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…

15 things I want to do before I die. Which could be tomorrow, no pressure.

15 things I want to do before I die. Which could be tomorrow, no pressure.

1. Live in a different country. 

On the off chance that I don’t immediately get raped and murdered in a hostile because I refuse to learn the language of the people, I’m thinking about a green card marriage for those bonus life points every little girl dreams of. 


2. Invent something. 

I don’t care if it’s a better way to take a shit (shout out to squatty potty for their shamelessly flagrant lack of fucks entrepreneurship, cause yes their mascot is a unicorn with rainbow squirts) I want my name attached to some sort of product that make people go “why didn’t I think of that”. Plot twist: cause I did; you’re welcome. 


3. Bare child. 

I can imagine I’m gonna be one of the top ten worst mothers ever given life, but that didn’t stop me when I got dogs, and they’re still alive. So, let’s get this pregnancy party started. Eating for two: party of one. #lifegoals 


4. Hug a wild animal. 

I’m seeing koala. You’re probably imagining tiger. Preferably interested in an animal with less body mass than me so that if we get into a fist fight it isn’t able to scalp me with one swift swipe. Speaking of swiping, I realize my tinder profile isn’t complete without the latter, but if I’m gonna piss my pants it’s gonna be in death not pre- mortem. 

5. Watch all the movies that people think I’m a complete moron for not seeing. 

On average 600 new movies are released each year. At a norm of 90 minutes per viewing, that’s 54,000 minutes, 900 hours or 38 days straight of finding out that theres still nothing worse than Mariah Carey’s “Glitter”. I get that casting, directing and plots are all subjective to it’s viewers, but for the love of Christ stop telling me that I’m scum of the earth for not seeing The Green Mile. I’ve got better things to do, like watch Magic Mike one AND two. 


6. Pop a bag of popcorn to its fullest capacity. 

I used to think it was 2 minutes 10 seconds on the dot, no questions asked, no “popcorn” button pushed. Then I went from Orville Redenbacher to Pop Secret and I burnt the ever loving shit out of the last thing I had to eat in my pantry. I’m not a waster, it’s not in my blood to throw away unpopped kernels. So, it’s my snack-enthusiast duty to make this happen before I die. (Side note, one or two kernels would still suffice) 


7. Write a book. 

They say never wrong a writer, we get our revenge in print. And I look forward to the day where pure bliss meets the desire to give the middle finger to my finally forgiven past. I’m probably gonna start it and not finish in an ode to my less than worth it previous relationships, but how funny would that be to hook a reader in for 350 pages and just ghost the fuck out of them? The critics won’t know what to do with their hands.


8. Make a gym my second home. 

I guess I gotta stop leaving states if I want this to work, huh? Fitness is super important to me, but rears its most difficult head when it comes to timing. Nothing is ever close enough, friendly enough or comfortable enough for me to frequent happily. So, before I die I hope to find a swolemate to make sure my squat form is impeccable morning and night. And please don’t let it be that 18 year old trainer at 24 hour fitness who’s got cougars on his “25 things to do before I die” list. 


9. Keep up with the Kardashians. 

I have a couple guilty pleasures and one of them is this family. I can’t explain it any better than that I just get them. Having three siblings and parents who are questionably difficult to deal with, I see myself in all three girls. If I’m not sympathizing with fat-Khloe, I’m totally feeling the sexually deviant-Kim and every once in a while I yearn to be as put together as Kortney as she raises not one, not two but three children. Did I mention they are really quite amusing to listen to if you just take your robe off and stop judging? I’m keeping up with the dash-fam until one or all of them dies. 


10. Face a fear. 

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts. Ok, yes I am. Absolutely terrified actually. I don’t do haunted houses cause frankly it’s all fun and games until someone does bath salts in line and eats your face. I hate snakes, the ocean, can’t stand heights and publicly refuse to speak. So if I can just do a cliff dive holding a rattler while wearing a old-navy-like headset and speaking to a crowd below, I’m golden. 


