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. 


Come Home

Come Home

A dear friend of mine, who remains to be unnamed, wrote a letter to his ex-girlfriend in hopes that the raw pen-to-paper confession would heal a few wounds. He asked for my opinion, and I asked if I could post, because as a fellow advocate of untamed hearts, I fell into a similar passion for his desires on the outskirts of his plea and I needed to share.  Not a lot of people know what it’s like to bare their soul. We sure do. 

It’s Monday night, June 13th, 2016 – 10:03 PM. A little while ago, I sent my goodnight text, saying I’ll see you Wednesday night for dinner. As I’m lying here in bed, I’m trying to figure out what we are going to talk about and why we’re even meeting. What’s the point, right? More or less, I guess I just wanted to see you again.

I can’t tell you how many nights I’d wake up, check my phone, and pray that I had a message from you saying, “Come home.” No apology needed. No explanation. I was cool with just the two words. I was waiting for you to save me. I messaged you drunk last week because I miss you, I think that’s a given. Drunken minds are sober thoughts, right? I was out with friends, having a blast and I still enjoy doing that. I hit the level of drunk where all I wanted to do was come home to you. It didn’t matter how much fun I was having on my own or how much personal growth I was achieving. I wanted to do those things with you, together. I called you years ago on St. Patrick’s Day to save me, remember? That’s where I was the other night. Well, I am writing this one sober.

I’m not the dull, careless, boring, and sensitive person you made me out to be. I’m tough at work. Fearless, selfless, compassionate, and strong. Admired, honored, recognized, and a true mentor. (I know you’re saying, “Really?! You grandiose prick!”) Yeah, me. There are plenty of accolades and accommodations to show for it. I’m damn proud of my career and I should be. I thrive when supported by those around me. In writing this, however, I realize I just jumped to conclusions about the way you expressed yourself. I didn’t listen to you when you repeatedly said that was just your personality. Those who knew you understood it. I should have just been that warrior for you, instead of work- but with passion and love. It’s so much easier to decipher after the fact, isn’t it?

Nine years ago, while studying theology and ancient cultures, I learned about the dualities in nature. I became spiritual. I lost it when I had to grow up and be an adult. That man disappeared entirely. The curiosity was gone and life was full speed ahead. Relationships came and went, some good and some bad. Many hopes of a future and many three-word sentences exchanged. Plenty of confusion. There wasn’t anyone like you, kiss your ass, I know. I’ve been in healthier relationships and I know you have too. It doesn’t make any sense to me either. There’s just something different about you. 

Years later, and like the true dick that nature is, when timing couldn’t be worse, this perfect girl comes along. She has tattoos. A full sleeve, a back piece, she’s spiritual… Or something, I don’t even know. She might not either. She was mysterious, cryptic. Her smile could light a room and you could feel her love just by looking in her eyes- I mean really looking in her eyes. She was confident and stood affirm in her beliefs about the world. Adoring, and perhaps the hardest word to use, innocent. It’s a hard word to say because there’s some heavy guilt behind that exploitation of trust. That part is never going to go away. That’s the flower in my sleeve, I’ve told you that before. I fell damn hard for you. I’m convinced you will never truly understand that and I wish I could just sink into myself and let it out. That was a long time ago and that person is still inside me. I am truly sorry for the past. You must be tired of hearing it by now.

As soon as I had fallen for you, and it was quick, I peered through the peephole, opened the door, and let The Other in…

Life is crazy-beautiful, isn’t it? We spend decades trying to find ourselves. We build and shape some incredible memories. The kind you can only dream up in your head after watching a sappy love movie. Onesies and s’mores by the fire. Raw love. Remove the ambivalence from a stupid boy’s mind. Remember the feeling? Raw love, to the core. Innocence. Bliss, even. The kind that makes you post hearts around your photos. The kind that he’s not afraid to post, too. The kind that makes him cry when he’s alone every now and then, because he misses it. The kind he held onto for a long time. That makes him text you drunk at two in the morning. That despite failed attempts, still makes him believe it exists, because it did once even if it was short. The kind of love he knew he needed, but had to let go. The kind that is right, but he’s so fucked up he thinks there has to be something wrong with it. Like the perfect balance found in nature, a duality must also exist in love. We must go through hardships and we must succumb, even be enslaved by The Other. We don’t know why we bind the chains, but hey, life is crazy-beautiful. 

The Other arrives late at night, pounding on the grand door of your own happiness. The Other will always manifest itself and you cannot hide. It could be anything: love, a big decision, a career move, a fear, whatever. 

You’re frightened by the thunderous knock and peer through the peephole. It’s just a shadow, but still, curiosity haunts us all. We always want more, don’t we? More adventure, more danger, we’re never simply satisfied. Blame Eve, I guess. That bitch fucked it up. We will say, “Don’t answer the door!,” “Go away!,” “Leave me alone!.” But The Other already knows… We are going to let it in. The Other will stand outside and wait, like a predator stalking its prey in the night. The Other is patient will always accommodate your agenda. The Other is going to light your soul on fire, but just for a moment. The Other is a reaper, and your time will surely toll. 

You continue living your life, ignoring the ghost outside. The Other is there but you’re searching for answers. An insatiable need for love maybe, like a true hopeless romantic. You’re digging a well. Your well is different from mine, and mine yours. I’ll never understand yours and you will never understand mine. That’s okay.

Sometimes in searching for the thirst of life’s water, you dig the well dry. You become a desolate product of your own search and you stop digging. Each day you visit your well, peering over the edge, waiting for it to fill. It never does. When it rains, you dance, you celebrate, and you truly feel alive. Those sparks of life that promise spring and new love, they feel damn good! And just as soon as the rain fills the well, the earth strips it away. We continue to peer down the well and wait for the water to return. Oh how we forget nature’s duality. The Other, the Reaper. It’s time. 

You’re swept off the ground with one blow of his scythe. Heel over head you tumble into the well, slamming hard on the floor below. You’ll wake up some time later, make no mistake, but you won’t remember how you got there. 

After you endure the pain of the fall, you sit there at the bottom of the well, knees to your chest. You’re left with nothing but to find a quiet place in your own head. Down in the well, looking up you see a ring of light. Dim, and clouded by it’s own surrounding brilliance above. Unattainable. All sounds muffled against the damp earth. Sitting at the bottom, submerged in that last puddle, after the big breakdown, you discover something. You take that one breath, time stops. You find solace, you become grounded. You feel the air pierce your nostrils and slide deep into your soul. That first breath…

In…

out…

In…

out…

Your breath is deafening and your heart roars like a quiet storm in the distance. You feel your pulse in your veins and you realize you’re alone, but you are okay. You are alone and you are safe. The Other is gone, for now.

For the first time you appreciate the mud between your toes, the moisture in the air, in your breath. You appreciate the warmth from the light above and even the loneliness feels good now. You are doing just fine, but you can’t help but wonder about life outside of your well. 

You hear a sound from above, you look up, and your vision blurred from falling debris. A rope falls over the edge of the well and you call out, but no one answers. You’ve got a way out, but you pause. You reserve a few moments for yourself before grasping the rope to climb out. You know part of you will miss the well and the lessons learned while alone. You shout out again, “Hello!?” 

