Vigilante of Love

Vigilante of Love

I am an advocate for healthy relationships. Don’t let my all-too-often cynicism make you skeptical of my allegiance to love. Or romance. Or that [sometimes] painful, but ultimately raw intimacy that only a few of us find in our life time. I believe in good people and I hold constant faith in a humanity that has let me down time and time again. I always keep hold of it, because we only allow opportunity to cease when we stop believing in it’s ability to exist.

Somewhere between wanting to fall in love myself, and watching everyone else fall in love around me, I found a bit of a knack for drawing from people, their truths. And even when they don’t want to give it to me, I sense their lies deep within my core. One small reminder that I’m not the kind of girl who’s eyes are easily covered with wool and people just kind of share their skeletons before either of us know what’s happening.

“I’m a heroin addict. I want to cheat on my girlfriend. I hate my wife.

The only thing that feels good is this. New interaction.”

I’ve been told I feel comfortable. I assume people mean that they lack a filter in my presence and it feels….well, OK. I want every time I hear this to be special, because it’s nice to be able to console another human being with just your presence. It’s even nicer to change people’s lives by simply lending an ear. The truth is, being comfortable to strangers has found a way of making me less-than comfortable more often than not and holding too many secrets is a sure fire way to make yourself miserable; or so I’ve learned.

Earlier this year, I lent an ear. And then I lent some advice. And then I totally used all of the intel I received against the person who I made comfortable enough to give it to me. But, frankly…he had been cheating on his girlfriend for too long, and fuck you, girl power. I’m not telling this story because I want to rat myself out for being a rat. I want to share this story because it went from a tiny step to clear my conscious, to one of the bravest and most important things I could have ever done for a stranger.

We swiped right on each other. His profile suggested he had been single long enough to be serious about a real connection. A handful of messages back and forth lead to the exchange of numbers and then almost immediately a phone call. He told me he lived with his friend, that he couldn’t wait for me to meet his dog, and that he had an ex who was ‘crazy’. As progression would go, I found his facebook profile a few days into our dialogue and there she was. A girlfriend of a lot of years.

It’s happened to me a few times, but usually when I call a man out for his blatant display of a relationship on social media he back pedals and apologizes for wasting my time, then ghosts like a true millennial. This one was different. He spent hours, days, weeks telling me sob stories about how he was being emotionally abused by this woman he barely sees anymore.

Fast forward to a month later when my gut tells me to reach out to the girl in the photos labeled ‘in a relationship with: the tool on tinder’. I went into it thinking I’d be a fool to think she would even believe me. Broken relationships are always filled with denial. I would know, I frequent that step of the grieving process often. She didn’t believe me at first; shocker. I provided her with months of back and forth conversations that otherwise deemed all of his stories a lie…down to the revelation that his roommate he spoke so frequently of…was in fact…her.

Man did that suck. Relaying to a woman who knew her relationship was rocky, that it was even rockier on the outskirts. And that someone knew only half truths about the woman she was because her sociopathic boyfriend confided in a complete stranger about their relationship, seemingly using the foundation of his twisted story to fuel compassion. He lied about the way she treated him. About the seriousness of their status. But most importantly he lied about being a victim to someone who truly played the part, every god damn day.

This story has a happy ending folks…cause when she found out, she eventually left him. It took her a couple months, as most many-year relationships do, but it finally happened. And despite how horrible it sounds to break two people up, I’m so grateful I was given the opportunity to do so, and did it without fear of repercussion.

This shit doesn’t fly with me anymore kids. I can smell a liar from across our cell signals these days. Don’t play me for a fool, or I’m gonna make your current girlfriend my more current best friend and we’re gonna roast the fuck out of your dick pics in the comfort of our own single-hood. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like a superhero, but if being online and trying to date makes me a vigilante for love, keep me logged in and signed up,  cause I’m ready to detect the bullshit you douche-canoes keep feeding me.

 

Boom. Nailed it. ūüĎćūüŹĽ

Plateau

Plateau

Rock bottom isn’t just a bar and grill, to some, it’s a platform for change. I’ve swam pretty damn close to the depths of sunken debris, where fellow friends visited and found permanent residency in the strength it provided. But, my lowest of lows never seem to be “bottom” enough. I haven’t been an unlucky divorcee, I know nothing of addiction, and frankly even amidst my saddest hours soaked in misunderstood tears, I’m still not seemingly low enough to always find a higher self. 

I find a bit of guilt in wanting to seek a lower-low for the sake of a higher-high, but this is a cliche and monumental line that makes me think about the what if’s of its potential. What if I already hit my rock bottom and did nothing with it? What if one persons rock bottom looks nothing like someone else’s? What if rock bottoms aren’t for everybody?

They aren’t. And it’s fucking purgatory

A place where we stand in limbo, totally dissatisfied with where we are; destined for neither hell nor heaven. What do we do here? Funny I should ask, because I’ve been told that the definition of hitting it is the moment you begin to question everything that you know to be true. 

I’m here. It’s happening

I never thought I’d long for a crash so fatal. The kind of carnage that leaves me with just a skeleton of shambles that need rearranging. For too long, I’ve been lost, playing hide and seek with myself over fifty states and too many years to count on one hand.  

