The Summer of 2027

The Summer of 2027

All the things you forget on my bedside table are just metaphors for the little things you leave half empty for me to take care of; for me to remember you might come back for, for me to remember you might not.

Wrong numbers are just right numbers you didn’t know existed. Until existence straightens itself out for fate to make an appearance. A series of numbers leading to a series of days ending in hoping I’d have hung up at the sound of a busy tone. But, you answered. For the first time, and a thousand times after that. And then never again.

Endless summers of ended summers where I told you everyone I ever loved hurt me…and you followed suit. Knowing my truths, so you could feed me lies. Shame on me for giving you the details.

The Sane Part of Insanity

The Sane Part of Insanity

Am I a fully licensed and accredited therapist now? BECAUSE MY DATING RECORD WOULD SHOW THAT I’VE PUT IN THE HOURS. Totally google-able, totally diagnosable.

I know what I’m doing here. Send my certificate in the mail.

The irony is, Im always the one who winds up being called ‘crazy’. Or at least being made to feel that way. Which, arguably, is way worse. Like, just call me crazy so I can write you off as a prick. Don’t turn this around and send me screen shots of my own text messages. I KNOW THAT I SENT YOU BOTH A HEART AND A KNIFE EMOJI IN SUCCESSION, being confused doesn’t make me unloveable, Chad.

So, get this….turns out, doctors don’t actually officially diagnose people as sociopaths vs psychopaths, but like…they exist. I date them. What the fuck are doctors good for anymore anyway? Pushing the opioid epidemic? Falsely representing the male population with fake diagnosis’ like: “hormonal imbalances”? No. Homeboy has no conscience, I checked for myself.

Literally the only difference between a sociopath and a psychopath is the existence of said conscience and honestly, I think it’s safe to say that this generation is lacking hard in the realm of defining right from wrong.

Right: call her when you say you’ll call

Wrong: literally any other excuse your ass can think up to get his cake and eat it too.

I’ve had harder lessons in how to brush my hair as a kid. Side note: rat’s nest Taryn came out strong.

In my honest opinion there shouldn’t be such an existential variable when it comes to the ability to consider another human beings’ feelings and act appropriately and accordingly. Everyone deserves empathy and frankly those same people also deserve the tools they need to understand a shift in behavior by anybody they’ve invested any [lengthy] amount of time into. ***This is where I should be defining “lengthy” for the crowd. Frankly my “lengthy” is always different than his “lengthy”. Cause this is where men go hard on their genitalia perimeters and dial it back for “time spent telling her that I loved her”.

If you say you owe a stranger nothing, you’re wrong. Strangers are the people who we should be giving just a little more respect to….because it’s not expected and kindness that is least expected is probably the only way out of this generational defect we’ve built around our emotional avoidance in the last two decades; or however long I’ve been alive and trying to co-exist with males.

I always told myself I wouldn’t settle. Not for anything less than what I deserved. All I truly know is….we all deserve not-a-sociopath, AT THE VERY LEAST. Boy did my standards get low…

Hashtag Unfollow

Hashtag Unfollow

Risk had it’s rewards when I let it guide my twenties with an insatiable passion for being able to admit that I feared absolutely nothing; not even a broken heart. I navigated online dating sites coast to coast for a decade sure of one thing, “there is always safety in numbers”. Ok fine, maybe mom meant something different by her idiom, but she’s not entirely wrong. Quantity, when relating to desire, always gave quality a soft place to land when it realized that people were horrible and NOTHING EVER LASTS.

So whenever I have a hard time understanding why men can’t focus on one woman at a time, I graciously remember my twenties and all the eggs I put in vast amounts of “who wants to get drunk and cuddle with me tonight” baskets. And then I remember, I’m not in those pants sizes my twenties anymore and putting up with that kind of behavior is like ordering a drink at the dj booth; one of you looks stupid and the other person is just upset that you interrupted mediocre danceclub remixes.

If we’re being honest, men rarely attempt to commit to something great until it either starts dating his best friend or literally fucking dies. Like, there’s no in between. Either you play the game, or you lose your marbles…and then the will to live. I wish the ability to drive a sane woman to utter mental chaos took the same amount of effort it does to knowingly start following “Senorita Assclap” and liking three hundred of her photos on Instagram. Men are actually so dumb, that these kinds of public displays of idiocy are no match for their judgment.

