February 21, 2011


Freaks and Closet Geeks.

There are some things that are sacred to women: Chocolate. A pair of heels that fit perfectly and would never pinch, even if you walked 50 blocks in them. A perfectly made cocktail. Sleeping in on the weekends. Happy hour with your closest friends. How our mother will always be one of the first people we call with news. The four-letter words S-A-L-E and L-O-V-E. And closet space.

A few weekends ago, wading knee-deep in down from a comforter that’s apparently determined to molt in time for spring, the guy I’m seeing took one look at the floor in the corner of the room he normally puts his clothing in, and winced at the gathering tumbleweeds of feathers residing there. “Do you have someplace I can put my stuff where it won’t get down on it?” he asked, and I froze, like I was suddenly subject to the 10 degree weather outside. There was someplace he could put his things, but I really didn’t want to think about it. How could I tell him that my closet is like my personal kingdom, where I am ruler of all labels and ruling regent of all spatial reasoning, keeping the tank tops separate from the dressy shirts from the cardigans, without sounding like a total freak of nature?

In the end, I ended up pushing aside the hangers and clothes on the hanging rack so that he could have easy access to put his bag and jacket on the shelf underneath, but my clothes looked so forlorn, pushed to the side like unloved stepchildren. I’d like to blame what happened later on the fact that I was overtaken with thinking about my black mesh dress pressed up against my woolly Italian sweaters and getting pulled on by their fibers, but actually, there’s no excuse for what happened next.

Sometimes, we can all go a little bit crazy. As far as it may be from us, our past is still our past, and as much as we dislike to have it tarnish the golden views of our present or future, it sometimes does. I live in eternal fear of the One Reoccurring Theme of my dating history: That I am merely a placeholder until some thing or someone else better comes along…that while logic states I, an obsessive-compulsive, nymphomaniac, time-consuming, giving, impulse buyer of gifts, needer of needy men, should be more than enough for one man, but if there’s one thing my history has taught me, it’s that I am remarkably replaceable, and that I tend to be the entrée— there’s always an appetizer or dessert on the side.

But while I’ve served as the main course, it’s important to note that there’s a lot of things that I’ve never done before that I suddenly find being a “normal” part of my life: I’ve never had someone else’s toothbrush and towel residing in my bathroom, other than a roommate’s. I’ve never eaten out so often together or gone out as a couple. I’ve never slept as many consecutive nights with someone as I have been doing recently. Only one other man was ever even allowed into my house to stay overnight, and that was one time, so I understandably am not used to someone living with me nearly a third of the time. So you better believe I’ve never had reason, cause, or practice to give away a drawer or a shelf for a man to use as his own. The strangest part of all is, I actually really love all of it. (I seem to have come a Very Long Way since the girl who went through men in under one month like Brawny paper towels.) None of this actually feelsstrange until I take a mental step back, look at my current life, and assess the Big Picture. Which I did the other day, while simultaneously having a VERY spectacularly large fret about putting all my eggs in one basket and shirts on one shelf and worrying about the possibility of other women fucking my toothbrush-and-towel present reality over. And so I did something when the opportunity arose after he left that I’m not very proud of, at all, and took my last deep breath of sanity, and momentarily dove off the deep end. I freaked.

I knew it was wrong. I knew what I was doing was like stealing, or at very least, breaking and entering, even though the metaphorical doors were already unlocked for me and I didn’t touch anything; didn’t open any Pandora boxes. All I had to do was use the two eyes I was born with, but even that, I knew, was too much. I surfaced when I didn’t find anything that I seemed to be looking for— there were no illicit messages, no secret trysts set up, no whiffs of another woman’s perfume or lip gloss smudges. There was nothing of cause for concern. In fact, what I did find made me feel even worse than what I imagined finding something that I was looking for would make me feel: Instead, there I was, my name staring myself right in my face, not erased or replaced— the messages a sane women had written being saved by the man who was doing her right, as she let her inner freak flag fly postal. I felt worse about myself than I have in years. I vowed at that moment to lock the super-freak in me up in the closet and never let her out like that again.

