You’re three drinks too far. You’re an hour and a half too late. You’re too many deep conversations gone to make this post make sense… and you know that’s when it’s most important to write. Too many people who know your first and last name read this. They know your fear of heights and they know how irrational your love for Ayn Rand is… and yet, here you sit. A partially unmade bed. A glass full of red wine and you in an unmatching socks without pants on waiting for words to come because it hit you like some perverse sexual urge: you had something to say.
But like usual, as soon as you sat yourself in front of the screen… the words disappeared. There’s a few funny things you could write, but even the thought of that makes you feel shallow. There’s a story you could tell, about him, and me and when I said that and he did this, but the thought of that makes me feel predictable. No…
Too many people read Dagnydarling now and know who I am. Hiding behind posts and poorly shrouded stories. They know the psuedonyms and the meanings. They recognize the girl behind the posts and they know her secret.
So this is the last post I will make. Following this I will return to the privacy of hand-written journals and the diaries I’ve stowed away since I’ve known how to write. I’ ve always known that I was not normal. Something has always been wrong with me, like I’ve never fully understood the rhythm my peers heard and I internally blamed myself for this. But that’s done.
My path is not the same as theirs. I wish them all well, and my heart is big enough to handle the pain and the well wishes at once. I forgive them all, and I love them all. My heart is big enough for that too.
As the last entry that will ever post on dagnydarling, I thank my readers and my subscribers in the most sincerest of ways. You have helped me survive struggles I thought would destroy me from the inside out. You have applauded my successes and mourned quietly alongside me in the way I could only expect other introspective bloggers to do.
Dagnydarling was a practice in blessings. In community and outreach and humanity. To everyone who has helped me through the past 4 years— I can only hope that you keep writing, keep speaking, keep pushing, keep looking for happiness and peace that you so deserve.
Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. And know that I am rooting for you, never far behind but never so loud as to out you. Your voice is important— make it heard and make it count.
Sometimes you wake up on a Monday and try to kick the damned dog that keeps trying to sleep in your bed that you hate and smells like garbage. And then you realize that it’s not a dog, it’s a human. And… why is there sand everywhere? Is that a broken glass? Oh my god, and then you discover that it’s your ex-boyfriend’s ex-roommate in bed next to you and he’s only in his super tight, kind of shiny boxer briefs…. And you can’t do anything so you just lay back down and pray that if you go back to sleep you’ll wake up and he won’t be there anymore. And if you’re really lucky, that wound on your arm will heal and your hangover will disappear.
But, it doesn’t. And it’s Monday. Which means that you have to figure out how to be a grown up, get your shit together and brush your hair and get to work.
That was my morning. It’s been a long time since I’ve been that girl, piecing together my life from the far corner of my bed praying that I made it home with my credit card, ID and phone. And… ugh. He’s still there… Was he always so cute though? Wait, when did he get all those tattoos? Am I… no… Wait, am I attracted to this guy? What the hell happened?
Evidently, we spent the evening in very deep, very emotional conversations planning our long distance relationship, since he’s in the army and lives across the country. I don’t even have opinions aside from being baffled and still being annoyed that there is sand everywhere. And, I’m not sure… but I have a crush on him?
36 hours of drinking. Straight booze. And really pathetically adorable drunk people confessing their love. The holidays, it would seem, are bad for my liver.
You swore. You pinkie promised the little girl that managed to survive inside of you that you’d never go there again within yourself. The land you visited, the land you that you discovered that one sunny day in the mid-afternoon unexpectedly would be barricaded became open again. It beckoned… It told you it was okay to return and rest upon the grass and the open, wild fields it offered.
You knew it was lying. And yet you went.
And with those first hesitant steps you knew you were walking into the unknown. A territory that lacked rules, expectations. More importantly, you knew it lacked justice.
But for a girl… woman?… who loved justice, you still stepped quietly looking to explore. You’d heard about this place. A foreign world of selflessness where the governing rule was emotion and instinct. It sounded wildly bueautiful and exotic. What a thing, you had thought to yourself, to abandon the thoughts you so clutched to.
