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 🙂

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 too exhausted to execute. 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? fuckyea.

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. WE HAVE QUOTAS! 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 with three separate substitutes for eggs.

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 how pregnant his wife is. #ptsd We all know our own personal hell and anybody who says they don’t have one is just sitting in the proverbial lobby waiting for this seasons finale to come to a close. Welcome to the cast, assholes.

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 life. [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 “single4lyfe” 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 everything wrong. The only thing sixth grade and your dick have in common is that you complain entirely too much about them both “being hard”.

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. 

Under Investigation

Under Investigation

My friends and I joke that I attract unavailable men. Jokes over, this is, without a doubt,  a modern day standard for my everyday life. Taken, married, not far enough into their steps in the recovery program, lives in a different state, half way through self discovery, separated but not fully divorced, gay. The list goes on. I don’t meet all of these people online, so I can’t really blame them for a peeked interest. I get it, poor timing is inevitable, but it’s come to my attention that statistically about 75% of men will ride the poor timing wave until you’ve Sherlock Holmes’d their ass. That means, that in order for me to make an educated decision on whether or not the skeleton’s in their closet are too vast to move forward, I have to, on my own accord, find said secrets through research.

There are literally not enough fuck you’s in the world to pass out to the asshats who think that I have enough time in my day to figure out if they are really ready for a relationship, or just pretending to be so that they can touch my butt.  What a selfish bunch of idiots this generation has produced. I sound angry, cause I am. I pay to go to therapy to talk about people who don’t go to therapy. And I go to bars, to essentially sit down, smoke cigarettes I don’t even smoke to tell you how to better love your girlfriend at home and stop hitting on me.

You read that right. Last night, I slipped into a dress and pulled myself out of my comfort zone to rejoice in the fact that my face had been healing nicely and my confidence had sky rocketed. In doing so, I found myself hours deep into a game of pool with “birthday boy”. We first made eye contact after his sixth exit from the men’s restroom in a small window of time. He was either vomiting the last shot some rando bought him, or pissing himself like a race horse. Either way, he passed me often and with intent.

Let me just preface this with the fact that I typically make myself unapproachable unintentionally. Guys don’t hit on me unless they are either A. Just in town for the night or B. Drunker than a skunk. Birthday boy was both. So you can imagine the level of handsy this tall glass of water became. He proceeded to ask me my name. Then my career. Which lead into us picking songs for each other on the juke box. All fairly flirtatious. And then he went in for the kiss. He went from “birthday boy” to “speed racer”.  I couldn’t blame him, we were vibing. From the way he tried to slow dance with me when skrillex came on to trying to ‘teach me how to bank an 8 ball shot’ by pressing his body into mine. Everything felt like the interest was there. All wonderful things for someone like me who’s been single for 2 years and hates everyone she’s been on a date with.

The night fell quick, and before I knew it the bartender threw us the last call reminder.  He asked me for my number. (Birthday boy, not the bartender) Does this get any more perfect? No. The answer is no. All good things must come to an end, especially when you are as smart as I am. A little voice inside of me reminded me of the facebook post I had put up earlier that day:

There is a search bar at the top of Facebook that allows me the option of copy and pasting your phone number in it. Therefore bringing up a profile of you and your girlfriend. Stop lying. Just stop. You’re not cute.

Holy premonition batman.

As he spouts off his digits I coyly plug them into the search bar at the top of Facebook. Boom. Girlfriend. Girlfriend of a lot of years as I scroll into 2013 pictures of two very in love faces.

Granted, there could be many explanations, but none as good as the three his bright red cheeks followed up my findings with. “She’s a meth head and a bartender, and I haven’t been on Facebook in two years, and I was just trying to have a good time tonight.” Wait…what?  So…what you’re saying is that for your birthday, you wanted to cheat on your girlfriend? Fuck, most people just want cake. Or is it that because her job allows you the opportunity to be insecure about her intentions whilst doing her job, you would also like her to feel insecure about your relationship by blatantly being unfaithful when you’re traveling for yours? I don’t know what the hell he was trying to prove. But I just laughed in his face.

