, to really meet him for the first time in person.
Summer flies by, I come back to school. We meet up and have cheap late night food together. In keeping with some cute joke I'd made, I brought him a stick pony and gave it to him in the parking lot of IHOP. We had a lot of fun, for a while. We were both obsessed with Buffy. We both liked to talk, a lot. We watched LOST together, laughed at all the same comedy videos. I thought he was hilarious. He thought I was great because I thought he was hilarious.
We were two stubborn, arrogant, self-centered nerds looking for love in all the wrong places. He was a 20-something very inexperienced nerd who wanted someone who was happy all the time to be his personal cheering squad. I wanted someone who gave a shit about what I felt enough to NOT make fun of my then-favorite musician (Bright Eyes) and I didn't care that he didn't fit that mold... goddamnit, I would MAKE him fit. It didn't work out.
And that, dear readers, is a perfect recipe for comic gold.
We broke up while I was on my lunch break when I still worked at Borders-- I thought he was being insensitive, I was feeling pissy, I snapped and broke up with him. It was painful, like it always is when you have to disentangle your life from another person's. It was also a HUGE relief because we weren't happy. But a lot of optimistic things were said, we hoped we could remain friends. Then a while passed. And he was dating another girl. I found out he was saying he broke up with me. He was talking about how crazy I was. And legit, guys, I wasn't the most happy person back then... in a completely different way than I'm crazy now.
He asked me to bring some stuff that he'd left at my apartment to his dorm. I texted him that I was there and he told me to leave the items by the doorway and then text him when I was gone. The final straw.
Call me crazy? Ok. Cool. I'll give you crazy.
I opened the bag and began to spread his possessions on the grass in front of his dorm. T-shirts, a couple books... I dunno, deodorant, chinchillas; whatever kinda shit college kids leave at each other's places. While arranging everything, my eyes came to rest on a tree and I thought, PERFECT! I very artfully (and carefully, I didn't want to damage them) arranged his CDs and DVDs like Christmas baubles on the tree branches. For the coup de grace, I grabbed the pile of tighty whitey undapants he'd left at my home and threw them straight up, letting them fall where they may.
I then called my friend who lived in the dorm directly facing his, briefly explained the situation and asked if I could watch from his window. He said sure, for some reason, and let me in. I immediately ran to the window so that we could watch.We all did: the friend who lived in the dorm, me, and well, oddly enough... one of the next guys I would date. I texted him that his stuff was waiting for him outside and then gleefully watched him pick it up, pick it up, pick it up like so many ska fans. Hilarity ensued, my reputation was damaged to some, others appreciated what I had done. My favorite version of this story that spread around after this was when someone told me that they'd heard that I'd lit his stuff on fire.
I took a stand the only way I could. I swear, that moment of seeing bits of sunlight in between the falling manties is forever burned in my brain. We weren't going to be able to sit and have a rational conversation, 'cause frankly, nothing either of us would've said would've made it any better. Once it was clear that he was lying about me, I wasn't mature enough to have dealt with it calmly, even before the possession grenade went off on the landscaping. So that moment was my catharsis, which was honestly the best thing I could've done for myself.
So here's that story. That time a handful of underwear and a childish prank helped me deal. No matter how stupid or irrational my choices seem to someone who wasn't there, I am so fucking happy that I could let go and give someone a heaping helping of exactly what they were describing me as, damnit. And while it's worth admitting that this ex is one of the VERY, very few that I am not pretty close friends with, we don't hate each other. We have even had a couple civil conversations over AIM and FB chat in years past. But never have I regretted this moment. And rest assured, this wouldn't be the last time I did something over the top to say, "Hey, you want something to talk about? I will GIVE you something to talk about," I love this story because, well, that shit is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S. And damn. Sometimes that's the best kind of fruity to be.
Friday, February 24, 2012
I'm only just beginning...
You will inevitably fail. Not at everything, or even most things. But yes, even you will fail at something.
It's science.
Failure is a natural part of life. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be. Or that's what I keep telling myself.
I've spent most of my life since leaving my hometown failing in one amusing way or another. I failed at graduating college while working two jobs. I am damn near legendary for failing at saving people who just don't want to be saved. I'm failing rull hard right now at getting my room cleaned 'cause I feel more like writing. And I continually fail at dating. A lot.
Yet every single time, I pick my ass back up. Always miraculously free of the kind of callouses that would make the kind of life I lead a hell of a lot easier to handle in a constantly happy state.
But I think about it a lot. I mean, some of us just make, well, choices and that leads to failure. Some of us have choices thrust upon us, and that leads to a worse kind of failure because you get frustrated at what little input you were allowed to have.
In case you didn't get it from the tone, it didn't work out with the guy in the previous blog. I guess he just didn't like me enough, which is fine, really; it's no more than every actual boyfriend I've ever had has done. *shrug*
It's how it does when it's me, ya'll. Oh well. We were kind of on the same page. I'm not saying it doesn't suck. But I'm also not saying it was anyone's fault.
I sang myself through these feelings today. Because I'm not heartbroken, I'm just not. Excited as I was, I didn't know where it was going. I wasn't throwing myself into it like 130bajillion% because contrary to popular belief, I DO have a brain that I occasionally use in a self-preserving fashion.
But I was a little sad. It's disappointing to be so excited about something, to envision this potential and want to know how it's going to turn out and then, nope. Apparently not. It's disappointing as hell.
But the thing about failure is that it shows you what doesn't work.
That's so valuable.
I obsess over my own flaws. I want to know, exactly and in excruciating detail, what's wrong with me, according to other people. Partially because I want to know everything everyone's ever thought, ever, but mostly because I want to know how much of what they think matches up. Like it holds me accountable. Not because it changes how I feel about myself.
I keep hoping that at some point, the things I will fail at are going to be things like "remembering why I was once rather insecure." Because being this way DEFINITELY doesn't work.
I've been trying so hard to change my life in the past two months. I even cut some people out of my life, which is unheard of for me. I never give up on anyone. Ever. Even when it's beyond obvious that I should. And it sucks, because part of being in transition means that people who don't have context for you see the ghosting of parts of your past along with the detritus you're casting around while trying to figure out what is necessary for you to salvage. And some of them don't like what they see. And some of them you fail. And some fail you, in terrible ways that still make you angry even weeks later.
And while I may jokingly describe success as being able to write as well as this scrumptious beauty, I don't really think that. 'Cause I think success has a lot more to do with who you love and why than anything else. And I just fail, every single time, at not making that my priority.
