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.
Living with D and her mom has had some interesting effects in my life. Namely, I drink much less and watch way more awful prime-time television. In fact, I spent an hour of my life watching The Bachelorette (and basically breaking every promise I’ve ever made about never watching such shit TV), and yelling at the screen… or the moron gracing it. Seriously, this show is an absolute disaster and their consistent use of grammar as some weird, shallow metaphor was enough to make me repeatedly slap myself in the forehead. I may have brain damage. Bad reality television gave me brain damage. I always said that shit was dangerous. PROOF!
Anyway, in my own life, I like to think I am far wiser than this dentist-turned-reality-hooker-slash-romantic-retard woman… but we have no evidence of such superiority so I don’t really know. I’m still whatevering with the Libra. I say whatevering because
I’m trying to be normal and patient and not scare him away I know better than to force some sort of weird name on it just so it makes more sense when I talk about him to my friends, who absolutely love the guy… which is a first.*
My girlfriends hate the guys I date. And the guys I date never take much of an interest in them which normally is not only irritating but offensive… especially since I take such great pride in friends liking me. I’m a nice girl, I will buy you a drink and chat you up about your weird job or ugly shoes. It’s part of the role. But the guys I date just tell me my friends are “scary” or “party too hard.” The Libra has been a long time favorite with them- a fact that make him all the more appealing.
There’s a theory about this, one that I heard recently and completely buy into… It says that your friends’ opinions of a significant other are more important generally than your family’s. This is due to the sheer fact that you choose your friends as some sort of reflection of yourself and your beliefs. Your family, God bless ’em, you just sort of got put with. What my family would think of him, who knows. That’s a bridge I’ll cross when (if) I get there, but my friends being such big fans is reassuring… Given my history of “I think this might be a bad choice but I’ll test it out and figure it out the hard way,” my friends remind me that I’m making a smart (ish?) decision here. I’m not blindly throwing myself into the wind, I’m not trying to force life or change someone. I’m accepting it, rolling with it, crossing my fingers with the confidence that I know what I want and for the most part- who he is.
I’m growing up. Impressed? You should be.
In unrelated news, a woman in Sacramento MICROWAVED HER BABY GIRL. Like she was popcorn. The baby, obviously, died. The simple existence of such fucking crazies makes me question my desire to reproduce. Hell, even marry. You never fucking know. Like, did that baby’s daddy recognize that homegirl was literally out of her tree? She cooked a child. And then lied. And then the cops found the pacifier in the microwave and questioned her and she spewed some bullshit about being a schizo.
The world is scary place. It’s a good thing I’ve got good friends.
*Disclaimer: The Libra knows about this blog. Whether or not he dislikes himself enough to spend time reading it, I don’t know… But it’s one of those “welcome to my crazy brain” situations. We’re trying to tone down the crazy*
Almost a year ago I went to go see Camille the fortune teller. Over a year ago, I cursed Camille for being an idiot and taking my money and sort of creeping me out. I may (emphasis on MAY) owe that weird clarvoyant an apology.
She babbled on about a lot of things, most interestingly, about D getting pregnant. But she said I’d have a boyfriend… and I really wanted one at the time, I wanted to fall into something new and see where it would take me. What I didn’t count on happening was the opportunity to actually have that, and when it presented itself, I freaked out and hid in the corner from it.
I’m not saying she was right… I’m saying that maybe she just had a really awful sense of timing. Literally hours after I left her creepy voodoo room, I hung out with a guy I liked. I followed up liking him with acting like a weirdo, and then we went our separate ways. Remember him? The Libra? I think he’s… back? Well, he isn’t really back on his own terms, I sort of drug him kicking and screaming but evidently I’m rather convincing when I’m bitchy. But we aren’t ruling him out.
Homeboy is getting out of a relationship. I think he thinks I’m a complete wackjob. I know he thinks I’m bizarre and mean. And… I think he likes me? I don’t know. I’m confused. But I’m interested in him because I have awful timing and I can’t do anything unless it’s good and difficult.
