When the Weekend Scares You

One thing none of us can deny is that the older we get, the less stamina for college-like partying we have. Irrelevant of actual age, things like jobs & responsibilities slow us down. Kids and husbands for some. Pets and plants for others. No longer is the girl who could stay out at the bar until 2:30am and wake up to take her finals the next morning. Back then it helped with my stressing out. Now I dial it way back and go out until 11pm (going out consists of two glasses of wine). This is still pretty good though. I know people who go to bed at 9pm. On weekends. I also still know people who do go out until 2:30am on weeknights. Believe I'm a respectable in-between. Sometimes average is good.

But as my fun weekend rears its' head, I admit to being slightly scared. Two days with promised partying environments? Scheduled activities revolving around the consumption of alcohol? Actual Beer Olympics. Am I ready for this? I'm no slosh, never have I been the wasted girl saying inappropriate things acting all Tara Reid. I'm no "Wild On" host. But I participate, and wow am I competitive. Take alcohol and pair it with a competition and things could get scary. And it's not that I'm worried about the actual events to be attended- I'm worried about the aftermath. I'm worried I won't be able to go for a run on Sunday. I'm worried 2 days of partying could make my mind mush when it comes to Monday job requirements. Pathetic.

Yup, I'm definitely getting older. Or, is it wiser?

Why Wouldn't You Get Engaged?

On this week's season finale of The Bachelorette (yes, I watch it, for research purposes of course) lucky giggles girl Jillian had not one, but three men vying for her hand in marriage! Wowsa. Just when she thought she'd have to date a lumberjack in the woods of Canada, in the short filming period of her reality show she got three men to fall madly deeply in love with her. And because television rules the world, she had to decide which man she would marry on strict programming deadline. Myself I'd be a bit skeptical. Even if I had three handsome, chiseled and seemingly sweat-hearted men professing love...I might have a hard time committing to the sacrament of marriage under such pressures and time constraints. I mean, I can't commit in front of the world and then back out! I'd look like a total b*tch.

But then I saw the ring she gets. Neil Lane bizillion carats. Why the heck not accept the proposal? In fact, she should accept all three. Then when she breaks them all off she can take the rings, sell them, and move to the french countryside where nobody watches reality shows.

UPDATE: Love this. Read this.

When Relationships End Due to Scheduling Conflicts

Come on.

I love how when celebrity couples split, like the recent relationship demise of Kim Kardashian and Reggie Bush, they blame it on schedule conflicts. As if love is an appointment on the day's to-do-list. Basically Kim's saying her mani and pedis are more important to her than lifelong love? I'm sure it was hard to build a meaningful relationship with her intense schedule of nightclub appearances and spray tan appointments. And I'm sure the choice was a devastating one to make- choosing her promising reality television career over love. And I'm supposed to believe they had a real passion for one another? That'd be like me claiming I found "the one" only to break up with him because it was too stressful to have to coordinate my fanatical fitness routine with his affinity towards car detailing. Our star-crossed love just couldn't survive my sweat and his wax! Whose schedule would fit into Kim Kardashian's in perfect harmony? Her dog's? Perhaps a paparazzi? Either these people are that selfish, that stupid, or just don't want to admit they broke up because of reasons real non-celebrity people do everyday. Like they hated each other.

Girls Are Saps

But you know what? We know what we're talking about. If you've ever felt sappy and reflective about relationship woes...you might like this.

Ah...That Wasn't A Compliment

I had one of those moments this past weekend. One of those moments where someone thinks they are saying something harmless, or even complimentary, but in fact you feel like you were just insulted in a major fashion. Kind of like when John Mayer sent a video of himself to then girlfriend Jessica Simpson's birthday celebration he ditched- he thought he was making her feel special, but instead he was totally dissing her in the most pathetically insulting way. But it's even worse when the perpetrator doesn't know they're insulting you- because that means they really honestly believe in their opinion. Which, is almost worse than an insult. A compliment catapulting through the air and turning to insult as soon as it hits human.

I was out of town in a safe zone. Hanging with family and friends, doing things I would never do in the radius of my social living/breathing/working space. Like karaoke in a basement bar. Totally entertaining when no one is looking. Then a woman, a townie so to speak, came to me to introduce herself. I explained we had met last winter (a weekend she had bought me no less than 5 whiskey-apple pucker shots) and she laughs. Her response? "Oh, I didn't recognize you! Usually you're all glossed up! You could pass for a local in that!"