You hear a faint voice, a whisper, “Come home.” You climb out of the well and you remember life before The Other. A fresh start in a familiar place, another adventure. Life is crazy-beautiful, isn’t it?

You met me tonight, maybe because you got tired of sitting down there too, I don’t know… but we met. The rope was thrown down the well and here we are. I don’t know what happens next, I really don’t. I won’t make a move, I’m sure you won’t either. Somehow though, I know you understand what I’ve written here and I hope it resonates with you. 

The Other was outside and we were inside. We took our turns looking through the peephole on opposite work shifts, never wondering if maybe we were going through the same things separately. We knew The Other was there and we were curious. We focused on the pinhole of light outside, completely missing the light of our home inside. We both opened that door, we both fell in the well, and we’re both wondering why the fuck the rope came down and let us back up. And we’re both wondering, whose voice is calling for us… 

“Come home.”

Send Help. Distract Me. 

Send Help. Distract Me. 

Patience is, without thought, a counter instinct. Which deems it’s very existence a thousand times more difficult to achieve if you’re not constantly practicing it. Let’s be realistic, who has time to practice patience? Ghandi. That’s it. Because, realistically, that dude didn’t have a job. 

Next time I go to the Department of Motor Vehicles you know my ass isn’t about to let anybody skip me in line. Our time is valuable, our time isn’t guaranteed. By nature, you and I will always want something now, and waiting for it is not instinctual because as luck would naturally have it, waiting could be counter intuitive to gaining what we as a species want if tomorrow never comes. 

                     Me. Hungry. Now
 

Breathing, now that stuff comes naturally. When someone dunks your ass in the pool and expects you not to breathe, that shits hard. Because naturally you want to; and at some point naturally you’re going to. I’m not saying having patience is identical to drowning, but like. It’s damn near close. 

So, I looked up virtues today, cause I wanted to find out what else I wasn’t born with. Get this: 

  • Humility against pride. Check.
  • Kindness against envy. Check please. 
  • Abstinence against gluttony. Check.
  • Chastity against lust. Ch…eck?
  • Liberality against greed. Check.
  • Diligence against sloth. Checkity check. *clicks heels*
  • Patience against anger. Dammit. 

These heavenly virtues are powerful against the seven deadly sins, and I manage to check most of them off quickly and efficiently daily. Until I reach patience. And I’m wondering why I’m even googling virtues, I don’t have time for this! The irony is that it’s the contrary virtue to anger. Which I’ve been carrying the weight of a lot lately. 

It’s such a gift to have the moral integrity to be able to hold out for something you want. Foregoing instant gratification, to me, is like shooting myself in the foot. It’s gonna hurt, but I’m not gonna die. I have never prayed for anything so hard in my life. For the ability to hold out. Even sometimes for a minute. To be able to hold back. Even sometimes just for a day. And the ability to counter balance anger with something, anything; patience. 

The idea of patience in itself makes me angry, go figure. My patience wears about as thin as an Olsen twin and I have nothing to combat my feelings of anger with. So I turned my gaze inward today and tried to find out what was causing my deep deflection of this very simple virtue. Simply put, its a fear of loss. It’s the inability to endure discomfort without complaint. 

I tried to find examples of people who might be role models of practicing god-like amounts of patience in my presence, and honestly, turns out, we’re all fucked
I don’t know who made this a virtue that stood in line with other things like “kindness”. But it’s damn near impossible in this generation to be patient. It’s pretty much cake to be nice. 

In my experience, anybody who says they were “super patient” for a period of time in their life, wasn’t. They just remember it working out and therefore project some admirable quality about being patient when they didn’t even really need to be. Someone who waits for a friend while they go to the bathroom isn’t the mayor of tolerance town. There’s no discomfort without complaint in just living a life that goes smoothly.

Patience is enduring a life of irony. It’s caring about someone when they can’t open up right now. Patience is fighting cancer as it eats away at your last little bit of existence. Patience is pregnancy. Patience is love. Patience is knowing what it’s like to be abandoned but having the faith to wait all over again…

Level up. 

Level up. 

Excuses are like assholes, every one I meet lately is one. That’s not the saying, but my heart is bitter and I don’t give a fuck. For what it’s worth, at least I get to start over. Not the kind of starting over that happens when some shitwad steps on your sand castle, but like…the kind where you know that everything happens for a reason and the person who couldn’t figure out their life is probably gonna be alone forever. While you’re lucky enough to be capable of finding the 2.0 version of what you thought was the one, but also unlucky enough to have to be doing this for the 57th time.

Ive been frantically trying to retrace my steps today, back to the purest form of my heart. Because lately I’ve been feeling like this might be the type of situation that breaks me. ME. BREAKS, Me. The woman who’s been writing for a year about not giving up on something I truly want. Today I actually found myself thinking…what if it’s just not for me? What if my purpose is to just write about the impossible feat of having someone love me in return? For the first time in my life I had feelings that felt so right that there was absolutely no way this couldn’t go in my favor. At least that’s how it played out in my head. I’ve been dealing with boring, narcissistic, incapable of holding a conversation idiots and then the universe was like here you go, this is what you need. Just kidding, go fuck yourself. 

My happy endings these days are just a series of being able to move on in a timely manner so that I can do it all again. Cutting my recovery time in thirds and being able to close up heartbreak hotel quick enough to look like it doesn’t almost kill me, every god damn time. The truth is life isn’t over until someone changes my Facebook page to that creepy obituary one that people who never spent a moment of their lives caring about me post about how funny I used to be. [I can’t untag myself when I’m dead, so be kind people.] With that said, I keep truckin. 

Truckin on into work where I can make money to be able to travel and forget about him. Truckin on into the gym so that I can keep a physique that compares to my personality. Truckin on over to tinder, cause I get lonely at night and something is better than nothing. Even if something is a 35 year old aspiring rap artist who talks in emojis and owns stock in low cost hair gel. Ugh.

It’s just getting old, you know, like me. Having to start over when you have exactly what you were looking for and that person just wasn’t on the page you needed them to be on. Maybe there’s someone out there right now wondering what it would be like to know someone like me. Or maybe while everyone else has a king to their queen, I’m just a forever pawn on this chess board of life. 

This morning I woke up and I felt like I didn’t want to feel like this anymore, so I’m trying to do just that. End the confusion, block out the pain. But I can’t help but wonder what the point of all of this was. The only logical explanation is that since nothing could be worse, it’s a stepping stone to something better.

It only takes one person to alter your thinking; color your perspectives, to force you to reevaluate what you think you know. And it only takes one moment for you to ask the toughest question: Do you know who you are, and are you capable of starting over?  

If nothing else comes of this, I have gained a new found appreciation for turning my gaze inward and an ever exhausting but truly capable mind set of continued and passionate stamina. If I fall twenty more times, I’ll get up twenty one and someday someone’s not going to be able to walk away from this kind of hopeless romance. 