Returning, you realized, was not so scary. It was not as frightening, because you were armed with the knowledge of what to avoid. You knew what would damage you, and you recognized the dangers within this land but you never turned away even as your heart sped and your rational abilities evaporated into the sweet air. You had returned. And you were bold now. You weren’t scared.
You were alone. And you found that the air you had once so enjoyed as a breeze delivering the aroma of flowers and pine and grass was now reduced to a simple chill that reminded you of the lack of arms around you. The air was the echo of your solidarity of which you were both proud and ashamed. You had struggled to retain your independence. You worked, hard and silently, simply to be alone. And this made you sad. It made you, among other things that you could not name… confused.
The same eloquence that had been granted you here before had been revoked. Instead of plenty of words and a rushing of emotion you were solemnly observant. You had learned, since the last walk you had taken along these grounds, to be stoic. Your recongnition of the flaws posessed within this land was painful and it embarrassed you of the person you were in your last visit. You were ashamed of her former charming naivety, and you were ashamed of you current cynicism.
But you refuse to leave. Instead of looking for an exit or a path outward you sat. You picked at the leaves of grass and felt the wind’s reminders of your soul’s silence. Nothing rushed inside of you that day- and the river of your emotions remained constant regardless of the trinkets of the past that you crossed on your return’s travels. The bench where you both sat. The picture you took. The letters you wrote. The words that flowed that meant not much then that carried the weight of the universe in their memories. Nothing can move you now. It seems the air is mimicking your fortitude…. it blows, but falsely. Nothing moves because of it.
Perhaps you imagined it. It would not be the first time you felt something that was in fact, not there.
Sigh. You are older, now. A year older. You know the days have passed, and the required number of weeks have qualifed you into a new category of year of birth, but you are older in new ways. Your heart moves slower and your reactions lack the enthusiasm you knew them once to be capable of. It’s not their fault, you think to yourself. How could I have known that it… and then you stop the thought. The same thought you’ve echoed within yourself so many millions of times. You couldn’t have known.
You couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have stopped yourself. You couldn’t have prepared your heart. You couldn’t have protected yourself. You couldn’t have spared your future. You couldn’t have stopped the walls from forming. You couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have slowed the motions. You couldn’t have removed his hands. You couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have expected he would kiss you that way. You couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have seen what you would end up as. You couldn’t have realized it would hurt this way.
You couldn’t have known.
You couldn’t have known.
And even if you could have.
What would become of you then?
Start your own blog!
Sike. (I’m bringing back the word “sike.” Certain parts of the nineties, like this word and the cabbage patch dance move did not, in my very humble opinion get enough credit).
In all seriousness, I’m noticing a troubling trend among women, and if you are reading this (thank you!) I know you’re guilty of the self-berating, awful treatment of yourself that I definitely practice from time to time. And if you aren’t, please vacate my blog- you are much too mentally stable for my yammerings. This is a place for fellow “what the fuck did I just do?” people. But anyway, I’m here to explain what I’ve learned in the past year and half or so of behaving like I flat out didn’t count. And it’s not true, so maybe I can help you if you’ve kind of fallen into that rut too.
First– believe that you are. Sincerely, honestly, know that you matter. Because you do, even if it’s just some random chick with a laptop and a free evening telling you that. Your opinions, your blabberings, your crying at stupid commercials or during that argument are valid, and important. But if you don’t buy into any of your beliefs/theories/platforms, nobody else will. Nor should they.
If you, like I did, don’t believe yet that you are important a pretty good activity for you then is to fake it til you make it. Tell yourself you are… Not in a creepy-homeless-person-who-talks-to-themselves-way, but in a silent, inside your own head way. If passers-by overhear you in the mall saying “I’m important!” not only will they not believe you, but they will alert authorities. And generally people in padded cells can agree on their delusions of importance… So avoid that, please. Anyway! When you catch yourself discounting your thoughts “Oh, that was stupid of me,” stop! Silently remind yourself that you are important. You are NOT stupid. (Unless you genuinely are, in which case I can’t help you).
