Apartment 96

Apartment 96

Paper thin walls are both a novelty and a curse. I hear the way he begs for her attention with the opening of his patio door to the semi mediocre sunset views. And I wish a stranger good luck as he runs the bases of a game I quit playing a while ago.

She’s cute, you’ve got this 94.

The music. It’s terrible. And not because of the bass. Or the constant blatant disregard for the permeation of sound from his bedroom to my diary.

Alexa volume: 0, please god ZERO

Two people I’ve never met giggle at each other over dance breaks of a song most likely on the radio I’ve lost touch with, engulfed in a feeling I haven’t felt in a while.

I’m her. The single woman in Apt 96 who judges the noise because she forgot how to make her own.

I pick up a book.

A glass breaks.

A roar of laughter ensues.

I lay my head on my pillow.

A hum of pleasure they make.

Likely a product of booze.

A decade ago, I kept the dial turned. The music loud. The sunsets on my radar. And I swore to myself I’d never stop making memories even if the crotchety old lady in apartment 96 called the cops on me for the third time.

When did we become what we fought so hard to dodge? Unruly neighbors becoming reminders of an unfinished past.

I want to play.

I blinked and I’m here. Checking my clock for quiet hours. Trying to google common courtesy codes of conduct in an apartment 100% attached to a stranger. Ten years ago I was attached to strangers… without courtesy codes; without quiet hours.

The paper thin walls are a veil to my jealousy. Nobody would ever know unless I told them, and I have to tell you…

Kids these days don’t know what they have until it’s gone.

Sincerely,

Gone

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 Ways To a Better Day

5 Ways To a Better Day

There are 53 Mondays in a year and not a single one of them excites me as much as a Friday. Why? Because starting anything over is never as fulfilling as finishing strong.

Like completing a sand castle.

Monday’s are just the rogue wave to Sunday’s flawlessly sculpted beach creation equipped with a perfectly dugout moat. Insert Monday:

Frankly, I’ve never met a Monday I didn’t want to put back in the deck. Thanks for dealing me a bullshit hand Mr. Work Week but I’m gonna fold. You know what’s a good work week draw? Four day weekends. You know what I’ve never had while working in the medical field? a substantial pay check, mental stability, Four day weekends.

So while the rest of the world anxiously awaits the next national holiday–or for some really well oiled companies–fuckin’ any dead presidents birthday, I look for ways to make all 53 of those god forsaken Mondays a little less Monday-y. (Also, I’m great at sharing so I listed them below)

Listen to good music. I’m too busy listening to said good music right now to research any statistics on this, but I imagine someone did the dirty work to prove that “feel good” music isn’t just a nick name. ( you know, like how Siri calls me ‘Sugar Tits’ and I know damn sure she means it ) Feel good music makes us feel….good. If you’re feeling good, chances are your day is probably getting better. This equation is as 101 as it gets.

Go through your contacts and delete anybody who doesn’t serve a purpose. There’s nothing that makes me more bummed out than clutter. Add shitty people into that clutter and we have ourselves a clean up on isle-Iphone. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that this lunch time excursion brings me so much joy. Mostly because taking my phone out of my pocket by dinner will likely ensure a “Hey, what’s up?” from a “Maybe: Kyle”….and I get to pull my favorite line out of my ass: “I’m sorry but, WHO IS THIS?” Plot twist…..Spring cleaning isn’t only necessary in the spring. Take the trash out weekly my friends.

Sweat. Hydrate. Repeat. No matter how many times I’ve groaned my way to the gym, I’ve never left it pissed that I spent any amount of time there. ~Except that one time I had a nipple slip on the smith machine trying to rack weights that never should have called for that kind of bodily exertion.~ Anyway….Can’t say the same for the mall. Buyers remorse is a real life urban dictionary option whereas gym remorse falls into the category of what many would consider a sin. Monday might be a steaming pile of dog shit by the time you get to lift a single weight or chug a glass of water, but even dog shit needs a pick me up sometimes. Literally.

Plan life events. So, it’s a Monday and you’re coming off the high of 48 hours straight of pure debauchery, what will inevitably peak the interest of your inner sinner? MORE DEBAUCHERY. Nothing says let’s forget about the pain of right now like catapulting your thoughts of future bad behavior into it’s place. The best way to cure the Monday Blues is to pretend like Monday doesn’t even exist, or better yet…what the next Monday you won’t be showing up for work looks like because you will likely be on a Caribbean island sipping cocktails equipped with bigger umbrellas than your work insurance policy. Give yourself something….anything, to look forward to and any day can go from “why did I even wake up?” to “I can’t wait to wake up 43 more times until my vacation!”.