At the bottom, you can look up and see how far off course you were. Staring at a road you paved with other people’s ideas of someone you never wanted to be. At the bottom, all of your previously-ignored defective behaviors are projected into the light. Finding each of your faults floating freely; as you sink deeper. At the bottom is a fresh perspective; a positive perception of a life that felt unsatisfactory. At the bottom is responsibility, humility, but most importantly prosperity. 

I’m starting to think “hitting the bottom” isn’t a once in a lifetime occurrence. It can facilitate its way into our lives on a weekly basis if we aren’t cognitive enough of it’s purpose. Just when I thought my bottom wasn’t as low as others, I realized quickly it was bottom-enough for me to hit restart and re-establish the person I am. Not only that, but publicly. 

This blog is a constant rock bottom. I come here to recognize my failures. To accept self pity and take responsibility for how my life is lived. It gets me out of hiding and allows me a platform for vulnerability when my feelings feel hardest to feel. It allows me to loath, to be thankful and to sometimes be completely numb to everything I just stated above. I witness it connect me with old friends, and often times it connects me with complete strangers; but most importantly it connects me with me…time and time again.

Apology Tour 2017

Apology Tour 2017

I’ve dated quite a few of you. I use the term dated loosely; as in: you woke me up with good morning texts long enough to make me feel like there couldn’t possibly be more of us. (spoiler alert: there were) Maybe you asked me out a handful of times to places you wanted to experience with someone like me. We might have kissed. Some of you can say you know what I look like unclothed, some of you won’t ever get the opportunity. Whatever we were, I know I learned as much about you in whatever time frame the universe granted us. Because whatever connection I seek, I never cease to go deep.

I spent a month here, and year there, exploring a myriad of different men. And some would say I looked for something in everybody, childishly. Like I was settling for a sense of purpose in nurturing a poorly watered flower on the windowsill of love. But, when I look back on the handfuls of people who strummed the chords of my future for an entire decade, I know I played a role in lives that needed someone like me. And why do I know this? Because anybody who truly deserved the kind of exit you all took, wouldn’t deserve the apologies I received in due time.

I tear up at the fact that it feels perpetual; that everybody leaves. And without fail, everybody returns. This week alone I’ve felt more abandoned than ever and when I ask the un-named numbers that appear in my inboxes what they are getting out of their expressions of regret, all I hear is that I never deserved the way I was treated and that I needed to know that. But do I really need to know that? How is this for me?

It’s not. It’s for you. And that’s ok. I’ve always let it be about you. The part when you left, that was for you to figure out why you were too overwhelmed to continue. The part when you came back, this was for you to realize that being a coward didn’t benefit either of us. I’ve been meaning to tell every single person who knocks on the door I’ve finally closed that I am human too. I have feelings that are overwhelming and difficult also, but I never use them as an excuse to treat another human being the way you all did.

Apologies are hard. I’ll give you that. Pride is a salty thing to swallow. But so are tears. Words used to be such an influential vessel of truth to me and then they sailed away on a river of you-inflicted sadness. I can’t even trust my Australian GPS, because I chose to download him as a man.

Your lies may have been in the past, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. I remember all of your exits vividly. They were dead phone lines, undelivered texts and ghosts of profiles. They were opportunities for me to go completely insane while I tried to figure out the difference between what I did wrong and what was wrong with you. And I hate you for that. But I forgive you just the same.

It’s funny how your apologies make me feel sane again. Sometimes being delivered within the year, others longer. They’re all different, built on excuses of poor timing or mental illness. But built on the faith that I’ll accept whatever it was that made you make the mistake. The things you said to me, the things you didn’t, whatever they were I didn’t deserve them. But, everyone deserves a little forgiveness. Of course, not the kind that excuses your behavior, just the kind that stops destroying my heart…

 

 

 

The Coward With The Key

The Coward With The Key

I think I’m going insane. 

Not the kind that voids me of being a productive member of society and forces me to medicate pharmaceutically, just the kind that makes me cry on my drives home from work to songs that are other-wise meant for dancing. I used to chalk it up to mother nature; engulfing my hormones into a fiery inferno of mass hysteria every month like clock work. Making me eat chocolate chip cookies by the handfuls and overreacting about literal spilled milk. [I’m clumsy, it happens.]

But this, this isn’t my menstrual cycle anymore. This is a men-suck cycle; this is war. Some would say I ask for it. And those people aren’t totally wrong. I ask for the attention by way of social media, by the way I wear my makeup or the low top cut I adorn. I ask for it on the dating profiles I solicit; in the blog I post publicly for everyone to read. It’s funny cause I rarely get what I seek. The kind of attention that is more than just a hit off the pipe, the kind that starts as a friendly gesture and could manifest into a true connection but finds its way instead to be reckless and debilitating.

I may have asked for ‘it’, but ‘it’ is vastly different to two totally different people who’s lives have yet to collide on anything deeper than a filtered selfie and a couple of drunk late night “I miss you’s”. These days, I miss you is equivalent to “I miss your body”. I want you is just backwash for “I’m scared to be lonely”. It, to me, is always just some sort of foundation of reliability from an outsider. The ability to come together as two humans with similar interests and mutual respect. Day one, we’ve got it. Day thirty six, it’s gone. 