As a silent mea culpa, I cleared away my tank top shelf and consolidated some of my hanging rack for his stuff in my closet —like he had asked for the other night— at 3 in the morning in a “retribution-for-my-wrongs” fit, all while mentally begging for forgiveness, and finally letting him, and trust, into my life…for real. I figure, in my world, giving him a part of my precious clothing space says “I’m sorry; and I’m showing it by proving I love you more than I love my tank top collection” far more than anything else I could ever say or do.

XOXO

—-

- From SATCG

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March 14, 2011


This Is Just To Say…

Last night, after taking my second 50 milligram dose of Zoloft, I promptly ceased to retrieve messages fired from my neurons and washed it down with two glasses of a very tasty Malbec (…red wine, for those of you not obsessed with all things vino), which I will NEVER do again (or, at least, not until I really, really, RULLY want a $5 house margarita at Miguel’s), because, suffice it to say, I ended up brushing my teeth while leaning at a 45-degree angle between the bathroom door and wall and then passed out mid-scene while Buffy and Angel were cuddling in bed in Angel: Season One while spooning my cat and WHO REALLY DOES THAT. Anyway, I learned my lesson re: anti-depressants and depressants and that’s what really matters. That, and the fact that after receiving “Giant shark vs. mega octopus?” as a response to my 12:30 AM “I’m a dumbass who mixed drugs and drinking and I may not be alive in the morning due to the fact that my heart currently feels like a epileptic trying to dance to dubstep and isn’t it always said that heart attack signs are so much harder to diagnose and tend to go unnoticed in women? so I just wanted to let you know ‘cause I thought you might care” text to TGIS, he texted me back again this morning while I was (alive) (un-heart attacked) (sober) at work, just to see how I was feeling (and concernedly chastise/advise me about my medicating and self-medicating actions in the future like I was sitting in a high school chem class while he pointed to a pie chart labeled “Bad Life Decisions You Have Made Broken Down Into Things That Contain Chemical Symbols”, but that is an after-thought besides the point and sir, you need not worry. Lesson LEARNED.)

…Or possibly maybe just to see if I were still alive or if he is now a free agent. Men. But that’s the point…Men.

There. I’m sorry. I had to. Sometimes, men are the best. And in my honest opinion, he is the best of the best.

XOXO

(Amazing how easy seemingly insignificant little things can be, yet still make a woman sing a guy’s praises, isn’t it? Please note, dog-ear, and favorite this notion for future use, you of the Y chromosomes.)

—-

- Excerpt from SATCG

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July 17, 2011


My Tumblr dash has been inundated with photos from tattoo and piercing blogs, and after scrolling through roughly 3,579 pages’ worth, I have come upon a new pet-peeve of mine: 

Women who have multiple piercings in the same general vicinity of their face. Like, I want to look at your Monroe and see how it works on you, and NOT get distracted by that random hole that you’ve put in the side of your face, slightly left of your cheek…wait, does that even have a name, or did your piercer just have a personal vendetta against you?

If you’re going to make your body a canvas, make it a Monet, not a Pollock.

XOXO

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July 19, 2011


Lesson of the Night:

"Remine me not to drink from stranger s pipes."

XOXO

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August 6, 2011


Every time I get drunk I start assigning everyone around me a celebrity lookalike, and every morning I realize how wrong I was.

- Disco_Lemonade.

I found this quote from someone I follow, and it honestly surprised me by how funny I found it that I literally scared myself when I snorted with suppressed laughter without knowing.

I think this may have to become a new “thing”…but just think about how sad you’d be if you think you went home with Brad Pitt and woke up next to someone who looked more like Benecio del Toro’s second cousin from Tennessee?

XOXO

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September 5, 2011


Giving Up The Ghosts.

Last night, I had a dream about the first boy I ever really liked and had a mad, raging, multi-year-long crush on. It was an interesting dream, because in it, he was just as blase and indecisive as he had been in real life. Finally, driven to the end of my proverbial rope by despair and out of my wits with frustration, I wrote him a letter, outlining the fact that as long as he couldn’t choose to keep a monogamous relationship either between me and him or him and my friend, I was done— I wanted nothing to do with him. I upheld my promise pretty well— until we survived a life-or-death situation together, caved under the pressure, had sex again, and then I got to confront my friend while helping her move from her apartment about the fact he was playing us both.