That's something that'll never change, no matter how far I run or how many other things do. It's nice to know, I guess that some things do work out okay. Even if it's not things you were sorta hoping would.
is new york city really like a graveyard they all ask me
and i say well it was last week but man that was in the past
see i stopped going to the places where the people act so nasty
and pretentious 'cause i'm happy sitting with my friends in sidewalk singing songs
and some people are still standing in the way of where i'm going
so i say please excuse me, step aside, or keep on moving
and i guess they sensed that my momentum meant that i was winning
but i'm only just beginning and i'd rather go with friends than go alone
and some people grab my hands and some people grab my shirt
some people race ahead to see if they can get there first
some people stay behind 'cause they've got something else in mind
whatever you decide if you are true to you you're gonna be alright
like akida he's a father now he is in love with amber
their baby's name is skyler he's a baby of the summer
i wonder as i wander if i'll ever settle down
or if every day i'll take my roots uprooted en route to another town
i was sitting on a couch somewhere watching vh-1
when i found out that bruce springsteen is his mother's only son
i'm my mother's only daughter and we were both born to run
even he says it's amazing raising babies in the place where you come from
but i am a rock tumbler i've got rocks inside my head
and just because they come out shining doesn't mean that they are diamonds
and i guess that my worst nightmare is your very favorite bar
when i'm worth my weight in shale and slate i'll know that i'm a super duper star
i'll be a great big ball of burning gas and i'll be sitting on my big fat ass
sipping cristal light beside a plastic wading pool
and the next day i'll be somewhere else part of me will hate myself
part of me will know deep down that i am pretty cool
the part of me that knows i never cared for being cool
the part of me that knows i'm really scared of being cool
the part of me that knows i never cared for being cool
It's science.
Failure is a natural part of life. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be. Or that's what I keep telling myself.
I've spent most of my life since leaving my hometown failing in one amusing way or another. I failed at graduating college while working two jobs. I am damn near legendary for failing at saving people who just don't want to be saved. I'm failing rull hard right now at getting my room cleaned 'cause I feel more like writing. And I continually fail at dating. A lot.
Yet every single time, I pick my ass back up. Always miraculously free of the kind of callouses that would make the kind of life I lead a hell of a lot easier to handle in a constantly happy state.
But I think about it a lot. I mean, some of us just make, well, choices and that leads to failure. Some of us have choices thrust upon us, and that leads to a worse kind of failure because you get frustrated at what little input you were allowed to have.
In case you didn't get it from the tone, it didn't work out with the guy in the previous blog. I guess he just didn't like me enough, which is fine, really; it's no more than every actual boyfriend I've ever had has done. *shrug*
It's how it does when it's me, ya'll. Oh well. We were kind of on the same page. I'm not saying it doesn't suck. But I'm also not saying it was anyone's fault.
I sang myself through these feelings today. Because I'm not heartbroken, I'm just not. Excited as I was, I didn't know where it was going. I wasn't throwing myself into it like 130bajillion% because contrary to popular belief, I DO have a brain that I occasionally use in a self-preserving fashion.
But I was a little sad. It's disappointing to be so excited about something, to envision this potential and want to know how it's going to turn out and then, nope. Apparently not. It's disappointing as hell.
But the thing about failure is that it shows you what doesn't work.
That's so valuable.
I obsess over my own flaws. I want to know, exactly and in excruciating detail, what's wrong with me, according to other people. Partially because I want to know everything everyone's ever thought, ever, but mostly because I want to know how much of what they think matches up. Like it holds me accountable. Not because it changes how I feel about myself.
I keep hoping that at some point, the things I will fail at are going to be things like "remembering why I was once rather insecure." Because being this way DEFINITELY doesn't work.
I've been trying so hard to change my life in the past two months. I even cut some people out of my life, which is unheard of for me. I never give up on anyone. Ever. Even when it's beyond obvious that I should. And it sucks, because part of being in transition means that people who don't have context for you see the ghosting of parts of your past along with the detritus you're casting around while trying to figure out what is necessary for you to salvage. And some of them don't like what they see. And some of them you fail. And some fail you, in terrible ways that still make you angry even weeks later.
And while I may jokingly describe success as being able to write as well as this scrumptious beauty, I don't really think that. 'Cause I think success has a lot more to do with who you love and why than anything else. And I just fail, every single time, at not making that my priority.
That's something that'll never change, no matter how far I run or how many other things do. It's nice to know, I guess that some things do work out okay. Even if it's not things you were sorta hoping would.
is new york city really like a graveyard they all ask me
and i say well it was last week but man that was in the past
see i stopped going to the places where the people act so nasty
and pretentious 'cause i'm happy sitting with my friends in sidewalk singing songs
and some people are still standing in the way of where i'm going
so i say please excuse me, step aside, or keep on moving
and i guess they sensed that my momentum meant that i was winning
but i'm only just beginning and i'd rather go with friends than go alone
and some people grab my hands and some people grab my shirt
some people race ahead to see if they can get there first
some people stay behind 'cause they've got something else in mind
whatever you decide if you are true to you you're gonna be alright
like akida he's a father now he is in love with amber
their baby's name is skyler he's a baby of the summer
i wonder as i wander if i'll ever settle down
or if every day i'll take my roots uprooted en route to another town
i was sitting on a couch somewhere watching vh-1
when i found out that bruce springsteen is his mother's only son
i'm my mother's only daughter and we were both born to run
even he says it's amazing raising babies in the place where you come from
but i am a rock tumbler i've got rocks inside my head
and just because they come out shining doesn't mean that they are diamonds
and i guess that my worst nightmare is your very favorite bar
when i'm worth my weight in shale and slate i'll know that i'm a super duper star
i'll be a great big ball of burning gas and i'll be sitting on my big fat ass
sipping cristal light beside a plastic wading pool
and the next day i'll be somewhere else part of me will hate myself
part of me will know deep down that i am pretty cool
the part of me that knows i never cared for being cool
the part of me that knows i'm really scared of being cool
the part of me that knows i never cared for being cool
Thursday, February 16, 2012
A Dolly For Sue.
"It's a girl! And she's gonna be a piano player!"
That's all it took. Mere seconds after my birth, I was defined. I was a girl and I was going to play piano. My long fingers (my father's passion for tickling the ivories was unknown to the doctor) created an identity for me; the first of many, I assure you.
Through all the years, that's always been my thing. I know who I AM. I can identify myself in dozens, nay, hundreds of ways! I can use analogy, metaphor, cute pop culture references, science, song lyrics, medical terms, foreign language (to an extent), my friends' words, quotes, puns, lists, and the occasional knock knock joke to define myself in a way that you are guaranteed to appreciate. And to boot, I can probably make you laugh! See? There's another one, one my best friend's dad pointed out... I am The Funny One.
But guess what, guys.
I am not a piano player. Sure, I can smash out a few Christmas carols and one or two classical pieces that I picked out by ear. And I can play the SHIT out of the Simpson's theme song. But I am not a piano player. Nor am I a teacher. Or an actress. Or Daria. Or a lawyer. Or a Red Cross volunteer. Or a college graduate.
And of all the dichotomous lines I walk, I think the one between my projections/the things I get people to think by the clever labels I promote and who I really am is the thinnest. Because to be good at sleight of hand, you have to use the truth to distract people, about 70% of the time. The rest is all buzzwords and being clever and smiling in just the right way.
Lately I've lost some friends. And it hurts. And I really hate it. Because some of their critiques were valid. But some weren't. And when it comes to what people say to me, I get lost in that gap so easily.
I always have been able to get waist deep in other people's problems like most people breathe. But I don't do it for power. I don't do it so I can feel better about myself. I do it because it hurts me not to. It's why I don't believe in altruism. I do not get involved in trying to help people because it's the right thing to do. I get my hands dirty because it makes their pain stop. And when they hurt, I hurt. I want MY pain to stop. And so...
