It’s the stories you have to tell so you don’t forget them.

And this is how it always goes with me. You’re too drunk (are you ever not drunk?), and the shot you bought me didn’t make me love you, but it did make me want to dance. Not with you. Anyone but you. That’s how it is now – like a mantra. Anyone but you.

But you don’t get it. You’re all with the kissing and the eye-gazing, and I want to walk away, or slap you, or at the very least point and laugh. But I’m nice, and I sit, and I suffer, and I tell you again (and again and again) that it’s done; that you won’t get what you want from this… whatever it is. Mockery of romance. Shitshow. Reason to stop drinking.

Truth is, my brain is somewhere else. Across the room, thinking about the one person I shouldn’t be thinking about, thinking “please come save me from this disaster.”


You look good. Your smile melts me and I wonder if you put any effort into looking like you put no effort into how you look. You maybe flirt with my friend but its okay because she’s attached and you’re drunk and I can’t lay any claim on you. But the thought still makes me cringe. And I wonder, if I pulled you into a dark corner… but there are no dark corners, and I am drunk.

And, yes, I want you to read into my every move. I want you to catch the glances, and every little time I find a reason to touch you. Every time I look at you to check if you are looking at me. Every time I accidentally end up right by your side.


Truth is, it’s just funny. It’s funny and sad like that scene from that movie where the drunk guy tries to win back the girl and gets rejected. Unlike the movie, the guy won’t get the girl, and we won’t laugh about it later. But I will laugh about it for years. I won’t call to tell you I’ve been thinking about what you said. But I will think about what you said (when I am laughing about it with my friends).


You still look good. I wonder if girls ever tell you how good you look. I can’t tell you – not now, not here, not while I’m enduring this drunken, misguided torture. Not while he’s mooning over me. Instead, I sit, not listening anymore to the drunken pleas of a drunken idiot. I’m thinking about my jacket itching the side of my neck. I’m wondering if my hair is still in place. Wondering what you’re doing. Imagining you having fun, not with me, over on the other side of the room. Imagining what we could be doing if he weren’t here. Imagining if he had just stayed home – my hand in yours, not clutching my wallet in a desperate attempt to escape this madness. The song keeps changing for what seems like years and my head is all you, you, you.

And there’s no easy way to walk away. Another beer down, another hour (5 minutes? 2 hours? 3 days?) wasted and the night is almost over. And, here I am, same as it ever was. Too nice to just walk away; too nice to just end it here. Somehow, I walk away just in time for the night to end. Fabulously wasted as we walk to our cars and I want to yell. I want to follow you. I want to start the night where I left it, and say no to the shot and no to the pathetic, alcohol-soaked conversation. I want to stay by your side, right where I should not be, and not care who thinks what and not care how bad it makes me look.

The drive home is me yelling. Taking the long way home, miles out of the way, to yell the words to songs and to yell at myself and, for some reason, to yell at my phone like it should be making you call me. Call me to tell me to come over and talk or kiss or just look at each other. And I’m mad at myself for not just looking at you more. I’m mad at myself for wasting valuable time and I wonder if you even know.

There’s something about this feeling – this somewhat obsessive nagging feeling of love me love me love me. It’s mean, you know, to make me wait and to tease me. The delicate, soft side of me says wait it out, wait for the moment and my body says now, now in a sultry moan. When I think about you I can’t breathe – my heart skips and I close my eyes and imagine how it will be. And I don’t care so long as your lips are on me.

Unintentional Hiatus (what blog?)

Fuck yeah, internets! Been a while.

It's been a long chunk of months filled with depression, dating and death. Strangely enough, none of the 3 are related, which makes them all the more AWESOME!

So.

Depression. Like a genius, sometime around May 2011, I tried to work my way off of my medication and live a [prescription] substance-free life. I had left my terrible, demeaning, verbally abusive job (*cough* boss), had started a new, painless job with an office and a salary, and was in one of those "this is so perfect!" relationships. What did I have to lose?

My sanity, that's what. I can best equate it to PMS, around the clock. I was tired. I cried a lot. Over everything - broken nail, tear in my tights, screwed up my eye makeup, END OF THE WORLD. One day, I had to sit in the bathroom at work and compose myself because the paper cutter wouldn't cut straight. Spent weekends at Matt's, in bed, not fucking, but sleeping. And whining. No one likes that chick. He certainly didn't like that chick.