I wish people who plant trust-seeds in strangers’ hearts and forget to water them weren’t long for this world. I’d say I understand the idea of being selfish, but I really fucking don’t. Even people whom I don’t believe deserve a second more of my time, got it. Why? Because communication is the key to mental health stability. And everyone’s just walking around with all of the answers in their pockets; tight lipped…destroying society. You know what changes the whole game? Not even playing one. Just being as straight forward as it’s physically possible to be to make sure that every word you say is followed by a similar action.

Because, when things don’t make sense, and the world seems so very fucked…that’s when the mind gets weaker and the heart grows an aversion to love. And frankly, that’s all we ever need in this life. To love and be loved. The idea that someone can strip us of that possibility feels like murder: Death by coward; the one with the key. 

Big Talker 

Big Talker 

God I hate “big talkers.” 

More than slow walkers; more than faded Dockers and sidewalk gawkers, even more than misbehaved Cockers. (That’s saying a lot cause I despise “caution” pets who come in for routine visits) 

I don’t hate a lot of things, except for the title of this blog and everything that rhymes with it. Let’s be real; faded anything is my fashion demise. But most of all, I loathe the scum of the earth fakers that spend so much of our precious lives making false promises to the more-than-worthy human beings that stumble through these acts of fabrication with soon-to-be-slaughtered positive expectations. Face it, you can only hide so much before your actions become a direct map to your deception. Tell me you don’t like games while you are literally the creator of the one we’re playing. 

Nothing can prepare a good person for bad things, because to us, there is always hope. We never judge people by the footsteps of their shitty predecessors, we worry and wait for the trusted to prove their similarities, but we never assume that by default the world is evil. And that’s the fault in our love.

I am no better for my naivety. But I’m no worse for dusting myself off and trying again, and again, and again. Not because I have a time line (fuck it, were all gonna die anyway) but because we never stop being worthy of accepting new feelings. The good, the bad and the “I’ll make you feel so good it’ll hurt so bad”. 

The pain of watching something turn out the complete opposite of the energy you put forth into it is almost like a tiny death. Thank the god I don’t believe in- that it’s not. That it’s just a bruise or a scar, not the end.

Sometimes it feels like the end. Another conclusion to a quick and pointless cinematic-like piece of shit. Wasting my time on an hour and a half of something that’s gonna go straight to DVD. I deleted my tinder account to literally try the live version of an interrogation. Did you do it? No. Who did it? I don’t know. On second thought, just kill me already

Ok fine, spare this mug for maybe an ounce of lessons learned, but can I get a break long enough for an uninterrupted love-meal? When will I be able to see through this generation’s bullshit and formulate a way to protect and serve my mind, body and soul? 

Speaking of souls, mines pretty old. I know this because often times I feel like I’ve done this before. Like I’ve lived through a thousand different heartbreaks and it didn’t make me any better or worse for it. It just was. And what was, was my purpose.

I never truly understood why so much misery and chaos exists around me. That’s the burden that lingers on a soul that’s seen it all before. We carry the weight of having all the answers but knowing sharing them will never be enough. We are the deep insight that fights to feel something beyond today’s predictions. Something more permanent and less forced; a forever bond that transcends all lack of truth and continues to be a never ending entanglement of brutally honest connection.

That’s some big talk, you may say. With big talk, comes bigger action. From me at least. It’s unfortunate I still can’t date myself fulfillingly. Maybe in my next life…

Ex Marks The Spot

I get it, Ex’s are an ‘off-limits’ topic. They fuel insecurities and create unnecessary reminders of lost time. But, most importantly they are pieces of our past. A past that molds who we are today.

Understanding your current partner’s previous relationship is equivalent to taking Calculus your senior year. Nobody wants to do it, it’s going to seem like a giant waste of time, but in the end, it’ll get you to where you want to be much faster.

The Ex is around somewhere. They exist. Find them and research their failures. Or, when that feels entirely too invasive, simply…just ask your partner. Your significant other’s ex’s faults are a streamlined path to triggers that could be easily avoided with the knowledge of their existence. They say, that what we don’t know can’t hurt us…except in this very instance.

What made him leave? Why was their relationship less than successful?

Before doing some irresponsible social-media stalking take a moment to engage with your partner and find out from them what they were looking for, and didn’t find, in a potential spouse. Sometimes you will get the ol’ “She was crazy” which you will come to find out translates into “stayed out late drinking and fucked my best friend”. Note to self: don’t do either cause it doesn’t label well. Clearly infidelity is a huge turn off for everyone, but more specifically it’s important to remember that the partner with this kind of “EX-file” is probably more fragile when it comes to trust.

You may even get the “She wasn’t my type”, translating into: “She let herself go about four months into the relationship and by the time we moved in together she was able to eat a slice of pizza off of her belly Fat-Bastard style”.

Whatever you get for a response about what was enough to end their relationship, it’s enough to help you not end this relationship. And that’s such a one up, it’s absurd. Grab a front row seat to any kind of evolution, even if it’s a taboo topic like who your boyfriend used to bang. Honestly, being aware of you AND your partner’s boundaries is probably the single most important influencer in the confidence people need to create solid connections.