11. Learn to dance. 

If there is something worse than two left feet, I have them. Two very badly broken and misfortunate feet maybe? At almost thirty I realize I’m never gonna win So You Think You Can Dance, so my life goal is just to be able to make movements that someone can identify as a genre. Something like The Cha Cha or The Samba not “drunk girl at a dive bar” or “grand mal seizure”. 


12. Protest something. 

I don’t let people eat burgers anywhere but Del Taco. So, I’ve made my claims here and there. But I want to picket or ticket on something I’m super passionate about. Mostly because I’ve got a really good yelling voice for long winded chants, but also cause I love making people listen when I know they don’t want to. Why else do you think I have a blog? 


13. Confuse a stranger. 

My whole life has been a series of what in the actual fuck moments and for once I just want to walk up to someone, hand them a tree branch and exclaim that “with great power comes great responsibility.” I’m sorry I’m not sorry, that’s what you get. You get to wonder who I was, what I was doing and why I gave you that gift. Because, I’ve got like sixty three unresolved mysteries that dateline NBC wouldn’t even want to touch. I have enough karma points to offset if this one moment ruins said strangers life, so we good. 


14. Successfully build something. 

A bookshelf. A bear. A loving relationship. My options are endless. If any of the above look like the IKEA bed frame I just put together with the wrong screw driver, I’m screwed. Pun intended. If I get reincarnated and come back as anything after death, it’s gonna be a stripped screw. The epitome euphemism for my previous life, and basically everything I’ve ever tried to build without a partner. It’s safe to say, to accomplish this, I’ll need an adult. 


15. Make a difference in someone’s life. 

Life’s purpose isn’t always as translucent as we’d like. Whatever mine is, I hope it makes a difference. I hope someone feels better about themselves cause my life wasn’t going as planned. Or they find my exhausting but hopeful desire for real love to be compelling and inspirational. The kindness challenge is an everyday struggle but if I can permanently change someone’s life for the better then I’m cool to go into the light…

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…

PTSDenied 

PTSDenied 

          “I’ve got a crush on you.” 

“Don’t worry, that will go away.” 



I talk to people like I’m a benign tumor. Like if they just repeatedly ice me, or take an Aleve, they’re totally golden. I don’t know where I lost my confidence, but I went back to find it the other day and I’m pretty sure it’s buried alongside my 2015 tax returns and under all of the bobby pins that used to keep my messy bun in check.  

I hate when people tell me to love myself. Ok, listen Biebs…that’s the easy part. It’s trusting that someone else won’t crush my soul after I’ve proven to them that I do in fact love myself and that they should feel the same that’s the hard part. 

What’s the best way to keep someone from hurting you? Don’t let them buy the opportunity; tell them you’re not worth the sale. I’m basically a backwards realtor. Showing off my real estate like it’s far from prime, you know, so it won’t get any use; escaping the abuse.

I realized today how absolutely terrified I am of the repercussions of interest. I have been so perpetually content in the confines of single hood that anything veering from the norm is a potential bomb threat to me. 

Everyone is a (love) terrorist in my eyes

Remember a world where we didn’t live in fear? 



                              Yea, me either

I Blame Sarah. 

I Blame Sarah. 

I imagine hell on earth is subjective for all of us. For some,it’s the 5 freeway during rush hour. For others it’s the DMV. I know a buddy of mine would say it’s the tampon isle no matter how pregnant his wife is. #ptsd We all know our own personal hell and anybody who says they don’t have one is just sitting in the proverbial lobby waiting for this seasons finale to come to a close. Welcome to the cast, assholes.

The entrance to hell, for me, is on the corner of online and dating. It’s a pretty big door these days, and I’ve opened it often. I spent a few months staring at its ever-inviting hinges, wondering what was on the other side and if I had been missing anything. I knew what was waiting for me beyond the boards of normalcy and I continued to sift through my options like it wouldn’t soon emerge as the firey pits of Satan’s lair. And then I knocked

Online dating answered. Like the scriptured geological demon it is. Hell is every message that brings me such distaste for mankind that I can barely tolerate not taking my own life. [You know, so I could avoid having to communicate with the mentally challenged.]

