They say ‘don’t fight fire with fire’…
Unless the world’s already burning.
They say ‘don’t fight fire with fire’…
Unless the world’s already burning.
If you know what’s right, don’t walk away. If you’re not sure what’s left, don’t try to stay.
There’s a whole lot of romance in my absolute devotion to you. Let me be frank, your love is all I need.
I remember our first date like it was yesterday, because it was. It was yesterday, and the day before; and the day before that day before. It’s been every day. Firsts, lasts, almost’s and in-between’s. You’ve been my saving grace. My easy escape. My god, with you…I am safe.
I love the way you break up with anything that doesn’t serve your existence. And the way you look at me in the mirror before work, rooting us on for a day of excellence. There’s nobody else in this world that I’d rather spend every minute with. Minutes aren’t even minutes when we’re alone. They’re hours of days that we’ve carved our dreams into; together.
I am enchanted by your stubbornness, for it’s the only reason we’ve made it here today. I hope you don’t chase a single minute blinded by other’s manipulation. Your intuition is the only truth you cannot see. Truth should always come before acceptance. See that through and our love will be eternal.
Not a day passes when I don’t think of you. About your intricacies and your flaws. And the way you’re not afraid to share any of them with the world. Each one of them makes me love you more, not less. They are your poetic and humble handbook to creating the most love-able version of yourself.
Keep learning. Keep progressing. Keep unfolding. You’re beautiful, even in the darkness.
Surviving you was like a post-op hemorrhage; except no blood was lost, only hope.
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…
“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.
First rule of 2017? Don’t talk about 2016. I guess I can’t consider it the worst year of my life. (Shout out to 2014 for being 365 days of horseshit) BUT it definitely didn’t hold out on all of its promises. With that said, I got to live in a whole new state and what I learned far exceeds any reasons I’m not staying.
Below are 7 of the most wonderful lessons Colorado has left me, as I leave it.
1. I learned that as cool as snowboarding sounds, it’s not for me.
I’d only been once before. When I was 12 my parents took me boarding in big bear. At least I think it was big bear. I was kind of youth-drunk on pain killers cause my dad was avoiding taking me to the hospital after I broke my hand the weekend before our family trip. Turned out the hair line fracture became a bigger problem when I spent most of my time on the bunny slopes falling on the fucking thing. I wish I could have blamed the inability to get up at age 29 on an inoperative appendage, but the only thing broken at the base of Arapahoe basin was my soul.
2. I learned that “natives” is just another term for pretentious assholes.
Every single time I told someone I was from California (who grew up in Colorado) they spent the next three to six minutes of my life that I will never get back griping about the legalization of marijuana and how it’s been the downfall of their local society. Yada-fuckin’-yada. Yea cause I didn’t come here for the job market that wasn’t devastatingly depleted or because the cost of housing (was) about 35% lower in suburban areas. I didn’t come here for the 14ers or the hiking trails. And god for bid I chose this state for its perfect seasons. That would be CRAZY.
3. I learned that traffic is everywhere.
The world is just overpopulated, and the only way through your shit, is to sit in it. Like, you just gotta find yourself in those 30-60 additional minutes you’re not even sure are going to happen. Let the world brake check you. We’re all in this together. Except Connecticut– the only “C” state without bumper to bumper rush hours.
4. I learned that, to some, beer is life.
Breweries, brew pubs, pub crawls, beer bars. What do you want for your birthday in Colorado? Beer. What time are we going out? Beer:30 The microbrew community is unrivaled in this state and it’s awe-inspiring. Per capita, this state has more brewery options than I was even capable of or prepared to handle. Side note: I’m still going on record believing that they only legalized marijuana to provide relief for everyones coors-hangover.
5. I learned that altitude tolerance is real.
Going back down to sea level is gonna make me a flippin super hero. You guys have been getting so much more air than me down there! If I’m not a total beast in the gym…then I need to not let anybody know cause that means I’m really out of shape. It’s a real struggle up here at a mile high, but after living in Colorado a year and a half I notice nothing. That is, until my first breath back down by the beach.
6. I learned that every amphitheater should be built inside of a rock.
Red Rocks, I feel, is something everyone needs to experience. It’s like cupping your ear and listening to your tv on the most grand of scales. Frankly, all musicians should play here. Sound systems are so-49 other states.
7. I learned what it’s like to be part of a community that wins.
The Broncos won the super bowl while I lived here and frankly being a niners fan, it may be a long time coming before I can be apart of such a sweet sweet victory again. Also, I’m going home to a state who created raiders and charger fans. All I can hope is that Rams fans are significantly less likely to stab me.