Fun social media Fact: if a guy likes even two of my photos (usually one from this year and one from THE DEEP ARCHIVES) every girl knows he’s down to pound. So, save us all the feed space and wear a shirt that says “I need attention from multiple women at once or I struggle to function.” And thennnnn, we know not to fucking date you.

Not that the fair-warning will keep us from trying.

“Do the best you can until you know better, and once you know better, do better”.

Aint that right Maya Angelou? That saint of a woman also said “there is no greater agony than baring an untold story inside of you” and I honestly, I haven’t felt so connected to a dead person since Tupac’s hologram at Coachella 2012.

I digress…

There is a golden virtual rule and it goes something like this: don’t give off the illusion of having many choices because it will make it harder to find viable options.

The truth is, just cause you’re not doing anything that- bad doesn’t mean you’re doing anything that-good. This isn’t a by-default world.

Gentleman, I’ll have you know that when us women spiral, we spiral hard and if you think that social media is safe from investigation leading into interrogation and followed by 4 years of blocking- no parole…you’re mistaken. We know what you did last summer, last night, and it wouldn’t be too far off to assume that we already know what location you’ll be tagged in, blurry and unphased, by lolitagirl69’s tag marker next weekend. This is a social media world, and we’re all just living in brief moments of social engagement vs true persona.

Lastly, to my fragile and semi-broken ladies…get you a man who doesn’t just like your social media presence infrequently amongst a sea of other thirst traps, but actually appreciates the filter-less depth of the real and authentic (as crazy as you are) you. Because, remember, that everything is cool until it just isn’t anymore. Think, LimeWire. Think, The Harlem Shake. Think…Instagram in literally two years. #wastedthirties #literally #figuratively #whyarehashtagssomuchgoddamnfun

This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

2018 was supposed to be my year of silence.  The kind of year that if something bothered me, I was going to turn my gaze inward and rationalize it before I tore it apart in a social media setting. I wasn’t going to be the man-hating, world-revenge-seeking, malevolent and scorned lover I had portrayed on Taryndownwalls for two-too many years.  It was about time I pledged to be a good girl friend, a quiet-feminist, and a self-respecting human being.

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WHOOPS. 

If it means anything, 2018 was also going to be the year of less shopping online and I’m fairly certain that being on a first name basis with my mail guy (shout out to Efron) proves my resolution’s batting average wouldn’t get me past little league.

So, I’m not good at making promises. Thank god I’m good at keeping secrets. Did you guys know that the literal definition of Secretary is “the keeper of secrets”? All those years of working front desk’s and I didn’t even know I was responsible for things beyond my job description. You all need to un-classify your skeletons, cause I’m a god damn professional. giphy.gif

Anyway, the end of 2017 was a quick goodbye to bitching about things out of my control on a website that got less hits than 2009-Rhianna, and suddenly became a quick hello to a blossoming relationship. A long distance one mind you. I know what you’re all thinking and he was hot, like smoking hot. I had no control over my own thoughts roughly 109% of the day. The whole relationship was just me toggling between airfare apps that would get me the fastest flight to his face, and failing miserably because NOBODY IN THEIR RIGHT FUCKING MIND HAS TIME TO DATE SOMEONE 800 MILES AWAY.

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Lesson learned. Side note: loss is a lot easier to swallow when the fear of running into it again at the bar is nonexistent. Cheers to dating outside of your own backyard so that you may never wake up hung over and next to a recent ex. I knew there was a reason I set my tinder radar so far. 

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Without further ado, I’m back. And I’m probably still going to speak my mind about political indecencies, bad hygiene products and the dates I go on with men that make me never want to raise a little girl in this world. It didn’t feel good to bottle up all my feelings (even if it did score me a man for like an entire season of Vanderpump rules) and it certainly doesn’t feel right to not share the highs and lows of this roller coaster that is my life. Taryndownwalls is now {re} open for business.