Pay it Forward. No agenda, no expectations. Karma is a bigger bitch than I could ever be, and she lurks in the shadows of everyone’s philanthropic moments. She wants to know what kind of player in this game of life you are and she’s ready to change an entire day for you at the flip of a coin (the coin you either paid for the person behind you’s coffee with or the one you didn’t). There are no rules about the frequency or size of a good deed, but there is for sure science that equates feeling good with doing good. That’s bad English, but it rolled off the tongue better, so we’re keeping it. Altruism brings human beings bliss; plain and simple. **If this doesn’t apply to you, you’re dead inside…go home.

Bad days are still just days. Which means they are never-the-less tiny 24 hour gifts that we have the option of altering based on events, mood, opportunities, people, how much money I find on the ground, what kind of puppies show up to my work, how many chocolate shakes I get offered for free…the list goes on. If you’re having 99 problems, and a bitch is more than one of them try one of my top five quickest ways to tolerate a bad day and see if you can’t turn it around with a little shake up from the norm.

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…

Don’t Forget Your Bullet Proof Vest

Don’t Forget Your Bullet Proof Vest

At this moment there are 7.2 billion people in the world. Give or take a few. And sometimes all you need is one…to ruin your day.

It’s no secret that I have the metabolism of an adult hippopotamus, and those that have known me through literal thick and thin, know that even the food I DON’T eat, goes straight to my thighs. The last time I checked, sixty-eight percent of American’s are considered ‘overweight’. That means that if I’m not the one lucky skinny friend of four, I’m sitting in the pseudo-fat boat with at least two other women who often times just barely tip the scales. So why do I always feel so exposed? Why does this journey feel so solitary? Where do you keep all of your insecurities?

The other day I made small talk with a stranger I hadn’t seen in a while, because from time to time I enjoy the feeling of connecting with like minds. I sometimes forget that the people who are the most in despair are the same ones who strive to take the wind out of other peoples sails. I knew he wasn’t going to give me anything I needed, but I sent the text anyway because well,  I like to gamble. (You know, the text that’s either going to get no response and spiral you into depression or warrant an unexpected response and send you directly to cloud nine.) It’s safe to say I got neither.

“You’re fat and you’re ugly, and at best you were good for a laugh” I read. I glanced around for the Play-Doh. Apparently I’d been transported back to grade school and not appropriately warned of the time travel. At what point in the three months that I haven’t conversed with this “nobody” did I warrant a lashing so personal and vindictive? The answer is, never. I’m writing this three days post textual beat down and am still in complete shock. I guess it’s fair to say he won, because I cry every time I think about it.

Between the self pity and desire to be insecure-free I find myself wondering how many other women like myself get bullied while dating. I knowingly put myself in a position to automatically be critiqued daily by the opposite sex just by merely being single and I do it because I believe that at one point pain has it’s purpose. Not everyone is going to love you Taryn, and that’s ok. You’re ok.

As my desire for acceptance is profoundly more sensitive to criticism I often take the verbal abuse to heart, and I have no clue why. Why does anybody care what other people think? Because being resistant to opinions is not in our nature. Nobody is ever so sure of themselves that they give less fucks than the tree they are standing in front of.

Body image is a can of worms I just don’t even want to tap into tonight, but I have to at least touch on the fact that most people are going to think the world of me, and when I least expect it, someone won’t. Just as it takes only one person to ruin my day, it takes just one person to love me beyond any hurtful words can scar. Dating is a tricky stage of on going assessment; all eyes are on you as you aim to meet expectations you didn’t know exist. We are at war for love, did you bring your bullet proof vest?

Cereal Dater

Cereal Dater

Relationships are hard. You know what’s not? Cereal for dinner.

Lately I’ve had days on my feet that bring me directly home to a bowl full of honey-nut-cherri-no’s drowned in 2% suicide milk. There isn’t a microwavable dish in the world that could get me to spend my last bit of energy on “cutting a slit in the middle”. I’ll cut a slit in the middle alright, a slit in the middle of everyone’s neck after a 13 hour work day. Jokes. My terrorism skills are about as basic as my cooking. Protein, vegetable, starch, dessert. Always dessert.

