Aaand, I’m never telling another guy I date that I have a blog and I use it to talk shit on men. Good plan.
Sooo…. There’s starting to be a troubling trend in my life.
I realize that you didn’t ask what this revelation was, and I bet you don’t really care, because I wouldn’t care since this is a very blatantly selfish post. But- I’m going to tell you anyway becuase I want to hash this out with myself and see where my mind takes me. I will also probably delete this post in 3 days becuase I promised all 4 of my readers (hi mom!) that I would stop being melodramatic and introspective because self-searching isn’t funny. It’s sad.
Anyway. I haven’t been emotionally interested in anyone new for a year. I understand this sounds like absolutely nothing and you’re probably sitting there like, “ummmm, you’re a douchebag. Stop thinking so much, you’re obviously not good at it.” But let me explain before you get all judgey and mean.
I dated muscles for a while, then Mr. Pretty, then the Libra. They overlapped one another and came back around and did start-stop things, all since 2009. Nobody new. I’m scared of new people. No, I’m terrified of new people.
And it’s unfortunate because I don’t really want to be single. I’ve lived that phase out and I’ve had fun and gone crazy and been selfish without thinking about how other people felt. I’ve used that phrase, “I’m only going to be young once.” I’m still young, but that phrase makes a lot less sense tonight than it did when I threw it around as an excuse.
Mr. Pretty and I were volatile (I know, I know… stop talking about it right?), but I thought it was just going to be a really good story one day. Ironically enough, it’s a shitty story and it makes me sound like a moron. Or Taylor Swift minus the fame. Same thing I suppose. And I was so wounded by it that I only dated people I was positive were safe. Muscles loved me, and still does. When the Libra and I dated the first time around, he was smitten and I was too busy feeling bad about myself to realize that it had potential.
So when I finally got over Mr. Pretty and finally saw that relationship for all of its awfulness, I didn’t think much about the fact that I kind of pranced around with Muscles again. When Muscles annoyed me to the point of outbursts, I didn’t think much about the fact that I went bee-lining for the Libra. What I didn’t think about was that, hey! maybe the the Libra isn’t smitten with me anymore. What a thought, right?
Well the Libra is not smitten. He’s actually on the rebound. And he’s actually still recovering from that. And for those reasons and some others I won’t bother to write about here, we parted ways. He and I doing so isn’t the point of this though… it’s just… WHAT THE FUCK WAS I DOING?
My relationships all have a similar trajectory, which is alarming. Want to know what it is? Of course you don’t! That’s why I’m going to tell you anyway.
We meet. He’s all about it and I’m sort of “eehhhh” about it. Then we stop talking because I behave like a 16 year old then I’m all, “wait! I’m totally sprung on you. We’d have hot babies. Wanna get married?” And then he goes, “Not really...” and I respond with “Seriously, I’m totally the right girl for you… WHY CAN’T YOU JUST GROW UP AND SEE HOW AWESOME I AM?!” and then, after staring at my cell phone for 76 hours straight begging for the LED light to blink or debating whether or not my phone is even working, I give an ultimatum because I’m delerious from no sleep and he’s like, “I’d really rather not.” And then I say, “Okay.” The end.
People always say that admitting you have a problem is the first step. So world, please consider this my first step. I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t like me. Honestly, I’d prefer someone who thought I was nice. Or funny. Or both, whatever. I’m just worried that I kind of forgot how. My need to be in control of people superceded my ability to recognize when people weren’t right for me. Can I unlearn that? Is that like teaching a child how to un-walk? Or is it like actually breaking an addiction?
This sucks. I couldn’t get a cool addiction that would land me on A&E. I’m stuck with this bullshit cliche tendency that makes me more Dear Abby and less reality television.
*Also, I am concerned that the Libra is reading this (in which case Heyyyyy… this is awkward…) Because if I were him and I told someone that I just “couldn’t” God knows I would totally hit up their blog and be like this bitch is totally talking shit. But I’m not. Because I’m a grown up.*
So, you’ve chopped off your husband’s penis. Okay, maybe he was about to become your ex-husband and maybe you poisoned him and maybe you thought it would add a little somethin’ to the story if you tied him to a bed and used a ten inch knife to castrate him… Obviously if you’ve planned this far ahead, you know exactly what to tell the cops after you calmly tell the 911 operator that yeah, there’s a bit of a medical emergency in your apartment.
What, everyone will wonder, were your words of brilliance that comprised the reasoning for such a brutal deed? Obviously: “He deserved it.”
That, ladies and gents, is the kind of woman who lives in the same lovely county as I do. This crazy bitch CUT OFF HER HUSBAND’S PENIS. WITH A KNIFE.
Oh, but it gets better… because really, once you’ve dismembered the same man you promised to love and cherish til death (or unfortunate litigation) do us part, why not go a little crazy?
She… God, it hurts to even write it… she… she put… his penis… down…the garbage disposal. Ack…the noise that must have made!?!