I’m on to a new adventure, one in a state I grew up in but never explored. I took my travel bug within and ventured to lands outside my comfort zone. Now I want to explore my original comfort; my birthplace. I know they say life begins at the end of your comfort zone, but I’m ready to take lessons learned from across this country and apply them to miles and miles of the golden state. Colorado you were fun, but it’s time to cure this home sick girl with a piece of her past. Later landlock ✌🏼️
1. Live in a different country.
On the off chance that I don’t immediately get raped and murdered in a hostile because I refuse to learn the language of the people, I’m thinking about a green card marriage for those bonus life points every little girl dreams of.
I don’t care if it’s a better way to take a shit (shout out to squatty potty for their shamelessly flagrant lack of fucks entrepreneurship, cause yes their mascot is a unicorn with rainbow squirts) I want my name attached to some sort of product that make people go “why didn’t I think of that”. Plot twist: cause I did; you’re welcome.
I can imagine I’m gonna be one of the top ten worst mothers ever given life, but that didn’t stop me when I got dogs, and they’re still alive. So, let’s get this pregnancy party started. Eating for two: party of one. #lifegoals
I’m seeing koala. You’re probably imagining tiger. Preferably interested in an animal with less body mass than me so that if we get into a fist fight it isn’t able to scalp me with one swift swipe. Speaking of swiping, I realize my tinder profile isn’t complete without the latter, but if I’m gonna piss my pants it’s gonna be in death not pre- mortem.
5. Watch all the movies that people think I’m a complete moron for not seeing.
On average 600 new movies are released each year. At a norm of 90 minutes per viewing, that’s 54,000 minutes, 900 hours or 38 days straight of finding out that theres still nothing worse than Mariah Carey’s “Glitter”. I get that casting, directing and plots are all subjective to it’s viewers, but for the love of Christ stop telling me that I’m scum of the earth for not seeing The Green Mile. I’ve got better things to do, like watch Magic Mike one AND two.
I used to think it was 2 minutes 10 seconds on the dot, no questions asked, no “popcorn” button pushed. Then I went from Orville Redenbacher to Pop Secret and I burnt the ever loving shit out of the last thing I had to eat in my pantry. I’m not a waster, it’s not in my blood to throw away unpopped kernels. So, it’s my snack-enthusiast duty to make this happen before I die. (Side note, one or two kernels would still suffice)
They say never wrong a writer, we get our revenge in print. And I look forward to the day where pure bliss meets the desire to give the middle finger to my finally forgiven past. I’m probably gonna start it and not finish in an ode to my less than worth it previous relationships, but how funny would that be to hook a reader in for 350 pages and just ghost the fuck out of them? The critics won’t know what to do with their hands.
I guess I gotta stop leaving states if I want this to work, huh? Fitness is super important to me, but rears its most difficult head when it comes to timing. Nothing is ever close enough, friendly enough or comfortable enough for me to frequent happily. So, before I die I hope to find a swolemate to make sure my squat form is impeccable morning and night. And please don’t let it be that 18 year old trainer at 24 hour fitness who’s got cougars on his “25 things to do before I die” list.
I have a couple guilty pleasures and one of them is this family. I can’t explain it any better than that I just get them. Having three siblings and parents who are questionably difficult to deal with, I see myself in all three girls. If I’m not sympathizing with fat-Khloe, I’m totally feeling the sexually deviant-Kim and every once in a while I yearn to be as put together as Kortney as she raises not one, not two but three children. Did I mention they are really quite amusing to listen to if you just take your robe off and stop judging? I’m keeping up with the dash-fam until one or all of them dies.
I ain’t afraid of no ghosts. Ok, yes I am. Absolutely terrified actually. I don’t do haunted houses cause frankly it’s all fun and games until someone does bath salts in line and eats your face. I hate snakes, the ocean, can’t stand heights and publicly refuse to speak. So if I can just do a cliff dive holding a rattler while wearing a old-navy-like headset and speaking to a crowd below, I’m golden.
If there is something worse than two left feet, I have them. Two very badly broken and misfortunate feet maybe? At almost thirty I realize I’m never gonna win So You Think You Can Dance, so my life goal is just to be able to make movements that someone can identify as a genre. Something like The Cha Cha or The Samba not “drunk girl at a dive bar” or “grand mal seizure”.
I don’t let people eat burgers anywhere but Del Taco. So, I’ve made my claims here and there. But I want to picket or ticket on something I’m super passionate about. Mostly because I’ve got a really good yelling voice for long winded chants, but also cause I love making people listen when I know they don’t want to. Why else do you think I have a blog?
