Drinking from the poison cup since 1998…
1. I love that shirt! My Father has one just like it.
2. I’ve been damaged by men.
3. I have approximately two good years left until my eggs start to die.
4. I have fantasies about a young David Hasselhoff.
5. Here let me get that for you, sweetheart. *spit on napkin and dab date’s chin*
When talking to Josh tonight about this blog, he mentioned that I might come off as “bitter” to some who read these posts.
I can’t disagree. Most don’t refer to crushes as “vile afflictions” or prattle on and on about all the strange men in this city. And yes, I’ve been effected by players and the game. We all are after a while, aren’t we?
And when you reach a certain age (men and women) you begin to see dating as something of a chore I think. You go to parties. You go to bars. You talk to many people. You meet someone who’s nice enough. Maybe there is something of a spark. Sometimes you force it. You don’t fall in love like you did when you were 19. Sometimes it seems disappointing. And then, maybe, if you are very lucky, you meet someone who makes you believe in those teenage hopes again (sorry to my hipster friends for quoting Feist, I know we shunned her once she went on Saturday night live and that 1234 song hit it so big). It’s not impossible. I believe in that.
But sometimes I see people get so lonely they’ll go out with anyone. Try to make “love” happen. As if it is a button you can push. As if you have any say in the matter. All the while in the back of our minds we think, perhaps, “I had what I am trying to manufacture. Why did I let it go?”
And the answer is because you did. Or because it was the wrong time. But if we are very lucky it happens again. And with the sense that adulthood brings, perhaps you don’t let it go.
So, Josh, I’m just not going to settle. That’s all I’m saying.
Oh, yes, and I don’t hate men. (Although I know it seems like it sometimes)
“Be the leading lady in your life”
Oh, I’m trying hard. I wish I knew how to play my part…better, though. Most leading ladies have better hairdressers and makeup artists. It’s difficult to look effortlessly chic while I simultaneously conduct myself with ’sass.’ If only life were more like a romantic comedy. And about now some man would ride in, see through my emotional titanium shield, and convince me that love is worth the risk! Worth any hardship! Any awkwardness! Any physical or emotional obstacle!
But wait? Don’t people in relationships usually, like, gain weight? You know, because they go out to eat all the time and sex doesn’t burn as many calories as people think it does?
Yeah. Sorry, potential suitors (because I know there are just so many of you). There will be no weight gain here. Absolutely not. I think Hollywood would agree with me.
Yes, JDE, you inspired me to write again. And thank you for forgiving me for being mean. And for being an anti-relationship freak just like me…so I don’t feel so bad about being an anti-relationship freak. oh yes, and for spooning that pillow. Because the thought of you doing that makes me laugh. Hard.
Word: Attraction
Definition: A crush; otherwise known as one of the most vile afflictions.
Somehow I’ve gotten on the emailing list from some guy named Christian Carr. Apparently, he’s written an on line book called “Catch Him and Keep Him” that these emails strongly suggest I purchase.
They arrive in my inbox every week with subject lines like, “Never Worry That He’ll Feel Like Leaving,” “Create an Unbreakable Connection with Your Man” and, “Too Clingy? Stop Neediness Now!” And they offer “helpful” teaser bits of advice, such as, “create a safe place for you and your man to discuss your feelings openly and honestly” and “stop needling your man and start listening.”
Gee, thanks Christian Carr. Who in this, the known world, could possibly offer me such valuable advice? And since you are just so very wise, perhaps you would be so kind to answer this question: “What if you’re a single, attractive, young woman who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about catching, keeping or communicating openly and honestly? Because you see, personally, I find honesty a little overrated and all the men I’ve “caught” really haven’t been worth keeping.”
Having (momentarily) run out of topics to blog about, I’ve decided to pose a question for today’s posting.
Is it ok that I still listen to The Smiths? I mean, is it alright to, say, listen to them after the age of twenty?
Gotta Girlfriend in a Coma? Unhappy Birthday? Please Please Please let me get what I want?
Is it normal to appreciate pseudo-depression after you’re no longer comically miserable?
Just wondering. Hopefully tomorrow’s post will be more interesting.
If only J. would let me write about the pillow that he spoons.
One thing I’ve (sadly) figured out about myself since moving here three years ago is that I care very little about money. Maybe it’s because I grew up poor or I’m “deep” or I’m just plain stupid. But every time some asshole offers me a fancy dinner at Tavern on Rush or Japonais, all I can think is, honestly I’d rather be with a man I like at Danny’s.
Love is nothing more than a series of chemical responses in the brain. Dopamine, which allows people to feel incredible energy, Norepinephrine, (otherwise known as adrenalin) is what starts us sweating and gets our little hearts racing, and Serotonin (my personal favorite) which is one of love’s most important chemicals as well as one that many scientists believe may actually make us temporarily insane.
I believe all of this. I believe in chemicals and evolution and science and I fully support this hypothesis. I believe in solid endeavors and a rational, logical approach to relationships.
So, question is, why do I continue to become temporarily insane?
Last night I spent some time with a man my friend has been trying to set me up with. She does this from time to time. She’s one of those “your fatal flaw is that your single” people. She says that I routinely “push love away.” But, hey, I digress I suppose. That’s another story.
This man ended up coming into my apartment. For only a half-hour, let me iterate, while he waited for his cab to come. As has been stated before, I own a cat. A wee little cat, as my friend Dan calls her, because she is full grown and only about 5 lbs.
Let it also be stated that I found this particular man quite irritating. All night on he’d drolled on and on about himself, he’d told me that I was pretty “for a white girl,” and suggested that I use more hairspray and less conditioner. As he entered my apartment, though, he actually began to ask me something about myself. The questions were pretty standard-what do you do, where did you go to school, what kind of music do you like-that sort of thing. But at least he was making the effort.
Now, question 3, the music question–I don’t particularly know how to answer that question. For instance, I can’t say, “Well I listen to everything,” because it simply isn’t true. I don’t, say, spend my time listening to crunk music. However, simply summing up my musical taste with one or two artists/bands really isn’t possible. I’ve adopted the method of listing what’s currently in my iPod. Neko Case, Velvet Underground, Bob Dylan, Bjork, M. Ward, that sort of thing. In order to do that though, I need to get up and go look at my iPod. As I was doing this, my cat, peaked her head out from the back of the chair that she had been sleeping behind. She then, slowly, crept out and sat down in front of this man.
He then proceeded to curl into the back of my sofa and scream. Like a girl. Actually, I shouldn’t say that, I think most girls have too much respect to scream like this man did. Most girls also wouldn’t point at the cat and screech, “What is that thing????”
At first I was so discombobulated I didn’t know what to do. My second instinct was that he must be allergic and I should have mentioned that I had a cat before he came in. So I said, “Oh no, I’m terribly sorry, are you deathly allergic to cats?”
“No!” He yelped. “I have ailurophobia (cat-phobia)! Severe ailurophobia! It’s a serious condition.”
Picking kitty up and shoving her in my room, I said, “Oh, …I’m sorry.”
The man curled his hand under his chin and rested his head on the back of my sofa, breathing deeply. And I swear, strange as it sounds, I think I might have seen him lick the top of his right knuckle.