So, eff that. Back on the meds. Let's not try that again. Even the occasional feeling of numbness is better than the constant feeling of FUCK EVERYTHING.

Gradually, I have worked my way back into the real world. Working, adventuring, dating again.

Dating. Yeah, turns out, it was one of those"this wasn't so perfect because he didn't love me (as much as he loved me naked!)" relationships. And it's ok. We move on, like we do. And we try - sometimes we happen upon the worst dating decision we've ever made, and then sometimes, as we are losing hope, we happen upon sheer awesomeness in the form of something we never saw coming. And I'm going to stick around for this one.

So, Death. Fuck death. I lost 2 amazing people in 2011. My father passed away on Father's Day Morning (thanks, irony, that's really cute of you), and my uncle, who had been kicking cancer's ass for 3 years, passed away a little over one hour after my father's wake.

Before this turns all teary, I have to turn it around for a bit. My father was not good to himself. We all begged him for years to get his weight under control, for fear of, well, exactly what happened. We lost him 40 years before we should have because he just couldn't reverse years of damage. Moral of the story? Take care of your damn self. I assume I've got a good 55 or so years left in me. I would like to live those years. I don't want to leave my future family without a mother/sister/daughter/wife because I didn't take care of myself.

And don't get me wrong - I love to eat junk food, I'm terrible at pushing myself towards physical activities, and I have my fair share of bad habits that my doctor would not condone. But I try. In the end, I look at what happened to my family over the past few years, and I am able to say, "No Fucking Thanks."

My job is enough to keep me afloat, and I have amazing friends and family to keep me going.

Optimism is hard, but it is there.

Here's to You: Douchey Internet Guy!

i just read some of your blogs and i realized something.You arent real, you arent genuine . you are just a stuck up, pampered lil bitch from ipswich who thinks they are unique by being a total cunt. let me tell you plenty of people are cunts . you will be alone and die alone so enjoy you lil freak

Well, hello. I see we have some unmanaged anger issues.

I would first like to take this time to thank you for reading my blog. For some reason you were interested enough to read my blog, which you presumably came across whilst perusing my Facebook page (as you passive-agressived all up on my messages). So, thanks for that. I think.

Next order of business -

I just read some of your blogs, and I realized something._You aren't real; you aren't genuine. You are just a stuck up, pampered little bitch from Ipswich who thinks they are unique by being a total cunt *I don't know where to start*. Let me tell you, plenty of people are cunts. You will be alone, and die alone, so enjoy, you little freak.

Clearly, there are certain liberties I have taken in my usage of periods, commas, and semicolons. I enjoy punctuation and like to use it as frequently as I can.

So, you are free to entertain yourself by flaming people, I just ask that you use proper English and grammar, or else you will never be taken seriously.

Lastly, here, I got you this.

Standards

I have really high ones. Standards. Should I? Should I not? Do I have a right to? Does it matter?

I have had two long-term relationships in my life. Two relationships with pretty epically fabulous (and tragically attractive - to me, at least) men. Men? Boys? Guys? Males. I am not sure how I was so lucky as to obtain either of them. Even my shortest relationship of 2 months was with someone amazing. I ran the gamut from acting needy, acting childish and acting jealous, to just being downright crazy.

In both cases, they stood by me, loved my eccentricities, and remained epically fabulous. Tragic endings aside, I was really very lucky.

I try not to focus on the past, unless it lends assistance to the future, or involves a sexual fantasy of some sort. But I wonder: was that it? Did I get my chances and ruin them? Did I allow myself to get spoiled and lose some amazing guys?

Blah, blah, blah, someone else will come along, of course. They keep coming along, but they aren't as good. I can't find that spark that makes me terrified to lose someone. I can't even find that spark that makes me want to kiss someone. It's hard to be desperate without actually being desperate.

To wander back to the subject, my standards are high. For a total of 5 1/2 years (both relationships combined), I had amazing. I had amazing, attractive, passionate, caring, loving, patient, successful, smart, and fun. Pardon my vanity, but I am not prepared to settle for anything less. I am eager to find a partner, but not so eager that I will settle just to have someone. I know within minutes if the guy will get a second date. Even another phone call. Another text.