But that way lots of freakin' drama lies. And though I prided myself on never, ever giving up on anyone or anything, ever.... my life is a lot easier without those people in it. Sorry. It just is. But I still find myself exhausted all the time, thinking of those people, lost and needing someone who can love them. I look at my Usual Bar sometimes and I see all these people who are somehow not quite right. They're birds who don't fly, they swim. They're trains with square wheels. Elephants with polka dots. And I love them. I love them for their broken pieces, like I want them to love me for mine, because I am still convinced that I am so fucked up. I look around and I see the same patterns, the same, well, choices that I myself have made and seen made before. I used to sit and feel at home in this place, like it was what I really wanted. Like it was so great. Like, DAMN, this is who I AM!
But much like the acting. Like the law career that never was. Like that fucking piano prodigy I never morphed into... this place, with its dying hopes and cliques is just not who I am. Because so much of what's wrong with me is all up in my head--shocking! And so now the work begins. Which fucking sucks. Because being a better version of yourself is awesome. But the adaptation and pain of the changes that lead to that are just horrible. Because I know it's all in my head. And I know I can do this.
So, here I am, a little Dolly for Sue, on this Island of Misfit Toys.
But don't worry, darlings. I have so many dreams left to dream.
That's all it took. Mere seconds after my birth, I was defined. I was a girl and I was going to play piano. My long fingers (my father's passion for tickling the ivories was unknown to the doctor) created an identity for me; the first of many, I assure you.
Through all the years, that's always been my thing. I know who I AM. I can identify myself in dozens, nay, hundreds of ways! I can use analogy, metaphor, cute pop culture references, science, song lyrics, medical terms, foreign language (to an extent), my friends' words, quotes, puns, lists, and the occasional knock knock joke to define myself in a way that you are guaranteed to appreciate. And to boot, I can probably make you laugh! See? There's another one, one my best friend's dad pointed out... I am The Funny One.
But guess what, guys.
I am not a piano player. Sure, I can smash out a few Christmas carols and one or two classical pieces that I picked out by ear. And I can play the SHIT out of the Simpson's theme song. But I am not a piano player. Nor am I a teacher. Or an actress. Or Daria. Or a lawyer. Or a Red Cross volunteer. Or a college graduate.
And of all the dichotomous lines I walk, I think the one between my projections/the things I get people to think by the clever labels I promote and who I really am is the thinnest. Because to be good at sleight of hand, you have to use the truth to distract people, about 70% of the time. The rest is all buzzwords and being clever and smiling in just the right way.
Lately I've lost some friends. And it hurts. And I really hate it. Because some of their critiques were valid. But some weren't. And when it comes to what people say to me, I get lost in that gap so easily.
I always have been able to get waist deep in other people's problems like most people breathe. But I don't do it for power. I don't do it so I can feel better about myself. I do it because it hurts me not to. It's why I don't believe in altruism. I do not get involved in trying to help people because it's the right thing to do. I get my hands dirty because it makes their pain stop. And when they hurt, I hurt. I want MY pain to stop. And so...
But that way lots of freakin' drama lies. And though I prided myself on never, ever giving up on anyone or anything, ever.... my life is a lot easier without those people in it. Sorry. It just is. But I still find myself exhausted all the time, thinking of those people, lost and needing someone who can love them. I look at my Usual Bar sometimes and I see all these people who are somehow not quite right. They're birds who don't fly, they swim. They're trains with square wheels. Elephants with polka dots. And I love them. I love them for their broken pieces, like I want them to love me for mine, because I am still convinced that I am so fucked up. I look around and I see the same patterns, the same, well, choices that I myself have made and seen made before. I used to sit and feel at home in this place, like it was what I really wanted. Like it was so great. Like, DAMN, this is who I AM!
But much like the acting. Like the law career that never was. Like that fucking piano prodigy I never morphed into... this place, with its dying hopes and cliques is just not who I am. Because so much of what's wrong with me is all up in my head--shocking! And so now the work begins. Which fucking sucks. Because being a better version of yourself is awesome. But the adaptation and pain of the changes that lead to that are just horrible. Because I know it's all in my head. And I know I can do this.
So, here I am, a little Dolly for Sue, on this Island of Misfit Toys.
But don't worry, darlings. I have so many dreams left to dream.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
I'd even have Wayne Newton dedicate a song to you.
I'm trying not to be mushy right now.
I'm trying REALLY hard not to overthink things and end up giving a Kids, let me tell you a story HIMYM style thing. Because I am not really that optimistic.
But I want to be.
The guy who kissed me at midnight on New Year's Eve? The guy who I had a giant crush on in college 'cause he stole a lobster from Wal-Mart one time? The guy who took me on one of the only dates I've ever gone on--to a carnival midway and out for sushi? The guy who likes my friends, does trivia with me twice a week and went to a national competitive trivia tournament with me this past weekend, dressed up in suspenders and glasses, danced like an asshole, did shots of jaeger with our Quizmaster, wandered 6th street in our nerd costumes? That guy who pissed me off so bad that I called him a fist-pumping Jersey Shore douchebag.... who managed to bring it back around and then took me to see The Ataris?
I am dating him.
And I am scared out of my ever-loving mind.
The last two people I was involved with... well, one of them was the guy I dated on and off for like a year and change who is currently in one of his Not Talking To That Bitch cycles. And the other guy is one that I boned for like three months 'cause we were both sad fuckers with nothing better to do.
I am not prepared for someone awesome, especially not THIS kind of awesome.
This isn't a clever or cute or funny blog or a terrible tragic story about how "Hey, this one time, I made a series of choices!"
This is my elation... that maybe, maybe I was right to believe. That maybe, maybe one of those fucking pies I took in the face was worth it. That maybe, oh god, maybe something good is going to happen with this. I hope so.
He laughed when I ran face first into a glass wall in a mirror maze. We shared a funnel cake and got sloppy stupid drunk in a bar combination bowling alley. We sang 90s songs on the drive home when I thought everything was over and I was never going to speak to him again. Then we kissed each other after jumping up and down and screaming the lyrics to San Dimas High School Football Rules, with Kris Roe just a few feet away selling his photographs.
And this is my terror that I am wrong and it's going to end up one of the stories on this blog, the kind I like to tell to people I don't know very well so I can keep them at an arm's distance to disguise the fact that I'm a really a big, giggly cheerleader wrapped in some Daria icing. That the Jersey Shore comment that he swears he will never forget was the more accurate of the summations, that I should ignore the butterflies and the desire to sing and do the Snoopy dance.
I want this to be something real.
I hope I don't look back at this entry and hate myself, because oh god, I never put this much of myself out there. Stories I shouldn't tell prospective employers, future ex-husbands and perfect strangers? I got that shit on lockdown.
This is my heart, guys.
That fragmented mess that I carry around in my chest, hoping against hope that someday someone will want it and give me theirs in return.
I haven't been this excited about a guy in so long and thusly am terrified. It is too soon to predict anything but the fact that I am FUCKING EXCITED.
I don't know how to react when every single part of me is screaming, This Could Be So Great.
But the other part is the part of my mind that hears all those horrible things that have been said to me by people who aren't even in my life anymore, that sees that I am the big crazy mess that would write this kind of entry after only a little while of kind of seeing someone and not very long at all after it's officially stated that we are dating.
Yeah, I'm that kind of crazy.
Who the hell would want to be with someone like that?