Normalize your past, align your objectives and TALK ABOUT YOUR EX’S.  It’ll make things so much easier for you when you realize your not asking someone to repeat any former regrets. You’re setting them up for success by giving them the tools they need to not be another tool you don’t need.

Double Standard

Life’s not fair.¬†

 

*end article*

 

 

 

 

 

Ok, fine. Even though that’s the gist of basically everything I have to complain about currently, I might as well divulge my frustrations in entirety as to not leave my audience without some, as-always, dating irony.¬†I am human, hear me rant ūüôā

Our minds are beautiful things. Sometimes taking us to the most enchanting corners of insanely magnificent ideas. While other times they drop our pitiful-gutter-thoughts off at inopportune times that create a whirl wind of perverse commentary; proudly labeling us as the town hoe.

If you haven’t used the monkey with it’s¬†hands covering it’s¬†mouth emoji before, you probably don’t know what i’m talking about. Mouth, *insert foot*, type Freudian¬†slips. The kind of text messages that would make your Grandma blush. You tell him it’s hard for you to trust men and he tells you he’ll ‘show you something hard’.

Game over. Her¬†well is dry. She thinks you’re a pig.

Twenty minutes later she sends him a button-down cleavage shot with a winky face and he wants to know why CHICKS ARE SO GOD DAMN CONFUSING.

I get it, double standards times infinity. Let me break this down for you though. Since the dawn of time men have been, without a doubt, considered the more sexually charged partner in a relationship. By instinct alone, sex is on a man’s mind before he even know’s his penis is primed. More often that not, this innate desire for intimacy has proven to increasingly place pressure on women who’s fancy’s are usually tickled by less bang and more hang. But that doesn’t change what is already programmed. Something, that no matter how much he says’s he doesn’t want “just that”, is there. It’s hungry. So, when a man brings up anything correlating to sexual desire, it’s fair to assume that’s where his mind is going. Actions to follow. Because, history.

Men want immediate pleasure, not to be mistaken with instant gratification which can be found in the opposite sex. Ask any 14 year old teenage boy playing pocket pool under the table at school for his¬†entire lunch hour. It’s mandatory. Once satisfied, men move on to pursuit. The pursuit of continued indulgence. Followed by finding out if there’s any interest beyond achieving climax.

Women however, organize differently. Interest, pursuit, pleasure.

In order for us to be pursued we have to gain interest and therefore achieve pleasure. Which equals throwing out bait that the fish will bite. What bait do men bite? Things that give them pleasure. So we are now originating our tasks by fishing with our own end game. And frankly, it feels like the only way.

If I hear that this isn’t fair one more time I’m gonna take a knife to a kitten. This is an earned¬†fairness, in my opinion. Why do we get to talk about our nipples getting hard at the sign of an early winter, but you can’t tell us that you got a raging stiffy¬†from a Carl’s Jr. commercial? Because, only one of us is turned on by the thought of the other’s comment.

Sometimes I ‘accidentally’ get some side boob in the picture of me asking if you ‘like my new socks?’. But when¬†you ‘accidentally’ get your whole dick in a photo of you inquiring¬†if I ‘love your new watch?’ NOBODY WINS. There is some sort of unsaid truth about dick pics being the most unsolicited genre in maybe the entire existence of photography. And yet, men still send them. We barely want it in our vagina’s, let alone burned into our thoughts with a sepia filter. What do we want? You to tell us that our side boob is everything you’ve ever dreamed of…and oh, our socks are cute too. #instantgratification

I get it, it’s not fair. But….life’s not. Blame the idiots before you who led with their¬†main veins. If that’s not enough dammit, us women grow babies for almost an entire calendar¬†year’s time. The least you can do is give us this one up.

Guys be like…


Like my new watch?!

Temptation Earth

Temptation Earth

There used to be this show on Fox when I was young that my pre-teen self was embarrassingly¬†addicted to. It was a dramatic reality TV¬†show, before dramatic reality TV¬†shows were cool, that sent boyfriends and girlfriends to a romantic island to quiz the strengths of their relationships. Producers provided¬†the couples with human temptations that would essentially break them up and cause them to want the ‘forbidden fruits’ that their otherwise monogamous relationship wouldn’t previously allow. The mini series was called “Temptation Island”, unbeknownst¬†to 2001; being the pilot to all that is 2017.

Temptation island is just code for the world we live in. Why it was such a flop, is beyond me. People love watching relationships nose dive with the additive of a well oiled bikini body. This show legit only got one season before it was pulled. But I never forgot the effects of its purpose on my psyche. The most important part of a relationship for me at that time, was being hopelessly in tune with your desire for your partner despite everything else the world offers around you. Not. I was thirteen. I just wanted to know when Offspring was touring. But, as I grew older I realized that the world is always offering you something more than what you have. Sometimes it even feels like someone has opened¬†your diary and created your ultimate fantasy¬†of a person and then tries to hand deliver them to your hotel room door AFTER you’ve committed¬†to someone else for life. #coincidence

Commitment is usually temptation’s kryptonite. It job is to not¬†allow temptation to breathe, to transpire, to manifest. But, sometimes it’s not enough. So, does succumbing to any form of temptation separate the sinners from the saints? Somewhat. Temptations are short term urges that typically dismantle long term goals. One leads to two and two can provide comfort for three, and the list grows. Relationships don’t ever have room for testing temptation’s waters. But, of course, our generation is full of¬†it. The incessant need for validation through social media will forever be ‘that guy/girl you’re worried about’. There’s no face to a name, it’s just a constant F.O.M.O¬†that lingers forever.