Cheers to the people who try their hardest to be good enough for everyone, we are the ones who walk alone. We are the ones who will find eachother one day. 

Road Trips Over Rings 

Road Trips Over Rings 

I read somewhere in a book buried in my hallway closet that if you’re brave enough to love someone you’re brave enough to lose them. I highlighted it cause it felt incredibly definitive in its meaning and I like statements that are absolute. But then I lost the book, and I couldn’t find the quote, and I kept thinking, what if I’m not brave enough for the in-between? What if I can’t read what they advised me to do after? After you love someone. Or after you lose them. Or your mind. Whichever came first. 

Lately, it’s been a lot of all or nothing’s. My least favorite place to be. I used to cringe at the thought of living in limbo and then when I realized that living in limbo meant never having to lose anything completely, I didn’t hate it so much. There is peace in the unknown. Which is why so many people claim that ignorance is bliss. God was it bliss. 

There’s still a peace within me currently that I can’t explain. It makes about as much sense to me as it does the people who think they know what I should be feeling. Pain. This is the calm before the storm. Never have I known a calm before the calm, so I’m geared up for some pretty tough weather ahead. With that said, if I can hang back, in my tornado shelter and fight off insecurities and abandonment, maybe I’ll open up those doors again someday to sunnier skies. Or maybe I’ll open them up to a fucked up town of mangled homes and lifeless corpses. 

That’s the thing, I don’t know. If this shit storm is a category one, or a category five, or if it’s not even going to strike my path. But, I have to be prepared. For the good and the bad. And just like he told me not to, I wait. 

Because no sane human being just doesn’t take shelter and stands on the porch staring the storm in the face. And they certainly don’t run from it. And they certainly don’t stop waiting. This is their home. This is my heart. 

The bravery is in the steps it takes to wait it out, while things you can’t see are taking its course outside of your control. You wait, and you wait, and then it’s over and you make due with what comes out on the other side. Be it wind blown daisies watered heavily but unharmed, or a car turned sideways in your swimming pool. You’re alive, cause you waited. You’re the same because you caught shelter. And you’re there minutes, months, years later with a new perspective on the things in front of you. 

I’ve met a lot of cowards in my lifetime. Not one of them is the girl I face every morning in my bathroom mirror. I am brave because I know there is something to be said about never fearing anything that’s even slightly attainable. Because fear sucks the life out of us every second of every day as it is. It keeps us from thriving just enough to not be able to find true love. Or to keep that fire lit long enough to never experience loss. 

I want to die quickly and similarly in each other’s hearts on our death beds, not on the beds of our dying hope decades prior. Or on the porch of a home amidst a tornado that I refused to seek shelter from because I failed to wait. Or because I waited too long. I want to lose you to the heavens above or the sea below, not to the idea that you aren’t good enough, or ready. I stay faithful to my hearts desire while we stumble over the difficulty of unplanned time. And I stay brave enough to learn to love you, even while I’m braving losing you…

6 Reasons They Might Be The One

6 Reasons They Might Be The One

You know what they say, when you know you know. For the more oblivious suitor in all of us, below is a list I’ve comprised of no-brainer reasons that might indicate he or she is the one.

1. It doesn’t matter that you fight, it’s how you fight. Drunk parking lot brawls followed by verbal altercations were the highlight of my high school relationships and about as productive as the four day lemonade cleanse. If you find yourself less defensive with a partner and more open to coming out of an argument smarter and not just ‘right’ then there’s a good chance you will both fight fair in the future. A constructive dispute turned into a valuable lesson is a real testament to your respect towards one another and ability to power through conflict resolution. If you guys are good at the bad, the good will be even better.

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2. I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. Bucket lists are for celebrities and retiree’s. Or so everyone assumes. If they allow you to write one, and join you in your admiration for the seemingly impossible, there’s no stopping a duo with a true passion for adventure. Anybody who coddles your sense of thrill is worth far more than just a one and done. Keep this type of person around forever. Take chances with each other when you’re young so that you can tell those epic stories when you’re old.

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3. Get luckier than a box of charms. Every time you look at them it’s like getting the high score at ski ball and having the ticket machine malfunction to the point of endless rolls of winnings, and then when you go to cash-in, the person at the redemption counter is your friend from middle school and he needs to get rid of the rest of the cotton candy in the back. That’s what standing in front of them on your shittiest day should feel like. It feels like the sugar rush after a girl scout cookie binge. Or like sliding into a brand new pair of jeans. If winning their love makes you feel incredibly grateful, don’t stop til you get enough.

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4. Embrace irony at every cross road. Maybe you guys have the same infrequently viewed youtube video in your list of favorites. Or maybe you say the same thing at the same time. A lot. Jinx. You owe them a coke. Or maybe, you owe them your future. Once is coincidence, twice is strange but more than that is totally fate. When you find yourself wondering if there is a possibility that you two knew each other in a different lifetime, maybe it’s smart to think about spending this one together as well.

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5. Love me, lights out. Physically and emotionally we all have good days and bad. Sometimes those days are pieces of good decades counted in bad years. Or better mornings with significantly horrible nights. The fact of the matter is that life is a series of peaks and lull’s and the person who stays steady in their interest through every bump and curve is the only face you need to see at the end of that roller coaster. If you can look at your partner with the same adoration when they’re sick as you do when they’re glowing, you may have found yourself a keeper. Truthfully, if your worst still brings me to my knees, sign me up immediately.

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6. Do what it takes, not what’s convenient. If the person in front of you is committed they will find ways, not excuses. This is the defining moment for ‘the one’. Because I feel that ultimately we may meet a couple of ‘the one’s’ in our lifetime, I put a lot of emphasis on dedication to a relationship in order to pin point longevity. You’re either in it together, or not at all. When they choose you everyday, you choose everyday with them. A person who is meant to be in your life will never let your connection slip through their fingers, no matter the extenuating circumstances or daunting obstacles.

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When the above is true of anybody’s existence, the universe has handed you what maybe you didn’t even know you needed. The one. Don’t waste anymore time trying to figure out why it’s happening, just embrace the signs and jump right in.

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It Is What It Is 

It Is What It Is 

I just realized something. I say just, like that’s foreign. But, honestly I’m always absorbent of my surroundings and lately I haven’t been able to grasp the “fuck-it-mentality”. I say it, he says it, but do we even mean it when it slips? 

I can sympathize with the desire for complete acceptance, but I loathe the idling of the mind as a survival tactic. If you’re going to give up on getting the answer you truly need because life has indian- given the fuck out of easy understanding then you don’t deserve a solution to life’s seemingly never ending problems. Or, so I feel. 

It’s a cold dead place at the peak of release. Because after total void comes the decline. The more numb you are to the pain, the more excruciating it will be on the other side of senselessness. To say your life is a series of events that you have zero control over is to give up responsibility for all aspects of your being.

 I could find a whole lot of happiness in not paying my bills, because “it is what it is”, but some day, it’s all gonna catch up to me. And you know what it is now? It’s a problem made bigger by my inability to face it. By having disinterest in answering the tough questions I’ve essentially molded the outcome of tomorrow into something that [isn’t what it was]. Go figure. 