........maybe someone who's kind of slipping on a banana peel, double fisting drinks, dancing like a maniac, doesn't always know exactly what they're doing but gorram it if they can't quote firefly while it's happening? Maybe someone like that.... and maybe this guy's that kind of absurd, wrapped up in a genuinely nice guy wrapper.
Oh god, darlings. One can only hope, after all.
I'm trying REALLY hard not to overthink things and end up giving a Kids, let me tell you a story HIMYM style thing. Because I am not really that optimistic.
But I want to be.
The guy who kissed me at midnight on New Year's Eve? The guy who I had a giant crush on in college 'cause he stole a lobster from Wal-Mart one time? The guy who took me on one of the only dates I've ever gone on--to a carnival midway and out for sushi? The guy who likes my friends, does trivia with me twice a week and went to a national competitive trivia tournament with me this past weekend, dressed up in suspenders and glasses, danced like an asshole, did shots of jaeger with our Quizmaster, wandered 6th street in our nerd costumes? That guy who pissed me off so bad that I called him a fist-pumping Jersey Shore douchebag.... who managed to bring it back around and then took me to see The Ataris?
I am dating him.
And I am scared out of my ever-loving mind.
The last two people I was involved with... well, one of them was the guy I dated on and off for like a year and change who is currently in one of his Not Talking To That Bitch cycles. And the other guy is one that I boned for like three months 'cause we were both sad fuckers with nothing better to do.
I am not prepared for someone awesome, especially not THIS kind of awesome.
This isn't a clever or cute or funny blog or a terrible tragic story about how "Hey, this one time, I made a series of choices!"
This is my elation... that maybe, maybe I was right to believe. That maybe, maybe one of those fucking pies I took in the face was worth it. That maybe, oh god, maybe something good is going to happen with this. I hope so.
He laughed when I ran face first into a glass wall in a mirror maze. We shared a funnel cake and got sloppy stupid drunk in a bar combination bowling alley. We sang 90s songs on the drive home when I thought everything was over and I was never going to speak to him again. Then we kissed each other after jumping up and down and screaming the lyrics to San Dimas High School Football Rules, with Kris Roe just a few feet away selling his photographs.
And this is my terror that I am wrong and it's going to end up one of the stories on this blog, the kind I like to tell to people I don't know very well so I can keep them at an arm's distance to disguise the fact that I'm a really a big, giggly cheerleader wrapped in some Daria icing. That the Jersey Shore comment that he swears he will never forget was the more accurate of the summations, that I should ignore the butterflies and the desire to sing and do the Snoopy dance.
I want this to be something real.
I hope I don't look back at this entry and hate myself, because oh god, I never put this much of myself out there. Stories I shouldn't tell prospective employers, future ex-husbands and perfect strangers? I got that shit on lockdown.
This is my heart, guys.
That fragmented mess that I carry around in my chest, hoping against hope that someday someone will want it and give me theirs in return.
I haven't been this excited about a guy in so long and thusly am terrified. It is too soon to predict anything but the fact that I am FUCKING EXCITED.
I don't know how to react when every single part of me is screaming, This Could Be So Great.
But the other part is the part of my mind that hears all those horrible things that have been said to me by people who aren't even in my life anymore, that sees that I am the big crazy mess that would write this kind of entry after only a little while of kind of seeing someone and not very long at all after it's officially stated that we are dating.
Yeah, I'm that kind of crazy.
Who the hell would want to be with someone like that?
........maybe someone who's kind of slipping on a banana peel, double fisting drinks, dancing like a maniac, doesn't always know exactly what they're doing but gorram it if they can't quote firefly while it's happening? Maybe someone like that.... and maybe this guy's that kind of absurd, wrapped up in a genuinely nice guy wrapper.
Oh god, darlings. One can only hope, after all.
Monday, January 23, 2012
And now for something completely different:
This is my friend's band. It is a good band, and highly entertaining. Listen to them. Learn to be a better person.
Doom Ghost is less of a band and more of a group of badass new gods, desperately in need of desexing sticks to wave around most unsexily on stage. That's how fast the panties be droppin'. War-torn survivors of the local music scene, they saw something missing in our little Cowtown of Fort Worth, a longing only they could sate. They looked deep into the heart of Texas and found themselves equal to the challenge.
They began to rock our worlds in the summer of 2011, a heady time of wonderment that taught them, among other things, uses for pizza that were heretofore unimaginable. Chris FallsAsleep, Lavern ForgetsHisOwnLyrics, Jeremy ThatGuyWhoLooksLikeTravisBarker, and Schuyler TheHiredGunFromSeattle are dead set on ripping your eardrums a new one and by Jove, It.Is.On.
The sound invades your soul, making parts of you dance that you didn't even know you had. Whispering echoes of Billy Childish, Dead Moon, and The Gories blend with pop culture references, personal stories and not a single fuck being given to create a gratuitously retro sound which warm the cockles of your heart; yea, even the subcockle region will be set aflame.
While you can never quite know what's next, we can all rest assured that DG is running towards fame like goats on fire. Truth.
Doom Ghost is less of a band and more of a group of badass new gods, desperately in need of desexing sticks to wave around most unsexily on stage. That's how fast the panties be droppin'. War-torn survivors of the local music scene, they saw something missing in our little Cowtown of Fort Worth, a longing only they could sate. They looked deep into the heart of Texas and found themselves equal to the challenge.
They began to rock our worlds in the summer of 2011, a heady time of wonderment that taught them, among other things, uses for pizza that were heretofore unimaginable. Chris FallsAsleep, Lavern ForgetsHisOwnLyrics, Jeremy ThatGuyWhoLooksLikeTravisBarker, and Schuyler TheHiredGunFromSeattle are dead set on ripping your eardrums a new one and by Jove, It.Is.On.
The sound invades your soul, making parts of you dance that you didn't even know you had. Whispering echoes of Billy Childish, Dead Moon, and The Gories blend with pop culture references, personal stories and not a single fuck being given to create a gratuitously retro sound which warm the cockles of your heart; yea, even the subcockle region will be set aflame.
While you can never quite know what's next, we can all rest assured that DG is running towards fame like goats on fire. Truth.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
These are just a couple of my cravings...
I'm going through a break up right now and I have to tell you guys, it's probably the hardest thing I've ever done. Every day, I wake up absolutely determined that THIS is the day, this day, is the time that it's finally, really over. I tell all my friends, either angrily gesturing wildly, or elated and hopeful, that it's over, that I'm done. And they're proud! They're supportive; they're so happy for me that I've reached a point where I can admit that I want to take myself away from the misery I'm in. Because people don't change unless the pain of changing is less than the pain of staying the same and I am the embodiment of that gahdawful cliche right now, absolutely.
Thing is, every single day, I'm lying.
And saying that I'm done, saying that I want out? Only makes me get mad separation anxiety. Makes me want it more. I can't stop. I'm addicted.
I'm listening to my playlist right now, thinking about it. Thinking about how much I want to weaken like I have so many times before. Even though Rufus Wainwright and Atom & His Package are begging me not to, telling me that I know how this cycle ends and it's not anything I want in my life. It literally makes my heart hurt and my chest feel like it's caving in. It hurts me emotionally and physically, it's horrible. And yet....
