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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.*
I blame my lack of control over my life and my inability to “plan ahead” on my hair. Mostly because I don’t like to wash it, and once I do wash it I am paralyzed by the oh-so-heavy decision, do I curl it or leave it straight? And, God forbid I manage to decide and opt for a curl, I find myself glaring at my variety of curling irons… What kind of curl do I want? (Side note: I think they all end up looking the same, but to justify the amount of money spent on my vibrator-look-alike hair tools, I tend to worry anyway).
The reason this matters is because I am meeting up with this guy tonight for what I guess is (don’t judge me!) a… blind date? And the picture he saw of me has straight hair, so even though I prefer my hair curled, should I just stick with his expectations so I don’t throw him through a loop? Furthermore (who says furthermore in a blog? That just seemed weird), it’s raining and since it never rains in California, I own precisely zero jackets and one pair of sneakers that are suede anyway so they can’t be relied upon to shelter my feet from puddles. So I’m in heels. 4.5 inch heels. In the rain. Oh God, I’m gonna fall down. I shouldn’t even go. What if I sprain an ankle? The fear/anxiety I have right now is soooo not worth meeting the cute guy my friend has been raving about for months.
Unless… it is. Which is why I washed/blew dry/straightened my hair today. Because, women- I know you feel me on this: you never freaking know.
The romantic at heart in me, lives by the “you never know” mantra. And it is her fault that I even let my friend set me up. It was her that drug my ass out of bed this morning and it was her that convinced me yes, shaving my legs would probably be a good idea. Worst case scenario: homeboy tonight is the man of my dreams (doubtful), but since I couldn’t be bothered to brush my hair he was uninterested in the girl who looked like a homeless version of Amy Winehouse. So I brushed my hair. Shaved my legs. And, as mentioned before, it is the rain’s fault that I am wearing heels.
As a final note, I should have written about this yesterday. Because I don’t really know blind-date etiquette… Do we hug? I generally give a hug/kiss combo when greeting, but that’s way too much, right? Can’t I just give him my resume and pretend like we’ve always known eachother? Is drinking allowed or does that send the she-is-a-lush red flag up? Clearly, I’m in need of some guidance here.
Then again, as soon as I get really caught up in the “ohmigod, what if…?” thoughts, the normal girl inside me bitch-slaps the romantic girl and says, “fuck that, it’s free food.” And I breathe easy again.
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.
Tuesdays are always a problem. I have an hour of free time every Tuesday between work and hanging out with my favorite eleven month old rockstar kid. This particular Tuesday however, I seriously wish I had just gone shoe shopping instead.
“I’ll only go over there for a second,” I resolutely whispered to myself. “Just to see. I’m strong, I learned my lesson. I know better…”
And then I took a few fateful steps and entered the “self-help” aisle in Barnes and Noble (where pride goes to die). And after picking up 5 or 6 books thinking I should limit myself to only buying two (!) a new thought came into my head: “Fuck. Why do I always end up in self-help?!”
For starters, because I hate books written by Jodi Picoult/Nicholas Sparks that tell girls they can cry their pitiful ways into love- and those books are being peddled like crack-cocaine in Compton (or so I’ve heard). And because I don’t really get biographies (there are movies for this shit), and because I don’t care what highly-effective people’s habits are, or how to get the most likes on my facebook posts (most recently about how awful healthy oatmeal is. Seriously).
I’ve always thought the most fascinating things about book stores was how much pure information was stored there. There’s also a lot of bullshit, since Democrats won’t stop publishing books. But God knows I always think- I could totally be a better/more impressive/funnier/wittier/more knowledgable person. I just need the book to tell me how.
Or a blog to remind me I’m an idiot.
But seriously, the book you choose to spend money on, take home and maybe read says a lot about
who you are who you think you are. Throughout the store, there are pages that can teach me how to write (pssshhht), how to give the best blow jobs (psshhht… ??), what happened to Rome or why I have daddy issues.
And then I found myself eating not one but two cookies staring at books called Skinny Bitch and decided to give Amazon a shot in the future.
*Sorry, typos abound in this post. My sugar intake knocked a few points off the IQ apparently*
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.
Sadly, certain parts of yesterday’s post were a little bit premature. Namely, anything mentioning the President. We had our second and last argument (“discussion” if we’re using my parents’ verbage), and promptly decided we were no good for eachother. I have a lot of respect for him, although it was clear that we would murder one another, or probably ruin both of our careers if we continued on. Plus, there’s a lot that I can’t really write here because he doesn’t deserve to be aired out on my blog. I’ve learned my lesson there, so we will just wish him the best of luck while he exits the life of [Dagnydarling].