My whole life has been a series of what in the actual fuck moments and for once I just want to walk up to someone, hand them a tree branch and exclaim that “with great power comes great responsibility.” I’m sorry I’m not sorry, that’s what you get. You get to wonder who I was, what I was doing and why I gave you that gift. Because, I’ve got like sixty three unresolved mysteries that dateline NBC wouldn’t even want to touch. I have enough karma points to offset if this one moment ruins said strangers life, so we good.
A bookshelf. A bear. A loving relationship. My options are endless. If any of the above look like the IKEA bed frame I just put together with the wrong screw driver, I’m screwed. Pun intended. If I get reincarnated and come back as anything after death, it’s gonna be a stripped screw. The epitome euphemism for my previous life, and basically everything I’ve ever tried to build without a partner. It’s safe to say, to accomplish this, I’ll need an adult.
Life’s purpose isn’t always as translucent as we’d like. Whatever mine is, I hope it makes a difference. I hope someone feels better about themselves cause my life wasn’t going as planned. Or they find my exhausting but hopeful desire for real love to be compelling and inspirational. The kindness challenge is an everyday struggle but if I can permanently change someone’s life for the better then I’m cool to go into the light…
I’m kind of obsessed with the idea that nothing in life is permanent. That the only thing I’m forever fastened to is, well; me.
I see people caught in empty promises and painfully unrealistic goals all the damn time. Stuck in jobs that aren’t lucrative. Stuck in relationships that are unfulfilling. Stuck in being painfully stuck.
I hate leaving anything. My bed in the morning, a job field Ive become knowledgeable in, a home I’ve created. It feels like I’m abandoning comfort. What the hell is your damn problem, gypsy? I rattle the sheets of my seemingly content lifestyle once a year like clock work. And everybody flinches. Except my future self.
I live a simple life. Debt free. With just enough pieces of furniture to not scare potential suitors away from my second story apartment home. And in that home I spend my evenings looking up ways to leave. I’m always wanting to go, somewhere else, somewhere that’s not my current situation. Not because I’m not happy, but because I came, I saw, I conquered. Next.
You don’t have to understand. You can shake your head in disappointment as I flee the scene. But this is nature. Fight or flight. I’m a lover not a fighter, but most importantly I’m a full-fledged-flighter. The beauty of it all is that it doesn’t have to make sense to anybody but me. The only person I have to answer to at night is my well-traveled-ego strumming the chords to the opening credits of some of my most wildest dreams.
Someone once asked me how I can afford to keep doing this. This, as in being alive and never settling? Well, Its possible that I sold my first born in a past life for a nomadic soul that ceases to stop moving through her lifetimes. But realistically present day me lives as follows:
Step one. [cut a hole in the box] No but really, step one: don’t be lavish. Cut a hole in a box and keep your collection of change ever-growing. I love knowing I’m never completely out of money. It’s helpful when you need to register your car in the third state in three years. Simplicity is the greatest gift you’ll ever give your future. Coupon, refinish, pawn. Do what you have to do to make sure you don’t have buyers remorse or even worse; a lifetime of regret for being stuck.
That’s literally my only advice. Just don’t be scared or broke and you can make all 50 states your bitch. Goodbyes are easy when they become small tokens of knowing and loving people in more than one place. Your goodbyes [or bravery] LITERALLY make you rich. Rich in knowledge, experience and most importantly love. For yourself, for your roots and for places you may never get the chance to see but were never afraid to try.
With that said Colorado, Goodbye. Cha-Ching!
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.
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…
“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.
“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 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”.
5. You have five photos of the same selfie, just different mouth situations.
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.
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.
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!
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.
Today I announced to the office team that if I died in my sleep, I wanted to make sure I said out loud that I had been feeling weird all day. You know, for the record. For the coroner. For the person who couldn’t figure out why my cold body lay strung across my couch; two puppies licking me to, well…more death.
Someone mumbled about me being on “those crazy pills” while another coworker reminded me that I lived alone, and that they’d be too busy to find my body for a few days, maybe even weeks. Thanks guys.
It’s the end of month two of my Accutane journey and I’m not gonna lie, not as stoked as the first four weeks. For one, I’m getting some residual break outs. Ones that were not apparent for the first six weeks and I feel like those people who buy a product that looks pretty darn amazing out of the box and then it breaks on its second use. After they’ve already put a 5 star review on Amazon. After they’ve told all their friends about it. Yea, I’m looking at you Chop Wizard.
In addition, I have experienced way too many side effects for my liking.
Ok fine, that last one isn’t the meds. I just recently found out about Sonic’s cookie dough shake and I CANT QUIT YOU.
