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.
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*
There are an alarming number of people driving without a working headlight. Including me. Sign of the apocolypse? I think so…
This post has nothing to do with the title… but that was an observation that needed to be made, and I utilized some space-saving measures by throwing it in the title. While driving to my volunteer thing tonight I was alarmed by how many people were as irresponsible and not on tope of their game as me. I’m wondering if this is affiliated with all those birds dying everywhere. Maybe. Irrelevant, yes. Do I care? no.
I have lots to write about because D makes bad life choices and she said I practiced “ancient” dating techniques, but I’m too lazy. And I was having an awesome day until I got some news that pissed me off to new levels of fire coming out of my eyeballs so I’m gonna vent real fast about those people that I have to share the earth with that have penises and issues: Why is it that a man with self-confidence problems is probably far worse than any chick with daddy-issues? And then WHY do they think that if they pretend like they’re just deep, melancholy people and cool with their miserable existence than nobody will notice how absolutely terrified they are of reality and just manning the hell up? Newsflash Jor- er, guys: WE KNOW.)
Anyway, I clearly was a little grumpy… Until I came home to a box of cheesecake waiting for me at my apartment. That travelled all the way across the damned country to get here. Because some people don’t suck.
There is no moral to this story, and if there was, it would be that cheesecake has reinforced
my hope in humanity.
Also, met a guy last night who I gave my email (update: he got my cell number too, but actually asked for my email so he could send me some stuff he’s working on since he’s a writer and either wants to show off or make me uncomfortable) to, making him either the most creative or sneaky mother fucker I’ve ever met on a Monday night in Costa Mesa. But he was *really* cute, and fucking brilliant so we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.
*This post kind of ruined my whole promise that I’d write awesome stuff all year. Hm. I should not make such serious promises in writing. Now THERE’S a resolution for ya (hint. hint.)*
**I just edited this.. sort of… because evidently last night I forgot how to spell in my cheesecake-eating frenzy. Still, I bet I missed a few**
It was less than 24 hours ago that I was sitting in a bar with D, telling her that I officially had nothing to blog about because I had a very close to non-existent love life. Okay, it is non-existent unless you count that guy I make out with sometimes who’s adorable but an absolute idiot. Think Jason Stackhouse (if you watch True Blood), and if you don’t (you suck) think Ken Doll. Anyway… I was fully prepared to take a break from blogging, I didn’t think my mom would miss reading my blathering that much anyway.
And then God felt bad for me (because I’m going to be a cat lady) and stuffed the hours following that conversation full of blogworthy awesomeness that I no doubt will wreck while trying to explain.
I hung out with members of a known biker gang last night. What did YOU do?
I don’t do drugs, or ride motorcycles, or have a history of self-destructive behavior (ish)… but I love A&E and all those shows about people who do any combination of those things. Last night, I got to recreate one of those shows with my new friends Creeper, Tombstone, Jeff and the other ones whose names I don’t remember. (Jeff got kind of screwed as far as the naming went). Tombstone looked like Santa- if Santa had a serious meth problem and an affinity for leather and Creeper was missing a prominent tooth…But it’s cool cuz he had shit tons of tattoos. ON HIS FACE. One of which being a tear drop that I may or may not have stared at the entire time I talked to him.
Because I was thinking what an awesome blog this would be (and because when I drink I don’t think about how ridiculous I am), I took a picture of Tombstone and Little Black on my phone. Then they made me delete it, and show them all the pictures on my phone to make sure I didn’t have any evidence of some of the scariest mother fuckers I’ve ever seen, let alone drank with. And since I have a sincere love of awkward, and a sincere love of people who are bat-shit crazy- last night those two loves met, and gave birth to some awesome conversations. Conversations actually may not be the best word, as a lot of it consisted of me badgering these old dudes about what the patches meant, why he had a tear drop, if he sold drugs, if he’d, “like, ever killed someone”, if they believed in God, what their *real* jobs were, and if they were ever on A&E. Most of the answers consisted of some shocking shit, but some of them were just a scary smile and a “You don’t wanna know, little girl.”
And then D pimped it up and gave her number out like it was on sale and I watched and drank and watched some more. Lesson of this whole thing: biker clubs (the term “biker gang” I’ve learned is actually not very politically correct nowadays) are not blackberry friendly, but aside from that, they’re really quite pleasant.
**Oh yeah, and one of my roommates may have given her number to the youngest one and now I think we’re gonna get stalked because it turns out he’s married and some other stuff so if I stop blogging, I either died or I actually did just run out of shit to say. Good luck figuring that out.**
“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?