It's that endless cycle, man. And we've all been through it, that moment where all you're wanting is a poignant farewell, like the ones they have in the movies, where all you can hear in your brain is Brokeback Fucking Mountain. Wanting any sort of resolution or epiphany, a moment where we feel ok. Where the soft alt rock music is building, with the singer about to give you the gift of his emotions (which are oddly reminiscent of your emotions! Whoa! You mean other people feel things too!?). But the music is building and your heartbeat is going in time as you feel that possibility flooding you, because you know it hurts but every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end, goddamnit, and YOU ARE FREE.
And I swear, movies and song lyrics and just living in my own brain have ruined forever any possibility I have for getting through this kind of ending with any bit of dignity. So I make a scene. I act a fucking fool, because I don't want anyone to know anything is wrong. I pretend like what I'm doing is helping, when really, I'm devolving into this embarrassing cycle of destructive behaviour that affects ALL aspects of my life, not just the thing I'm trying to get away from. I get rull awkward, I drink just little differently than I did before, trying to escape the fact that I feel like I'm fucking drowning. But I am not. I'm just being a big sad face baby. Because that's what happens sometimes when you're breaking up with your way of life. Because it's never just about the person and in that same regard, what I'm going through right now is not just about the smoking.
But yeah, you want to give yourself this good memory. You pick a sunset as your background as you light up and watch the blue grey smoke swirl towards it into the breeze while you sit with this faraway look on your face. You savor each drag, suppress each cough and think about the things that matter, or the things you love, or the things you want or hell, nothing at all because this is your time. You make it fucking beautiful in your head. This is it, the final moment, and these moments are precious.
That One.Last.Cigarette is like fucking someone good-bye. It is flawed logic but you want it to be something good for you, so badly. Something positive you can savor in the middle of the big fucking mess you've made of your choices. And you can laugh at that analogy, but if you do, you've probably never quit smoking. And I kind of fucking hate you right now. Because I hate everyone, especially myself for starting this disgusting practice in the first place.
Don't feel bad, guys... I don't really hate you... it's just the withdrawal.
And I wish it could be like that, background and deep talk with yourself and it's over and you're moving on. I wish I could be like that. But I'm not. If I could drunk text cigarettes from the bar, I would. Not that I really have to, 'cause the minute I think about leaving forever, I run straight back, frantically sucking my poison into my lungs as fast as I can. But maybe it's the stress of everything else, I still need those moments where I'm a hardass with that filterless cigarette in my mouth, like I don't know what it's like to wake up gasping for breath 'cause asthma and smoking don't mix well. Where I am a Rebel Without A Clue that I am harming my body, don't look cool at all, smell awful and need to stop paying money for something that will kill me. But eventually this will end. I know it. I'll put my real badass hat on and walk away into the sunset without needing it to be poignant or an escape or anything but my life, where all my veins have to pump is my blood. And I can't wait, but really, guys... I still wouldn't hold your breath.
Thing is, every single day, I'm lying.
And saying that I'm done, saying that I want out? Only makes me get mad separation anxiety. Makes me want it more. I can't stop. I'm addicted.
I'm listening to my playlist right now, thinking about it. Thinking about how much I want to weaken like I have so many times before. Even though Rufus Wainwright and Atom & His Package are begging me not to, telling me that I know how this cycle ends and it's not anything I want in my life. It literally makes my heart hurt and my chest feel like it's caving in. It hurts me emotionally and physically, it's horrible. And yet....
It's that endless cycle, man. And we've all been through it, that moment where all you're wanting is a poignant farewell, like the ones they have in the movies, where all you can hear in your brain is Brokeback Fucking Mountain. Wanting any sort of resolution or epiphany, a moment where we feel ok. Where the soft alt rock music is building, with the singer about to give you the gift of his emotions (which are oddly reminiscent of your emotions! Whoa! You mean other people feel things too!?). But the music is building and your heartbeat is going in time as you feel that possibility flooding you, because you know it hurts but every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end, goddamnit, and YOU ARE FREE.
And I swear, movies and song lyrics and just living in my own brain have ruined forever any possibility I have for getting through this kind of ending with any bit of dignity. So I make a scene. I act a fucking fool, because I don't want anyone to know anything is wrong. I pretend like what I'm doing is helping, when really, I'm devolving into this embarrassing cycle of destructive behaviour that affects ALL aspects of my life, not just the thing I'm trying to get away from. I get rull awkward, I drink just little differently than I did before, trying to escape the fact that I feel like I'm fucking drowning. But I am not. I'm just being a big sad face baby. Because that's what happens sometimes when you're breaking up with your way of life. Because it's never just about the person and in that same regard, what I'm going through right now is not just about the smoking.
But yeah, you want to give yourself this good memory. You pick a sunset as your background as you light up and watch the blue grey smoke swirl towards it into the breeze while you sit with this faraway look on your face. You savor each drag, suppress each cough and think about the things that matter, or the things you love, or the things you want or hell, nothing at all because this is your time. You make it fucking beautiful in your head. This is it, the final moment, and these moments are precious.
That One.Last.Cigarette is like fucking someone good-bye. It is flawed logic but you want it to be something good for you, so badly. Something positive you can savor in the middle of the big fucking mess you've made of your choices. And you can laugh at that analogy, but if you do, you've probably never quit smoking. And I kind of fucking hate you right now. Because I hate everyone, especially myself for starting this disgusting practice in the first place.
Don't feel bad, guys... I don't really hate you... it's just the withdrawal.
And I wish it could be like that, background and deep talk with yourself and it's over and you're moving on. I wish I could be like that. But I'm not. If I could drunk text cigarettes from the bar, I would. Not that I really have to, 'cause the minute I think about leaving forever, I run straight back, frantically sucking my poison into my lungs as fast as I can. But maybe it's the stress of everything else, I still need those moments where I'm a hardass with that filterless cigarette in my mouth, like I don't know what it's like to wake up gasping for breath 'cause asthma and smoking don't mix well. Where I am a Rebel Without A Clue that I am harming my body, don't look cool at all, smell awful and need to stop paying money for something that will kill me. But eventually this will end. I know it. I'll put my real badass hat on and walk away into the sunset without needing it to be poignant or an escape or anything but my life, where all my veins have to pump is my blood. And I can't wait, but really, guys... I still wouldn't hold your breath.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
A Peek Into My Brain. As Per Uje.
This is absolutely whore-ible but, I swear, the worst feeling in the world is when you can feel yourself starting to like someone... where you've already kissed and you're playful and flirty and fun together... where you think stuff is going to go really well but you're trying to be a responsible human being and make sure you're ready to see where it goes but one simple thought keeps floating through your brain, one nagging, constant thought that makes you both irritated and nervous:
Oh please, please don't have a small penis.
Oh please, please don't have a small penis.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Rebounds Can Be Ugly.
Thankfully, this blog is not about things I am always proud of, ya'll. This blog is about shit that's real in my life, things that happen. And this story puts me in a pretty bad light. To me, it's amusing. It might not be that way to you. But there's a lesson here about bridging knowledge gaps. The thing that ends up hilarious about asking for something while you're still in recovery mode is that invariably there is a disconnect between you knowing what to ask for and the person you're asking knowing how to give it. Like once happened to me in fourth grade when I for some reason loved basketball, the stupidest feeling you can get is when your own damn rebound shot hits you in the face. Because you have no one to blame but yourself.