So much shame exuded from him as he went to the patio for a cigarette break before the place shut down; while he shut down. Realistically he should have left the fucking bar. Nobody wanted him there. Like scram, vamoosh…kill yourself in your hotel room. Oh the irony of dying your birthday. Ok, fine that’s a little extreme…but still, why are you hanging out after I just caught you being a giant dildo? What happened next is probably the reason this shitty stuff keeps happening to me.

He pulled me aside to tell me that he was really unhappy in his relationship and that he felt ‘comfortable’ being around a woman like me. I reminded him that it didn’t matter how much he hated his current situation, he was still in it. And wrongfully so, in it on social media for a multitude of people to witness. Including future partners. We talked for another half hour, mostly about how smart I was and how he now knew that I wasn’t the kind of woman he could lie to, and I took a drag of a menthol while I shit on this generation that keeps me on my toes. I didn’t want to ever see this prick’s face again, but as luck would have it, I would.

I woke up this morning to a Facebook message. The very url that brought his unfaithfulness to a crippling light. Read below for what might be the funniest string of words from a complete stranger a girl can get after catching him red handed: 

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You guys, he has a ‘good woman that he loves’. I wonder if drunk him knows that.

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Guest Blog: Some Strings Attached 

Guest Blog: Some Strings Attached 

By: Julie Marlene 

“So, what should we do for our next date?”the sweet, sweet man sitting across the table from me repeats as I stare blankly into space, daydreaming about someone else.

He has everything you’re supposed to want…a great job, athletic, handsome, his own place blah blah blah..and, it’s boring. It bores me to the point that I break out into random fits of frustration with myself. What is wrong with me? I’ve been here before, I’ve been here a lot, too much. Pursued by men that other women pursue, that they would kill to be with. But, here I sit, across the table from yet another one and all I can think about is “him”.

“He” and I have known each other for over a decade. I met him when he was too young to take seriously. I was 5 years older and he was still technically a teenager. So, we became friends. Hanging out here and there. I didn’t see him as anything other than my cute, younger guy friend. It stayed this way for years. Then one night, we crossed a boundary. We were hanging out, watching a movie in his room and he kissed me. It caught me off guard, but not so much so that I didn’t protest when clothes started to come off and it escalated, fast.

It wasn’t weird after. We didn’t even talk about it. We carried on like 2 close friends that happened to get naked. And, occasionally did it again and again and again…

It was a nice set up actually. I got to spend time with my best guy friend (who, by the way, resembles some sort of demigod and makes me, at 5’10” feel feminine and petite…not an easy task), have the benefits of a relationship while maintaining my usual cold emotional detachment, and have sex without the risk of someone falling in love. Or, so I thought.

This carried on over the next few years. Pausing for any respective relationships we were in. “He” was always there for me and is a solid, brutally honest man with all of his shit together. And, he’s not safe. No office job, 2 tours on the front lines in Afghanistan and Iraq, quiet and level-headed with a surprisingly explosive temper, strips on the weekends sometimes for extra money and so much confidence it puts me, with my usually dominating personality, in check.

And, then fuck…it happened. I fell in love with him, and I freaked out. I don’t do emotions. I’m closed off, distant and usually piss men off with my detachment and anti-sleepover rules. I didn’t know how to handle it. So, I didn’t. I seethed in it for months…MONTHS. Until, one night we were lying together, talking and I jumped out of bed…as in, actually physically jumped out of the bed and blurted out, “I can’t do this anymore”. He had no idea what I meant. His eyes were wide and he froze like I was some kind of wild animal that would attack with any sudden movement.

“I have feelings. Real feelings for you.”