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10 things you stop worrying about in your 30’s

10 things you stop worrying about in your 30’s

1. Being crazy wicked hot.

I remember burning my nipples off in a tanning bed for hours just to tease my bartender boyfriend with tan lines. These days, you’re lucky if I remember to shave my legs. It all started with an unwashed high bun, gradually progressed into covering up my cleavage with loosely fitting sweaters and now the only time I’m camera ready is with a strategically placed dog and three layers of Snapchat filters. I’m at the age where I care less about how bang-able you think I am and more about how far in proximity you are to me so that I don’t fall asleep in the time it takes me to get from my house to yours after work.

2. Taking your birth control on time.

I used to set an alarm clock. And keep those tiny white life-savers (or life-enders, however you want to swing it) in a discreet [but super cute] pouch. Because promiscuity could be dressed up or down when you were young and naive. To be totally honest, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do, aside from suck the semen out myself, to ensure I wasn’t impregnated by someone I didn’t want to raise a tiny human with me. Statistically I’m about out of time here to procreate, so to terminate any possibility would be dumb in my eyes. Not saying I’d keep any accident that occurs, I’m just saying…In my thirties I’ve hit the snooze button on that reminder more often than not.

3. Having the perfect boyfriend.

Remember team Jacob? My 30s are more like team wakeup– he doesn’t exist. These days I’m less likely to care about what kind of candy will be proudly displayed on my arm and more about who’s gonna judge me the least when they find out I pee in the shower. If we took the amount of energy my teen self put into locating the perfect life long suitor, we could have probably powered the whole damn town. It took me ten plus too many years to realize that being in a relationship isnt all instagram posts and rainbows. It was mostly just fear of being cheated on and spending twice as much money feeding someone who’s face you’ll fuckin hate in two years.

4. New Years Eve.

Staying up til midnight watching the ball drop to the auto-tuned medley of some girl band Simon Cowell created? Ha, that’s cute. Just DVR it, I’ll watch it this weekend.

5. Happy Hour.

The happiest of hours for me is the 60 minutes spent in Target with my phone on silent. I remember a time when it was dirty martinis at half price and nachos that none of us would ever be able to finish, but if you want to talk about true happiness in intervals, tempt me with a paid off credit card and endless rows of dollar bins to sift through.

6. High School Reunions. 

My ten year came and went, and despite what Romy and Michelle advertise, it’s not totally mandatory. I remember thinking any type of coordinated party with people I hadn’t seen in a decade would probably be exceptionally liberating. Except when you realize that everything and then nothing at all happened in those ten years. Prom queen got fat, your home room crush is a an under paid musician and you’re at the punch bowl still “thinking about starting a family”.

7. Other People’s Lives.

Believe it or not, people aren’t walking around trying to point out your mistakes or keep you from proudly making them. People, by nature, are selfish. So selfishly busy trying to figure out how to put one foot in front of the other, that they could care less about your third failed marriage. There have been days where I’ve tried to take the spotlight off of myself and roll around in someone else’s shit, but frankly it always comes back to home base; where you is the only person you ever have enough energy to worry about.

8. F.O.M.O.

For the longest time I thought this meant Fear of Mom’s Opinions. Which, in my defense is a true acronym for a constant concern in my life. Maybe that’s cause I’m 30 now and if I missed Sam’s [tenth anniversary of his 21st birthday] bash #inserteyeroll it’s probably in exchange for making some bomb ass crock pot tacos and indulging in a life changing book. Don’t judge me mom!

9. Being friends with Idiots.

Pretty sure there was an unspoken rule as a teen that stated the dumber your friends were the cooler you were by association. Forget knowing algebra, if Joey from second period–the guy who supplied paint cans for getting high in the bathroom–wanted to be my friend, nobody else needed to audition. Call me crazy, but nowadays I like to surround myself with people who can hold a job, a political stance…a baby. Adulting is hard enough without the added stressors of poorly-matured friendships.

10. Dying. 

This could totally be a just me bullet, and that’s fine. 20 year old me would have cried like a bitch if you talked about exiting stage left too soon, but I’ve lived over 11,000 days on this planet and frankly when it’s time, it’s time. When I was younger, there was an instilled panic to create a life worth living. [Go to school, marry a nice guy, buy a house and raise some kids] I literally have accomplished zero percent of that and I’m closer to death than I was yesterday, seemingly just as happy.  Maybe it’s the fact that I’m well over a third of the way through the female life expectancy that makes me reminisce. Surely I’ve left enough marks to satisfy a proud blooper reel for generations to come, right?