It’s a female-charged-user-name with a double-heart-eyes-emoji comment under his ig¬†post.¬†

They’re probably fucking.¬†

I’m probably not wrong. She was probably more tempting than he was committed. And that’s how relationships find their demise. Staying away from temptation feels less of a choice and more like luck these days. Because, wherever there’s happiness there is someone who wants to test your happiness’ strength. Like a god damn Fox TV producer.

 

Fair Trade

“It’s up to you Taryn…I can tell you how to do the right thing or I can teach you how to manipulate the situation to get what you want.”

Advice; something I’ve never been short on.¬†

I guess when you’re trying to find solutions to life’s never ending problems, short cuts tend to give the quickest satisfaction. It’s just that they are usually made up of a lot of things that don’t help me sleep at night. Like inspiring fear and following that up with relief. Or being completely unreasonable until I¬†get my¬†fucking way.

I used to throw tantrums in grocery stores until my mother left me cold and alone in the ice cream isle pondering my life choices. But, enough about last week. Those tantrums worked just as well on my stubborn parents as they do on today’s men. And by ‘worked’, I mean…i’m still cold and alone in the ice cream isle at 30.

I [almost] always want to do the right thing, that’s for certain. The right thing is just fifteen additional¬†steps involving selflessness that frankly I’m exhausted on executing. Manipulation smells a lot like success especially after years of failed attempts at altruism. Does that make it right? no. Does that make it desirable? fuck yea.

I was in sales for like half a minute last year, and honestly, an unintentional slum lord to some of the nicest people. Lately, that’s how I feel when I’m dating. Like I’m selling the hell¬†out of some damaged real estate, but who cares? It’s gotta come off the market some day. Ok, so I’m not that mangled, but I know there are women out there with a lot less insecurities. They just aren’t as funny. And I bet you all the dollars in my wallet that they can’t make cupcakes at high altitudes.

That’s where I’ve learned the art of manipulation. Which, by definition sounds like I’m about to make victims out of my suitors…but believe you me, this is better for all of us in the long run. ¬†Realistically it’s just about perfecting persuasiveness; something they make you master before you can pass your speech class in college. So why not utilize honed skills to make an honest woman out of myself? Oh, the irony.

The world is a very dishonest place. It’s filled with people who need direction. I know the right thing is to ‘be yourself’, stay truthful and be modest. But, sometimes you just gotta let the sex kitten out of it’s cage, tell people what they want to hear, find what makes them tick and strum that cord. Fish with some bait in an otherwise un-stirred pond. Ladies, manipulate¬†the damn situation to get what you want. ‘The right thing’ usually leaves you with things you don’t want. Like, friend zones, childless homes and clean driving records.

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Don’t Tell Me How To Love You

Don’t Tell Me How To Love You

A broken woman is like a dirty diaper, nobody wants to touch it. One quick change though and everything’s fresh again. I’ve learned a lot on my journey to thirty. Absolutely nothing about baby-changing protocol; mostly about which diners serve the best sweet potato fries across the country, but you all knew how bad I was at analogies from the beginning, so…you’re welcome.

Real men change diapers. They just do. Now, I’m not a parent but I can imagine it’s probably incredibly endearing to see your partner (who has no innate child bearing tendencies) fasten your baby to a brand new under garment with joy. Wanna know why? Because, those same men are the only ones who will offer a shoulder to cry on when it’s the 8th day of your period from hell and life is just too hard to life. So, maybe this has nothing to even do with diaper changing and everything to do with being a good human, more importantly a good partner

Nobody likes to do the shitty stuff. (Pun fully intended) you know, like console an upset girlfriend. Frankly, I wouldn’t ever expect a man to blatantly offer himself up to be the punching bag to my insecurity jabs, but if he chooses to love me; he chooses all of me. And sometimes me, is shitty. Thats why I would hope he would change my proverbial “dirty diaper” without hesitation. My broken pieces most likely just need to be coddled with care, not stared at like a disorder. 

All too often I notice the silence. When it would mean the most; that’s when men are the least. Defense mechanisms tend to prevent them from offering themselves up to the fire that is an argument, but sometimes you just gotta go through it, to get to it. Most of us women just want to be heard. Forget that it’s half truths and jargon, just lend an ear and accept me for my mistakes; they’re the only stepping stones to any true happiness…

Round 3. *Ding*

Round 3. *Ding*

“So, what you’re saying is, this relationship you’re working on is the definition of insanity?” 

By definition, my relationship with him is a lot of things. Its intense. It’s insecure. It’s perilous. But what it’s grown into; from before, is far more important than what defines the path we took to get here. 