I’ve compiled a list of the top ten “nopes” that online dating has to offer someone like me just to outline the every-day reminders of living in a generational fail:

1. Your name is “Mars” “eyecandy8”, “notadouche85” or Dj fucking anything. Might as well call yourself “single4lyfe” and call a spade a spade.

2. You want to know if “you can ask me a personal question.” Sure, I hope you wanna know how I’m gonna kill myself after I minimize the screen with this first message on it.

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

4. This.


Points for the “men” usage in “examine.” Although, I don’t think that was a pun, I think maybe your parents are siblings.

5. You have five photos of the same selfie, just different mouth situations.  

Red might be your color, but this screams “I don’t do laundry”.

6. Your profile picture is of a puppy. You’re cheating. I can’t swipe left on a 6 week American Eskimo. I’m NOT A MONSTER.

7. You’re an over sharer.

8. Penis shadows. That’s a Chiquita; you’re not fooling anybody.

9. Shits blank=shits weak. “I’ll fill this in later” is the same as “ill be ready in five minutes.”

10. You AND your gf think I’m cute. I have a three some every night. Two dogs; one owner.

Drops mic.

My hell probably isn’t your hell, but frankly my heaven involves a vat of hot fudge and a restored collection of choose your own adventure books. So, needless to say, people differ. Especially in their approach at connections. The only thing I connect with on the above is that it’s never just one. Someone is handing out a book on dating and sabotaging human kind from ever receiving the love they deserve. Probably Satan; which my phone keeps autocorrecting to Sarah. It’s that bitch, Sarah. Find her.

The Fizzle is Real 

The Fizzle is Real 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Season of You 

A Season of You 

Every other summer we skipped each other like the rocks on the shore of the beach outside your door. 

One year on, two years off. Five years; round three. You are you, and I am unfathomably still me. 

You were a family vacation without the stress of the family; wanting to revisit the same spot over and over until it wore itself into tradition. 6th street is where I parked my car; where I parked my heart. Our tradition was in fact closed lips and tongue tied versions of what our hearts felt and our heads suppressed. We visited often. 

I told you I loved you thirty seven times. To the back of your sleeping skull. To your silhouette outside the patio door. To the inside of an airplane window as I flew away…

We had a thing for leaving each other; for loving each other as we left. And finding one another just as available as the moment we first met. Connected just the same. 

         Oh universe; you twisted bitch

She never let us say goodbye. And in the absence of answers, I found just that. The ability to move forward knowing that without closure; there was no end. That id see you again. Still intangible like the dreams that haunted me for seven hundred days of curiosities. But still, more alive than the five prior years we couldn’t seem to fuse our souls. 

I know I hate the way the past beats at my insecurities. And the way repeating the same mistake feels like insanity. But I love the way you love the way I do just about anything but leave you. 

I always thought I’d known what love was until I felt what it was like to have everything I’ve ever lost come back to me. And in that feeling I search for ways to frantically keep what had slipped from me blindly for half of a decade. 

Reason. Distance. Time. 

We’ve transcended all three. Like the amount of months in my favorite season; in the summers that I spent engulfed in your smile. Quickly turning into the next season, both me and the leaves falling for you. 

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…

 

Broken Girls Finish Last 

Broken Girls Finish Last 

I’m sitting here with tears streaming down my face. My nose is running like it wants that summer body, and I can’t control the overwhelming amount of sadness that’s come over me. I let a good one go. Again

He will never know. Cause I sent him the kind of text that sums up all my fears into one giant excuse that I executed so eloquently his only option was to wish me the best. My exit strategies are meticulous, calculated, profound. They are quick; and they are painless. What isn’t painless is realizing I kicked another genuinely good guy to the curb and all I have left are men who would rather spend their entire life alone then entertain the thought of discussing a serious relationship. 

He was the kind of man that when I was laying in bed Wikipedia-ing my symptoms, you know, finding out my chest cold was predominantly the onset of a malignant lung cancer, was texting me to see when I’d stop being stubborn enough to let him come take care of me. Well the answer is never. Cause never in my life have I ever let someone love me more than I love them. And rarely will you find me being taken care of amidst a life I’m capable of fending for myself in, despite the level of interest. 