Famewhore

Famewhore

Stop trying to be a headline. Or an article. Or the feelings-accelerator to my anger flame. There’s this never ending “if you can’t beat em, join em” mentality from potential suitors lately and I assume it’s cause I’m as transparent as a glass door. 

Be you, and if you warrants a 450-word count about why the fuck I can’t stand you or why I did everything in my power to try, then, well…you’re welcome. Some people go their whole lives without ever knowing how other people feel about them.  [I bet it’s bliss] If I’m being honest, it’s happened to me a handful of times: Getting on a plane and finding out too little too late that I was somebody’s one who got away. Far from bliss to me, cause in my world, knowing is my only euphoria. 
              Maybe we could have been something. 

When I’m asked what super power I’d want if I’m ever to meet the opportunity, without a second breath I choose the ability to read minds. Sounds exhausting. Like the amount of stairs I’d take instead of just choosing the gift of flight.

Whats even more exhausting is meeting a new person everyday and trying to decode them like the pile of genetic flaws they are. What better way to sift through intentions than with the ability to hear unfiltered, raw emotion. It’s 2017 and my dog can get hand delivered treats from a robot on the counter that I’m talking to from my phone at work but I STILL CANT READ MINDS. The amount of time I’d save in a day would be unparalleled. We need this guys. 

Trust me when I say, I get it. I understand why you want to be a post.  I know you think I don’t, and that’s fine because that allows you the option to live with your choices unjudged. (People who don’t understand can’t judge you, right?) but I get it, I’m not stupid, you’re not stupid. We all want to read minds, and mine just so happens to be public. 
Just don’t push me to hate you because you aren’t totally sold on the ability to make me feel anything else. When you’ve hit a wall with me, Im probably not going to write it out. You’d be one lucky son-of-a-bitch to even have me scribble a haiku about your good hair on my hospital locker. 

My point is, you need to stop striving to be an article. I mean, if I had a dollar for every time I got asked “Am I gonna be what you write about next?” I wouldn’t have to write, I could pay somebody to do it for me. I can’t read your mind, yet…and that’s a total bummer. But I can imagine the whole idea behind infamy is wanting to feel like someone acknowledged your incompetencies and praised you for how amazing, awful, or amazingly awful you were. Because a life undocumented these days seems like a total fucking waste. Like the amount of days I spent trying to read your mind before I found out you were only sticking around to find out what I’m like between the sheets and if I’d write about you in the morning…

Vigilante of Love

Vigilante of Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Boom. Nailed it. 👍🏻

Plateau

Plateau

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

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

They aren’t. And it’s fucking purgatory

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

I’m here. It’s happening

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

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

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

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

Apology Tour 2017

Apology Tour 2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

The Coward With The Key

The Coward With The Key

I think I’m going insane. 

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

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

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

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

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

Big Talker 

Big Talker 

God I hate “big talkers.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ex Marks The Spot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Double Standard

Life’s not fair. 

 

*end article*

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guys be like…


Like my new watch?!

Fair Trade

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

Advice; something I’ve never been short on. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

img_2484

Valen-time and time again

Valen-time and time again
I’ve dated myself ever since I became cognitive enough to experience the feeling of self-inflicted satisfaction. For some, it was banging their privates into anything that would involuntarily push back. For me, it was sending myself love notes before anybody else could.

Dear me,

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.

                                                                                            Yours Truly,

                                                                                                           Taryn

Don’t Tell Me How To Love You

Don’t Tell Me How To Love You

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

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

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

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

Round 3. *Ding*

Round 3. *Ding*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Got Guilt? 

Got Guilt? 

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

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

I know you don’t want me. 

I know you hate pressure.

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

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

                  God I’m bad at analogies. 

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

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

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

I think I’ll die in this car. 


Terminal. 

Terminal. 

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

Cloud nine-hundred and forty two

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

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

Everything’s gonna be ok.

The heat rises. 

You’re safe with me. 

Alarms sound. Flames and flames and flames…

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

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

                      The way I feel when we lift off. 

The way I feel when we’re going down. 

Always taking off, barely landing…