It was an emotionally-charged, fascinating dream— possibly made more interesting by the appearance of the ex at the tail-end of it, as well as the fact that I knew that my first crush was actually the symbolical representation of my last relationship. I woke up, utterly fed up, and started thinking about the lengths that women will go through to try to keep a relationship.

I have never been a fan of the ultimatums, unlike much women. I firmly believe that if you’re going to make a “if…than” statement, you should be willing to stand by it under pain of death, dismemberment, or break-up, and, as my dream obviously revealed, I’ve never really been great at doing that. If a woman gives a man an ultimatum— “It’s done forever and ever until the end of time when the Universe is sucked into a black hole if you ever sleep with another woman”— and then doesn’t actually have the balls to stand by what she said in earnest, it teaches both of them that A.) A woman can say things that she absolutely doesn’t mean, and B.) That he can get away with it. I consider both outcomes horrible things. And I’m always quick on the draw to call a bluff. So, instead, I stick to the “Do it once, shame on you; do it twice, shame on me, I’m leaving,” mentality. It works, for the most part. In real life, not only was I able to walk away from my first crush when he perpetrated events much like the ones in my dream last night, but I also repeated my feat of fortitude and strength again when the ex repeated similar events, later in my life.

And yet, I find myself still dreaming of them both. What does this say about me; about them?

Despite the fact that we grew up together and still are in casual touch, I hadn’t thought about my first crush in months before last night, so I happen to think he was just a handy vehicle for my dream-self to craft the morality lesson of last night’s sleep around. As for the ex…well, that’s a more slippery slope, but I can explain where the specter of him came from, too. Before I went to sleep last night, I was watching a movie when the dishy main actor suddenly smiled, and in a blinding flash of realization, I realized why I was drawn to him— he very much resembled the ex, especially when he smiled. I started flipping back through my Rolodex of Previous Relationships, trying to put famous faces to my exes who resembled them. I made the same obvious match of Aaron Eckhart to someone as I had when I’d been seeing him, but, other than him, the only other one of my ex-lovers who I could pin similar faces on was the ex, and as I kept coming up with names of people who I thought looked like him— the guy from the movie; Emile Hirsch; Adem Ljajic— I started wondering why, to me, he was one of my most recognized faces. It wasn’t the fact that he was my longest running on-again, off-again thing; it wasn’t the fact that I truly loved him— I truly love my most recent ex, but I was fucked if I could come up with a doppelganger for him, so there goes that theory. I will admit to the fact that in his heyday, the ex was certainly one of the most striking and handsome men I have ever seen, let alone been with, so maybe that was it. We human beings can be incredibly shallow, after all.

The ex was beautiful, and he and I shared a lot of emotional history— and hysteria— together. But does that, and the fact that I can still catch glimpses of him in other people mean that I in any way desire him back? Oh, helllllllll noooooooo.  Let’s face it, I’m a little bit of a masochist, and a little pain never really hurt anyone, but I would have to be declared clinically insane to ever go back to him. THAT much pain and turmoil he put me through just isn’t worth it; no matter how attractive he was, no matter what we had in common; no matter the fact that we shared friends, professions, and a common life. I remember how miserable I could be when I was with him, and in general, I tend to believe that there is one thing human beings should never actively seek out to be, and that thing is miserable. Learning that lesson through him— and, in some ways, the baby starter steps to it with my first crush— was possibly one of the defining moments of my life thus far, and it has always served as a valuable lesson every time another relationship starts to turn the same way. I am more important to myself than a man will ever be, no matter how much I happen to love him. And if he makes me miserable, well— then someone has to go, and it’s sure as hell not going to be me. One of the most important things you can ever learn is how and when to go about giving up the ghost of relationships failed, past, and never to be repeated again.

XOXO

—-

- From SATCG.

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November 11, 2011


Maneater.

Tonight, I am going out. Tonight, I am getting dressed up and blowing off all the steam that’s accumulated from the past 40 hours of work in a tense environment. Tonight, I might end up dancing on tables and flirting with boys with my oldest girl friend/partner-in-heartbreakin’-crime. Tonight, I am not making wise decisions. 

I have new underwear. I have a new signature scent called “Bombshell: Seduction,” and I plan on living up to it. I have two condoms in my adorable little leopard-print clutch. I am

Single. and. ready. to. MINGLE.