Ok, fine. By definition, maybe I’m a little crazy. But by definition, I’m also unapologetically in love. In terms of chemistry, for me love isn’t all of the feels that can be mistaken for lust. Love is risky. And those who take the most risks are often thought to be farthest from sane. Call me the Evel Knievel of relationships and move along…

Upon arrival home, I sat at a bar with my best friend, appetizer in cue. The air was cold, but my heart was warm. I was curious about how others viewed my triple attempt at dating the same man within five years and three states. Surprisingly, she didn’t have the same sour response as the stranger who pegged me as insane prior. She reminded me of her rocky on-again-off-again relationship of five years and how it didn’t matter how many times she felt hate in her heart, it was never enough to give up. That this was what defined love; the risk of being hurt and being able to overcome those challenges. We’re all reckless. Doesn’t matter if it’s round one, two or twenty four

I, like most, often fall victim to believing that relationships portrayed on social media are “perfect”. That nobody has bad days, or bad years, certainly never bad lives. [Holy definition of insanity batman] Everybody’s pretty bad at love, if even for a moment. If being bad at something stopped me from trying it ever again, Id be a pretty sorry excuse for a human being. 

I’m sure you’re wondering why not leave my ex in the past, you know, where Ive left him before, and where he’s also left me. Frankly, I don’t need to explain why I’m going back for more, but I do know that a substantial amount of time has passed to lead me to believe that resolutions have transpired and life has handed me an opportunity far more pertinent to his and I’s happiness than ever before. Timing can be a real bitch (see blog 1-75) 

If you don’t think it’s possible to fall in love with something more than once, travel more. I went to the Grand Canyon when I was young. I sat in the car and complained about how tired my feet were. And then I drudgingly walked to the edge and felt my stomach turn. I knew then that I wanted to be on the edge of things that were completely out of my control on grand scales, with good people. And when I went back ten years later as an adult, it strummed my heart strings with the same frequency as its premier. I wanted a thousand encores. 

With him, I always want more. Encores on encores. And when it ends, if it ends; hell EVERY TIME it ended….I never stopped searching for us; for our sequel; our trilogy, praying we won’t need a saga. With every fear I have of failure, comes hope for something bigger and better than anything I was ever offered in the past. So, call me crazy. Call me whatever you want. Just don’t call me on a Friday after six cause, well,  I’m dating my ex, for the third time…and I’m not afraid to say it. 

Got Guilt? 

Got Guilt? 

Guilt is the devine creator of some of the most extravagant lies I’ve ever heard. A guilty conscience manifests itself in our hearts and bleeds heavily if it’s sin. [In false pretenses or hidden agendas.] I speak, with guilt, in truth. And it’s almost impossible for me to find a like minded soul in a millennium of storytellers. 

Once upon a time, you didn’t wake up and forget how to be a good human. Nobody is that absentminded. And I am not that dumb. If, one morning I wake up, completely void of feelings for the person I had been pursuing, I would, without hesitation gift them with reasons, not penetrate their confusion with excuses. In the moments that I feel shame for change, I also feel courage for sincerity. And you should too. I share that bold and beautiful attribute with everyone I come in contact with. The good, the bad, and the I wish I never gave you my number. 

I know you don’t want me. 

I know you hate pressure.

Or the way it feels to get caught up in something outside of basic routine. I know that it’s easier to have a story benefit your conscience by manipulating the content. That’s life, and it’s awful. 

I am not a moron. I am, however, stupid enough to pet the dead cat. It’s cute, it has nothing to offer me, but it’s cute. 

                  God I’m bad at analogies. 

You can stop pretending. The weight is only lifted when honesty is present. 

When I was younger I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. I came to terms with my impulsivity by redirecting its usage. I impulsively loved while the untreated impulsively lied. I even loved the way people lied. (Cue Eminem and RiRi) It kept bringing me back to this streetlight of uncertainty. Sitting at a red light, staring at people knowing exactly what to do, and then there’s me, the asshole, full-fender-freak out

Feelings for you are like an intersection in a power outage. A total blackout of direction; constantly waiting for a green light…

I think I’ll die in this car. 


Terminal. 

Terminal. 

You are a special kind of awful 
The kind that disguises itself as understanding; sucks me from vulnerable to empty, ground to air.

Cloud nine-hundred and forty two

That’s how many times our cabin pressure has dropped.                       Your eraser apologies are translucent like the window of the exit. 

The way a parent lies to their child as the plane goes down; thats how you coddle me. 

Everything’s gonna be ok.

The heat rises. 

You’re safe with me. 

Alarms sound. Flames and flames and flames…

I wish I could black you out like the impact of metal into the softness of unprepared soil. Release myself from the seatbelt of your consistent carnage.

Save yourself before you save another. Masks drop. Pressured bodies. 

                      The way I feel when we lift off. 

The way I feel when we’re going down. 

Always taking off, barely landing…

Nobody Wants To Be A Heartbreaker 

Nobody Wants To Be A Heartbreaker 

“But, doesn’t my opinion matter?”

It doesn’t. Not when your opinion is in regards to the conjunction of two separate entities. Wherever you go, and whoever you love nothing matters of your own desires until his or hers are parallel in comparison. And that’s the sad, sad truth. Mostly because it doesn’t really matter when you feel like it’s right, if it’s not right for both, it’s not possible for you. 