Second– Place blame when need be. I’m not saying keep your index finger pointed in a permanent position facing outward at people near you… that’s creepy… but know when you are or not to blame. Women are quick to fall into the “totally my fault. I sooo apologize. Please forgive me” thing… Even if it’s NOT. If he cheats- you aren’t to blame. If your boss is a crackpot who yells at you all the time, chances are you didn’t fuck everything up. If you don’t deserve to take the fall for something, don’t. It doesn’t mean you have to fight tooth and nail to convince everyone of your innocence or superiority, but it does mean that you need to stick to your own truth. Sometimes other people just suck. Sometimes we are not so fabulous, and that’s perfectly okay. Humans are awesome like that.
Third– and this sort of goes with “second,” but have some standards. Yeesh. I am so guilty of going out with someone (last night?), and having a sort of okay time, but still staring menacingly at my phone wondering why the guy who was mehhh isn’t calling me incessantly declaring his love and reciting poetry (today?). Don’t settle for less-than, or you will become less-than. And who wants to be less-than?! It kind of sounds like someone who would be missing an arm or something… I like my limbs. Not that anyone thought I didn’t.
Fourth– People generally referred to as “important” are impressive. And maybe right now you have a not very impressive job. Doesn’t mean anything. Maybe you have some habits (cough, cocaine, cough) that are kind of scary… But there’s always time to find a direction that IS impressive. And more importantly, “impressive” is a relative term. I don’t find blue-grass singers to be impressive, but D does. D doesn’t find political figures impressive, and I swoon over them. (Fact: I almost cried when my favorite Congressman remembered my name). So just because everyone else doesn’t go “Ohmigod you’re so cool!” over attribute X about you, don’t worry about it. It is so good for you mentally and emotionally though, to believe in yourself enough to set a goal that you think is impressive. First, be proud of yourself for attempting said goal, and then, be proud of yourself for achieving it. It’s a fun game.
Fifth– If my extensive yoga experience has taught me anything (sike! I don’t do yoga, who are we kidding?), it’s that getting to know yourself is a good idea. Fuck that. It’s a brilliant idea. Spend some one on one time with yourself and just do what you have always wanted to do- even if it’s napping, or sewing or whatever. Know what you like, what you despise, what you are and are not capable of. This way, when other people (douchebags) are doing that “Let me tell you something about YOU” crap, you can either admit internally that “yeah, maybe I could work on that” or “you’re a crazy bastard and I don’t need your judgements”. Don’t rely on the two-bit opinions of people to form your own opinion of yourself. More often than not, other poeple are wrong. This kind of goes back to the “know when to accept blame thing.”
Another fun thing about this little part, getting to know yourself can normally result in liking yourself more. Finding some sort of acceptance of who you are, of your big ears (cough, me, cough), or the way you laugh, or whatever it is you pick on yourself for without ANY reason.
Sixth– Finally, take care of yourself. Be a priority in your own life. For a long time people talked about learning to love yourself and I really didn’t understand. I thought that meant tell people how much better you were than them… and guess what? That just makes people call you a “bitch.” Which was sort of true at the time.
What I think they actually meant (I admit, I’m still sort of working it out), is to treat yourself like you were your own daughter (son if you have a penis). This does not mean attempt to put your head up your vagina and give weird bizarre birth to yourself. It doesn’t mean that at all. But- think of it this way- if you had a daughter, would you stuff her full of shitty food and dress her like she was homeless? Would you tell her she was stupid or not to bother with school or her friends? No. You would value her, make her feel special, treat her as the special being she is. So, in a sort of creepy way, what I’m saying is to treat YOU like the special, unique, lovely being that you are.