And, obviously, the caveat is that I know that I'm not perfect. I've supplied my laundry list of relationship issues. But I've found great people who love me, despite my flaws. So, I know it's possible. I can be fairly sure that someone is out there who I can forge a life with. Whether I've already met them or not.

Cause I will not accept any less
Than someone just as real as fabulous
-Lady Gaga, Paper Gangsta

Now more than ever it comes back in waves; in dreams, in smells, in colors. In the way a stranger moves their hand or holds a pen.

I fight my brain to remember it's nothing, it's nothing, it's nothing.

The old songs, they make my mind draw blanks. Turn thoughts to nothing. Make my heart drop and my skin tingle. The words and notes have more meaning than they really have.

The little things - the games, the foods, the jokes, the books - they will always be you. You always have me captured; you don't know and you don't care.

The smell of you comes through on the train, in the street, floods my senses and makes me shiver. Remember the feeling of your hands on my arm, on my waist, on my leg. Remember the closed eyes and the shudder of your lips on my chest. Remember your voice in the quiet; your body in the dark. Close my eyes and remember. For a split second - I can't breathe.

Your body, your clothes, your hair come through in strangers, and you're not there. I know there's no way. I know You're not there. You're not there and I'm still not breathing quite right.

Lack of Momentum

Been trying to write lately.

Been coming up short.

Money

Anyone who knows me fairly well knows that I kind of hate money.

Exchanging money for services; I find nothing wrong with that. I purchase groceries, clothes, books, technology, all without much of an issue. I wish a lot of it cost LESS money, but, who doesn't?

What I dislike about money is it being so... valuable. What I hate about money is what Chuck Palahniuk put so well and what the entire plot of Fight Club boils down to: "You're not how much money you've got in the bank. You're not your job."

So, why am I how much money I have in the bank? Why am I my job? Why does every person I know determine at least a portion of their personality based on their financial status? Me? Technically, and financially, I'm a failure. Three jobs and still living paycheck-to-paycheck. And, I say that like I'm actually living. Bills aren't being paid. I can make the rent, eventually, but my health insurance has been canceled twice and my car insurance once, because, well, gosh-darnit, I can't pay the bills. My car breaks down, and I can't get to 2 of my 3 jobs.

And, that's not who I am. Not really caring about finances, that's who I am. On my laundry list of things wrong with American society these days is the need to work so hard that you aren't living anymore. Your job becomes you life and, whoops! There go your friends. There goes your weeknight. Your weekend. Date night. Your girlfriend. But you have to do it because you need your job, and the bills need to get paid.

I have been extremely lucky, in that I am, for the most part, doing what I love. The pay is par, leaning on sub-par. Once I do my taxes, I will owe the government hundreds, likely, thousands, from working 1099 for a year. Goodbye refund and hello more debt. I get crucified in the right crowd for not caring more. My credit score is going down. I'll have trouble getting a car, a house. I should get as many jobs as I can to get the bills paid. "If I were you, I would work at McDonalds if it meant I could pay off my credit card."

Well, I wouldn't. Call me Tyler Durden. As much as I love that the financial world judges me based on a three-digit number, I really don't. So far, in my attempts to minimize debt over the past few years, I have been met with, "you're poor, but not poor enough." We're very picky. You aren't eligible for assistance unless you're living in a box on the street corner. Can I postpone this month's student loan payment? "How about we just add it on to next month. You will owe us $150 on the first of March." Oh, thanks. Maybe I can pull the money magically out of my butt before then.

For some people, generally those who have money, their money develops into who they are. In my experience, someone with money has a hard time dating someone without money. There is a lack of understanding. Why don't you have money? I have plenty of it. It's easy! If I didn't have to pay for college, and didn't have two sisters in college, and was content to do anything my boss told me in order to keep my job, sure, it would be easy. I'd be complacent, but I'd be able to afford a new car every five years.

Not to generalize. I know people who have money who hate it. Who are responsible, understanding, and, generally, had to work to get the money they have. Even my own sister worked a crap job at the beach all summer to afford a trip to Australia. Whereas I have to break the bank to replace my only pair of jeans.

