Give It A Sexond

Give It A Sexond

What happens to the person who welcomes both happiness and pain without judgement? Do they fail themselves in not forming a preference for either or are they capable of bigger things for both knowing and accepting these extremes?

I know what it’s like to not give a single fuck and I also know what it’s like to give all the fucks you’ve ever gathered and hand them out like an unsupervised child. Being both is terrifying when someone expects you to pick a road and flip-on cruise control until you’ve reached their desired destination. [More specifically on paths you are ill-prepared to take.]

I can’t decide if I’m unlucky, misunderstood or just plain stupid. I’ll eliminate the latter because I know damn well that Mama didn’t raise no fool. Luck is a phenomenon that science can’t prove which means being misunderstood sticks out like the sorest of thumbs. A lot of things are easily misunderstood but I have to ask…when did no start meaning never? #giveitafuckingsexond

To the men who tell us to lower our expectations, we say the same to you:

Stop expecting us to give it up on your timeline. My body is not a suggestion. It doesn’t equal automatic opportunities and it will never be up for literal or non-literal grabs due to mere existence. It’s the shell of who I am; who I’ve worked so hard to be and it deserves the same respect across all circumstances.

They can say I’m broken. That I’m shut off. That I’m not laid back enough. They can, and they do. I hear it with every date I, with high hopes, show up for. I’m done being a victim of hypocrisy though. I’m just a tired empath longing for a real connection, knowing it doesn’t take being naked to achieve.

I hate that I even have to have these conversations. Or ask these questions. Or feel so worthless. Why is date number four always an awkward juggle of egos?

“If you liked me you’d sleep with me”. “Well, if you liked me you wouldn’t push it”.

The constant battle between what our hearts want, what our bodies need, and trying to play Switzerland with an irrational Germany. Blindly grabbing at what’s left of a connection when you realize they are only sticking around for one thing. Plot twist: it’s not your sense of security.

What happened to the men who’d wait a lifetime for your comfort? Who were willing to make sure there were no qualms before they undressed you. You can take pretty much anything from me without a blink of an eye, but do not take my worth. I refuse to allow for a moment anyone to believe that I am not capable of having all of it; that the only pieces of me that are sought after are the ones that fuel someone else’s ego.

I am not what you expect and in knowing that I’ve had to fight the feeling of failure. Time and time again. Tear after tear, year after year. Sometimes I’m proud of the woman I am because I’ve spent a hell of a long time becoming her, and other times I fall short with my need to be liked…valued…wanted. Where I fall short I hope to god one day others will prevail. Instead of sticking a patch of disapproval upon my breasts every time I refuse to show them. Or reminding me that you feel teased when I breathe because simply being alive and attracted is YOUR recipe for intimacy.

I shouldn’t have to be modest to be respected. I shouldn’t have to say “maybe next time” to secure interest. And I refuse to believe that I owe another human being anything. Not a date, not a conversation, not a number, not my body, not even this blog post…

But you’re welcome.

For one, some…and now none.

5 Steps To Overcoming Heartbreak

It’s hard to write about heartbreak when you are actively heartbroken. You know, like watching the waiter march to your table with a bowl of piping hot oatmeal when you’re hung over.With that said it’s taken me almost all of 2018 to put together how to be more put together when all you want to do is pour some accelerator and light the match.

Aw yes, that balance between knowing you’re a human being with feelings and wishing you just fucking weren’t for five minutes (shout out to my dog who I constantly call a shit-head and she knows none the wiser)

It’s not easy, but it’s doable…

Below, I give you: the five steps I’ve personally taken to help me overcome that overwhelming feeling that someone has essentially rung you out to dry; but like…in the rain

1. First of all, why can’t I ever have a step one without thinking about who’s responsible for cutting the hole in the box?

1B. Know what hurts.

Ignorance isn’t bliss; it’s just ignorance.