I’m going to beat myself up about this until someone gives me an answer. [feel free to text me and not rip me apart in a public forum] Because out of all the articles on love, life and the pursuit of happiness, I’m stumped. Why am I SO un-attracted to the men who are interested in me whole heartedly? And why is it that I seemingly yearn for the idiots who won’t give me the time of day? Most people would say, by nature we want what we can’t have. Well, I say, I’m a fucking adult and I’m not stupid enough to chase something so unattainable and put myself through that kind of bullshit. Is it fate? Is it a higher power leading me to what I’m supposed to have instead of what I think I need? And if that’s the case why can’t I find any physical attraction to the men who care about me on a deeper level? Wouldn’t that be what I “need” and not what I “want”? Tell me, why am I so awe struck by ignorance and neglect?

I’m broken. I’m a legit bag of fail, folks. It’s not even in my control anymore. I cannot, within reason, force myself to have feelings for someone if they aren’t there. And they are only not there for the guys who want me. The only people who deserve it, are the ones who treat me well, and those guys are, for some ungodly reason, ew. Who turns me on hotter than a street lamp at midnight? Assholes. And those are the guys that I give my all to. My all for like 2-4 months and then they disappear, cheat, lie or decide they like men. Ok so, nobody’s turned gay on me, yet…but the day is young. 

I’ve heard that deep down, for some, a part of us feels unworthy of love; and that may attribute to continued rejection of potential matches. The irony is that I’m not insecure about my value. Ask anyone I know and they will reiterate that I hold myself to an uncanny level. I’m smart, I’m witty, I’m loving, sensitive, blunt, I take care of my body, I am independent financially, I am introspective, I’m a giver. I’ve got an attitude that needs to be adjusted sometimes, but that’s a drop in the ocean. The point is, it’s not that.{ So what else? }

Is it my ego? Could it be that I think I can always do better? Nah. If I made a list of my ex’s, their job titles, personality traits and the reason we broke up you’d all agree I could do better. Bartender, hated going outside, lied about being a heroin addict. Boom. Clearly I’m capable of settling. So it’s not that…

Maybe I’m bored with nice? Nice doesn’t make me break a sweat. It’s the vanilla to my rocky road with extra whip. Nice guys finish last, that’s a real thing. So, with that said, fingers crossed there are bad boys with nice tendencies who I can chase for a hot second that will ultimately fall deeply in love with me. I’m dreaming aren’t I? 

You know what’s pure bliss? Being alone. I’m exhausted on dating, and this is when you’re supposed to stop. When it becomes a chore and nothing feels “right”. Even when he’s standing at your door with flowers, telling you you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on, and you’re in the bathroom texting the guy who’s completely ignored you all week.

The truth is, I let fate throw me rando’s, and they just don’t do it for me, which is why I shop online for my build-a-babe. But these guys have other options and I just can’t keep up. The nice guys zero in on me and I completely forget how to, be. Then the player who has every intention of breaking my heart sweet talks me into a head-over-heels situation and I’m, smitten
Vicious cycle. Rinse, repeat. 

Come Home

Come Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In…

out…

In…

out…

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come home.”

What’s His Role Again? 

What’s His Role Again? 

I’ve been in a phrase-phase lately with my opinions on relationships. Everyone just wants an answer. An answer to what they’re supposed to do to make tolerating another human being for the rest of their lives a hell of a lot easier. The truth is, the more I speak in motivational Pinterest quotes the more I feel like these theories came from our society as a whole and not just my bias opinion on partnership. 

“Nothing worth having comes easy” 

“Life is too short to hide your feelings” 

“Go where you are celebrated-not         tolerated” 

“Unless it’s mad, passionate, or extraordinary love, it’s a waste of your time. 