We spent the weekend together- and it was good to see him have fun and interact with my friends. I forgot how much dating was like a series of increasingly intense interviews. Or maybe I never dated someone who I found intimidating on some level or another. But if we are predicating this on any of my other relationships- I would be smart to disregard everything I know. It’s nice though, and I’m enjoying it while trying to seem relatively normal (which, let’s be frank, easier said than done).
It’s been three weeks since we’ve kind of been talking and doing that, I-think-we-should-hang-out-but-I’m-too-sober-to-be-upfront-about-it thing and it’s going well so I just kind of roll with it. (By roll with it I mean try my damnedest not to be anal-retentive and keep everything under my control). I clearly need help. So what do you do when you have a problem? Google it!
This is what MSN tells you to do if you like someone (I am NOT making this up):
- Be touchy but not too touchy. Touch his arm lightly and briefly, but never go below the belt (although she OKs playing footsie). And yeah, I know some of you are squeamish about contact, but it’s so effective! What does that even mean?! I don’t like to be touched when I’m sober and if I’m drinking I want to be taken everywhere via a piggy back ride. They should be more specific.
- Let him to do the bend and snap. If you make eye contact with a cute guy in Starbucks and you need an excuse to talk, drop a pen on the way to the bathroom. In the olden days, women dropped hankies. I’m confused. Again. Is this a Legally Blonde reference?
- Pump him up. Compliment him, let him talk, make him feel like he’s calling the shots, and laugh at his jokes. But… what if the jokes aren’t that funny?
- Keep a full schedule. You’ll be more interesting if you’re busy with different activities. Also, you won’t be totally available for him. Ladies, we could stand to be a little more elusive and mysterious. Tell him I’m busy when I’m really just watching Friends reruns and drinking wine by myself.
- Get a signature scent. The sense of smell aids in sexual attraction. Whatever perfume you wear, he’ll associate it with you! Bonus: if your perfume rubs off on his pillow or towel, it will further remind him of you. Is this creepy to anyone else? Don’t cats pee on stuff with the same territory-claiming intentions?
This list was ridiculous, and I genuinely hope women out there aren’t following this kind of misguided wisdom in their own lives, although I’m sure there are some stupid enough to try. Oh well. I’ll keep you all posted on any big happenings, like if I start my period in his bed again… (yeah, I blogged about that last year. That was really special).
Sorry if you read this whole thing. I’m very tired, but I needed to post something- anything, and now we have a jumping off point for whatever the future holds. Welcome back, Libra!
In re-reading a lot of my posts, I tend to write heavily about first dates. Not so much second ones, or third ones, or gulp, break ups. And as I’m sure everyone will agree- that’s mostly because break ups SUCK. Like, suck hard. Perhaps I’m fortunate because I only had one really awful break up that made me a complete bucket of crazy… but I survived it. I came through the other end with only a slightly alarming drinking problem.
But- because I’m a good person and I have not much else to write about, I’m going to go ahead and tell you how I was able to move on. Because that shit is hard. And sometimes you need a tore-up 23 year old girl with a laptop to tell you how life works. It’s cool.
1. Get you some friends. Good ones. The last thing a broken hearted, melodramatic girl needs are girls who give shitty advice or just judge you as you cry into your
bottle glass of wine. Recruit the girls who bring you more bottles of wine to be your support system, not the judgy ones.
2. Leave it be. Just don’t. I know, you think you have something really important to say… If only you had told him that one thought you had! He would totally still be in love with you! …Only, he wouldn’t. So when you want to pick up the phone/email/blog/twitter (technology is not your friend), punch yourself or something. Or go back to the bottle of wine. But do NOT make contact. Just keep reminding yourself: out of sight, out of mind. Then repeat.
3. On the opposite end of #2, don’t let him jerk you around. They don’t do that because they are having genuine second thoughts, they do that because they are genuinely terrified of being alone. I’m sure you’re lovely, but if he wanted you, he’d be with you.
4. Watch He’s Just Not That Into You and cry for a little while.
5. Cry some more. I don’t really get (or like) the girls who say, “I just got over him. I turned off my emotions and I’m over it.” No you’re not you freak of nature! You’re dying on the inside. Stop pretending like your heart works better than mine. At the risk of suppressing all those emotions and having them burst out at the worst possible moment and embarrassing the bananas out of you- feel what you have to feel. Embrace the emotion, accept it, let it go.