It’s funny, cause when I was a kid and I’d try to express my feelings to my father in a snot-filled-traumatic-mumble-tantrum, he used to verbally face palm me with the same question every time: “uhhhhh, your what hurts?” Great question, I HAVE NO CLUE. It was such a vague and blanketed response to my belligerency that it actually made me stop and try to figure out who my real father was what was causing my pain so that I was more equipped to not only explain it, but ease it. Science has proven that both heartache and grief are both legitimate forms of measurable physical pain. Which means painkillers as simple as Aspirin are actually equally recommended for the heart as they are the head. For the record, I mentioned over the counter aspirin, so don’t go buck wild on prescription opioids cause Tommy from Tinder ghosted you after he asked you to be his arm candy at this years company Christmas party. Or do. Natural selection.

2. Be present.

I have a habit of extremes. The power of living (or not living) in the here and now is no exemption. I am either extremely engulfed in a moment to the point of full acceptance OR, I fly so far off the handle about future anxieties that it’s almost like you are all invited to the opening of my new theatric production of “I Am Nothing Without Him”. Solid soundtrack. The cast is a little iffy. I used to think that the first step was just admitting it, right?

Wrong, the first step is taking a deep breath and remembering that if the future seems like it’s already overwhelmingly hard, how’s right now going for you? I imagine if you aren’t starting by being really good at today, there’s no hope for tomorrow. You’re cheating on today’s happiness with tomorrow’s what if’s and frankly everyone loses. Except the guy who broke your heart and sent you into this uncomfortable spiral. He’s winning all the chips.

3. Distract.

If we’re all being honest with ourselves, there’s no easier way to get over heart ache than with a distraction. We have a scientifically studied part of the brain called the reward system that often is directly linked to the biological effects of rejection whilst being in love. When that reward system is unmanaged, it’s addictive patterns appreciate a diversion from pain and explore a more sought after feeling of pleasure.I imagine there will be backlash with how I achieve this step, and to that I say…get a hobby. Even if his name is Jared. As much as I’d like to suggest picking up a a new interest in a less taboo subject like hot yoga to “decompress and center yourself”, investing time into getting to know someone new has always effectively kept me from running back to the fire and placing my hand directly in it. Can’t say the same for the Child’s Pose.Maybe that’s a reflection of how much I see the good in people, even the bad ones. But if it takes me diving into a whole new batch of potential-bullshit just so I don’t skip back to confirmed-bullshit…let us all be stoked to be dealt another hand.

4. Be reflective, not reactive.

For the longest time, whenever I got ghosted (I say ghosted because dumped would mean the man who stopped talking to me would have to tell me why he stopped talking to me, and frankly I’m 0/456) I IMMEDIATELY rack my brain for what I could have possibly done wrong. And then I need to know what exactly I did/said, how it made all parties feel, what I could have done differently, AND how I fix not only it but world hunger, the California water shortage, the war on drugs…EVERYTHING. I NEED TO FIX EVERYTHING, IMMEDIATELY. Basically, I react so hard I don’t even have the energy to reflect. And when I found this out about myself, I made it one of the steps in not only overcoming heartbreak, but honestly eliminating the length of time before you’re at peace with the situation.

Reactions are quick, take less thought, and are…come to think of it synonymous with defining most of my past relationships. However, reflections are how I further more chose to handle any future heartache. We don’t need to know why someone chooses not to like love tolerate us. All we need is to handle rejection with grace and selflessness which will in turn outline our character and keep us on a path to who and what we deserve.

5. Surround Yourself With Love

Endorphins are the gateway drug guys. You feel love one time and it’s hard to want to be in a state of anything less. Heartache is, in my opinion, the epitome of pain because it’s not just superficial. It’s mental AND it’s physical. Your legs are weak, your brain is foggy, and your eyes are swollen from hours of both of those things colliding, making it hard to want to do anything more than replay what you’ve lost and sulk about how hard it might be to regain.

This is a piggyback on distractions, but it deserves its own step. There are people who love and adore you who have been placed on life’s back burner while you danced to the beat of falling for another sucker. They rooted for you knowing this day might come. So keep them close enough to remember what it’s like to be unconditionally supported, and bring them closer when your heart isn’t sure what that feels like anymore. There are probably a plethora of additional steps that we as individuals practice on a heartbreak to heartbreak basis, but these five above really drill home the attempt at a quick turn around for me personally. This is coming from the girl who is just happy to be alive enough to feel, even the bad shit.