And there you have it. I spent a year and a half hating myself, blaming myself, being angry at me and actually starving myself because I thought punishing my own person would somehow improve anything. Surprise! It made it worse. We all want to be told how important we are to other people, and while that’s normal and (duh) I do it too, it’s dangerous if “other people” start to supercede our own opinions. So… just next time you feel like you’re becoming a big grey ball of “ugh,” remember that it’s temporary and you are better than that… and you are important.
*Also, points to me for managing to use SIKE twice in one post.*
A while back, after a rather impressive evening of putting together my steamer (don’t have one? get one! it will change your life, swear), I wrote a lovely list of reasons I am getting old.
So although I haven’t been blogging for a whole month (but have random post-its strewn about my life with things that I promised myself I would mention when I do find myself staring down a computer screen with some free time), the one thought that has been lodged front and center in my strange little head is that I am ooooollld. But I’m not. So I guess I’m tired? Or maybe I’ve been kind of sick all month? I don’t know. But I feel like I’m 40 and I really just want to nap, but I never have time because the check engine light is on in my car, and I keep losing things (and consequently chasing them down), and my friends won’t stop getting knocked up or having people offer them diamonds (and consequently making me attend tea-partyesque events in their honor), and I keep saying “of course!” when people ask me if I’d like to help them volunteer with this, or participate in that. I am productive. Productive and slightly strung out because my calendar is booked weeks in advance.
I forget where I was going with this. I bet it was somewhere good though.
I haven’t blogged in over a month. Nothing really life-changing has happened, which has been good. It’s a nice place for my heart to rest while everything falls into place (or falls closer to where it should be… I’m making no sense, I know). This little blurb is a half-assed award to myself for not doing any damage to my life or person in over 30 days (new personal best?).
I’m hungover. Yet another way I’m not quite as young as I look. Two beers and two shots last night and I was blacked out yelling at some poor guy about physics (I don’t know)…. Even though 4 drinks is far below my normal average, I am still feeling gross over 24 hours, three bad movies, a breakfast burrito and a glass of champagne later. Like I said, old.
I’m dating. I was dating last month too, so that’s not news. Some lackluster, some really entertaining, some so dull and socially awkward I thought about telling him I was lesbian just to liven up the discussion. But I didn’t. Because I was hungry, and if I said I was into girls he might make me pay for my overpriced pasta or just abandon me in the restaurant. I seriously considered it though.
Do you want to give me money? I won’t do anything to deserve it, and I might forget to write you a thank you note later, but I need a couple hundred dollars for this political thing I’m doing. And I maybe forgot about the fundraising requirement, so I’ve got 2 weeks to get $1,000 from my unassuming friends and family. Please help me. Stress makes me look sad, and I look much better when I’m happy. Do it for my complexion.
Remember the President? He fumbled through an apology a few weeks ago, although I’m still not sure for what. It was nice of him to be sorry, though I guess? Maybe he felt guilty? Did I get drunk and do something retarded? Wouldn’t be the first time, but hey, I really didn’t know what to say as he blurted out his “I’m sorry….” schpiel and didn’t want to discount it, so I just nodded and thanked him for being so sincere. Eh.
I was recently asked by a darling but retarded man if I wanted to go to the party in his bed. Note to men: that’s not a good pick up line. Another fellow called me his “little meatball” which is even worse than an invitation to a mattress-party. Something about me being italian, he said. I took it more like, you are round like a meatball. Fatty.
Everything is just chugging along. I’m trying to ditch that feeling I always get when things are going okay… know the one I’m talking about? That nagging thing in your head that tells you to brace yourself, things are going okay… things are too okay. You are not lucky like this… something bad is coming. Only— maybe it’s not luck. Maybe I just took control and that simple step put things right again, and I’m not frantically trying to chase fate around. Or something like that.
I decimated whatever purpose I had in writing this. But I miss blogging. It’s a really great outlet, and although I was pretty sucky at it this year I’m hoping I can use my new-ish perspective to write something worthwhile.
But again, if you want to give me money, feel free. I’m serious.