While I’ve been known to like my flakes frosted, I still refuse to date one. Breakfast for dinner always supersedes putting in effort after a long work day to make even a two-course meal. That’s the very definition of how men view dating these days. If they can pour a bowl full of easy, they’d rather not spend the time doing extra dishes. And while were on the topic of flakes, the next guy to make me shave my legs in anticipation for their arrival and then “fall asleep before they could make it out the door”, dies. I get it, work days are long, life is hard, but for Christ’s sake set an alarm you narcoleptic tool pouch.

I don’t know if you know what goes on in the mind of a woman who’s been stood up, but it’s anywhere from “He’s sleeping with my best friend” to “I’m a bag of fat”. When in reality the culprit is just face deep in some pillows with his phone on accidental silent. There is no worse feeling than the moment you realize you’re the only one who showed up for your date. You sit there wondering where the line between concern and crazy blur, writing point A to point B text messages that are both rational and irrational in succession. Nobody sits through the anticipation, followed by embarrassment, and deals with it normally.

Instinctively there are five stages of being stood up:

Acceptance
Concern
Saddness
Anger
Revenge

“Hey, it’s been about a half hour, I take it you aren’t coming over?”

“Hey, it’s been about an hour, you ok?”

“Hey, it’s been two hours, bummed you aren’t here yet :(”

“Hey, it’s been three hours, if you’re not going to come can you just say so, don’t keep wasting my fucking time asshole.”

“Hey, it’s been a week, you didn’t show up Friday so I slept with your brother”

That’s it. Every time. Some women toggle between acceptance and concern to avoid being labeled crazy. And then there’s me….who is so absolutely jaded by being stood up so often that I just swing directly for revenge. Sometimes even prematurely. Whoops. We sprung forward, our clocks are off and I’m over here letting the air out of your tires. Hey, if you aint early, you’re late. Get with the program.

Tonight I write you this from my couch. With a whole bowl full of time un-wasted. With absolutely no dates on my calendar. Just a pantry full of the easiest clean up I’ll have all week. Unlike men this week, General Mills is getting all my thrills. Cheers to being a cereal dater.

To Love Even Once Is Enough

To Love Even Once Is Enough

There’s a place between falling asleep and leaving this earth that I find myself dreaming of you. It’s subtle, but it’s vast. It warms me to my toes. Almost crack-your-window-remember-to-breathe-worthy. I usually close my eyes with anticipation; moan for a silhouette I’ve tasted before and I trace my fingers along the same lines you’ve run your hands. I think about what it’d be like to have you close enough to shut out. Because I’d do that and you know it. I’d play hard to get and you wouldn’t let me go a day without letting me know I’m not that hard. Your edges were so soft; they brushed down to my salty core. You were like the greatest gift I never got to open. I’m the holiday you so desperately wanted to celebrate. And yet, we may never collide again.

There’s sadness in the unattainable, but total peace in never having to love something so much that it renders pain when lost. Without absolute joy, we dodge that suffering. Too bad I’d suffer a thousand sleepless nights to spend one more day in that moment I felt home. Your love was like a future heaven; your memory a present hell. What a short-lived manifestation of total euphoria with just one kiss.

The future is a replica of the past, and I hope I find a piece of you in my tomorrow. Because even an ounce of your soul would heal any wound. Your affection knew no limits, your respect unconditional. When I looked at you, you felt my emotions before I spoke any words. My words couldn’t even do justice to your actions which went unnoticed far too long. I wait for you to meet me in a better life. If not this one, one where the ink to our stories crash into each other like our bodies on an unmade bed. Like we had time for life’s simple chores. Our love was enough to consume an entire span of daylight.

Was. Not as is. Reactivating the past gives it the power to consume me. I almost fall for the pain in hope for the pleasure. Pleasure beyond a woman’s wildest dreams. Something you handed me blindly and I stored carelessly. Fools we were, in lust with a love I may never know again.