Um.

That doesn't feel very complimentary. Apparently relishing in the unleashing of my wild hair waves isn't doing me any favors? Just when I thought I had escaped the doom of a hairdryer...but how snotty am I to feel insulted? I better watch some of MTV's "The Hills" to remind myself I'm not as snotty those dumb people.

Just A Slice of Everyday Life

Classical Conditioning on Friends and Family

When we embrace friends into our lives (family we're kinda just stuck with) we are forced to deal with the frustrations of their actions.Why can't everyone just be like you and I? Seriously. When you love someone, you just want them to behave the way you do. We all know as we get older the majority of anger our parents directed towards us were out of worry. I got grounded when the entire high school showed up at my house for a party not because my parents wanted me to be unpopular- but because they worried I would turn into a drugged out kid from some 1980's teen flick. I could have turned out like Winona Ryder in "Heathers" or something. But now I feel those maternal yearnings for my loved ones to just behave in way so harm can stay far far away. 

If only we could take the Pavlov's dogs approach. Classical conditioning to teach them a lesson! Or, the more common tactic used on cats: spray water bottles. We follow our friends or family member around and every time they do something we deem harmful we spray them with the water bottle. Spray spray spray until they huddle in a corner sopping wet. Then, the next time they decide to perform such activity they remember the water bottle brigade and decide not to make such a stupid decision. Then I don't have to waste the energy I should be using on something important to worry about my dumb-ass friend acting like a kicked off castmate from "The Real World."

So there (with love).

Do Chances Expire?

When I was young, I wanted to be an actress. Not for just a year, but from ages 6-16. A good ten year run of an ambitious and quite unlikely profession. Before age six I also wanted to be a nun (so I didn't have to have children) and the president. But while I had dreams of acting, I worked hard. I endured countless plays, musical solos in which I probably was not talented enough to have, and late night rehearsals where I'd cry as I wiped the gobs of makeup off of my face with cold cream in exhaustion. My parents were proud, but not exactly stage parents. They had five children to drop-off to activities, thus they most likely feared I'd start demanding headshots. I didn't, but I do recall my mom taking several staged photos on the deck. Shockingly the only place they landed were a photo album.

But once I became an age when reality became apparent, I suddenly realized the insanity of this dream of mine. At 16, as I played a major character in a play while being assigned understudy for the two leads (for a girl with short term memory problems this was particularly challenging), in my highly pressurized mindset I suddenly realized I had no chance. I looked in the mirror and said to myself, "Listen- you don't look like a supermodel and you don't look quirky. You're never gonna make it." And I quit, cold turkey. Why work so hard at the impossible? Forget the fact I loved it. I also thought I was too small. Ha! If only someone would have told me the size standards in Hollywood...

The possibility of the chance of anything- does this expire? As we get older and go about our paths and lives and jobs, are possibilities left in our dust? Or does cynicism road block? I wonder.  As age makes us wiser, unfortunately, it also makes us more judgemental. We think most is impossible. I don't want to stop thinking of the possibilities. Although my chances of becoming President of something other than the Kettle One Martini Club are slim.

When the Guy at the Gas Station is Your Closest Friend

The guy at the gas station really cares about my day. Everyday that I enter the doors of my preferred station, the young man at the counter smiles like an old friend. He says hello enthusiastically, as if he's quite happy to have me drop by to grab a medium coffee and help myself to 10 mini creamers to bring back to the office (I like to have many flavor choices for varying work related moods). And then I reach the cash register and we catch up. Usually something along the lines of him asking, "So, how's today going to be?" 

We're way closer than me just answering with the obligatory "fine" response, so generally I elaborate with something like, "Well, it's 7:30 and I'm already going to work..." We're so close he can read between the lines on unspecific responses. 

As I walk back to my car I feel a little bit more supported than pre-coffee me. As if someone really does care if I have a good day! And then I realize that wow, customer service really works. Just because one guy takes the time to act happy I'm in his store, I continue to buy crappy coffee. Whatever. It's a good system and worth the $4.68 I spend a week for a little morale boost. We all could use a little of that.