Remember when I was funny? Remember when I posted with dependable regularity? Want to know what happened? I moved.
I swear, I got away from Charlie the Miracle dog and his douche-bag of a mom, M, and I am literally incapable of producing a blog that doesn’t blow ever since. I blame geography.
…Only that’s not the whole story, I’m afraid. My blogging skills/schedule was largely dependent on the general mood I was in. I’m good when I’m miserable. In fact, my humor reaches impressive levels the less happy I am internally.
So in yet another way the-universe-is-fucked-up, the defenese mechanism I have exploited for years is kind of useless when there’s nothing to defend myself from. When I am unhappy, I deflect the probing questions and sympathetic looks by throwing open the doors to my self-deprecating humor. I suppose I must be thinking, “well, I might be black and rotten on the inside, but at least I can still make people laugh.” Or something like that.
Imagine my surprise then, when I found myself comfortable for the first time in a very long while. And with this comfort came a mental break that took me off guard-duty for myself. I can communicate with people without the need to interject jokes to control the situation. I employ my sarcasm less often now since I don’t need it to distract whoever is unfortunate enough to be near me. I am, I cannot believe I am writing this, not angry.
That’s a lie. I’m less angry. I’m still frustrated with Democrats and my boss and the weather’s bipolar tendencies of late. I’m still disappointed with certain folks and myself for my various shortcomings. But I’m not (at the moment— knock on wood) pissed off at the air for being there. I don’t want to yell at trees and the sky and God. I’m just kind of… going.
Ironically, as I became less awful a person, my blog plummeted. I think it’s more because I’m not passionate about things now… That’s not right either… I’m not passionately aggressive. I’m still in love with politics and my family and my friends and good music and literature. But I’m not forcing myself and my thoughts on the world, and I’m not (currently— knock on wood again!) trying to prove a point that I was never able to articulate well, anyway.
And conssequently, I’ll be taking a break from blogging. I neglected myself lately, and I was miserable… I cried myself to sleep for a long time, and I never looked in the mirror and asked why. Choosing to wallow was sooo much easier and blog-worthy. The need to grieve a number of things took priority over my own emotional well-being and to be frank, I got lazy and in the laziness, incredibly selfish. Lately, I feel like I see a different girl in the mirror, and I kind of like her more than that teenage-esque bitchy-for-no-reason person I always thought I was.
Sooner or later, I’ll return to the world of blogging with what I’m sure will be a wave of observations, but for now, I’ll keep if off the blogosphere. I’m just done trying to be funny.
Everything works out in the end. If it hasn’t worked out yet, then it’s not the end.
My Friday night agenda:
- Laundry. Lots of it. Somewhere, a Water Board member (the people I unfortunately hang out with thanks to work) is crying at the amount of H20 being used to wash my panties.
- Red wine. More than the water being used in aforementioned laundry.
- Grey’s Anatomy reruns— I love you, DVR. Don’t ever leave me.
- Blogging, evidently. I can’t help it! Working, working, and then inevitably I wind up on stupid wordpress. *shakes head*
So aside from the fact that I lead a boring life (did I mention how thrilled I am at the prospect of a Friday night IN?) I have a serious question to pose to the world:
WHY CAN’T THINGS JUST END?
What happened to clean break ups? Did they ever exist, or did I just fantisize about them when I was in my early years of college crying over slightly-overweight frat boys?
Let’s review: Prez and I decided that we were too similar- stubborn, politically driven, outspoken and
judgmental opinioned. I was, if possible, out-Republican’d by this guy, who is arguably the smartest person I have ever met. We regularly debated which city councilman was corrupt, which was legit, and why they were all so god damned creepy. Awesome, except for the fact that we disagreed about EVERYTHING in that small topic of conversation. (There are approximately 4 Republicans remaining after good ol’ George Dubya, and the President and I took different sides on all of them).