Except, it wasn’t as eloquent as my punctuation would suggest. It sounded more like one giant, frantic word. He suggested we have dinner and talk about it soon. It was midnight after all. Then, hugged me, kissed me on the cheek and asked me to text him when I got home safely. All normal stuff, followed by a solid 2 weeks of dead air. 

Nothing. I finally broke the silence and we made a plan.He’d pick me up, he’d pay…all his suggestion. Seems good, right? I thought so. Then, came the grenade… “I feel the same way…” followed by what felt like a million tiny “buts”, “I may re-enlist”, “I don’t want to lose you if it doesn’t work”, “I don’t want to disrespect you with the stripping”. I wasn’t hungry anymore. This was the first time in my adult life that I had put myself out there and I got rejected.

So, here I am a few months later (we didn’t start speaking again until a month ago, mostly because of my pride), after trying to convince myself and almost successfully I might add, that I was over him, that all I needed was to hear “no”, still in the same place. Back to constantly thinking about him and aching over him. A completely new feeling for me. Finally, at 33 years old ready to be in love.
And, in a cruel twist of fate, feeling everything that I most likely put those unsuspecting, attentive, sweet men through again and again and again…

Since You’re Reading 

“I read your blog, and you’re pathetic”.  [ I dunno how you found me, but you dug deep] A reader is a reader, even if it’s the girl he cheated on me with. Zero fucks given.

Life suggestion: gentlemen, don’t call me to tell me that your girlfriend is stupid. Cause, your STUPID girlfriend might call me one day. And so she did…Who am I to withhold that kind of information?! 

Since he said you’re not “good at learning” and that “school was tough for you” I thought I’d break out some definitions that you used so sporadically in our brief interaction. Obsession is defined as an idea or thought that continually preoccupies or intrudes on a persons mind. Fact of the matter is I’m bombarded with reminders of him by a greater force. Something you probably wouldn’t understand since you’re so pre consumed with yourself. Real talk, self obsession is far greater of a disgrace than what fills the gaps in my heart. Check yo self. 

Also, I have a blog and I wrote an article about him. I don’t have a blog about him. You see, there was a point when I utilized a pen to paper method to hash out my feelings instead of calling someone I’ve never met and lashing out with malicious intent about who they were as a person by what I’ve  “heard”. I bet we can agree that you’re not “stupid”. Which should lead you to believe that I’m not “insecure”. You know, if we’re going off of the same “source”.

I don’t want to date your boyfriend. What I want for myself and really for the world are answers. I want nothing more than for two people to genuinely be happy together. So, suggesting that I would ever want to break two people up is nonsense. What we can now all assume by you two love birds having an evening consisting of calling me is: the obsession you speak of is an outstanding mirror. Turn that gaze inward baby girl. 

As he knows, and now you have a better understanding of, I live vicariously through the vague moments of my path. I take what is said to me in truth whole heartedly and don’t hesitate to abide by the direction it takes me. However, in saying nothing, that left parts of my mindset to seek responsibility for filling in the blanks. When he left there was no yes or no. There was silence. Our last conversation was about me having his child. Quite the cliffhanger to a “short and meaningless relationship” as you call it. No means no, and yes means yes. So by theory, nothing…meant nothing. And there had to be something. You were the something. But I didn’t know that until our conversation. One in which he relayed to me the absolute distaste he had for leaving me. 

I know you wondered why I sent that email. Or why I called him to check in. And to be honest it was none of your business. Unless he’s crippled and you’re now his caretaker, any contact with me was his responsibility, not yours. I know what you were thinking and I don’t fault you for it. Shouldn’t a girl have some respect for a taken man? Absolutely. It’s the notion that I would never give up on people, unless they ask me to. And most importantly the idea that I was under a different impression about your relationship than you. You can tell me ten ways to Sunday that he wants “nothing to do with me”. And if I had never heard from the guy, I would have believed just that. But he called me to tell me that he thinks of me. In moments of white water rafting with YOU. And I’m the crazy one…

It probably sucks knowing that your relationship will never be as important as him telling you about how great ours was. And I quote “She has a blatant disregard for life. Our adventures are meaningless, nothing like with you.” I will hold on to those words forever because I lived the meaning behind them. You can’t take away my past, despite how mean you try to be in the present. 