Toddlers Require Lots of Peanut Butter

Can't blog today. Pray for me, I've been kidnapped by three toddlers. 

Some people may also refer to this as baby-sitting. 

It's impossible to write about dating, the trials and tribulations of adolescent adulthood (the new age category I've appointed to the twenties) when I'm surrounded by constant peanut butter and giggles and swings and spilled milk. 

Hopefully I can return to normal by tomorrow.

The Mathematics of Worth

Do you ever weigh your options based on worth?

For instance, you decide to take a pay cut for a new job in a new field because through the mathematics of your decision strategies you've determined: 

New Job - Pay = New Experience = Higher Pay Eventually. 

I'm sure that basketball player Richard Jefferson must have had an equation for his decision to dump his fiance the day of their wedding: Expensive Wedding - Commitment = Life Long Happiness. 

I ask, because I wonder why no genius has yet to come up with a definite equation for figuring out if your choices will be worth it? Does the Fibonacci sequence cover this? Golden ratio anyone? Can't Apple make an iphone application for this? Decision making would be clearly easier, less prone to drastic mistakes, more reliable. Of course we humans would need to actually think less, which, may not be worth the pay-off. The inactivity of logic exercise could negatively impact our brain functionality. Chimps would rule the world. While I don't feel I've made any detrimental mistakes thus far...for some reason this idea kept me up all night. Wondering why worth weighing couldn't just be simpler? Why'd I take all that math in college if I can't figure this out?

But, it's Friday and this probably only makes sense to me. Cheers to "worth it" decisions all weekend. 

Why is it Always the Girl's Fault?

Did you hear? Jessica Simpson and Tony Romo are finished. Yup, the perpetually pictured love birds had a love that could no longer endure dinners at Tao and Dallas Cowboy football games. Apparently she was pressuring him for the honor of being her second husband. In related news, Jessica's ex Nick Lachey and his girlfriend Vanessa Minillo ALSO suffered a break. This break-up supposedly occurred because Vanessa insisted he buy her a 10 carat engagement ring. This sent Nick back to the 'hood in Ohio to find a girl who believes carats are something you eat with ranch dip. 

The common thread between these break-ups? They both were the female's fault. Obviously. Of course the only reason why couples part is because the woman demands something unrealistic. If a woman would just keep her mouth shut and do as she's told, speak only when spoken to, and take what she gets- relationships would float in a harmony similar to being on Quaaludes. Look at Jennifer Aniston! If only she'd stop demanding her boyfriend of the month make her pregnant. And Jennifer Love Hewitt, she always gets broken up with because she's super needy. Kate Hudson? Her too. 

Gimme a break. When will the media start turning things on the boys for fun? Obviously they have no real idea why these couples split, half the time I'm betting it's a direct order from their publicists. How about the story of John Mayer? I'm quite certain his relationships fail because he requires his sig other to listen to him blab about his personal feelings no less than 3 hours per day while staring at him stare at himself in the mirror. He probably hands them lists of daily affirmations they must read to him throughout the day, like "John Mayer,  you are a God." This would surely sell a US Weekly magazine! In all the various relationships I have had, not one of them have ended because 1) I am too needy, 2) I want to get pregnant, 3) I want to get married. Not one. I'm ready to see a new, make believe side of relationship ends! Otherwise, what do we have to aspire to?

The Four Evil Words To a Single Girl

I really don't need to be asked this ever again. 

I know the intent may be flattery, I know this, but for single women it twists and turns into a declaration of our standing in the world. As you see us glimmering in difference among the landscape of the committed! The weight of a 4 worded question latches on to our consciousness and repeats over and over again in our mind like a wind-up doll. The question?

"Why are you single?"

Sometimes, elaborated on as, "Why in the world would someone like you still be single?" 

It's a question with an infinite answer. It started from day 1 of dating and ended right now, a series of interactions and people and making out that when thrown together in what is my past didn't meld into marriage or whatever else would qualify me as "not single." Um, I don't know, maybe start with the obvious...because I haven't met the right person? Maybe because if I let any jack out there claim me for his own I'd face a life of being bored to tears? Maybe because there hasn't been anyone worth it? Maybe a "girl like me" needs to find the perfect "guy like him?" But believe me, trying to compliment me by saying I'm a great catch and staring at me like I'm the hidden wonder of the world is not as flattering as you think. My little niche, my community, we're small but know what's up. Keep this wondrous question to yourself, or, just tell me I'm awesome. That always works. But after growing up in a state where people deem marriage the right of passage at 22, I'm simply bored of the question. 