I saw the inevitable- and I was relieved when the conversation/argument was over. We were too similar, we were too smart, we both had the tendency to use our intelligence to be cruel to the people we cared the most about. (It;s a curse. I shit you not). And so we said a very diginified “see you around” and parted ways.
And then he texted me. Everyday afterward. Numerous times. About nothing in particular. I guess we’re… friends?
Except we’re not. Because once you have that kind of passionate/crazy/choatic thing with someone you don’t regress into a “how was your day” friendship. I didn’t make up those rules- the laws of physics did. Or something. So naturally, I am perplexed.
I’d love to attribute my exes’ tendency for attrition to my shockingly good looks, or wit, or talent (at?!) but I’m pretty sure that’s not the case. Deciding that we were better off apart was an obvious, but still hurtful choice. It was reminiscent, on a very small scale, of previous break ups that ripped my heart in two. So what is it about me/women/life/whatever that makes men go, “I should text her”?!
I have always had a theory that “everyone comes back.” Coming back meaning they’ll call, they’ll try to get you in bed again, they’ll tell you they didn’t know what they were thinking, or that they still love you. But this doesn’t fit because we broke up TWO DAYS AGO. To this day, I have yet to be proven wrong on this theory— everyone does circle back at least once (I dare you to disagree with me).
But because we cross paths regularly thanks to work, and I really do think very highly of the guy, I don’t want to tell him to go away. Does he think we are friends? We didn’t cover that. Does he think that’s even possible (if so- he gets downgraded from Smartest Guy Ever). Naked equals not friends. That’s also a law of physics. Or something.
And while I mull this over- I just got a call from a friend (also a blogger: www.woopsimthatgirl.wordpress.com) who is driving her fabulous self a whole TWO HOURS because a post she was writing drove her to drink. So at the very least, I may not understand men- but I’ve got some great friends.
What did we learn?
- It’s hard to do 4 loads of laundry in one night without impediments.
- Men are confusing (HEY, CAPTAIN OBVIOUS!)
- Blogging will make you an alcoholic.
This was an awful post. I’m taking a mini vacay with my girlfriends tomorrow though, so that should warrant something worth reading. You deserve a sticker or some shit if you got this far. Thanks.
Remember last year when I blogged about my first tattoo? The cute little dove on my wrist that I absolutely love having that reminds me how much I love myself and spirituality and BLA BLA BLA IM A GOOD PERSON?
Well, I went out and got another tattoo not too long afterward. And then, for good measure, I got a third. Because… well, I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe some mixture of peer-pressure, “seemed like a good idea at the time,” and emotional upheaval resulted in more tattoos than I ever thought I’d have. But alas… Here I type with an adorned little body.
What were these tattoos you ask?
Therein lies the problem I’m afraid. Let me preface it with this: I LOVE my tattoos. I do not regret them. I simply wish that one in particular was easy to explain and didn’t immediately warrant laughter.
See for yourself:
The explanation is a good one, but one that unfortunately revolves around a (very inspiring) book that only like 4% of the world has read…. Leaving the majority of people who see my tattoo, which is not all that many people normally, to form assumptions about me either loving money, being a gold-digger, or being “gangster.” I fall into none of those categories, and instead I am just a very well-read, absolutely shameless capitalist. With the tattoo to prove it.
HOWEVER– the book that so revolutionalized my political beliefs and life goals (Atlas Shrugged), is being made into a movie. Thank God, because that’s truly the only way for people to start understanding the tattoo on my back and will spare me my attempts to explain it without seeing someone’s eyes glaze over at the mention of “capitalism”. The average person I hang around with in Orange County can barely make it through a copy of the 9 page meny at Cheesecake Factory, let alone 1,300 pages about individualism and libertarian awesomeness.
I do love that tattoo, and I love that it does carry such a significant meaning. I don’t love the face that some people make when they catch a glimpse of it, but facial reactions from people around me has rarely affected me before, and it really doesn’t much now either.