It’s kind of shocking how many people preach this zen way of progression lately. Like, life’s just gonna happen and the only way to cope with the negativity is to not even learn from it, just accept that shit is shit and it can never be anything else. How would a seed feel about that type of theory? It’s just a seed. It’ll never be a flower. It’ll never grow. Because it is what it is, and nothing more. It is what it is, a seed. 

Right? Wrong. You are way too smart to be that effing stupid. This is not how we were meant to live. Man was created to be inquisitive and perseverant. We are knowledgable and in the instances that we are not, we seek a higher level of intelligence. We should never be THIS accepting of an incomprehensible fate. 

It’s easy to blame the sun for its burns, my true goal in life is to thank it for its warmth. If it burned me, it’s not because it’s a sun and that’s what it does. It burned me because I didn’t take the proper precautions to shield myself  from its unpleasant potential. How can we be so naive as to own fault in something as unimportant as a sunburn, but draw no attention to the reasons behind a failed relationship? I don’t need to know why the sun was so hot, because it’s always gonna be a sun and it’s always gonna be a trillion degrees. You though? You can be a different you, and me a better me. 

That’s why it isn’t always what it is. Sometimes it is what it’s going to be once you cope with the fact that life isn’t just a crapshoot. My version of scrabble always includes an off-the-rule-book option to throw all over your letters back in the box and pick a handful of new ones. God I hate being fucking stuck. And I hate that people think they have to be because that’s what the boardgame says. Or what the cliche quote on his forearm says. Or what I’ve been saying every time life doesn’t make a lick of sense and my scrabble tiles are all vowels. 

Shake the bag. 

Redraw.

Write a better life. 

The Flaws in our Logic 

The Flaws in our Logic 

The world will never devote itself to making you happy. It owes us nothing, cause frankly it was totally here first. It’s selfish and it’s cumbersome. It’s overcrowded with people who’s thoughts are not yours. There are bad losers and there are better losers, but one thing we all know for certain, none of us are going to survive. Ashes in an urn, bones in the ground, our destiny is all the same. The key is to remain emphatically undiminished while we circumvent the chaos and remind ourselves that there is passion in the search. There is beauty in the disaster.  

What I know of myself is my second biggest fear in life, the power to ask. What I try to remember is that it’s  silly to be afraid of not getting what you want, because you already aren’t. By not asking. Burn every single bridge in the selfishness of reason, fuck it…you’re not going back that way anyway. 

I hated my job of 8 years, so I quit it. The state I was born in made me restless, so I ditched it. He often times forgot to show me that he loved me, so I left him. Nothing in life is concrete if it doesn’t make you risk your entire story for the sake of its existence. Nobody is stuck in the confines of their own losses. They are only trapped in the exhaustion of their own mind. Repeatedly reminding themselves that progress is just another stepping stone to eminent failure. Buried in their own insecurities, gasping for someone else’s air. 

This is when I ask you to ask.

More questions, for help, to be educated, to find answers. I love being presented with a problem and asking “well what did they say when you asked?” “Uh, I dunno. I didn’t”. Those are the people who deserve nothing. Because without even the smallest risk, all you are asking for is to lose all potential for reward. 

I hate saying it, but I like [no]. It’s definitive and its responsive. Obviously I prefer the word [yes], but either way I’m not in limbo with my thoughts having either. What you want and what you get are only powered by making the world around you aware of your desires. Ultimately the source of all knowledge is in continuously bending other people’s truths. Pushing the limitations of their words; of their love. By asking questions and challenging logic nobody is set in their path from beginning to end.

Everytime I’m brought to a place of frustration by argument I know in the end I’ll have exactly what I needed; understanding. That’s not with everybody though, only the select few who require the same amount of knowledge to properly function. Some people are happy with mediocre, with being naive to the world. I’m privy to my need for more than basic human understanding. I don’t want to know that my seeds didn’t grow, I want to know why they didn’t and what I need to help them do so in the future. 
Be brave in your acquisitions. Be humble in your requirements. But never forget to stop asking for what you want. Think you can have it, and you will. What would you ask for if you knew the answer would be yes? 

Everything…”

Butterfly Effect.

Butterfly Effect.

My dashboard clock on my four door sedan is unusually tiny. It wasn’t until recently that I realized how much I liked it hidden behind the steering wheel, away from life’s uncanny ability to send a paralyzing fear down my spine with just the change of a minute. Like toilet paper, or a breath, the moment you run out of something with no preparation is the moment your world seeks desperately for understanding. Time often makes a mockery of my calculated plans, for it see’s exactly what I want and reminds me often that destiny is not, and will never be under my control.

I bet she never really wanted a second dog. But, as life would have it, he’s there and he’s always hungry. His shelter name was Bruce Wayne, so in an essence to keep with the theme she named him “Batman”. Since his arrival he’s had a penchant for gnawing on her work shoes. Not the whole pair, just one…deeming them unwearable. So, she threw on a pair that was questionable to walk in, but at least aesthetically appealing until she could get to the mall. The barely worn pumps beneath her feet caught the gas as she rear ended a fellow traffic goer coming off of the freeway exit. Of course the tail end of the pile up was not the kind of pedestrian that takes your plate numbers and insurance and lets you off easy. He called the police and they showed up at the site of the accident. As the officer inspected the scene for damages, he finds her suspended license on record due to a series of poor decisions on her drive home from Mexico this past summer. Mandatory court appearance and nothing less. Five weeks later, she sluggishly opened the doors to the Starbucks across from the courtroom. After all, her girlfriend’s birthday was the night before and she was running on three hours of sleep. As she grabbed for a coffee stirrer, he reaches for the same straw and they touch for the first time, but as fate would have it, not the last. Thank you Batman.

Life is essentially just a string of trivial events that subsequently lead us to the end of our minutes. What most of us fail to absorb is every minute for what each is worth and how important they are to the final objective. If there was any reluctance in purchasing a shoe-hungry black lab days before the freeway accident, maybe she would have been wearing the proper shoes to brake. And what if her license was never suspended because she never went to Mexico because of weather? She wouldn’t be at the Starbucks across from the courtroom. And what if her best friends birthday wasn’t the night before? Maybe she wouldn’t have been tired enough to need a coffee. Which means,  she wouldn’t be grabbing for the same straw he was. And she may never have gotten the opportunity to know him.

You see, every single thing you do matters. If it’s said that the flutter of a butterfly’s tiny wing can essentially cause a typhoon half way across the globe, then every thought you have, every move you make, ultimately creates your destiny. Small, seemingly insignificant facts unlived are capable of changing the entire outcome of your story. And nobody stops to think that in knowing that, life is a thousand times easier to understand because there is literally no sense in trying to understand it. If you sneeze today, and wear blue tomorrow you may have just missed your chance at having a child. That’s life.