My face originally felt like a seal. Not the scarred up singer from the batman soundtrack (although, who knows what month 3 will bring me) but the ever so soft and slippery mammal that sits on rocks in the San Fransisco bay. I was so thrilled that I would successfully be able to apply a thin layer of foundation to a less than rough terrain of a face. And then things took a turn for the worse. I wake up everyday with my skin being patchy with dehydration. Additionally the rest of my epidermis must suffer. Down to my ankles. My FUCKING ANKLES.
You know how when you have pain somewhere in your body and you take an aspirin, that aspirin just knows how to handle that spot. Like “ooo my tailbone hurts *pops pill* and boom, tailbone feels better. Then you get kicked in the shin so you take an aspirin and your shin starts to feel better. It’s like the medication KNOWS where to go. That’s what I wish would happen with accutane. Like, fix the skin on my face. No need for you to be jacking up the back of my arms, stupid.
But, as luck would have it, this my life for another 120 days. Le sigh. I asked my doctor when the soonest I can stop would be and she said nobody goes off of it with mild symptoms until at least 150 days. And I’m only 60 in. Kill me.
This is the price we pay for beauty kids. Beauty is legit pain. Pain in my head, pain on my skin, pain in my brain. But realistically, collectively both me and my doctor decided this reward was worth all of these risks based on how bad the acute onset of hormonal acne came on. I just didn’t know it had to get this bad to get that good. Like having sex with your ex, I’m just counting the minutes til I’m done. Hopefully this is just a “bad month” and I’m able to report month 3 as something of remission. Fingers crossed side effects subside and I can continue til the end of treatment. Or until it kills me.
*insert frantic phone call from mom*
I’m the hit you feign for as you dig through your sock drawer, unsure of my existence. I’m the last bit of bottom shelf whiskey on your lips, too bitter to lick off, too harsh to wash down. Im the finely cut line of cocaine on your cd case, never too long to finish. I’m the late night binge. The overdose cringe. The give-me-more-of-that-lover.
I don’t do drugs, I am drugs.
My thirties are approaching and I can safely say I haven’t partaken in recreational drugs of an illegal caliber. Which is kind of a feat for an Orange County born native who grew up with a father who’s favorite stories were about the time he dropped acid and punched his mom in the face for looking like Medusa and an older sister who’s friends offered you cocaine at the door.
When I speak of my drug-virginity out loud I usually feel the same way I do about counting my tattoos: one. maybe two. Ok fine, none. It’s not that it hasn’t presented itself to me as a girls-bathroom-stall option. Or an if-you-love-me-do-it-with-me relationship boost. I just, haven’t ever had the desire to step outside of a mind I’ve been so in touch with. I can’t imagine feeling my feelings anymore deeply than I already do. And that’s the absolute truth.
I guess, just like anything else in life, you’ve got to have a desire for something before you follow through with it. Maybe as a one-through-twenty-something I’ve not yet had the desire for the experience. Or the need to step away from basic, and engulf myself in a broader spectrum of being. Like being more up, or being more down or pretending to be either just to fit in. I can imagine it would be identical to how I already feel when I drink or better yet, when I love. Pointless. I don’t need a vodka soda to fuel my inhibitions. It doesn’t take a flaming sambuca shot to rid me of my insecurities. And honestly, sober me has felt the most intense emotions by just falling for a man who couldn’t tell the truth to save his own life. Heroin withdrawals got nothing on heartbreak.
I just wonder, that through all of the naivety, if my adulthood isn’t eagerly awaiting that psychedelic event of a lifetime. Or a whimsical stroll to the sandbox behind the school for an E-induced playground rendezvous. Every time I’m offered a bump, a hit, a sip or a piece, I say no. But, I always wonder, what if I said yes?
My expectations of going through with succumbing to a moment of unprescribed pharmaceuticals involves a string of me repeating “I don’t feel anything” until I’ve overdosed and am either passed out, comatose, or even worse, dead. People don’t die from eating mushrooms. Or do they? And if someone’s going to, with my luck, it’ll be me.
I already feel out of my god damn mind about 60% of my day. Like the oxygen I breathe is laced with hallucinogens far more potent than anything I could buy on the streets. If I told my friends I was high, half the time they’d believe me. So why risk my body for the sake of finding another level to be on? I like this level. But leveling up is in our blood. With that said I’ve found myself peeking at the syllabus to find out what else the world has to offer my ever-ready brain.
Chapter 2: Taryn gets fucked up on MDMA and finally earns the intimacy she’s been looking for through ecstasy.
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:
You guys, he has a ‘good woman that he loves’. I wonder if drunk him knows that.