Back to the moral of the story. You would think that the nation would know by now that our system of finances has left us up shit creek with a paddle made of soggy toilet paper. Judge me all you want by my miserable credit score, but I would rather end my life tomorrow than spend my life worried about work, money, finances, and the godforsaken government.


This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time.

Written 1/3/2006

You and I both know that this is going to be far more tragic than either of us is willing to admit. It’s like Romeo and Juliet, if Romeo was a self-concerned scaredy-cat with a severe case of philarguria, and Juliet was a closet wannabe alcoholic with an unparalleled urge to settle down.

There is an interesting crossroad faced when one half of the partnership is focused on career, and one is focused on the future of the relationship, work notwithstanding. It goes either that the relationship-focused half abandons their dreams of soon seeing her man down on one knee with a gorgeous ring, asking her to be with him forever and make dozens of children, thereby being miserable all the time, or that the career-focused half abandons a little bit more money and the easy route to a big paycheck in order to propose against his will and shack up against his will and be miserable all the time. There is no easy way to solve this problem.

It can be argued that money should make no difference when it comes to attaining and keeping a grasp on the person that you allegedly want to spend the rest of your life with. It can also be argued that a ring or a shared living space should not matter, so long as you and your significant other are together 24/7 in the spiritual sense. I choose to argue, however, that both sides of the argument are complete and utter crap, as well as completely valid, for their own reasons.

In the world in which we live today, in these the United States of fantastic America, it is important to make money and make a name for yourself, as to be able to buy expensive things such as cars, mansions, retirement funds, and motorcycles. How could one possibly be expected to make their life difficult monetarily in order to hold love? The simple answer would be,Shut the fuck up, get over it, and stop being so fucking concerned with fucking money.

Likewise, just as having a ring to solidify a lasting relationship should not make a tangible difference, neither should producing said ring. If your intention is truly to be with this person for the rest of your life, one would assume that you would choose to officially start that life as soon as possible. The only excuses not to do so come from fear and anxiety. Don’t tell me that you don’t know how to set the entire process into motion; eventually, you should want to, and when will you force being too chicken-shit to stop taking over you life? If you want to spend the rest of your life with a person, and you knowingly acknowledge such a fact, then why should she have to wait for ages for you to be perfectly ready for it?

Back on the other side of the emotional spectrum, what is the point of such a rush to settle down? Younger people should rationally choose to live their lives before they shack up with someone that they consider to be their one true love. After all, imagine all of the possible better people that you could find out there. It is better to realize before accepting a proposal than after that there is someone else who might be a better fit for you. However, what if there is no urge to find another person? What if, in spite of any advice or critique on the topic, this person has undoubtedly found the one person who makes their life seem whole? Beyond any reason or excuse, is it truly so bad to want to start the future sooner rather than later? The true question is, is said person actually expected to abandon their hopes of an engagement ring in the near future due to the fact that their partner does not feel ready, for whatever reason?

It boils down to one unanswerable question: What should be done when one half of the couple wants to settle down in the closely oncoming years, while the other half wants to take time away from home and wait a few years? If she wants him near her on a regular basis, yet it is easier for him to be far from her, who is in the right? Is anyone? Who has to change their plan, and who has to just deal with it? If you want to be with someone for the rest of your life, do 3 years really matter, or do they make all of the difference? What is the answer? Is the only resolution for Romeo and Juliet to metaphorically kill themselves until the day comes that both of their dreams fit together conveniently?

And what if that day never comes…

Writing

Once, I had a muse. She bounced around in my head and put the amalgam of strange ideas and thoughts into words. She had a black polka dot dress and little pink shoes. I made that last part up.

I don't know if she was silenced by the medication, confused by the drama, or fed up with the bullshit known as Emerson College Creative Writing classes, but somewhere in there, my little muse jumped ship, and, for a very long time, I have found it extremely difficult to sit down and write. I still have all of the same ideas and thoughts, but, when I try to put them to paper (or, keyboard, as the case may be), I rarely make it past the first few lines before I hit a wall and put the pen down.