Why We All Love Crappy Shows Like The Bachelorette

We actually eat cheese with this show. You have to in order to put up with the extreme amount of cheese filling up the billions of colorful pixels. Can’t beat em, join em. But why oh why do we love it so much? Men and women alike? I even love watching this show despite the fact I squirm uncomfortably at the awkward small talk and forced make-out scenes. We all like it because those smart suits over at ABC know what we want to hear. Well, women anyway. They know what men want to see.

Take last night’s episode. To get to the men, lots of Jillian the Bachelorette parading around in short shorts. Lots of making out. Even an oil massage scene on a rose covered bed with slow music softly orchestrating the intimate moment. Lots of Jillian’s legs wrapping around men. At this point the probability of the male gender even listening is slim, rather just admiring the sexy images and off in la-la land thinking how it could potentially turn into a pornographic primetime reality show. Scenes like these have led me to believe Miss Jillian has hopes of being the next character to rock The Young and the Restless. Scenes like this have men wondering why every girl doesn’t wear shorts every day.

And the women, of course, love to hear these men beg for the girl who squeals every 5 seconds (I dare you to play a drinking game taking shots each time that chick screams- you’ll be wasted). She grills them with all the important questions you must ask a man you’ve been gang dating for 2 months. Like, “Would you ever marry me?” And of course these men, as they don’t want to lose, shower her with phrases every woman on earth wants to hear. Things like, “I’ve never met someone as amazing as you.” And “The last date we had was the best night of my life.” Of course it was the best night of your life! You were in Spain in a helicopter where you landed on a mountain where you did some sort of extreme sport and then were whisked away to an amazing dinner with a scantily clad mistress and all the booze you could handle. Oh, and producers telling you you’re the greatest. I bet it was the best night of your life.

So where does it leave us, mere unreality stars stuck in the reality of life love & dating? How can we get in on a little of goodies going around on The Bachelorette? If you’re a girl, just shower men with lots of attention and bare skin. If you’re looking for a man, pretend. Pretend dating is like a rose ceremony. Guessing you’ll be a lot pickier.

 

And Then I Got Puked On (Literally)

Lately I've been a bit unsatisfied with my life assets, and I've publicly disclosed some of those details for ya'll. The dissatisfaction has led to a life portfolio review- scrutinizing the bits and pieces and wondering what to toss, what holds investment value, and what is pure gold. I was starting to feel pretty good about the process.

And then I got puked on.

One of hundreds standing in a crowd of enthusiastic outdoor music attendees, I couldn't help but notice the amateur drinking hour around me. I myself had enjoyed a couple beers, as we living in the unfortunate arctic zone of the USA usually do when we are able to actually enjoy the outdoors, dancing along to some music in a collective crowd while getting lightly drizzled on. The rain didn't bother me, in fact, it probably served me well for the unforeseen event about to occur.

Just as I turned to keep eye on the wild couple beside me (who appeared to be just barely pass legal drinking age) the boy swiveled around and sprayed the contents of his stomach. On me. Before I could even begin to react, he ran like Speedy Gonzales out of there. Lucky boy indeed, as most likely I would have punched him. I, however, was less lucky. I had to wipe puke of my arm. 

I stood there, stunned in the rain. Was this karma? Out of all the people in the crowd, why me?Did I somehow deserve this? I myself have made some selfish decisions as of late. I've done some immature things as of late. I think there are people mad at me. Did I deserve to have immaturity puked all over me?  

Or maybe I am just really unlucky.

I Hate Your Facebook Status

I do. I really do.

Facebook has become the gateway to dangerous behavior of over sharing. Suddenly things that were only privy to one's daydreaming are streamed endlessly for the world to see. Tidbits of thought fluttering through your mind as you open a door or take a sip of coffee. Really important things, like: Jamie is walking her dog. 