Like a Lightswitch

Like a Lightswitch

What makes you weak in the knees? Is it fluid conversation over a California burrito or a freshly drawn tub of bubbles with a rose pedal walkway? Whatever poison makes your heart rate spike, I’m sure it wasn’t difficult to get you there. Like most, it’s easy to turn me on…and like very few, even quicker to turn me off. I’ve caught myself in some pretty terrible deal breakers, checking off boxes like a drive by voting poll. One second I’m absolutely enthralled and the next he tells me something about himself that sends my panties directly to the dryer. At the end of the day there are a couple of things I just can’t look past in pursuit of a future partner. I’m probably really narrowing the dating field with this, and to be fair I can be persuaded in the event that you have a solid case to dispute, but normally it takes a whole lot of pull to get me back up after you’ve knocked me down with the following:

Only Children
I have four siblings. That’s four people who are automatically supposed to love me. You have two parents and a serious issue with the word ‘family’ or ‘love’. Only children typically have long term friendships that have developed from childhood (because nobody plays Nintendo alone) and still struggle with connecting to any of them on a deep level. They are usually spoiled rotten and refuse to share. I ask if we can go ‘halvsies’ on a meal at dinner and they will most likely give me a look of disgust. All I want for Christmas is to win your sisters over. And you have none, so I have nothing to live for really. When I want to dump you to date your more talented and charismatic brother, you don’t have one of those either. All you have are two parents who look at me like I’m Satan as I try to steal their ‘only baby’ from the nest. I know you think your parents stopped when they hit perfection, but they should have kept going so I would date you.

Dick Piercings
I hope when you stabbed a needle through your shaft you also submitted to the idea of being alone forever. You can give me all the physiological effects your metal member may have on my libido, but mentally I just can’t get over the fact that you let someone go down there with something sharp. Decorating your genitals is like putting lights up at Christmas time. You are obviously hoping for some drive by’s or else you wouldn’t go through the effort. Which makes me think that Russell the Love Muscle gets flexed in public, and by default you’re a slut-bag.

Android Users
Nothing turns me off more than a green block of writing coming through my beautiful blue IPhone messenger. For some god awful reason, my brain associates a very disconnected relationship with Android users. For one, if I want to face time…I’m shit out of luck. For two, if I want to know if you’re responding immediately to an urgent matter, the ellipses is no where to be found. For three, most of your messages come in at random times and not in order, because Apple wants you to be so absolutely discombobulated that you have no other choice but to trash your Droid to get a date. Statistics have stated that IPhone users are better in bed. I forget where I read that, probably in my diary. Lets make this easier on everyone and come to the dark side.

Distance
I have a car. You probably have a car. We live in one of the biggest states in the U.S. and I still bitch about a 15 mile commute for cuddling. I have no basis for this besides having to add additional time to my agenda amongst other pitfalls like “getting ready” and “if I get a speeding ticket”. If it were up to me I would have just one giant complex of potential men I could date. No need for getting into my car, just walking door to door. That kind of accessibility is unrealistic, but knowing that you live an hour away takes me from eighty to zero in the blink of a pin drop.

Being Fake
My intuition is basically spot on. I can smell a liar from across a football field. If you want to pretend to be someone you’re not, you’re gonna get me about as wet as a California well. You’re not a hippie because you got a peace sign tattooed to your wrist. You’re not a movie star if you have a YouTube channel popular in the UK. And you’re not my boyfriend if you keep telling me lies that I’m going to eventually uncover. Be real, be raw, be you.

Social Media Dislike
I get it. It’s not for everyone. Or at least, it didn’t use to be. But now a days my great great grandma is poking me on the weekends and my boyfriend of 8 months still refuses to friend me. “I don’t use it”. No….you don’t use it appropriately. I don’t expect you to have an album for every vacation, or enough friends to keep you from killing yourself on your birthday, but I do like to know that you share a piece of your life with more than just yourself. I find that ten times out of ten if you don’t have a Facebook page, or an Instagram account, or at least one out of the two…you also like to sit at home on the weekends and have nothing to offer the outside world. Did I mention those who ‘hide their lives’ usually end up having some pretty ridiculous skeletons in their closet? Like lots of wives, or a felony they can’t shake. Either way, let me attach your name to my relationship status so my therapist stops asking me if you’re real.

Like the flip of a switch I go from fancying your Aqua Di Gio smell to having my interest candle snuffed out by a grammatical error. When your pool is as big as our generation’s I find it hard not to be turned off by even the little things that don’t fit in accordance with my wants. I used to bend over backwards (not literally) for men, blatantly disregarding these couple of absolute deal breakers. Now a days, I friend zone you harder than a Kindergarten crush. We’re all different, I bet you hate women who write blogs. But, to be honest I’m ready to dispute that in the event that it’s knocked off any points I could potentially use.
noonewantstodate