Finding yourself empowered and not deflated in these moments is and will forever be the hardest lesson to continuously learn. It feels redundant, and perpetual. Those moments when you’re blindsided by the slow motion movements of their lips as they escort you out of their life with confident, but also rash decisions. 

Don’t I have a say on us? Guess not. What I’d say to my almost ex-boyfriend in desperation is now rage; rage that I can’t carry forever because it melts me to my core. I speak of him in highly unsuggested expletives to my girlfriends as we vow to never let another man, good or bad, into our minds; near our bodies. 

Who’s the real bad guy here? Someone who let me go; to be with someone who wants to desperately partake in a love affair of epic proportions? Someone who knew he couldn’t find a way to quiet my own insecurities with how many he carried on his own? The man who knew I was meant for so much more? Certainly not him.

I’m the bad guy. I’m the one with the opinion. The one who feels even a hint of remorse for not seeing wrong from right. Because it was always right. So right; just not right now. Timing is the single most important factor in fastening a connection into a relationship. And I can’t blame time. It doesn’t know any better. It’s on nobody’s side. 

Love takes failure, even if it’s a thousand heart breaks within a moments time. Relationships take courage. Courage to say, she’s a wonderful woman, but she’s not my right now. Connections take faith. Faith in people being the best them while you explore the intricacies of their being. Romance takes honesty. Honesty about where you stand as a person and who you can be for more than just yourself. 

Too many people don’t realize this until it’s too late. So, get off your dating app, stop flirting with the waitress, and find a way to keep time from being a burden and allow it to mold you into a wholehearted human being. 

That’s the only place my opinion matters when you left. Not on our almost relationship, or a quickly snuffed out connection, but on who I know you have the capability to be. 

And nobody wants to be a heartbreaker

PTSDenied 

PTSDenied 

          “I’ve got a crush on you.” 

“Don’t worry, that will go away.” 



I talk to people like I’m a benign tumor. Like if they just repeatedly ice me, or take an Aleve, they’re totally golden. I don’t know where I lost my confidence, but I went back to find it the other day and I’m pretty sure it’s buried alongside my 2015 tax returns and under all of the bobby pins that used to keep my messy bun in check.  

I hate when people tell me to love myself. Ok, listen Biebs…that’s the easy part. It’s trusting that someone else won’t crush my soul after I’ve proven to them that I do in fact love myself and that they should feel the same that’s the hard part. 

What’s the best way to keep someone from hurting you? Don’t let them buy the opportunity; tell them you’re not worth the sale. I’m basically a backwards realtor. Showing off my real estate like it’s far from prime, you know, so it won’t get any use; escaping the abuse.

I realized today how absolutely terrified I am of the repercussions of interest. I have been so perpetually content in the confines of single hood that anything veering from the norm is a potential bomb threat to me. 

Everyone is a (love) terrorist in my eyes

Remember a world where we didn’t live in fear? 



                              Yea, me either

I Blame Sarah. 

I Blame Sarah. 

I imagine hell on earth is subjective for all of us. For some it’s the 5 freeway during rush hour. For others it’s the DMV. I know a buddy of mine would say it’s the tampon isle, no matter who’s in it. We all know our own personal hell–or hell’s if you’re as blessed as me to stumble upon audacity’s at full capacities. 

The entrance to hell, for me, is on the corner of online and dating. It’s a pretty big door these days, and I’ve opened it often. I spent a few months staring at its ever-inviting hinges, wondering what was on the other side and if I had been missing anything. I knew what was waiting for me beyond the boards of normalcy and I continued to sift through my options like it wouldn’t soon emerge as the firey pits of Satan’s lair. And then I knocked… 

Online dating answered. Like the scriptured geological demon it is. Hell is every message that brings me such distaste for mankind that I can barely tolerate not taking my own loneliness and banishing myself to it for all of eternity. [You know, so I could avoid having to communicate with the mentally challenged.]

I’ve compiled a list of the top ten “nopes” that online dating has to offer someone like me just to outline the every-day reminders of living in a generational fail: 

1. Your name is “Mars” “eyecandy8”, “notadouche85” or Dj fucking anything. Might as well call yourself “single4ever” and call a spade a spade. 

2. You want to know if “you can ask me a personal question.” Sure, I hope you wanna know how I’m gonna kill myself after I minimize the screen with this first message on it. 

3. You spell grammar wrong. Spelling mistakes aren’t ironic; they’re idiotic. 

4. This


Points for the “men” usage in “examine.” Although, I don’t think that was a pun, I think maybe your parents are siblings.

 
5. You have five photos of the same selfie, just different mouth situations.  

Red might be your color, but this screams “I don’t do laundry”. 

6. Your profile picture is of a puppy. You’re cheating. I can’t swipe left on a 6 week American Eskimo. I’m NOT A MONSTER. 