Our lives are defined by opportunity, even the one’s we miss. And I’ll be the first to admit, I miss a lot of them. I think about that when I find myself indifferent about timing. Despite infinite potential, he tells me he’s just passing through. That this state is just a stop and I’m just a quick connection in an over populated terminal. Even if the possibility has it’s limits of justification, I know what it’s like to lose a moment out of fear that any amount of time with him, wouldn’t be long enough. Like when I’m late for something and I’m staring at the clock, worried about the time, wasting my time on looking at the time as it literally slips away. Losing it all in my own anxiety. That’s what falling for him feels like.

Everything difficult seems impossible until it’s actually done. When you look back and you see the series of events that led you to knowing better; living better, you’ll realize that no action, be it great or small is useless. A mere second can change your life forever. Don’t ever doubt that. Time is our greatest enemy, but the miniscule minutes that count down pivotal moments are our most sought after gifts.

 

Shoo fly, don’t bother me.

Shoo fly, don’t bother me.

I’ll never understand revenge. I think about it. I’ve committed it. I’ve regretted it.

I’ve literally witnessed people sell their souls for a feel-good moment of karma, and you know who always wins? The asshole. Want to know why? Cause honey badgers don’t give a fuck. Like this. Tell me, what part of the brain is so incapable of forgiveness that it short circuits and violently unleashes a wrath of insanity upon unsuspecting patrons? Is it the synapse between needing to level the playing field and being socially inept?  Or is it at the base of the cerebral cortex where your insecurities run wild?

head explodes

I get it. Misery loves company. But, you know who loves company more? Happy people. Go do that. We’ve gotta stop stomping our immature feet with anger about situations we can’t control. Nobody in their right mind gives a shit about our sadness. The people we want to care are probably the same people who got us there. Your best bet is getting out of it with integrity intact and dodging any opportunities that might bring you back. Like, I dunno…finding yourself outside of their house, next to their car, with a carton of eggs, a packet of bologna and a face mask. (I’ve only been on the receiving end of a bologna paint peel once, and let me tell you, there’s no type of revenge quite like turning a brand new car into a twister mat). Anyways, don’t do that. None of that. Problem solved.

egging.gif

Comfort is arguably the true culprit. And it always brings us back to a place where we’re making the same mistakes but expecting different results; the true definition of insanity. I watch grown men and women fall back into routines that are literal set ups for retaliation. You know why? Because you can’t bring someone down, until you’ve brought them back up.  I can smell the premeditation as they strive for the upper hand. And when they fail, all they have left is revenge.

You can’t leave me, I have to leave you.

My heart hurts, I want yours to, too.

I have nothing, so you aren’t allowed to have anything.

It’s not always tit for tat in the game of love. You win some, you lose some. And at the end of the day, do what’s right and let the rest go peacefully. The biggest struggle this dating scene has ever presented me was coming to terms with unforeseen closure and not wanting to MURDER every person who selfishly didn’t give that to me. Those unanswered questions always brought me to a place of hatred, and where there was anger, there were words. When those words didn’t cut deep enough, there were actions. And so on. Revenge left me nowhere but at the crossroads of guilt and regret. When I didn’t get a response, not even a blink out of the administrator of my pain, I was farther behind on the journey to forgiveness than I’d ever thought possible. And he was light years ahead, dismissing of my mere existence. Had I chosen acceptance, I’d have chosen a much quicker road to satisfaction. But, as you all know acceptance is a tough pill to swallow. And frankly, I’m all out of water.

This Side of Rejection

This Side of Rejection

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”

~ Maya Angelou

       Most of the shadows of my internal darkness are caused by blocking out my own sunshine. Its hard to admit it guys, but I have a dirty habit of settling. There he is, my future, waiting patiently in the fields of utter perfection, and I’m over here on the corner of “Just” and “Love me” finding ways to justify the negativity in my life. My track record of men I’ve spent longer than a week tolerating screams something is sadly missing. It’s come to the point where it’s almost impossible not to feel hopelessly devoted at the mere mention of long term interest. Genuine needs fall by the wayside in the beginning and I find myself forgetting what’s truly important in a partner. Until compatibility comes knocking and I’m standing at the door with more questions than answers.

News Flash: there is more to a relationship than just being in love. There’s security and there’s pride. There are similar interests and way more moments of happiness than those troubling instances of doubt. But sometimes, when he’s holding your hand and telling you how beautiful your unmade face is, the sensitivity overshadows all of the concerns, and you’re whisked away to a land of make-believe. And it’s in those moments folks, that futures go to die.

My two week love affair is obsolete.  Happy birthday to me, right? I have a request for a last minute present and it goes as follows:  I want his heart to heal quicker than it took me to break it. (Which was a two minute convo via text, cause I was admitably too exhausted from overthinking the break up to make the phone call) Mark my words, the pain of my own punishment is far worse than dealing with any outsider’s rejection. Mostly, because I know that good people deserve answers (despite wanting to hear them)and at the end of the day I was never one to leave a story untold. He’s not going to thank me for breaking his heart, but I hope sooner rather than later he realizes that painful losses are often times the most sought after lessons.

For a while I was happy to know that someone out there wanted to get to know me as much as I want to get to know them, even if I already knew it was for nothing. I guess you could say I gave it the “good ol’ college try”. It took me years to learn, but there are significant similarities that need to be aligned to foresee a stable future with someone, and I know my place in each of them so well that it’s absurd to most that I’m able to make decisions so quickly. Obvious incompatibilities are a dead give away in the game of love. And yet, we dance around them like children hoping to be swept away by instant gratification.  I’m rambling, again. I guess what I’m trying to say is I don’t want to defend my decision. Not for him, and especially not for myself. Because it’s my decision and there’s no explanation to how my soul chooses to find it’s mate. I am plain and simple on a journey directed by pure intentions with the same goal as every one around me, to love and to be loved in return.

Needless to say, this round was mine for the loss. I kind of set myself up for failure because I took his adoration for me and I used it to fuel the parts of him I wasn’t ready to accept. Plain and simple, he wasn’t a match. Not his fault, and not mine. If you had asked me a decade ago, I would have dated his face off, because hellllo…lust. At twenty two years-young I’d allow three months of euphoria to be followed up by eight months of irritation and a month of recovery. That’s a whole year wasted on ignoring life’s red flags. But, at the end of the day it still pains me to say goodbye to a person who would have done just about anything to make me happy. Something that honestly was never his job in the first place. You have to wonder if this will be the last time you’ll get an opportunity, if the grass is really any greener on the other side? If it’s not any greener,than I’m honestly still content knowing that I didn’t settle for doubt. I am committed to the desire to find someone to fit into a life I’ve created for myself and I won’t take any less as an option. If it takes me an entire lifetime to find what I’m looking for then I’ll see you on the other side, the other side of rejection.

 

Fasting

Fasting

Numbers don’t lie. Your age, your weight, the number of sexual partners you’ve encountered; concrete evidence of experience. Be it days, or dinners or the need for instant gratification, with every addition to the count how happy are you?