Loraina Bobbit, wherever that nut-case is, must be writhing with jealousy of this lady who dared to so blatantly one up her. And I, in the comfort of my room (after having sent this story to almost everyone I know), am writhing with some sort of morbid curiosity at what has to go so fucking wrong in your life that this seems like even a slightly acceptable idea.
Upon telling D about it, she pointed out that really it’s the only way to make sure your ex doesn’t sleep with anyone else… but really, after they imprison you or find you a cozy, padded cell, you won’t be doing the deed with anyone either. Unless Freddy Kruger is looking for a lady friend.
The Libra asked me where I was last night, trying to insinuate that I am capable of such outbursts. (For the record: I am not. I might get a little needy, or throw a tantrum from time to time, but I will leave you with your penis).
My coworker simply said, “Please, please don’t tell me you think this was cool.”
And now that the story has spread like wild fire and men the world over are investing in pad-locked protection for their members, you’ve got to be concerned that shit like this even goes on on a Monday night. Personally, I’m concerned that shit like this goes on in what seems to be a high-end, affluent, relatively normal community. Have we, as a culture, moved so far past the predictable, I’m-burning-all-your-stuff-because-you-suck acts, that we succumb to physically marring someone? Revoking their man-card in the most literal (and disturbing) sense?
You know this bitch was thinking that she wanted to cause some irreprable damage. She was sending a message. I pray to the heavens I never have to understand that message, but hot damn! Was she calm through the whole ordeal? “Oh, you need that? Hm… well, look, yeah, there’s still bits and pieces left! We’ll just sew it back on. There! Good as new. You’re fine honey, stop whining, you’re just making it bleed worse.”
It’s a penis. They NEED those… that’s where they store all their hopes and dreams and aspirations for future and self worth. It would be like robbing me of my wit. (ha. ha).
Sigh. There’s a man out there, in critical condition now, without a penis. And a woman, in jail, probably getting high-fives from her fellow basket-cases.
And there’s me… morbidly relieved that there are people out there so out of their trees that they make me look not only normal, but awesome, and wondering what the motherfuck anyone could do to actually deserve getting Lorana Bobbitted.
Gentlemen, hide your penises. She’s coming for them.
Maybe it’s me being emotional because I’m on my period. Maybe it was the ice cream. Maybe it’s the stress. Maybe it’s the suspiciously long recovery from the 4th of July spent exactly how the founding fathers would have wanted— with shots of Jameson in dimly lit bars…. But Jebus I’m freaking out about being a cat lady.
Have you ever seen Say Anything with John Cusak? It’s absolutely everything you could ever want in a cheesy 80’s chick flick. Before we got all 500 Days of Summer/maybe happy endings are all bullshit, the 80’s fucking nailed the idea of work hard enough and you get the girl/guy. Our generation, once again everybody- say it with me, SUCKS.
So long story short, John Cusack is kind of a weird creepy dude who falls for quintessential overachieving ASB girl that nobody in real life would actually befriend, she falls for him (thereby significantly lowering her standards and probably setting herself up for a lifetime of mediocrity and frustration), then her dad is a money launderer (?) and she breaks up with poor John because… I don’t know… she thinks that having a boyfriend is related to her father being a criminal?
Anyway, guess what John does. GUESS! He stands outside her window at dawn (or dusk… lighting is pretty shitty in the 80’s, not sure), and holds what appears to be a 45 pound boombox over his head playing Phil Collins into her bedroom window. I about cried. Okay, I teared up.
And then I did what every girl does when we watch these movies…. I thought to myself, “Hold on… how come nobody ever did this for ME?” Okay, I admit I’m not even sure that grand gestures really exist or if Hollywood invented them just to make sure that all men will never measure up, but still… The grandest gesture I’ve ever experienced was a picture in High School from my boyfriend where he wrote I<3 U in the sand at the beach in Diet Coke…
Which, looking back is actually pretty sweet, but something a homeless person probably could have managed with a stolen camera.
What I’m trying to say is Say Anything is my dream movie. It was everything you ever wanted in a cheesy romance: weirdly intense face grabbing while kissing outside, rambling speeches about completely unrestrained mushiness, and of course, a grand gesture from a guy to a girl who probably doesn’t really deserve it anyway.
I’m not saying I deserve it. I’m not saying I even kind of deserve someone irritating my neighbors just to press me (sigh), but it’d be pretty spectacular. Should a romantic comedy ever be written about my life it will be some joke of a girl who offends everybody, manages to mess everything up (in a completely NOT adorable, endearing way), gets her period in the guy she likes’ bed (TWICE!– sorry, Libra) and then ends up with the guy she hated but she’s so worn down by scaring everyone away that she just gives up since she doesn’t want to be a cat lady. And that’s not romantic at all. It’s scary, actually.
God… my romantic movie sounds a little bit like that awful 80’s movie Carrie. That’s encouraging.