I went to Chipotle today– no, that’s not the whole point of this blog, although it could very well be. While waiting patiently for my burrito (does anyone know why they use GOLD wrappers now?!), a group of very loud, very annoying, I-don’t-understand/respect-personal-space teenaged boys stood behind me. And then one of them declared the following:
“I’m going to marry the first girl I fall in love with.”
I promptly fell in love with him before remembering that that is illegal in California and took a step to distance myself from this prebubescent Romeo.
Homeboy thinks he’s going to marry his first love. Granted, homeboy is only probably 17 right now… but hey, it could happen. And I think that’s awesome. (I also suspect he’ll be divorced shortly after if we’re taking statistics into consideration, but hey. Po-tay-tow, Po-tah-tow).
So now that I’m rounding out something like True Love #43 (I date a lot), I wonder what my life would have been if I married my first love: the goobery musician with a big heart- who I last heard is technically homeless that I dated at 17. At 17, let’s be real, a lot was going wrong with me– I included a picture to prove this point. So whether it was the blond hair, or bad tan, or cumbersome braces, I was still working into “me.” As much as I was certain that we would be married though, I am inexplicably grateful that I didn’t marry him. I would have been miserable. In the process of being wretched, I am pretty sure I would have destroyed his life, too. So we count our blessings- even if they were unwanted at the time.
I’m not a whole hell of a lot closer to marriage today than I was at 17- except that maybe I have an earnest desire to be married and I stopped doing my make-up like a tranny. But I couldn’t have married the President, although he was what you would have wanted in a husband, and my first love, bless his heart is everything you wouldn’t want.
There’s no big resolution to this post- except to notify you all that the Prez got impeached sort of early (a little cheesy, I know), and apparently that 17 year old boys are far more romantic than I remember them being. What I would love Love LOVE, though, is for anyone to tell me about their first love (and then to give them THIS SURVEY). I’ll settle for just the story about your first love though.
My own experiences are not learning experiences enough, so I’m simply asking to let me
keep yours forever buried deep in my subconscious borrow yours.
(Final thought: What a sweet book that would make… Damn my creative ideas coming so late at night I’m too lazy to do anything about it).
(Final final thought: “so late at night?” It’s 9:30. Fuck, I’m old.)
I’ve been a disgracefully absentee blogger of late. I’m not sure how much better the current situation is- seeing as I’m blogging quite lamely from a Starbucks that I despise (drinking Green Tea— cuz I’m healthy!) and finally getting back into it. It’s quite possible that the only way for me to be any more cliche would be if I were wearing all baggy clothes and a beret. But I don’t own a beret, so the sweater and jeans from high school will have to suffice.
Where have I been, you ask? Jamaica. Clubbing. Meeting my future husband. Rescuing puppies. Except I haven’t (ever) done any of those things, and instead I regret to inform all 3 of my readers that I was at California Republican Convention (seriously), moving (suck it, Charlie the miracle dog), and fuck only knows where else. But shit, I’ve been busy. And now I’m just tired and wondering when I’ll have enough time to wash my hair.
I’m in a Starbucks I hate right now because I have exactly 24 minutes to kill before I go volunteer with the homeless baby that I love more than any pair of my shoes (serious!), and because this is the only place with wi-fi nearby. And of course, because irony has made me its bitch, I’m sitting in the exact god-damned same seat that I’ve had a converstation in that I would love to forget. Fabulous.
From this very bench I was told something along the lines of why I was no longer in the relationship that I so desperately tried to be in… to absolutely no avail. And currently, I’m sort of kind of on the verge of a new relationship, and there hasn’t been a very significant gap between the two events. (Except a girl just walked in with the greatest boots and she’s wearing those tall socks and she has great hair and she’s so cute… ugh. Damn everyone who is better looking than me right now. That includes you, RuPaul).
Anyway, why am I always striving to be in a relationship? It’s practically a full-time job, only it costs me money and I can’t argue my way into it. Trust me, I’ve definitely tried. I’m a relationship type of girl. I get off on routine, commitment, facebook’s “in a relationship” status. If there was an I ❤ monogamy shirt, I’d be sporting it. My friends, the large majority of them, are either married or absolutely single. Both are irritatingly ecstatic. I- on my island of awkward middle-ground, facebook stalking drama- am not. What gives? (update: adorable girl with great boots has an adorable boyfriend with great hair… I’m going to burn this Starbucks down once I’m done with the internet).