7. You’re an over sharer.

8. Penis shadows. That’s a Chiquita; you’re not fooling anybody. 

9. Shits blank=shits weak. “I’ll fill this in later” is the same as “ill be ready in five minutes.” 

10. You AND your gf think I’m cute. I have a three some every night. Two dogs; one owner. 

Drops mic

My hell probably isn’t your hell, but frankly my heaven involves a vat of hot fudge and a restored collection of choose your own adventure books. So, needless to say, people differ. Especially in their approach at connections. The only thing I connect with on the above is that it’s never just one. Someone is handing out a book on dating and sabotaging human kind from ever receiving the love they deserve. Probably Satan; which my phone keeps autocorrecting to Sarah. It’s that bitch, Sarah. Find her

The Fizzle is Real 

The Fizzle is Real 

I’ve had enough mind blowing conversations in my life time to know quality over quantity. Exchanges about government cover ups of extraterrestrial life. Stories of military battle for a country I’m too chicken to fight for. Struggles of overcoming addiction and disorders. Gabfests about fates misfortune. Even discussions about the meaning of unconditional love. 

I don’t want to know How Harry Met Sally, or how Stella got her groove back, or which Full House character we both need to fan-girl over in order for us to become best friends. Your movie quotes are unoriginal; not punny. I don’t care about your breakfast. Your lunch. Or a photo of a steak-adorned-dinner-plate you took while on your third date this week. Your good morning and your good nights are like two pieces of 7 grain bread with a slice of still-wrapped Kraft singles in the middle. Nutritionally inept

You’re wasting your time with the fluff, kids. Monotonous, time-consuming, “hey” “hey” “how’s your day” “good, yours” “fine” *radio silence* is becoming painful. I almost wish some of these people got hit by a bus or had a dog die. You know, just to have something to connect to. Call me crazy. No wait, dont fucking call me crazy. #startingafightoutofboredom 

Naturally, I receive, on average, ten to twenty messages a day on my online profile. (Half of them can’t spell their names, don’t get too excited). Mixed with one to three vendors at work asking if I’m married…that makes for a multitude of conversation starters. You’d think 1 out of 23 would be response worthy; you’d think wrong. 

Even with that quantity firm, the fuq are my intellectual stimuli?! I’m so incredibly under stimulated that I find myself literally deleting, blocking or just blatantly walking away from some of these people. Did you just say “Do you want to go grab a beer sometime?”. No. No I don’t. Because beer is literally the most boring fucking thing “to do” on the planet. Do I want to go camping with you in the woods while we ferment Kombucha and write songs for each other? Yes. Man I sound like a god damn hippie.  

I’m not usually this effervescent about not showering on a first date, but some of my most memorable moments have been in nature, or amongst a less rigid crowd. I like beer, don’t get me wrong. But I can purchase, drink and love it any day of my adult life. What I can’t do is stand under some stars next to a fire built by someone less dainty than I and find a sense of wanderlust in a relationship as it unfolds. 

Textually I’d rather lose my phone to a body of water than have to manually discard some of this severely unenthusiastic correspondence. I don’t get the “enjoy life’s little and unexpected moments today, live it wisely and don’t forget to smile” texts. You know, smart shit. The stuff I GIVE TO PEOPLE. Because, I know that plain is boring and if I send you one more clock work good morning your gonna blow your brains out. Or maybe not, cause you’re all robots with erections brought on by the sound of a single text tone. 

The fizzle is real my friends. You had me at “my mind works in mysterious ways” and then you lost me at “so, wanna see a movie?”. Ugh. I dare each and every one of you to make a date jar. And then put that next to a quote jar. And then court the fuck out of some incredible women. If they don’t want to make babies with you in the end, at least you left little Pinterest footprints of encouragement along the way; something more than the guy who read like a real life interview every day of his existence. 

Moral of the story is: if you don’t have anything exciting to say, don’t say anything at all. Memorize a fact, learn a joke, master a metaphor. Nobody ever caught the good fish with a dull hook. Rod’s up! 

A Season of You 

A Season of You 

Every other summer we skipped each other like the rocks on the shore of the beach outside your door. 

One year on, two years off. Five years; round three. You are you, and I am unfathomably still me. 

You were a family vacation without the stress of the family; wanting to revisit the same spot over and over until it wore itself into tradition. 6th street is where I parked my car; where I parked my heart. Our tradition was in fact closed lips and tongue tied versions of what our hearts felt and our heads suppressed. We visited often. 

I told you I loved you thirty seven times. To the back of your sleeping skull. To your silhouette outside the patio door. To the inside of an airplane window as I flew away…

We had a thing for leaving each other; for loving each other as we left. And finding one another just as available as the moment we first met. Connected just the same. 

         Oh universe; you twisted bitch

She never let us say goodbye. And in the absence of answers, I found just that. The ability to move forward knowing that without closure; there was no end. That id see you again. Still intangible like the dreams that haunted me for seven hundred days of curiosities. But still, more alive than the five prior years we couldn’t seem to fuse our souls. 

I know I hate the way the past beats at my insecurities. And the way repeating the same mistake feels like insanity. But I love the way you love the way I do just about anything but leave you. 

I always thought I’d known what love was until I felt what it was like to have everything I’ve ever lost come back to me. And in that feeling I search for ways to frantically keep what had slipped from me blindly for half of a decade. 

Reason. Distance. Time. 

We’ve transcended all three. Like the amount of months in my favorite season; in the summers that I spent engulfed in your smile. Quickly turning into the next season, both me and the leaves falling for you.