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

Singled Out

Singled Out

Being romantically un-involved used to be an insecurity of mine. One that was carried around with me like a mole I refused to get checked. That was until, I went three plus years having the daunting misfortune of being single without any answers as to why it was so. At some point you just have to come to terms with your fate. Like being significantly tall with a love for heels or tone deaf amidst a family of singers. Most of the time I pretend it’s poor timing or bad luck, but I’m not so naive to believe i’m just not everyone’s cup of tea.

Right around year two I found myself noticing potential reasons, and verbally proclaiming “Yup, this is why I’m single” out loud. The list grew and frankly, if society can’t cope with my quirkiness, fuck it, I hope I never have to commit to being anybody other than me. Not even for frequent sex or someone to help paddle the boat back to shore.

My friends try to make me feel better by throwing Hail Mary’s like: “God’s just not done writing your love story yet”. That’s cute, but I just told potential suitor #1 that I’ve been known to make out with my dog longer than three seconds. Whoops. 


There are handfuls of explanations as to why I’m not married; most of them being because I’m really good at being single, and why screw up a good thing? Do something long enough, and we’re all pro’s. But below are what I think are some of the main causes in no particular order:

  • I’m temperature sensitive- meaning, I can barely think about anything else but being comfortable when it’s too hot or too cold. Some guys find that the amount of times I get up and down to turn on and off the air conditioner is in direct correlation with how indecisive I can be about literally everything else that I have minimal control over. Climate change is only making me more single. Personally, I think I look really cute in your sweatshirt AND also, absolutely nothing. I’ll inevitably tire myself out complaining about the weather, so in my defense…you’re welcome.
  • I’m a grammar Nazi- in light of the recent Charlottesville attacks, I realize that this verbiage may be too soon. But, that leads me to another reason why I’m probably single and that is that I forget the importance of filters. Also, I refuse to date a moron so when your dating profile is riddled with illiteracy I’m privy to assume that you’d turn me off quicker than a clap on lamp. People fancy being dumb, look who we elected president. Men these days don’t want their love letters spell checked, and I get that. But I’d rather be alone than receiving ‘cumming home to ur fine ass 2nite’. #killme
  • I realize dating is a game, and I’m done playing it- three years ago I hosted a personal walk off. I came to terms with the fact that there was nothing in the relationship I was in that would keep me interested in the sport forever. I got back into it; a couple innings here and there. Struck out hard. Not because I was afraid to swing, but because there were hecklers in the stands distracting me from a good play. And also because nobody plays fair. We live in a world where the only way out is cheating. Remember when we were kids? If we caught anybody peeking during heads up seven up, they were dead to us. Frankly, that’s how I roll out my rules as an adult.
  • I’m transparent- for a very long time, I refused to acknowledge that society would view this as a negative. But, I write a blog about bullshit that infuriates me, about the kind of love that excites me, and about reflective moments that I feel everyone can relate to. It’s a blessing and a curse and I see it from more points of view than most people think, but for every man it frightens it allows me a tiny bit of relief, and for that reason alone, I’d rather be single than be quiet. I remember a time when men would complain about their women not telling them how they feel, and making them “guess”. Give me three to five business days and you will have a full article on why I didn’t appreciate you eating the last yogurt… #noteveryonescupofyoplait
  • I’m compulsive- Sounds thrilling, right? I am certain there’s a guy out there for me, but if we are talking majority…I see why most men would find my bucket list overwhelming. I just want to make it to every country before the end of the weekend. Is that too much to ask? Not to be confused with spontaneity, because I usually think these things through way in advance, it’s just that once I set my mind to something I let it control me almost immediately. LAY OFF ME I’M STARVING.
  • I can’t dance- no, like I can’t even do the choreographed songs that come on at the bar. At all. Sweet Caroline? Too many bum-bum-bums…every time. I have less swag than a box of cracker jacks. My generation speaks in movement and I can barely fake-reel-in my dance floor fish without tripping over both left feet. I presume guys are more attracted to the stripper in another life type women. You win this round, twerk-angel.
  • I’m too busy sleeping- last, but certainly not least. If I could date a nap, I would. There is literally nothing more exciting to me than being unconscious from the world for 6-10 hours a day. And unless we meet in my dreams, I doubt we could make this work. I work long hours, on my feet all day and there’s just not enough minutes in a work day to completely be engulfed in a relationship sometimes. Whoever finds themselves changing my relationship status is going to be a professional pajama wearer, thank you 30’s!