And maybe I could be in a committed relationship right now. I’m not really good at this stuff, but I’m pretty sure that it’s a possibility with the President (we like him). But when going through the possiblity of having the “so, like, what are we” conversation, it occurred to me that he might actually say “yes.” (I realize that I did not exactly pose a yes/no question, but roll with me. I only have 8 minutes now… it takes time to italicize shit!) And the potential of being in a committed relationship frightened me. No kidding, a sort of, ummm wtf, kind of feeling washed over me.
My last relationships have not exactly been stellar, or even close to “maybe that was a good idea.” So instead of feeling like I’ve learned a lot, I’m feeling a little bit like I’m just working with damaged goods when it comes to the girl my future boyfriend is gonna get. Which makes me sad for him. Which then makes me sad for me, because really, who thinks that way?!
In order to counteract that lack of knowledge increase from the past 3 breakups then, I came up with a brilliant, albeit awful idea. How phenomenal would it be to give a survey to your exes?! You don’t even have to tell me that this is great, because I’m pretty sure (like my ideas about taking on 9,000 volunteer activities, dating people who are awful, and living with Charlie the Miracle Dog) that it is. Naturally, I got started on some questions for my survey-targets.
1. What was your favorite memory of/with me?
2. Your biggest pet peeve about me?
3. What was the most important thing you learned about women/relationships from me?
4. What did your mom say about me? (I
might will regret asking this I’m pretty sure of some of them).
5. What were your friends opinions of me/us?
6. If you could describe our relationship in one word, what word would it be?
7. What advice do you have for my future boyfriends? (Also will regret most likely)
8. Do you think we should have broken up sooner/later/still be together?
10. What in God’s name convinced you dating me was a good idea in the first place?!
The best part about this idea is that I am totally sober, completely serious and absolutely curious. If I had the balls (or good relationships with my exes currently) to ask any of them, I would. Also, I’m delerious from lack of sleep, and may rethink the brilliance of this when I reread it in 4 days. But honestly, you know that saying “you can bring a horse to water but you can’t get them drunk”— or whatever it is— it absolutely aplies here. I can go through experience after brutal break up after great first kiss with every guy West of the Mississippi, but until I’m willing to learn from it, I’m just swapping saliva and losing a lot of tears.
Pass it out to your exes before I do, and tell me how it goes. Thanks for being my test-dummy.
I’d Like to Thank the Academy… of Bloggers. Well, only the good ones. Not the weird ones who write about porn and/or the environment.
I got an award. For blogging (from THIS girl). Which means a number of things— primarily though that people actually READ my blog which is sa-weeeet! Also it means that I am not crazy, which is always a little bit of a fear of mine, and it means that I have to do some stuff and keep on sending this bad boy around to keep the good joo-joo going.
As a receiver of the Stylish Blogger Award, I have to do the following:
- Present seven facts about myself.
- Name half dozen bloggers I think deserve the award. Contact those people.
- Create a link back to the person who gave you the honor.
Now for the facts about me…. I bet you’re ready to pass out from anticipation.
- I wanted to be a gynocologist growing up. Then I realized I wasn’t very good at science, and the reason my grades were so good was because I was a superb bull-shitter (still am)… but nobody wants someone who is just pretending to be good at their job when their job is telling you you might, just maybe, it sort of looks like, herpes.
- I’m adopting. I’m having my own little ones as well. Non-negotiable.
- I work in politics, as a legislative staffer…. and it’s a weird job. I make sure my boss (elected official) doesn’t get himself in trouble, I make him sound smart, look good and seem like the second-coming. And sometimes that’s cool… sometimes it’s exhausting… like today.
- Biggest fear: being left behind. Being abandoned. Winding up alone…. also, winding up fat.
- I don’t re-wear socks. I throw them away. I don’t know why.
- I live out of my car, and this seems to work fine for me. Not for people who try to ride in my passenger seat and get a spiked stiletto up the ass.
- Funny trumps all. A funny guy trumps a hot guy. A funny conversation trumps a tough one. A funny day trumps a shitty week. Funny will always win… the way to my heart is definitely through my… hm… this was a poorly thought out phrase. Shit. Anyway, make me laugh and I’ll love you forever.
And now I get to pass the lovely award on! This was hard because I follow some pretty impressive bloggers, who undoubtedly have received many an honor from many a junior blogger. But I’m gonna go ahead and throw em another kudos, because I’m generous like that. Also, because I’m very tired and don’t want to peruse the internet in search of some up and coming bloggers when I already know a bunch of super-studly ones. Like the following:
Alone… with cats
Youkitschme (D’s blog!)
**I’ve been completely neglecting my blog lately. Which makes me sad. And because now we know people other than my mom are reading this, I assume those people are sad, too. (key word: assuming). I have plenty to write. PLENTY. Like hickeys.***