I get that being second is awful. But I’m appalled that you choose to be first in that shit show of a false love anyway. When I hung up the phone with him a few weeks back all I could think about was how lucky I was to have dodged a relationship in which the man who I loved everyday spoke of me that way to others. And you’ll never believe me. You’re blind. Been there. Wasted three years of my life in an exact imitation of where you are. This too shall pass

You called me a bitch. A low life. An insecure piece of shit. And then you attacked my abandonment issues with which you know nothing about. Clearly, he spoke of me in error. Or maybe he recounted deep seeded issues I trusted him with. I hope he finds your darkest corners and holds them tight. Because that’s what women deserve. Women deserve to hold each other high. To remind each other that we deserve the best. Not this. Not what he did to me, not what he said of you. 

This moment is authentic to what I always thought he wasn’t. I guess we’ve both been fooled. Laughing at me as I exposed him. Taking the phone away from my ear to drown out your expletives. His ex wife used to contact him while we were together and my heart went somewhere else than yours. Maybe it’s the age. 

I always wanted to remind her that she was in a better place without. And that I would be taking care of his heart from then on. I wanted her to know that I wasn’t a threat, and knew her pain. That women are strong and resilient, and a man will never define us. 

Remember that the next time you act as if I peed on your possessions; like I stole his thoughts for a brief too many seconds. Being irrational is the easiest thing in life to do…

I guess you could say, you two were meant to be. 

A Taste Of My Own Medicine

A Taste Of My Own Medicine

The other day I got called a slut for having boobs. Having boobs, having them not showing them. Let’s all share a moment of silence for body shaming…shame

…and now let’s quickly get over that shit cause realistically it happens to all of us. Nobody is perfect, and everyone’s a “victim” of insult. But my life isn’t a comedy show, and this guy wasn’t headlining. In fact, he was just passing through. creep

He must have thought hmm, maybe with enough audacity I can bite her off something rude to chew cause my dick isn’t feeling big enough today. And so he did. If I remember correctly he began with four compliments in a row. One right after the other. No breathing room.

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I responded with “woa, that’s a lot to take in.” To which he replied with “maybe you should thank people when they compliment you. You’re the type of girl who just gets by on her looks. Nice boobs, slut.”

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I think we can all agree that “that’s what she said” would have been an appropriate response.

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Without even an ounce of humor or intelligence in his response I wanted to verbally assassinate this douche canoe with a slew of my armed “word” forces. And then I realized proving to an idiot that he was an idiot, made me an idiot.

god have mercy
First of all, I’m not writing this post because I’m even slightly offended by this stranger. I know that hurt people (try to) hurt people, and that, what Mike says of Molly says more about Mike than Molly, or whatever the fuck that saying is.

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What I’m getting at are that there are many things none of us chose during our exit from the womb, certainly “a frontal backpack for perma-carry so that I may be deemed a slut for my curves” was not on my list. But neither was that tiny guy across the bar’s wish for being vertically inept.

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This random guy, knowing nothing about me, calling me a slut for having breasts outside of the size norm is almost identical to me calling the short guy in the room un-dateable. There is NOTHING I can do about the cup size my genetics founded me. Similarly, these under-six footer’s are probably feeling their hands just as tied.

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When I started to put it this way, you know…all physical attributes as one,  I finally went hmm, I’m a mirror of this toolbag. I’m the four compliment dude. The guy who looked at me, over sexualized my curves and then gave himself zero shot at getting to know me. That’s me.

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Moral of the story. Who cares if her boobs are giant, or if his height isn’t. Everyone’s got something to offer, and their physical attributes don’t make them slutty, or un-dateable. They make them unique and different. And for that, you and I are both worthy of both respect and of love. Never forget that.

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