I always believe that there’s no reason to be in a relationship until you meet someone who makes your life better than it is when you’re not in one. When I put it that way, it sounds like quite the feat. But, I’m not at a total loss just yet. There’s always hope that someone is going to be a genius wordsmith with dashing good looks, minimal interest in dancing and zero fear. Did I mention ‘smells like bacon’? Hey, a girl can dream…

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…

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.

The Fizzle is Real 

The Fizzle is Real 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence

Silence

I pushed send despite the guilt I’d feel by allowing you the ability to ignore me, again. I needed you to recount with me the emotions that were attached to memories that only you and I will ever carry. Even if you read it and reminisced without reaching out, reminders are my favorite gifts and it had been a while since I’d given you one. As a matter of fact,  I remember it, it was Easter. I knew the first holiday I’d spend with you I’d want to shower you with a basket of goodies; shower you with my love; shower with you. You laughed at the candy, the lottery scratchers, the flavored lube. You laughed at our minimal interaction that felt like lifetime feats. But we laughed together as the sun brushed the stars and the nights fell hard on days that only half of us knew would come to an end.

You know that feeling you get when you think you’ve forgotten something half way to your destination? That deep pitted punch in the gut that sends you over the edge with thoughts about if you should keep going or stop and turn around? 9:58 am hit me like a ton of bricks. I hadn’t seen that picture come up on my phone in over 60 days. Days that I literally pretended you were dead because it was easier to accept that you had no control over this pain than being the provider of such malice. I remember the night you took that photo. It was the first time it’d really felt like I’d be able to stare into someone’s eyes forever. You said you hated the way you looked, so I made it the photo I saw of you every day. A reminder to us both that it didn’t ever matter what you thought.

I had a hundred thousand things to ask you since the day you vanished. But all I could muster up the ability to verbalize were questions my heart screamed over my head. I wanted you to know that I was happy, that the fact that you were gone was a blow to my ego not a deferent to my well-being. I’ve told bigger lies, but they never gave me this much lack of contentment. What I should have said was that driving down I-70 and passing Hanging Lake brought me to tears. Because I held your hand at the bottom of that hike and you told me you didn’t think anybody else in this world would ever get you quite like me. I took a picture of the sky, because I wanted to capture exactly what I was looking at as I felt the most intense connection of my entire existence. It’s like that curve in the road is my forever home. 76 miles of Siri into the mountains. Spurts of service. A moment I’ll never be able to recreate. Fuck I hate memories. Nothing in life should ever feel this damn good and so terrible at the same time. Except maybe, a deep tissue massage.

It didn’t matter how many unfinished conversations we had. I was never getting closure, and that was my closure. And then two months later,I got it. And I didn’t know what to do with it. I felt like a twelve year old boy finding his boner for the first time. Just fumbling with excitement and finding out it would be a forever lingering gift of both pain and pleasure. Getting no message was all the message I needed, and then you called me to tell me everything I fucking expected. Down to the fact that they only reason you were with her was because she was more convenient and that moments with her were empty in comparison to what we experienced. I wanted to tell you Karma was a bigger bitch than I could ever be, but all I could think was “I wish you were here”.

For the record, you didn’t break my heart. Truth be told, you broke my soul. I won’t romanticize the way you made me feel too much, because it was more than that. It was like reaching into a bag of my wildest dreams and having them read to me by the wind.  When you left it felt like death. But the kind of death where you’re forced to keep living. And you’re forced to keep guessing. About what went wrong and if you’re ever going to find it again. You told me I’d find it in someone, that I was crazy to think that you were my last chance, but what do you know…you’re always running.