Like this guy I hung out with recently... on paper? He's great. Blond, pretty eyes (if more than a little crazy), smart, intellectual (not the same thing), and a READER. Oh yes, darlings, a reader with good taste. I was ASKING for a nice evening with a guy who actually was interested in what I had to say, knowing that this particular gentleman lives out of state, not really wanting any entanglement, but to just to go out with a guy who seemed like someone who'd at least be entertaining. And oh he was entertaining all right. And so was I. So was I.
Let's flash back, shall we? I met him at my usual bar a couple months ago when I was still semi-involved with a couple people, so I didn't pursue it beyond a cute facebook post on his wall... that he never responded to nor acknowledged. C'est la vie.
So imagine my sheer joy when those other two boys fell through, the year was nearing its end, I was craving a treat and I got a message:
I'm in town for the holidays. I was at The Bar last night and I was sad you weren't there.
And then comes the flirting. And the cute jokes. And the wordplay. He makes a joke about how to tell if a Hipster is an extrovert. I am hooked.
I'm at dinner, 'cause my incredible college friend is in town and we're doing sushi. I mention meeting up with the guy... let's call him Gail. Friend is down, she's got a hang out scheduled with someone, too. Our tummies full of sushi, our hearts high and hopeful, we go to The Bar together, expecting a charming evening out with our two gentlemen callers... err, texters. Whatever.
Darlings, this is when my anxiety and other people's poor social skills stop being polite and start getting real.
Gail walks into the bar looking around, and from the minute we make eye contact, I know. This is not going to end any way I'd hoped. Because his face goes from excited to slightly reserved. I can be rather girly, but this day, I was wearing my work clothes. I didn't get myself together. I distinctly remember wishing aloud that I didn't look like a giant bag of dicks. So this look on his face? It's a little disconcerting but ordinarily, I like a challenge. We greet each other and it's slightly awkward but interest seems to be present.
Friend grabs a table near the back and the chit chat begins. I'm feeling rather shy, they're talking politics and his work overseas. I have absolutely nothing to contribute to this conversation. I really don't. Those are two subjects I'm perfectly happy to listen to, but my opinions on them are tiny, pathetic and best kept to myself. Trust. This goes on for a bit and I grow less excited by him by the second, even though he talked about authors, it later dawned on me that he was talking about fucking Tolstoy. Fucking Russians.
Don't worry, guys! I was just as much of a disappointment to him, as you'll soon find out.
The conversation takes a turn towards a subject I'm more comfortable with and I try to interject and I catch a look on his face that is unmistakable. He's not interested in a damn word I have to say. He's got eyes only for Friend at this point. Which is just, well, weird. She's fantastic and wonderful and all the adjectives combined, but... wasn't he hanging out with me? Shouldn't he at least try to pretend that I'm still at the table? Maybe I'm just getting a weird vibe. So I try to pep myself up a bit and every. single. damn sentence I manage to moistly utter in his direction is poorly received. Which makes me say something a little soggier. Have you ever been caught in one of those feedback loops? Where no matter how hard you try, every cycle sees you forgetting a little more of the English language? More of the skills you've mastered since kindergarten are slipping away with each syllable... and for me that's particularly embarassing, as I assure you I mastered talking loooooooooong before I mastered the art of not peeing my pants anymore.
Seriously, that's how dumb I felt: sitting there in my warm puddle of word pee, feeling like everyone around is kindly trying to look around while I find a towel and hose myself off.
It was that bad.
AT this point, World's Dumbest something or other is playing on TV and I can't stop watching it. I'm so embarrassed and insecure at this point I've given myself a headache. I'm unable to join in any conversation, even when it turns to books, even when Friend is doing everything she can to help steer the conversation in a way that I'm gonna be able to at least make guttural noises of approval towards. I think the only positive contribution I made was to get REALLY excited about a video of Beaker singing Ode To Joy.
Suddenly, Friend's gentleman hangout arrives so she 23-skiddos. I'm alone at the table, with the guy who's really not been talking to me, even when it was sadly, pathetically apparent that I was trying to be an actual human being. We awkwardly converse. He's obviously noticed that this is a little weird. So he explains the situation the only way he can, apparently. He tells me in words that I WISH I could remember verbatim that he's been talking mostly to Friend because being overseas so much leaves him craving intellectual discussion and he couldn't pass up the opportunity.
Stop. Freeze.
This guy. This guy who's ostensibly hanging out with me, this guy who flirted with me all day, who knows that I'm not stupid, I'm just feeling awkard, just told me, no, dude, it's ok. I'm only shamelessly flirting with your friend 'cause she's smarter than you.
As E.T. would say, ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuch.
I honestly do not remember how I responded. I just sat there, I'm pretty sure and managed to make a few inane vowel and consonant sounds into some sort of response. At least I'm pretty sure there were vowels... and I'm mostly certain I didn't drool on myself.
Hey! How's THAT for intellectual.
MENSA, are you reading this? Sign my ass up!
(They have a committee that elects people for membership via the blogs about their personal lives and rampant abuse of parentheses, right?)
But seriously, I've been in some fucking awkward situations and I have never in all my born days felt more confused and out of sorts than I did that night. And as the drinks kept on comin', it got to the point where he was interrupting my sentences as soon as his whirring mechanical brain clicked on over to the Not Interested setting. Friend honestly moved to sit by me at one point so I would at least be in his line of sight.
She and her hangout are freely moving around the bar, which honestly never occurred to me. The gravity of my embarrassment kept me planted in that one spot. He tells me that he's too drunk to want to drive immediately and my place is out for an after party, so I ask Friend's hangout if we can head back to his place, as he and I are on good terms. He says sure! And off we trot. We manage to navigate to the apartment complex and man, am I glad we did. Because I will cherish the moments in that apartment for years to come. I'm already not interested in this person, thank the Lord. Because the verbal gymnastics that guy was flipping to try to impress Friend were spectacular. The looks we all exchanged were pretty phenomenal. It's not that he said things that were exactly stupid. And I managed to say stupid things aplenty. Not just awkward but actually dumb. But just... his desire to somehow sway Friend to his charms was palpable. It became the fifth person in the room, and believe me, it was doing alllllllllll the talking.
It's clear that I'm ready to leave and so is he. While we're trekking back to the vehicle he turns and asks if he can stay at my house. And he's too drunk to drive anywhere. So, of course I say yes. When the conversation turns to WHERE he's going to sleep, I'm torn. Someone is currently sleeping on our couch. I can't explain what I did here except that the whole night has been so weird, I just don't care anymore and I say it's fine if he stays in my room.
We get in there, smoke a cigarette and look at my books, which actually sparks some discourse. I ask him to turn his back so I can change. Lacking a desexing stick to wave around most unsexily, I put together the most horrible sleeping outfit that I could imagine. I got my grey-green four-sizes-too-large Wallflowers shirt, my oldest, nastiest purple plaid pajama bottoms. I smelled like the bar. I left the usual knee high socks I wore to bed off as I hadn't shaved my legs in days and I figured if Jakob Dylan's face didn't deter him, the veritable briar patch on my legs just might.
Guess what. It didn't.