GO SEE THIS MOVIE. THEN GO GET A TATTOO LIKE MINE. We’ll start a club, and call it “My Tattoo Makes Sense to NOBODY But Me And Random Old White Men.”
You may have heard, but Valentine’s Day is sort of coming up. And since I am harboring slight resentment towards people who own penises, I will be spending the holiday with… yep, Charlie the stupid miracle dog. And maybe drinking wine while opening presents that my mom gets me every year since it’s become quite apparent that her daughter is doomed for spinsterhood… oh, your mom doesn’t pretend to be your valentine? Me neither… (hi, mom!)
So, in an attempt to remind those of us who may or may not be planning on throwing a grenade (bomb, not ugly Jersey- girl) through the window of your local romantic eatery that there are some major perks to singledome, I offer you this shabby list:
Things That Are (Slightly) Better While Single:
- Happy Hour. All eight hours of it because you have no other commitments and nobody is blowing up your phone or asking why you are still out drinking with those people you only kind of know.
- Christmas. You just saved yourself a whole lot of money and time by not plotting the perfect gift for a man who will inevitably buy you something in the wrong size, or tickets to something that he really wants to see more than you… or in my case, the dog that you didn’t want and had to give away once you broke up… (poor Penny).
- Vegas. There is absolutely no good that comes from having a significant other while you run around in what is probably a shirt that automatically gets reclassified as a stand-alone dress in Vegas.
- Bars. Because if you’re taken you essentially just got dressed up to look at strangers hotter than your boyfriend that you aren’t allowed to talk to. Lucky. You.
- Lifetime Television. For reasons unbeknownst to me, men can never fully appreciate the joys of movies called She’s Too Young, or Someone Else’s Husband. So good. (Who doesn’t want to watch Tori Spelling’s TV-movie comeback?)
- Free Time. For those of you without boyfriends, it’s the time you spend napping, or shopping, or reading the book you always wanted to read, or brunching with girlfriends. For those of you with boyfriends: it’s the time you spend staring at him watching basketball, or running errands or hanging out with his parents.
- Panties that are not thongs. Sweet hallelujah. Because sometimes you just gotta rock the full-butt undies.
- Holidays that revolve around booze and/or costumes. Actually, any holiday that doesn’t require extensive family time. He’s seen you naked already, dressing up like a slutty beer wench is for the strangers you meet on Halloween, not for him. Let’s get real.
- Shopping. No feeling guilty that maybe you should buy him that shirt he wanted, or him telling you that he really is not a fan of you in blue so then you stay away from the color blue. It’s all about you and your limitless materialism. Get it, girl.
- Sleeping. No snoring. No weird boy smell in your bed. No awkward pillow-sharing. No sleep-talking, mumbling, shouting or punching. No other-people’s alarms going off at the fucking crack of dawn. Just you, sleeping pleasantly by yourself without any interruptions or other nuisances. So good.
Okay, so if you do not dabble in a love of drinking, you probably should think about getting a boyfriend because really, I’m not sure what you do all night/weekend… Lifetime movies aren’t THAT good, and there’s only so much shopping for yourself you can do until your that broke, lonely girl.
There. This was uplifting. You’re welcome, single friends!
To all the girls who love to frantically dance to the following lyrics in the middle of the bar:
If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it.
Dont be mad cuz he seen it and he wants it.
Stop. Stop it right now. If he did in fact like it, then he probably would have put a ring on it. And no, no he is not mad because some equally sloppy drunk is now humping you from behind in the middle of the bar.
And what is the point of that dance? Flipping your hand repeatedly in your face to verify that, nope, still no ring. Damn, no ring when I hold it that way either… it’s not actually a dance move so much as it is something that people in psychiatric wards probably do. But hey, you are at least sending the message loud and clear that you are still very single.
You do not look like Beyonce. You look like an idiot. Put your (still ring-less) hand down and get married the old fashioned way: by getting yourself knocked up and cornering him into marriage.
*Inspired by the lovely woman who knocked my drink over while channeling Miss Knowles*