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.
At no point in my life planning did I foresee pretty much anything that has actually happened. I am not, it would seem, psychic even a little bit.
But hey, it’s Thursday night and we are moving right into a 3 day weekend (thanks Veterans!) and I’m at home, in my bed, eating vitamins because I’m too lazy to go downstairs for real food. I don’t even think I have food though, so lost cause. And- I have a leg cramp and I think the vitamins should fix that?
I’ve been a little “off” lately. Obviously, I’ve been a negligent blogger (to say the least), I’ve been moody (aka grumpy), I’ve been kind of lethargic and I spend a lot of time reading (did you ever read Lolita? I’ts awful, don’t). Most of those things I can actually contribute to being on new birth control and even if it’s not actually the birth control’s fault, I’m going to use it as an excuse.
Yep. On birth control. My ovaries are no-swim zones which is nice and sort of silly because I’m not having regular sex. But the doctor offered and I thought, “Every time I wish I was on it I never am. This would be smart. This must be what growing up is like.” So I took it, and I’ve been completely wretched to be around ever since. I suppose that’s the magic in birth control, at the rate my moods have been going nobody will want to be near me, let alone get me naked. (Although, my breasts are MASSIVE, so there’s that.)
I wish I had some great story to post, and it’s not for lack of stories or dumb things I’ve done recently that I’m not posting them, it’s more that I’m too lazy and this leg cramp WILL NOT GO AWAY. And some (all?) of them are really embarrassing and are partially the reason why I haven’t been drinking lately.
And you know what? Everyone was right- I am way less fun sober.
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 that one Valentine’s Day where you were going to stay home, drink a glass of wine and catch up on work, then maybe watch a movie and get some desperately needed rest?
No? That’s right! You got drunk and went to the bars for a completely predictable lonely-hearts club party and got wasted before getting NO sleep and going to work hungover and TORE. UP. Bravo.
This is the conversation I had with myself yesterday morning while hazily trying to remember where my keys, lipgloss, and pride were.
Anyway, that was my Valentine’s Day…. And just for good measure, I fell both in and out of love in the course of half an hour and now have a stalker.
I was engrossed in conversation with easily the most attractive guy I’ve seen in a long time and I was silently singing the praises of the Valentine’s Gods for finally cutting me some romantic slack. Yeah, he was totally rocking the grungy, artsy thing but he owned his own company. Because I had maybe one too many glasses of wine by this point, I just reveled in my good luck, and didn’t consider that a guy like that realistically doesn’t exist. But no, I was busy being enamored with my good fortune. It was the best of both worlds. An artsy capitalist. A tall artsy capitalist. A HOT, tall artsy capitalist.
But… then… under his beanie (yes, beanie), I thought… wait… did I just… is that… do you have GREEN hair? “Yeah, I’m super pissed it was supposed to be blue.” Oh… Well. No, that’s not better.
“I write music too, the tattoo on my arm is my own lyrics actually.”
… Because OF COURSE they are.
And after about 45 minutes and 9 red flags later (not even counting the botched Marge Simpson hair), I realized I had not seen him with any friends. At all. Fuck. Did I just give my number to a guy who came to the bars ALONE on VALENTINE’S DAY?
Yes. Yes I did. And now he won’t stop texting me about how “sad” he is.
And I had hoped to make out with a stranger, but didn’t. (This was, strangely enough, disputed) I have some sort of inherent cock-block tendency though that reared its ugly head that evening. I generally do not do well with the sort of meet-a-stranger-let-em-touch you kind of game. I’m awkward, and I need to validate every physical encounter I have. In other words: if I make out with you, I expect us to date. If you see me naked, we’re practically facebook official. In essence I was silently screaming in my head “WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME?” at everyone in the bar that evening. Well, not everyone. The guy with green hair already did love me.
…Because OF COURSE I would manage to attract only certifiably insane loners.
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.**
*This was an awful post, written a few days ago and then forgotten about… But I need to put something on this blog that doesn’t reek of 2010 crappiness, so whatever. I promise to make up for this blogtastrophe with better posts for the entire year. I hope*
2011 has been a raging success so far. In the 48 hours since it began, I believe I spent 30 of them drunk. The other 18 were spent sleeping. I think. It’s hard to do math very well when your head feels like mine does right now.
People love to talk about resolutions… and I dread that I’ll have that conversation about 80 times in the next week with people too lazy to come up with something legitimate to talk about. It doesn’t bode well for those conversations that I actually don’t have a resolution. I resolve to do nothing except try not to die, which I’ve done every other year (some years with more enthusiasm than others) so I don’t mention it to people. My roommate has taken me on as a cause and keeps hurling resolutions at me that I didn’t ask for, I’m nervous I’ve become the girl who needs to be saved from herself. More on that later because that’s deeper than my current brain capacity can handle. But probably not- I’ll more than likely forget.
Obviously I’d like plenty of things to happen in 2011 and I hope a shit-ton of things DON’T happen in 2011. I would enjoy being named Princess of the United States (finally), and I would like to lose 8 pounds while eating cheesecake and drinking beer. I hope I don’t get AIDS or get fat or evicted. In essence I’m much too lazy to resolve to do anything, or resolve to STOP doing anything else. Like I said- Big Things in 2011!
I did, however manage to already accomplish something. I went to the movies…. which, I agree, sounds worthless and like an everyday thing that anyone can do. But! I went to the movies alone. Let that sink in for a second. On Sunday, I mustered the guts, energy and actual desire to walk my stocky little butt up to the theater all by my lonesome and sit through almost two hours of awesomeness BY MY SELF. Which makes me officially ready to be a cat-lady. Or officially independent… depending on how highly I’d like to think of myself, I switch between the two.
It was actually quite enjoyable. I brought extra socks so I could keep my feet warm (which I normally just suffer through so I don’t look like a fucktard wearing two pairs of socks and flip flops), and nobody bothered me with inane commentary while I sat along the back (I’m not so ready to flaunt my loser-y aloneness just yet). But on a serious note: it was a step toward shirking the general idea that people are always judging me, and furthermore, shirking whatever judgements they formed about the short girl wandering around without a companion and questionable foot-wear. Because it’s true what people say: you’re really not as important as you think, and you’d be surprised to know how little people think of you.
Okay, so maybe I just blogged my way into a resolution: stop overestimating myself and keep my toes warm, and let everyone else be damned. Easily the most ridiculous resolutions I’ve ever heard, let alone written for myself.
PS: go see the King’s Speech. Promise.
“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?