He starts grabbing at my waist. Running his fingers along my back. It gets to the point where I'm literally having to buck my hips to keep him from getting his hand down my panties.
He apologises for groping me and I tell him that I'm really in two minds about it. And I'm drunk, I'm still all awhirl. I'm also a little embarassed because I've got a couple pounds on that aren't making me happy and this guy, for all his flaws, has the most perfect damn body. His abs, his arms, his hands. Gorgeous. Seriously. It almost made me reconsider the desexing powers of Jakob Dylan for like a nanosecond. Anyway. He asks me what the two opposing thoughts are and I desperately am trying not to blurt out the words, "I don't fuck people who flirt with my friends when they're supposed to be hanging out with me." And I have no idea WHY I didn't just say that. Maybe I was trying to keep things copacetic 'til the inevitable dawn. Maybe I just wanted to see how this particular little adventure will go. Maybe something about being insecure and single and still wanting this guy's approval. After all, he's in my bed! that validates me! Right?!
So I blurt out a very true but still odd fact: I do not have single serving sex with anyone. I am proud of the fact that I do not, ever, ever just sleep with someone once. I actually sleep with people that I am interested in being around for more than a few whiskey-soaked, sloppy hours. When it comes to the alternative of regret and feeling slightly used, well, I don't think so. Ho Me don't play dat.
Before we even get to the other half of my two minds, he informs me that he doesn't want to have sex with me. That he will not have sex with me. In those exact words. Glad I misinterpreted the hand trying to go down my pants, yo. But whatevs. Now's the part where you judge me. I gave him a dose of his own medicine. I turned my head away from him and started grabbing his abs. I trace my fingers over his skin, which is warm and firm and absolutely beautiful. He actually breathily spoke the words "touch me" aloud... appropriately, "me" in this case did in fact refer to a dick. And I refused. Eventually, I grew bored with being petty to myself and him and rolled over and went to sleep. After he again groped me in the morning and I again managed to gyrate enough to avoid getting fingered, he put himself together and I let him out of my house. He sent me a flawlessly worded text thanking me for my hospitality and told me to wish Friend the best. She later denied his request on facebook. And except for the random status updates and a link he sent me about an article about women not marrying in this generation, I let him out of my life, too.
I learned about myself that night.
I learned that especially when stuff gets awkward, I am still capable of making bad decisions in a champ-like fashion. I learned that though I've come through this life of mine lately with most of my finer points intact, my pride/self-esteem is still among the missing. I learned that within these parameters, I'm still awesome at being self-destructive. But mostly I learned that even though I know I can be an asshole, when confronted with someone who's being a bigger asshole than myself, I can survive and look back and laugh. Because this entire, absurd, stupid interlude just gives me the giggles. I hang out all night with a guy who's flirting with my friend, let him sleep in my bed and then give him the bluest balls I can manage when he STILL thinks he's gonna get some sort of play? I'm an asshole for not throwing his ass on the porch, or at least on the couch or the floor. But people are attracted, instinctively, to what they're projecting at the moment. So maybe that's why I stayed. Maybe that's why I gave consent to the whole situation. Maybe I wanted to see into whatever he was going through because it would help me better understand what I was/am going through. Even though we were never really looking at each other, I kinda think we were using each other, equally, to help us decipher a little of the fucked up behavior we were individually exhibiting. Maybe it's fitting that we didn't have much to say but like true extroverts, we were using interaction to help us sort through the mess in our heads. So we didn't have to walk a mile in each other's moccasins to learn whatever it is that we each needed out of this thing that happened between us. Our moccasins were the same in this situation and we could recognise that without ever having to really look each other in the eye. Like he told me. You can always tell if a hipster is an extrovert 'cause he looks at your shoes when he's talking to you. Ours just happened to match.
Like this guy I hung out with recently... on paper? He's great. Blond, pretty eyes (if more than a little crazy), smart, intellectual (not the same thing), and a READER. Oh yes, darlings, a reader with good taste. I was ASKING for a nice evening with a guy who actually was interested in what I had to say, knowing that this particular gentleman lives out of state, not really wanting any entanglement, but to just to go out with a guy who seemed like someone who'd at least be entertaining. And oh he was entertaining all right. And so was I. So was I.
Let's flash back, shall we? I met him at my usual bar a couple months ago when I was still semi-involved with a couple people, so I didn't pursue it beyond a cute facebook post on his wall... that he never responded to nor acknowledged. C'est la vie.
So imagine my sheer joy when those other two boys fell through, the year was nearing its end, I was craving a treat and I got a message:
I'm in town for the holidays. I was at The Bar last night and I was sad you weren't there.
And then comes the flirting. And the cute jokes. And the wordplay. He makes a joke about how to tell if a Hipster is an extrovert. I am hooked.
I'm at dinner, 'cause my incredible college friend is in town and we're doing sushi. I mention meeting up with the guy... let's call him Gail. Friend is down, she's got a hang out scheduled with someone, too. Our tummies full of sushi, our hearts high and hopeful, we go to The Bar together, expecting a charming evening out with our two gentlemen callers... err, texters. Whatever.
Darlings, this is when my anxiety and other people's poor social skills stop being polite and start getting real.
Gail walks into the bar looking around, and from the minute we make eye contact, I know. This is not going to end any way I'd hoped. Because his face goes from excited to slightly reserved. I can be rather girly, but this day, I was wearing my work clothes. I didn't get myself together. I distinctly remember wishing aloud that I didn't look like a giant bag of dicks. So this look on his face? It's a little disconcerting but ordinarily, I like a challenge. We greet each other and it's slightly awkward but interest seems to be present.
Friend grabs a table near the back and the chit chat begins. I'm feeling rather shy, they're talking politics and his work overseas. I have absolutely nothing to contribute to this conversation. I really don't. Those are two subjects I'm perfectly happy to listen to, but my opinions on them are tiny, pathetic and best kept to myself. Trust. This goes on for a bit and I grow less excited by him by the second, even though he talked about authors, it later dawned on me that he was talking about fucking Tolstoy. Fucking Russians.
Don't worry, guys! I was just as much of a disappointment to him, as you'll soon find out.
The conversation takes a turn towards a subject I'm more comfortable with and I try to interject and I catch a look on his face that is unmistakable. He's not interested in a damn word I have to say. He's got eyes only for Friend at this point. Which is just, well, weird. She's fantastic and wonderful and all the adjectives combined, but... wasn't he hanging out with me? Shouldn't he at least try to pretend that I'm still at the table? Maybe I'm just getting a weird vibe. So I try to pep myself up a bit and every. single. damn sentence I manage to moistly utter in his direction is poorly received. Which makes me say something a little soggier. Have you ever been caught in one of those feedback loops? Where no matter how hard you try, every cycle sees you forgetting a little more of the English language? More of the skills you've mastered since kindergarten are slipping away with each syllable... and for me that's particularly embarassing, as I assure you I mastered talking loooooooooong before I mastered the art of not peeing my pants anymore.
Seriously, that's how dumb I felt: sitting there in my warm puddle of word pee, feeling like everyone around is kindly trying to look around while I find a towel and hose myself off.
It was that bad.