Abstinence. I thought it was that green liquor that made you hallucinate fairies. Turns out, our generation barely knows the definition because we live in fear of what it might say for our character. To most, there are two reasons why a person might not engage in sexual intercourse. The involuntary repercussions of either being unattractive…or a loser. I get it, people don’t always get it because they can’t always get it…but what if the people with the brains and the beauty held out for something a little more meaningful than a night under the sheets with someone they barely have anything in common with? What if  just a few more people with the actual option practiced restraint from indulging in promiscuity? Mind. Blown.

I met a gentleman who’s purity was not evident. He looked like the kind of guy who broke hearts and etched notches on his bed post often. But, after making him feel comfortable enough to admit to a stranger of his venture from social norms he confessed that sex was not on his agenda, not now…and frankly maybe not ever. After the initial shock of rejection (internalized that little mystery right quick) I realized this wasn’t something he decided within the first half hour of knowing me. It had nothing to do with me, nor would it ever.  It was a journey that most of us scared adults would never bring to fruition and he was living it everyday. I had a million questions. Why now? Why not ten years ago? When does it end? What makes for an exception? How bad do your balls hurt? He answered everything with an honest and open heart, reminding me that he, like most people, doesn’t need physical intimacy to develop a deep and everlasting connection.

*insert line about testing the car before you drive it off the lot* *insert eye roll* *insert vomit* *insert hanging self* Every time I think about holding off, about retracting the gift of my body for the pure ecstasy of a strangers validation I hear the men in my life reminding me that they would never put a ring on a finger that hasn’t felt the warmth of their irresponsible shaft. This personal decision is tough enough without the added concern that I won’t find a single man forgiving of my decision.  As if my ratio of eligible suitors wasn’t at an all time low, now I want to find someone who understands core values and doesn’t laugh in my face when I tell him I won’t blow him in the parking lot. Here we go.

Sex. I understand the want, but lately I’ve been questioning the need. It’s a fine line, the one between keeping someone with potential from fleeing and giving some asshat off the street a quick orgasm.  I think it’s time to start leaving people better than we find them and psychologically there’s nothing at the bottom of an empty one night stand besides guilt and regret. There in lies the power to wait. The power to give less, but essentially hand our generation so much more. You don’t have to be the one to say no, but somebody has to. If I don’t, then she won’t, and then he won’t see the need for it either. And then we all just fuck each other into some std ridden empty abyss of lost souls and angry lovers.

That’s why this year, I choose abstinence. Not due to religious affiliation. Or health concerns. Certainly not because it’s trendy, or helpful. I am a product of everything I internalize and self love is not felt in my moments of sexual desperation. I hate everything about the moment I wake up next to someone who hasn’t even asked me my last name. Sex is easy. Intercourse is fun. Diving into someone’s fears, dreams and aspirations before I get to that part is difficult and scary. But in the end it will only intensify my admiration for the person who was meant to have me for the rest of our lives. They say, do things in full or not at all, but I am conscious of the difficulty of the task at hand and am not afraid to do it partially.  Because I have freely chosen to take on what I think only statistically 3 percent of our world’s population is successful at, I’ll accept a low grade on this project just as long as I learn how to “fast” appropriately. #joinme

Sidepiece Situations

Sidepiece Situations

I gave him a ringtone that was loud and obnoxious because if he ever called it would be in the middle of the night and only in an emergency. After all, he was a father now. I hadn’t thought about him in weeks; our small talk was always smaller talk than I could entertain purposefully. But I shot him a text before bed requesting some much needed attention amidst my dating failures.  The ellipses floated there with no response. He wanted to, he just couldn’t. The routine was pretty predictable. If it was any consolation I always knew he would call once he was out of the state on business. When he was finally away from her, and her insanely life draining insecurities.

“Kiss me, k-k-kiss me, infect me with your love and fill me with your poison, hate me ha-ha-hate me wanna be you victim, ready for abduc-” blared from under my pillow. His contact photo always brought me back to a younger love.

Before the beard. Before the bullshit. Before the baby.

I sent it to voicemail. Just text me dude, it’s 3 am and I’m only one level of consciousness away from a coma. Declining him was easy, because my needs were met by the serenity of my pillow. Plus, I knew we’d chat in a better mindset, after the sun had risen. Or so I had thought. With my wishes far from being respected, Katy Perry’s encore of E.T. jolted me awake.

“It’s late, Chad. What’s up?”

“Listen you stupid bitch, stop contacting my boyfriend, he wants nothing to do with you, you fucking stalker. If you text him again I will call the police.”

“I’m sorry? *giggle* Who is this?”

It clicked. She sounded young. And ugly. Not that you can tell a persons physical appearance by their tone, but the way she breathed into the call sent me a visual of a putred exterior. I hung up. Mouth hanging open in shock. Did my ex’s current girlfriend just call me a stalker? Did this pubescent psychopath just accuse me of harassing her family? You send a couple of friendly texts and the wrath of Satan is spawned. Holy ball and chain, batman.

She called again. I picked up in anticipation for the ability to unleash.

“*expletives and mumbling about me ‘getting my own family’ quickly drowned by a whole bunch of tears and the suggestion for me to kill myself*”

That’s cute. I remember my first boyfriend.

I had to hang up again. I felt horrible laughing at her while she formulated mindless threats in a senseless rage. I wondered at what age a woman can be certain some twenty-something isn’t going to call her from [not-her-phone] to bitch about a whole slew of made up scenarios in her tiny fucked up head. The answer is: never. Side note, we aren’t even in the same state, and I wouldn’t sleep with your boyfriend again if he paid me in gold. So, why don’t you calm your tits, and take up your concerns with the person who lied to you and not a stranger in a call log? I’ve never even met you before, which means there’s zero chance in hell I’ve made any promises to you I haven’t kept.

It took everything in me to not find a way to peel the wool from her childish eyes. Let’s not forget who ruined his and I’s relationship just over a year ago. You, bitch. You pissed on a stick while I went ring shopping. Remember playing that little game of entrapment the second you found out our love was greater than yours?  If ever there was a more grandiose display of Karma, it was now. Your “family” has been and will always be just a sad little fairytale involving an unwanted baby and a father who spends most of his nights asking if I still love him. He will block me to appease you for now, but I’ll catch him in my email inbox in the next forty eight. Because when you bring nothing but drama to the table, don’t be surprised when everybody gets up and leaves.

deuces

 

This feeling. 

This feeling. 

Not everything lasts forever. 

Your favorite movie. The rain shower passing your thirsty lawn. Hitting your funny bone. Being out of breath. The moment somebody gets you

Sometimes people come into our lives to remind us that we as humans were meant for extremes. To be extremely satisfied, or absolutely devastated. Either way, the moment is ours for the feeling.  

Admit it. You like the way bad feels as long as it’s tickling the numbness of your every day life. Ask the heroin addicts. The sex feigns. The abused children. It may not be right, but wrong is attentive and prosperous. It gives life meaning because it urges us to be engulfed in an emotion. And when we know pain, we immediately understand pleasure. 

Love hard, or never at all. Nobody I know said that, so I can’t quote them, but I live by it like its some god damn art piece on my Pinterest wall. Some people are going to keep you on track and others will unsuspectingly throw you completely off course. But they arrived, and they were there, and they made you feel. How crazy would we be to not give it every ounce of our being in return? I cant seem to underestimate the power of giving love it’s full potential. No matter what round I’m in. 