I know this feels like your last change at control, and you win. But you reopened wounds that were not yours to create in the first place. I handed you the greatest parts of me and asked for you to nurture them in time. Instead you brought them to the darkest places and left them there, abandoned and unattended. And when I found my light again, you reappeared to remind me that you were the best I may have ever had, and I still couldn’t have you. Nana nana fucking boo boo. I hope that in the silent parts of the Kingdom of “blockville” you find a way to justify the resurface. Because if I didn’t have the ability to ever keep you in the first place, it was certainly not me who made you reemerge.

I accept the apology I never got. In the absence of your words, lies all of my answers. My mother always told me that to heal a wound, you’ve got to stop touching it. I can’t stop touching it. {That’s what he said} You were and still are the type of drug I’d sell my right arm for a hit on my left. I used to think I’d never hear from you again, and then I did. Which makes me think I’d be naïve to assume you’re gone forever…

 

Level up. 

Level up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Road Trips Over Rings 

Road Trips Over Rings 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Flaws in our Logic 

The Flaws in our Logic 

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

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

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

This is when I ask you to ask.

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

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

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

Everything…”

Leap Year

Leap Year

Don’t wait for me.

Trust me, I wont.

I woke up to an orange and pink sunrise. It reminded me of the drinks I used to order back home on the beach if I was looking to get black out drunk and sleep in my car. The colors of the Colorado sky took me from a nostalgic feeling of utter depression to a moment of complete clarity. I went to bed painfully and emotionally exhausted. More confused than ever before. But, as luck would have it, I woke up to try another day, another beautiful way.

It’s February 29th. Every four years we are granted with an extra day. How are you making use of these additional hours? Today is a day I wasn’t promised last year, and I almost utilized it’s existence this round to sulk. I can’t blame myself though, I’m pretty bummed that my life is becoming the definition of insanity. A repetition of the same scenarios that I can’t resolve so I essentially just absorb them and repeat the cycle, ultimately expecting different results each time. I know for a fact that when he says ‘it isn’t you’, that there’s no way it’s not. But, what if it isn’t me? Who’s gonna fix this?

I live in a city of quitters. Denver is where people go when life gets too hard. We are a melting pot of broken; a dumping ground for disconnect. I however, can’t get on board with the constant reminders that nobody is capable of anything remotely difficult. Like, following their dreams. Or living financially independent. Or my recent favorite, knowing what you want and not back pedaling when you find it. I’m not stupid. I know I can’t really fix anybody, but at this rate it feels like we all have our insecurities and I’ve just gotta swing for the fences when I get thrown a semi-decent ball.  That’s absurd right? Keep your standards high and your heels higher? Well, I’m tall. And tired. Just throw me something I won’t strike out on.

I used to think emotionally unavailable men was an Orange County thing, part of the reason I left. And then I blamed it on my generation. Now I don’t know who to pass the torch to anymore. Everyone I meet in life is so god damned misinformed on how to treat others, or how to treat themselves that I feel like I was basically born to babysit. So, listen up kids…this is how it’s gonna work:

You meet. You have similar interests. You find each other attractive. You treasure the ease of your togetherness. You steadily move in a direction that would benefit you both mutually. You choose monogamy. You bask in some happiness. You travel a lot. You make memories. You start a life together. You raise a family. You die complete. The end.

Note that there are no asterisks in the above situation. There’s no “we went to bed angry and woke up stuck”. Or, “but after the family was raised he cheated on me profusely because he hated the way I needed him to love me”. Or ” and then he stopped talking to me because he was too scared to feel”. Dating is not for the weak of heart, but it’s the only fucking tunnel to love we have. So, prior to giving up at every bump in the road, maybe hold on to the idea that the easiest things in life are usually the least fulfilling. By nature, nobody will ever fall in love at first sight. And if you did, good for you, but it’s probably because you had a baby and you were forced into some sort of bond that was theoretically impossible to break. Or maybe you’re in that one percentile of people who didn’t ever have to deal with the pain of heartbreak because they fell in love with their boyfriend from third grade and married him in college. If only we could all be so lucky.