As far as advice goes “happy wife; happy life” is the most simple and accurate of an allegation as they come. I get that it’s inherently sexist, but frankly I’m done being censored for the millennial’s of my generation who clap for things like divorce. I’d say happy husband, happy… Well, nothing rhymes with husband. Happy spouse, happy house? There. Responsibility for all. The pitfall in said trope is the definition of what makes for both the first part and the latter to be true. Don’t get me wrong, I KNOW it takes two to tango. But what’s a good man’s world without a woman by his side? I guess the same as a good woman’s world without a man by her side. 

For fear of sounding pretentious, I don’t want to say I know exactly what it is, I as a woman, am responsible for when entering a relationship. But, I’m so close to being the spokesperson for a model housewife–it’s scary. In essence, everything I do for my partner is exactly what my partner should do for me. Because, after all, we are a team and our love should be parallel.

So with that said, what exactly does a “happy-enough-wife-for-a-happy-enough-life” entail? What are the man’s roles in a relationship?  

Gentlemen, have you ever walked into a new job without knowing your job description? No. Cause that would be silly to be clocking in and wondering if you are the president of the company or if you are scrubbing toilets. In order to excel, you need to outline your duties and achieve your goals. Same goes for a relationship.

  1. Be a support system. The song wasn’t lying, we’re absolutely holding out for hero. Life is draining. It’s difficult. Frankly it’s down right unfair. If, in these moments of utter weakness, you are able to provide us with a glimpse of positivity even when the easiest route isn’t so, you’ve done your job. Encourage us without babying us. Be the backbone that bends, but refuses to break. Never let us be disrespected by others and certainly never let us disrespect ourselves. 
  2. Provide. Gender roles in previous generations have geared the nature of men to provide to be mostly of monetary value. Previous to that; shelter. These days, swapping stigmas in such a way that allows your partner a “day off” from their gender role is endearing. Men should take on chores just the same as woman should bring home income. If we feel the need to work and provide, then men should make a meal, take out the trash, clean the house just the same as a woman does. It’s not about “who should do what”, it’s about mutually contributing in your relationship.
  3. Stay a prize. Someone once told me that if a man stays his wife’s boyfriend, she won’t go looking for another. Makes sense. A good rule of thumb for life in general is to never let yourself go. Never is life so certain that you won’t need to be your best to gain continued desire from your partner. There are many reasons why people stop focusing on their appearance, none of which should be “we’ve been together long enough”. Always maintain control of your own life so that guilt or blame can not be placed on your spouse. Attraction is essential for healthy longevity. 
  4. Make decisions. The only reason people don’t make decisions is for fear of making a mistake. A man must stay confident in his jurisdiction throughout a relationship as options arise. We, as women, look to a man to provide resolution. I realize I have unlimited personal freedom, but as my partner having the manly decision making of a spouse is a role I feel needs to be filled. 
  5. Love unconditionally. This is the show, not tell segment of a man’s role. The most important thing a woman can do for your relationship is to love herself completely; and without hesitation. The most important thing a man can do for his relationship is behave in a manner that is indicative of his affection for her without conditions. The way he reacts, speaks and touches his partner should always be in a way that shows her his love no matter what she does or doesn’t do. Loving her for who she is, always; despite differences. 

It’s 2016, traditional roles are blurred, but the essentials are still intact. Sure, women aren’t just baby factories and laundry machines but then again men are no longer barbaric hunters who’s only job is to keep women and their offspring from perishing. No set of rules…err…roles will ever be suitable for every household or relationship. But guidelines help keep the idea of a woman’s needs less of a daunting task and, well…lets just say “manageable”. Good luck! 

Send Help. Distract Me. 

Send Help. Distract Me. 

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

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

                     Me. Hungry. Now
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

6 Reasons They Might Be The One

6 Reasons They Might Be The One

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

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

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

ALADDIN

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

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

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

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

NOTEBOOK

 

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

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It Is What It Is 

It Is What It Is 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shake the bag. 

Redraw.

Write a better life. 

Shoo fly, don’t bother me.

Shoo fly, don’t bother me.

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

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

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

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

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

My heart hurts, I want yours to, too.

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

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

This Side of Rejection

This Side of Rejection

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

~ Maya Angelou

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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.