AT this point, World's Dumbest something or other is playing on TV and I can't stop watching it. I'm so embarrassed and insecure at this point I've given myself a headache. I'm unable to join in any conversation, even when it turns to books, even when Friend is doing everything she can to help steer the conversation in a way that I'm gonna be able to at least make guttural noises of approval towards. I think the only positive contribution I made was to get REALLY excited about a video of Beaker singing Ode To Joy.
Suddenly, Friend's gentleman hangout arrives so she 23-skiddos. I'm alone at the table, with the guy who's really not been talking to me, even when it was sadly, pathetically apparent that I was trying to be an actual human being. We awkwardly converse. He's obviously noticed that this is a little weird. So he explains the situation the only way he can, apparently. He tells me in words that I WISH I could remember verbatim that he's been talking mostly to Friend because being overseas so much leaves him craving intellectual discussion and he couldn't pass up the opportunity.
Stop. Freeze.
This guy. This guy who's ostensibly hanging out with me, this guy who flirted with me all day, who knows that I'm not stupid, I'm just feeling awkard, just told me, no, dude, it's ok. I'm only shamelessly flirting with your friend 'cause she's smarter than you.
As E.T. would say, ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuch.
I honestly do not remember how I responded. I just sat there, I'm pretty sure and managed to make a few inane vowel and consonant sounds into some sort of response. At least I'm pretty sure there were vowels... and I'm mostly certain I didn't drool on myself.
Hey! How's THAT for intellectual.
MENSA, are you reading this? Sign my ass up!
(They have a committee that elects people for membership via the blogs about their personal lives and rampant abuse of parentheses, right?)
But seriously, I've been in some fucking awkward situations and I have never in all my born days felt more confused and out of sorts than I did that night. And as the drinks kept on comin', it got to the point where he was interrupting my sentences as soon as his whirring mechanical brain clicked on over to the Not Interested setting. Friend honestly moved to sit by me at one point so I would at least be in his line of sight.
She and her hangout are freely moving around the bar, which honestly never occurred to me. The gravity of my embarrassment kept me planted in that one spot. He tells me that he's too drunk to want to drive immediately and my place is out for an after party, so I ask Friend's hangout if we can head back to his place, as he and I are on good terms. He says sure! And off we trot. We manage to navigate to the apartment complex and man, am I glad we did. Because I will cherish the moments in that apartment for years to come. I'm already not interested in this person, thank the Lord. Because the verbal gymnastics that guy was flipping to try to impress Friend were spectacular. The looks we all exchanged were pretty phenomenal. It's not that he said things that were exactly stupid. And I managed to say stupid things aplenty. Not just awkward but actually dumb. But just... his desire to somehow sway Friend to his charms was palpable. It became the fifth person in the room, and believe me, it was doing alllllllllll the talking.
It's clear that I'm ready to leave and so is he. While we're trekking back to the vehicle he turns and asks if he can stay at my house. And he's too drunk to drive anywhere. So, of course I say yes. When the conversation turns to WHERE he's going to sleep, I'm torn. Someone is currently sleeping on our couch. I can't explain what I did here except that the whole night has been so weird, I just don't care anymore and I say it's fine if he stays in my room.
We get in there, smoke a cigarette and look at my books, which actually sparks some discourse. I ask him to turn his back so I can change. Lacking a desexing stick to wave around most unsexily, I put together the most horrible sleeping outfit that I could imagine. I got my grey-green four-sizes-too-large Wallflowers shirt, my oldest, nastiest purple plaid pajama bottoms. I smelled like the bar. I left the usual knee high socks I wore to bed off as I hadn't shaved my legs in days and I figured if Jakob Dylan's face didn't deter him, the veritable briar patch on my legs just might.
Guess what. It didn't.
He starts grabbing at my waist. Running his fingers along my back. It gets to the point where I'm literally having to buck my hips to keep him from getting his hand down my panties.
He apologises for groping me and I tell him that I'm really in two minds about it. And I'm drunk, I'm still all awhirl. I'm also a little embarassed because I've got a couple pounds on that aren't making me happy and this guy, for all his flaws, has the most perfect damn body. His abs, his arms, his hands. Gorgeous. Seriously. It almost made me reconsider the desexing powers of Jakob Dylan for like a nanosecond. Anyway. He asks me what the two opposing thoughts are and I desperately am trying not to blurt out the words, "I don't fuck people who flirt with my friends when they're supposed to be hanging out with me." And I have no idea WHY I didn't just say that. Maybe I was trying to keep things copacetic 'til the inevitable dawn. Maybe I just wanted to see how this particular little adventure will go. Maybe something about being insecure and single and still wanting this guy's approval. After all, he's in my bed! that validates me! Right?!
So I blurt out a very true but still odd fact: I do not have single serving sex with anyone. I am proud of the fact that I do not, ever, ever just sleep with someone once. I actually sleep with people that I am interested in being around for more than a few whiskey-soaked, sloppy hours. When it comes to the alternative of regret and feeling slightly used, well, I don't think so. Ho Me don't play dat.
Before we even get to the other half of my two minds, he informs me that he doesn't want to have sex with me. That he will not have sex with me. In those exact words. Glad I misinterpreted the hand trying to go down my pants, yo. But whatevs. Now's the part where you judge me. I gave him a dose of his own medicine. I turned my head away from him and started grabbing his abs. I trace my fingers over his skin, which is warm and firm and absolutely beautiful. He actually breathily spoke the words "touch me" aloud... appropriately, "me" in this case did in fact refer to a dick. And I refused. Eventually, I grew bored with being petty to myself and him and rolled over and went to sleep. After he again groped me in the morning and I again managed to gyrate enough to avoid getting fingered, he put himself together and I let him out of my house. He sent me a flawlessly worded text thanking me for my hospitality and told me to wish Friend the best. She later denied his request on facebook. And except for the random status updates and a link he sent me about an article about women not marrying in this generation, I let him out of my life, too.
I learned about myself that night.
I learned that especially when stuff gets awkward, I am still capable of making bad decisions in a champ-like fashion. I learned that though I've come through this life of mine lately with most of my finer points intact, my pride/self-esteem is still among the missing. I learned that within these parameters, I'm still awesome at being self-destructive. But mostly I learned that even though I know I can be an asshole, when confronted with someone who's being a bigger asshole than myself, I can survive and look back and laugh. Because this entire, absurd, stupid interlude just gives me the giggles. I hang out all night with a guy who's flirting with my friend, let him sleep in my bed and then give him the bluest balls I can manage when he STILL thinks he's gonna get some sort of play? I'm an asshole for not throwing his ass on the porch, or at least on the couch or the floor. But people are attracted, instinctively, to what they're projecting at the moment. So maybe that's why I stayed. Maybe that's why I gave consent to the whole situation. Maybe I wanted to see into whatever he was going through because it would help me better understand what I was/am going through. Even though we were never really looking at each other, I kinda think we were using each other, equally, to help us decipher a little of the fucked up behavior we were individually exhibiting. Maybe it's fitting that we didn't have much to say but like true extroverts, we were using interaction to help us sort through the mess in our heads. So we didn't have to walk a mile in each other's moccasins to learn whatever it is that we each needed out of this thing that happened between us. Our moccasins were the same in this situation and we could recognise that without ever having to really look each other in the eye. Like he told me. You can always tell if a hipster is an extrovert 'cause he looks at your shoes when he's talking to you. Ours just happened to match.
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