Speaking of luck, I’m pretty lucky that I got an extra day this month. To rearrange my thoughts on paper before March came marching down the calendar. I’m also pretty lucky that most men’s response to me is “you’re amazing I’m just not ready” instead of “you’re kind of a bitch and you smell weird”. I think I’m a catch. I exude confidence and intelligence. I provide men with space, but also adoration. I’d like to think that my biggest challenge is being totally prepared unlike the rest of the population. But where do I go from here? Quit my job, roll a fatty and question all of my feelings? I’d so regretfully be willing to bet that might score me the relationship I’ve been looking for.

Fasting

Fasting

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sidepiece Situations

Sidepiece Situations

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

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

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

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

“It’s late, Chad. What’s up?”

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

“I’m sorry? *giggle* Who is this?”

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

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

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

That’s cute. I remember my first boyfriend.

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

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

deuces

 

Shaken not Stirred

Shaken not Stirred

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

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

Jack&Ginger.

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

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

Grey Goose&Sprite.

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

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

Jager-bomb.

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

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

PBR.

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

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

Rum&Coke.

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

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

Iced Tea-No Ice.

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

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

 

Delete. delete. DELETE.

Delete. delete. DELETE.

This will sound as bad as it feels.

Tonight I deleted all of my dating apps. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guest Blog: She Wants to see the Social D..

Guest Blog: She Wants to see the Social D..

By Billy Bautista

We now live in an age where communication is as instant as sexual gratification. Emojis alone are statistically responsible for half of the online hookups that transpire everyday. A combination of social media evolving into the robust intertwined network of both third cousins and the waitress you tongued from IHOP has put us all in a habit of relying on our smartphones to connect us to anything and anyone quickly. Be it answers to trivia, directions to a motel 6 in Fresno, or what kind of meat selection do I have within a five mile radius, Tinder? Swipe. 2015 means access. To information. To profiles. 

Welcome to Instagram. It’s your phone. Showing you hundreds of thousands of strangers that you might never meet. Or can you? Since this is an exposé write up of sorts, I don’t mind sharing data for the common good. I’ve dated a dozen or so women from Instagram..in 2015.. This month…
 
Therein lies the problem. Like anything fed without regard or limits, ease of access allows us to be spoiled. I consider myself a gentleman and raised accordingly. Growing up with both catholic and Spanish roots albeit in an Asian island means being infused with every flavor of expectation a man should have when it comes to traditional courting. And while I’m not out to trade a flock of sheep for a lady’s hand in marriage, I can at least say that my mother raised a nice boy and my father raised a good man. Integrate that with a visual output – a channel where your audience gets a constant view of your assets, your gentleman traits, and alluring photos of a fast paced life in far off places, Instagram suddenly becomes a version of eBay for the dating community where likes and comments become bids for tonight’s man of the hour. 
The same goes for women. In a visual world, our eyes speak our minds and translate our appetites. So is it obvious why hot girls on Instagram have a shit ton of followers?! There is no room for judgment though. Even your average television viewer is guilty of the same habits. We watch what we want. We eat what we want. We date who we want. We do what we want. We are the world’s bastion for selfless pursuits and excess everything. We are the pillars of lust and trendsetters in desire. We are sexy pizza eaters with flawless selfies…at the right angle. We are our car, our tragic hairstyles, our job, our entourage, or whatever aspect of our lives we choose to glorify on the internet. If your dating life can be googled with a single hashtag, maybe it’s time to retreat to the Midwest and just get back to girls that want you because you’re a good Cali dude. Ahem *self advice*