It is a really good thing that all the men of my past relationships of the last two years all met me and made their move when I was NOT looking for a relationship, otherwise we would have never entered into one, I would have flirted and teased them mercilessly, and nothing would have ever happened. That’s the way I roll: When I’m on the hunt, I’ll eat your heart. If I’m single and actively looking for a guy, I’m the worst tease in the world and will not be serious with anyone. But when I’m not and you ask me out of your own accord while I’m wearing leggings and schlepping into class late because I don’t have a care in the world other than getting home to eat a steak and catch up on the latest episode of Sons of Anarchy and take up all the room in my own bed, you actually might have a chance of taming the beast. In other words: Dressed up and laughing wildly at a bar— No chance. Slubbing it and entering into casual conversation, somewhat guardedly— you’re golden.

…Tonight is an eat-your-heart-out night. Whacha, Vegas. Getting numbers, taking names.

XOXO

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November 12, 2011


It is never a good thing when you and the ex who ruined your life both mutually agree that you’ve been recently thinking about each other again.

XOXO

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January 5, 2012


This is how my past few days have progressed, romantically:

Single.

Single. Flirt with men I went to college with through social media messaging.

Wake-Up call. Oh, you wanna go out? So I guess I’m not single. Oops.

…No, definitely single. WHO are you meeting up with after dinner? Oh, INDIA? Unless you’re planning on a quick trans-continental trip as dessert, that’s another girl’s name.

Wait, man, why are you cock-blocking me from your friend? Why are you giving him the “get lost” eyes? Why are you asking me to take you ho—…oh. Lost my side of single.

Sure, don’t invite me in. SINGLE, BITCHES. BRING ON THE MEN! Hey, friend and coworker’s number that you so conveniently entered into my phone; what’s good, man? Oh, hottie who got back to me on Facebook, how YOU doin’?

Demand possessions back. Show up to retrieve them. Get invited into house. Am introduced to roommate as “my girl.” Coat removed. Getting comfortable. Not sing—no wait, now you’re telling me you’ll walk me out. 

Executive choice to ignore your calls and invitations out in favor of solid “single” status with none of this flip-flopping shit made while still sitting in front of house before turning the ignition in car on. Welcome to the suck.

XOXO

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January 23, 2012


Things I Should Not Have Done The Other Night:

- Texted the ex.

- Smoked that cigarette…in bed.

- Lent The Dude even MORE money.

- Fallen asleep with a choker on.

One day I feel like I’m going to look back, and my 20s will be my Decade of Bad Decisions.

XOXO

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March 21, 2012


I wish you could hear the sounds my stomach is making.

I haven’t been right since I drank whiskey for the first time in nearly 6 years on St. Paddy’s Day.

You know, because it was FESTIVE.

…I make horrible holiday-related decisions.

XOXO

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April 7, 2012


April 23, 2012


I just double-booked today.

Lord help me, I am double-booking.

But as my friend Geoff pointed out in defense of my logic, “Ehhh, there ain’t no rang on your finger.”

Exactly, Geoffrey, EXACTLY.

XOXO

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May 30, 2012


One of my favorite things about getting drunk and fucked up is the clarity it brings of the LAST time you were drunk and fucked up.

…I slept with a guy I’d met in person for the first time 5 hours earlier. I SLEPT WITH A GUY I’D MET IN PERSON FOR THE FIRST TIME 5 HOURS EARLIER.

I am DEARLY glad that turned out well and not horribly. Thus far.

XOXO

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May 31, 2012


I woke a man up before 7 AM this morning for a blow-job.

The more my female friends and I discuss blow-jobs while drinking beers at the lake house, the more I realize this is something not many women do.

Really.

…But wait! Even better story— I woke a man up before 7 AM this morning for a blow-job, brushed the SHIT out of my teeth, mouth, and tongue, and then promptly went to a dental cleaning. WAIT FOR IT. The dental hygienist is a family friend.

Whamp-whaaaaaaaaaamp. Whaddup life, I’m a post-college twenty-something who makes questionable life decisions.

When you’re going through dental school, do you think they ever touch on the fact that you could potentially be touching the same place bodily fluids not-so-formerly were?

XOXO

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