6. Don’t get fat. Tempting, I know. But that “Nobody will ever love me again and I’m awful and oh my god I’m just going to wear these pajamas until I die of loneliness” is not a good plan. Again, call your friend and drink.
7. But don’t drink too much! This will make you fat. And maybe make you cry… okay, it’s totally gonna make you cry and your beer belly will be laughing at you and you’ll just want to die all over again. So balance the booze with something that makes you feel good about yourself.
8. People LOVE that saying “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone new.” That might work. But I think it just makes you extra crazy, and a whole lotta desperate and maybe an HIV patient. Triple threat, and I promise, you will only be distracted but not for very long.
9. Keep going… Just keep doing what you do. Don’t let a break up tell you anything about yourself except that you are ONE step closer to finding the right guy. So that’s exciting, in a bitter sweet way.
10. Have faith that you will, one day, be able to see him from across a patio and say to yourself, “oh, there’s the guy who broke my heart so many months ago.” And then that thought will be swiftly followed by, “Wait… am I… okay?”
And you will be.
I am posting this from my blackberry- so stop looking at all the grammatical errors because there will be plenty.
I don’t think Radissons are nice hotels- but I rarely travel so I’m not sure. It doesn’t seem like a nice hotel… And I didn’t think I had to stay in a hotel if I live 4 mins away but the crazy Republican lady program is making me and my “roommate” for the evening bailed so she could stay with her husband who showed up, leaving me looking for someone- anyone- to go to the bar downstairs with me…. Because sitting in my little room with its two beds all night by myself is creepy. And sad.
Anyway- I was sort of pleased when I saw that the beds were sleep numbers… You know the commercials: a happy couple reminisces about not so happy days because she’s fat and needs a softer mattress and he’s got a bad back from all his days working in the prison yards so he requires some firmness…. And then wha-fuckin-la! Sleep number beds offer the best of both worlds, everyone’s happy, and then they creepily end the commercial with “what’s YOUR number?”
I looked into it. My number is none of the fucking above. It’s essentially an air mattress that you can inflate to various levels of discomfort- none all that much better than the other. And it sounds like a vortex coming to eat you in your sleep. If my husband needed a little extra firmness in the night (mind out of the gutter, please), I’d break his nose because no way in hell do you sleep through that noise.
Sleep number beds suck, don’t buy one. You’re better off sleeping on a pool floaty, and you didn’t even have to spend a sad night alone at a Raddisson to find that out. You’re welcome.
“You women are crazy. If she’s your friend, she’s just expressing herself in a healthy manner. If you hate her, she’s a whore.” Wise, wise words from a not so wise man.
He had a point though. It’s all subjective- the labels, the categories, the way we filter people through our respective lenses and then forever leave them there to suffer. I have an idea of how people generally perceive me. Let me tell you, if you like the crazies- you’ll be a big fan of mine.
I’m small, stubborn, loud and fiercely passionate. I’m also pretty lazy, condescending more often than not, and passive aggressive. I’m self-conscious but will never tell you, and regularly demand that you tell me I’m adorable. I, admittedly, play a part. We all do. You can be the nice guy, the serial dater, the player, the bitchy-girl, the snobby girl, the girl next door. The roles are numerous and there’s a spot for everyone.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the sort of angry girl. Vicious with insults when the time calls for it- and even sometimes when the time doesn’t call for it. Presentable, but carrying around a chip on my shoulder the size of Kenya. I don’t like strangers… especially stupid ones. How do I know if they’re stupid? I don’t. But I also like to hazard guesses about innocent people.
I’m charming, huh?
And while I know that people do categorize me, rightfully so, into a less than flattering category, I wish they wouldn’t. I wish I could learn how to not be this bruiser of a person— but that, alas, would involve some serious soul-searching I’m just flat out not prepared to do. It all branches from insecurity. I don’t care if you don’t like me because I’ve pre-emptively decided to not like anyone. And ultimately, I barricade myself unnecessarily from people who may be wonderful additions to my life. In the end, the person damaged the most by my ridiculous way of living is me.
Masochistic? Probably a little bit. But we all have our ways, and we all live in our categories. The question is, can we ever move categories? And if so, is it too late for me?