It’s a plethora of things. Excuses that is. For why my dating life can be considered both a seriously grand success and epic fail. My standards are somewhat flawed but I’m also super jaded. I know by the first date if I hate someone. The irony of that is you can’t really know love till you know hate (more on that later, young padawans). My profession allows for too much travel and being constantly surrounded by beautiful women. I’m lucky. But dating is hard. Like I said, it goes both ways. I never know who to trust. Who wants to date me and why. That’s just the frosting layer of my issues cake. Ladies have it harder I think. Kind of a cruel cycle if you ask me. Guys will go to what they’re attracted to. Most ladies usually meet creepers both on and offline as their creeper agendas are usually penis to vag related. It’s a sick game really. But this is who we are and what we’ve become. Like my status. Poke my face. Sext me. Facetime me naked. Wash, rinse, repeat. Might as well be good at it. Which reminds me, I totally DM’d this chick a selfie and an eggplant emoji. Looks like another night of #billyproblems #netflixandchill #datenight #TARYNDOWNMYBALLS

Brave

Brave

Last night I was searching for a bad-ass-boss-lady-office chair for my new addition pottery barn desk when I stumbled upon the solicitation section of Craigslist. I know what you’re thinking, and if it’s any consolation I was able to stop myself from putting my ex’s name and number under “men seeking men”— for the first hour. Truth be told, I found myself idling my cursor over the “missed connection’s section”; finding sadness in the cords these moments struck in one person’s life and how incredibly naïve another human was to the power behind their presence.

It made me stop and think. About all of the people I’ve momentarily engaged with and then forgot about so quickly. And all the people who aren’t courageous enough to reach out.

Life is scary; strangers are terrifying, but failure as I’ve always said is far easier to swallow than regret. You’re only as weak as your biggest fear. Be bold, be brave.

Fearlessness is found in so many unappreciated moments. That soldier fighting for our country, or the mother on her third round of chemo, even the guy who just walked up to a table of women he’s never met to tell a woman he finds attractive that he’s interested. Ok, so the last one may seem a little overzealous, but sometimes you just gotta grab the bull by the horns. And that’s exactly what he did.

I’ve never felt so uncomfortable in my life. I was rooting for a football team I didn’t even like, at a bar that was packed, in a city I’m still getting to know. My girlfriend was in town, and I wanted to show her how much fun Denver can be. When a duo of frat-like-boy-band-wanna-be’s asked us if we wanted to play volleyball in front of the ENTIRE bar, I immediately obliged. Redemption reared it’s beautiful head as memories of being picked last for four square in fifth grade came flooding back.  “Yes, yes….we’re in…yes”. And that was that, us two awkward women in the middle of about 400 people, bouncing around like a bunch of hooligans trying to not catch our faces on the net. Go big, or go home right?

Well, I wanted to go home. But instead we met up with two of our other girlfriends and sat at a bar top table just inside the restaurant as the Bronco’s began their fight for victory. I had just finished telling my best friend how ironic it was that even in the middle of all the good sportsman- like chaos, I felt so small and unimportant. That in twenty-eight years, not a single man has ever approached me at a bar. That, I was most likely always doomed to utilizing the powers of the internet and this hell of an online dating portal.

And then he walked up. Note in hand. It read:

“Smile if you find me attractive.”

Awkward-GIF

The table of women coo-ed. My girlfriend snapped up at him in excitement: “Did you just grade-school pass her a note at the bar?” He laughed modestly and answered: “Yea, I found her attractive so I thought I would ask her if she felt the same”. Meanwhile I’m DYING. He must have seen me in the middle of the bar playing volleyball. Had I not agreed to those tool-bags request, I would have just been another un-noticed patron in a bar full of potential partners. This is the bravery I could only dream about. These are the missed connections that happen EVERY day because someone is too chicken shit to make the first move. Thank god I put my game face on, and thank god he swung it back to elementary school with that sick pick up line.

There aren’t enough men in the world who know what they want and go after it. I bet they can say the same for us ladies. Sometimes there are missed connections, and sometimes there are unexplainable relations. And sometimes we wait our whole lives for neither. But when either one of those moments arises in all of their glory, you know how important it is to have both. Redirecting your fears and appreciating the bravery.

Don’t spend the rest of your life wishing you had gotten her number, or that you had told him you thought his eyes were filled with the greatest sense of home you may ever know. But most importantly, never forget to smile if you find him attractive.

awkard smile