There’s something to be said about tragedy, be it big or small. I don’t know that I’d know love if I hadn’t ever lost it. And I wouldn’t understand utter despair until I’d fallen hopelessly in an unconditional intimacy. 

I want to be inspired to expand. To be challenged to revisit any reasons I’m not able to do so over the course of my days here on earth. I want to go to terrible places. And find myself in moments where the rest of the world doesn’t have the strength to break in. I never want to lose the gift of feeling, let it drain me of my happiness and ache down to my core.  All of this with someone I connect with on the same level, someone who is as sure of the ups as we’ve found ourselves down. 

The irony is that I’ve had him. And I’ve lost it. And I’ve refound him again. And I can’t seem to escape what the universe thinks I deserve. It drives me wild with anticipation and carries me to new depths of passion. I let it have its way with me, because my darkest hours are filled with unforgettable enlightenment. In those brightly lit moments of self awareness I see him and I’ve fallen in love with the sight of his perfect fucking soul. 

But nothing lasts forever. Or so it seems. Not even him, in my wildest dreams. 

Shaken not Stirred

Shaken not Stirred

I live off of sunshine and coffee, they fuel my soul. When people see me with a venti-soy-caramel-macchiato extra foam glistening in the early morning rays,  I know what they’re thinking: “Her? She’s a basic white bitch”.  I loathe the idea that my drink of choice is an ode to the person I am within; that my menu order is essentially a Hello: My name is *judgment passed*. That was, until I realized that almost every drink you order says a lot about who you are as a person. Spoiler alert: It’s nothing good.

Morning pick me ups aside, when you sit down with someone for small talk and they order the following at a bar, we are all most likely thinking the same thing:

Jack&Ginger.

He didn’t graduate college. He likes cosmetically enhanced women in crop tops and cowboy boots.  Every time you see him around town he has his arm around a new girl. That’s because his relationship with his mom is sour. The whiskey-coke has a dirty mouth and even dirtier secrets. Like that he cries into a photo album of his first love to the soundtrack of Dirty Dancing on Sunday evenings. After football of course.

She always buys her Coachella tickets a year in advance. She hates the way her face looks without make up and refuses to quit her job at the hair salon even though she has a degree in psychology. The whiskey-coke female doesn’t take shit from anyone which is why she’s written a few acoustic songs about how uncomfortable it is to sleep in the drunk tank. She pretends to like being single, but constantly scopes the bar for a man. Preferably one named Jack, Jim or Jose.

Grey Goose&Sprite.

He has an iTunes playlist littered with rap albums that nobody can tolerate unless they are loose on the goose. His car looks expensive, and it probably is. It’s just not paid off. Phantom…Chrysler, same thing.  The vodka drinker is into men’s health and dancing with ‘gun hands’. He shows off his abs every twelve minutes  as a ‘drunk joke’ that gets older than the women he keeps trying to pick up with his empty frosted bottle at the VIP table of a dead bar.

She knows exactly what glass is hers because her lipstick is brighter than her personality. The vodka woman sports the little black dress equipped with daddy issues. She loves to dance, hates to go to the bathroom without a flock of her friends and will be ‘whore’izontal by midnight with little effort on anybody else’s part. She often forgets that just because ‘it’s clear’ doesn’t mean she’s in it.

Jager-bomb.

He will inevitably get kicked out of the bar for punching someone in the face. The thrill of his youth is as strong as the smell of licorice on his breath. This guy is usually all muscle, no penis. Doesn’t come in with any friends, leaves with even less.

She will open mouth kiss someone twice her age, and he’s gonna like it because jager bombs ironically also resemble the smell of Bengay. First she bitches about why they don’t have the fancy chill-and-pour then she realizes that it’s gonna get warm anyway while she’s busy in the bathroom throwing up what drunk-her thinks is the contents of her bleeding stomach.

PBR.

He is ready to party. This fool fucking loves America. If you need a lighter, ask the chimney of friends he rolled in with. Nobody smokes more cigarettes than this can crushing son of a bitch. Also, backyard bonfires where he tries to serenade you with Bruce Springsteen songs are in your future. Ask him what flavor of top ramen is his favorite, it’s all he’s ever been able to afford his whole life.

She likes to skinny dip. Probably can’t find her phone. And won’t have much to offer when the conversation turns political. She will pretend to like guns, but when you ask her what her favorite is she just starts rambling off numbers too high to be a caliber but close enough to be considered her IQ. 

Rum&Coke.

He dabbles in steroids. Couldn’t decide between this drink and an Appletini. Since his skinny jeans are feeling a little snug he went with the diet coke and captain. He’s not afraid to brawl because his ray bans are fake. No loss to him. But he will spend twice as much time as normal looking at himself in the mirror if you fuck with his ‘money-maker’.

She travels a lot. Mostly because nobody can stand her being in the same place for a long period of time. If society found it socially acceptable to grocery shop in her bathing suit, she would. The Rum and coke girl doesn’t like to live in the shadows.  Give this bitch a coconut and an umbrella and she could take over the world.

Iced Tea-No Ice.

Him or Her are part of the program. This is 2015, nobody drinks iced tea on a date unless they are two sheets to the wind already and want to try urinating without your assistance. The no ice thing is a bit rebellious. They don’t have time to be face fucked by an unbroken glacier while they throw back their caffeinated sobriety award.  They strive to be efficient because a group of people told them they were not productive members of society for long enough. Also, they won’t sleep with you. No matter how cute you looked eating those nachos.

Your favorite drink says a lot about you. There’s no denying that our go-to cocktail often times represents our personality traits. I’m not saying revamp your order for the sake of judgment, but remember that you only get one chance to make a first impression. No beautiful woman ever starts the story of how she met her husband with “I saw him a the end of the bar, drinking a Dirty L.A. Water waiting for his Screwdriver”. That’s life. Cheers!

 

Guest Blog: Not an Opener

Guest Blog: Not an Opener
  • By Ryan Carr 

Good morning cla-

To Whom It May Concer-

My fellow Americ-

Hi, how are y-

Whatever, I’m not an opener.

 

For the life of me, I cannot start any sort of conversation with an unmarried woman. Ever. When I do try my hand at it, I usually end up coming off like an asshole because the only people that get my sarcastic sense of humor are the ones that have known me forever. I have so much experience with new people thinking I’m a dirtbag, that when I find a woman attractive I tend to over compensate in the other direction. I once thanked a cute sales associate for her help; surprisingly, she didn’t ask me for my number. My sister calls this “007 Flirting”. This is so much of a thing that she even made me business cards that say, “Hi, I’m Ryan Carr and this is me flirting with you.”  

 

Not being an opener kind of rules out online dating, bars, and any other social setting where I don’t have someone to vouch for me. If my sense of humor isn’t getting me in trouble, my interests are. In a conversation on Tinder, I asked a match what her favorite pair of shoes were. On review of this conversation’s abrupt end, I realized how creepy that question was…I just really like shoes.