The writer in my head is the dangerous girl I have never been. She brainstorms sex, alcohol, darkness, and mistakes. My muse, perhaps, has grown up. She watches me live day-to-day, and she is bored. She tells me all the things that I will never do, and wants me to flesh them out. But she does not tell me how. Not anymore.

I take what I know - what I have experienced - and I build. The hurt that has shaped me becomes the basis for the character who is me, but funnier. Prettier. Sexier. Smarter. She feels what I felt. She says what I would have said. She does what I would have done. What I would have done, had I written the script. She is a re-imagining of my past. This girl, this woman, I live vicariously through her.

When I write, she walks around in my head. She mutters sentences, paragraphs, and stories. She talks fast, and I can't keep up. When I am frustrated enough, I stop. I give up. The stories float around in my head for days, weeks, even months, before I will sit back down and try to get them out. Phrases, paragraphs, whole pages, lay around, for stories that will never be written.

Dating

For the first time in my life, I have been. Have I met some great people? Yes. Have I had fun? Yes. Do I particularly enjoy it? No.

I have never, in my entire life, had to "play the field." I've never had to search for romantic companionship. Somehow, I have always found decent guys and spend a good chunk of time with them. I've never had to work.

That being said, I had a conversation with Stephanie last night about the strange occurrence in which unattractive, selfish, terrible girls can find good guys willing to date them. Meanwhile, Stephanie and I are two attractive, nice, smart, funny girls who are sitting watching TV, eating ice cream in our fleece blankets on a Sunday night. I've known awful, unpleasant girls who have managed to get some of those great guys and string them along for months before the guy gets the balls to give up on it.

And, it happens. People want someone. Even jerks want companionship. The great guys will swear that there is some good in there, underneath all of that yuckiness. And I'm no image of perfection, either. I can be lazy. I don't always think before I speak. I expect a lot of the guys I date. I feel as though I am worth it.

Dating, for me, has been 50/50. I've "met" guys in all kinds of settings. I've been asked out by a guy who worked at Target. He pleased me with his straightforwardness, but overall he come on too strong, and I hadn't been single for long enough to seriously date anyone. I've danced with those random guys at clubs. I've made out with just-friends guy. I've been asked out by more than one just-friends guy. I've met multiple guys online, through eHarmony and OKCupid. I joined both as a result of nudges from friends who had success. How much can you really find out from a picture and a preconceived write-up?

In retrospect, I can't complain. I have had options. However, due to my past experiences, I am now pickier. I am fairly certain of what I am looking for. There are factors that I am willing to sway on, but I've been through too much to settle.

My very first date after getting out of a 4-year relationship was promising. We talked online and he seemed smart, witty, and really insightful. We met in Cambridge, where we wandered around and grabbed a beer. Smart and witty, he was. Insightful turned out to be just plain dull. His insights ranged from commenting on the women next to us and why they ordered the drinks they did, to the couple at the bar and why they ordered the drinks they did. The date ended early and amicably, which a gracious thank you and a good luck.

Speaking of promising, right before the new year, I met John. John was witty. Smart. Attractive. Tech-savvy. Charming. Caring. Relaxed. The guy I wanted to meet. For our first date, he came to Brighton. We had dinner. We laughed. I liked his face. He kissed me goodnight and I wanted him to kiss me more. On later dates, he kissed me when he left the room. He put his hand on that spot on my back. He rested his head on my lap while we talked about video games and watched TV on his silly iPhone. He was planning to come to the city for new years. Meet my friends. Sleep over. It was a plan. Until it wasn't. Until he felt sick and didn't want to travel. Until he stopped calling and stopped answering texts. People ask me what happened with him, and I just shrug.

Next, was one guy who was way too nice, one guy who was too young and too much of a jerk, and one who I could never date but do really enjoy sparring with.

In my head, there are others. Those who I toss around weekly, daily; who I see and I wonder; who I doubt I'll ever do anything about. They're the ones I don't put in writing, because once it's in writing it is real. In my head, they are protected, and I am protected.

So, I'm dating. I'm still dating. I'm still not particularly enjoying it. The not knowing. I'm not enjoying the not knowing. I miss the knowing. The constant. The security. It's in there, somewhere, and it wants out. And I keep telling it to shut the hell up and be patient.

Story of my life.