   

My friends aren’t exactly the best matchmakers either; actually they’re horrible at it. Most of us have known each other for a decade or more, so they all knew me when I was in my early 20’s doing the immature things that guys in that age range do. Knowing me for that period of time has made it difficult to see that since then I’ve learned to respect and value women, and I’ve grown up and become more interested in serious, meaningful relationships. So you can imagine, I’m not the first guy that comes to mind when they are looking for eligible suitors for their female friends.

 
Essentially left to my own devices, I’m an indefinite bachelor, unable to progress past introductions with any prospects due to this one fatal personality flaw.

 

But just incase she’s out there..

 

I’d like to find a woman who is into some of the same things that I am like Star Wars, my family and Xbox (yes, specifically Xbox because being with someone who’s into playstation would be like having the same argument every day with someone who thinks they are always right when in fact, they are not.) Someone that finds it funny when I call something the wrong name purposefully, speaks Pig Latin fluently and isn’t offended by the occasional unconcealed burp. A significant other who enjoys the finer things in life, like my tattoos and obscure movie references. Someone who shows affection the same way I do and curses recreationally. So really, I want to date myself… I just don’t know how to do that.

  
 

So, if this is you, consider this my opener.

 

Lo-

Yours tru-

Sincer-

Cordia-

-Ryan Carr

 

 

P.S. Yeah, not a closer either.

Delete. delete. DELETE.

Delete. delete. DELETE.

This will sound as bad as it feels.

Tonight I deleted all of my dating apps. 

I feel naked, and lost. For too long I’ve become emotionally dependent on the highs and the lows. The highs being so unbelievably high I could barely consider the possibility of accomplishing them through fate alone. And the lows, they were painful. I made them all translucent for the world to read.  Despite how empty my bank accounts were, how lonely my heart felt, I always had the guarantee of a wink, a match or a message to keep my ego fulfilled. 

I trusted these sites with my happiness; each of them running in the background of my insecurities since December of 2014. After a year of not being able to come to terms with answers as to why I couldn’t make a plethora of options become a single priority, I give up. 

The only thing keeping me from feeling absolutely helpless is knowing that I’ve grown into a woman who can do this on her own. (And also into a woman who can just as easily re-download them again) 

But I won’t. I give up on the unnatural availability to have any man I may never meet. I give up on the feeling I get when I mirror the possibility that you’re practicing the same inappropriate dating tactics as I. I give up on people forgetting that pictures are of people and people have feelings. I am giving up on fake and crossing my fingers for real

Real isn’t going to present itself to me in social media form. It won’t make me feel insecure, because our faces won’t be plastered for the world to know we’re “looking”. It won’t make me feel rushed, or unappreciated. I won’t be a number, or a profile, I’ll be a once in a lifetime silhouette to an unsuspecting gaze. 

Aside from a one handed push up, this will be the hardest thing I’ve tackled in 2015. Essentially, I’ve had men at my fingertips every god damn day for the entirety of the year. Going from 80 to 0 is like braking on ice…scary and full of  “oh shit what have I done’s”. Time to be at one with my loneliness and take to a good book instead of perusing for my next tear jerker. Emphasis on jerk. Since those are the only assholes who make profiles these days anyway. 

*I bet some of you are wondering how I will maintain a dating blog without any site references. The truth is I’ll probably revisit them in the new year. But this is a break I so desperately need going into 2016. Feel free to guest blog in my dating absence and prompt me with any non-dating related topics that are also part of life’s little lessons. 

R.A.P.E.

R.A.P.E.

You’re two hours deep into a Cheesecake Factory appetizer rendezvous when the booth gets silent with a pause. You’ve rearranged your straw wrapper into shreds of confetti. You’ve reached your allotted two drink maximum, but continue to discuss every fun drink name on the specialty menu. You’ve been to the bathroom twice. He’s certain you for sure have the stomach flu. That, or the sweat on your brow is just your body’s way of begging you to not bring up any of those topics that always get you in trouble.  Let’s be real, awkward silence’s are about as much fun as rape. I know, I know…that’s  quite the comparison, but the irony is in the acronym.

R-eligion

A-bortion

P-olitics

E-x’s

I’ve been on a few dates where I hit all of these straight out of the gate. Spoiler alert: it’s hard to split a check with a hot headed republican who’s busy pulling up photos of his 2014 Christian summer camp fling. I never like to say never, but never has not making this a never, ever helped me not hate the person in front of me. Even when they agree with my political rant, or religious affiliation, we always get to that one topic that makes me want to pull their genitals through a meat tenderizer.

I read the bible once. Solid read. But this isn’t a book club, and I’m not prepared to discuss the testament I prefer with someone who probably takes the whole thing a lot more seriously than me. I’m struggling to ‘love thy neighbor’ when my neighbor, Pastor Tinder wants to know what church our child will be baptized in before I’ve even found out his astrological sign. Side note: I put the whore in horoscopes. I care more about if you are a Scorpio than a Buddhist.  For myself, religion is a spiritual experience that I practice in private and not on your pedestal of judgment.

typos.gif

The only way to make the conversation more awkward than the silence it sits in is to bring up killing something. Avoiding extremes at all costs will keep things light which is exactly what a recent date didn’t do when he asked what I would do if  he accidentally got me pregnant. Way to back me into the pro-abortion corner with one swift push moron. First of all, who said I’m letting you get close enough to scramble these eggs? Secondly, everyone knows men have no say in anything involving our bodies so needing to know my view on this is basically like holding a gun to my faux-pregnant stomach and asking if you’re allowed to pull the trigger. Neither of our opinions on abortion are relevant for a first date.

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My views of the world are confusing enough without having to defend them in a partisan political rant of epic proportions. Hearing an opposing perspective is enlightening when you know the person weighing in on the issues, but when a stranger rolls his or her eyes at the party you’ve chosen, well…go fuck yourself.  Hell hath no fury like a woman critiqued. I’ll inquire about your political convictions when I love you enough to tell you you’re wrong. Or maybe you’re totally right. But either way, lets not hold hands at the voting polls just yet. The only thing I’m holding is faith that our values will guide us to each other despite our political foundation.

politics

Men, your last girlfriend is not a representation of your penis size. Whipping out the busty waitress you snapchatted for a month does not impress me. In fact avoiding your ex partner like the plague is something you might want to do not only in life, but in all first date discussions. I had a guy flat out tell me he cheated on his last girlfriend before my water even got a lemon. Cool, so much to look forward to! I get it, it’s tough to not want to establish some sort of “lesson learned” to a potential partner, but your mistakes are your mistakes to grow from, not re narrate like a bad romance novel. If you need to rehash unresolved emotions, seek therapy not Plenty of Fish.

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Dating etiquette is subjective. I’ve tested a fart joke on a man in a tie before, and things went really well for the reminder of the evening. I’d say most topics are pretty safe if you just gauge your audience, but the reality of it is, some things you can’t unhear and just like that, all of your potential is snuffed to smoke. Harness your impulses and stick to things like travel, movies, and where you see yourself in five years. Spill your guts when you can trust them with life’s really big confessions.