I. Don't. Care. Free speech wasn't invented so you could pronounce out loud every action you take. So like a robot you could record your life down to the millisecond. Free speech means if you have something to say, it better be good. You have the power to impress all of your closest 500 facebook friends with your intelligence, wit, thrilling adventures...and this precious gift given to you by some really frickn' lucky tech nerds is being largely used to tell us all something entirely too lame to even bother processing. Sometimes I feel my brain power actually diminishing as I scan through sentences supposed to reveal the inner workings of all my friends. I already have enough of crap information throwing up all over me each day, the last thing I need to know is how you're "feeling kind of sleepy and have a major craving to eat nacho chips." If I wanted to waste my energy thinking about tidbits of non-importance I'd make small talk at an organized singles happy hour. 

Grass is Always Greener on the Other Side

Yesterday while participating in a work related activity, myself and the others involved were chatting about our long weekends, bike rides we're going to take, etc. Small talk. We talked about cabins and lakes, and I revealed I was excited to finally go for a cabin weekend in a couple weeks. I told them a bit about my San Francisco trip. As the one admitted he bought his family an above ground pool because they must stay home all summer and paint the house, he looked to me and admitted, "Man, I wish I had your life."

I'm like, wha???? Laughing in an inside knowledge laugh that says I have inside secrets (I have an inkling he didn't pick up on the complexity of my laugh), I responded,

 

"Well, I'm single, so I have no one to answer to. I can do whatever I want." 

The two of them retreated wistfully to their pasts, wandering back to a time they had no family or significant others to cramp their style. I think I saw a hippie bonfire like played in the movie "Dazed and Confused" in one man's flashback.

Isn't it funny though? How a brief meeting with me, the select conversation, they can conclude I have a life they'd like to swap? I'm guessing with a trial period, they'd go back to what they have. Pretty sure of that. I don't even have Tivo. Any commitment can make us feel strangled from time to time- but without that wistful thinking and the exuberation of breaking free, the freedom isn't necessarily the high one envisions. 

Now, this certainly doesn't make me wish I was painting a house all summer, but I'm just saying...

That's the Thing About Experience- It's Only Yours

The wonderful and alienating thing about life is that only you see what it looks like. Only you feel it. Nobody else can jump into your body and look through your eyes, think through your brain, feel through your body. Thankfully this is the case- there are certainly some people we wish never to see what's behind their thoughts. Like that guy I passed on the train the other day. I silently thanked whatever that I did not know him, did not know his thoughts. Bad things going on there. But many times this gets us in trouble, inhibits our understanding of the world and our relations within. We wonder to ourselves why can't we be understood? Why when I speak do the words get thrown onto a Scrabble board and formed into something completely different? Then I try to unscramble them and form them into what I meant and the whole board gets flipped over. It's confusing and frustrating. The game of life.

I know by writing what I see, writing about my experiences in my little peephole into existence, I am telling my side of the story. Sometimes it isn't even my side, but the perception I've decided to take for the day. Sometimes I even leap to the other side and write from another perspective, just to try things on for the day. But life happens in 360 degrees, and unless you're one of those people on The Matrix, it's impossible to get a view in the round. If we all understood motives and feelings and actions by everyone in the world, it wouldn't be the world we live in. We'd probably run ourselves extinct from over population. We'd all have to be friends, and man would that be boring.

I guess by writing this I just want to be fair. I want to take a moment to admit that I know I am not always right, I see life through this body, I make mistakes (which I hope I readily admit to and learn something from) and I have been on the side of people not understanding who I am, what I am about, and the stupid things I've done. But I do believe the side I take here-as somebody has been on this side. The next day I'll step 15 degrees to the right, and I'll join the new person. The person from yesterday will think I'm ludicrous.

(My favorite side is Chelsea Handler's though, as whatever side she's on is hilarious and what I deem absolute truth. You should too.)

Crazy People (Everyone) Should Have to Pee on a Stick

In the last few weeks I’ve witnessed or been part of the discussion of several unsavory behaviors. Many of these behaviors affecting romantic relations in a heartbreakingly staggering way (shout out to Eggers). Actions that make one squint their eyes in concentration and conclude that a person who can perform such action must be indeed crazy. Crazy.

Such an influx of rampant behaviors swirling around us, my good friend and I decided it’s time for government to step in. Yes, I propose government regulation in the birth of relationships. No, not marriage/divorce. Simply a pee test. Before you get into a serious relationship, you and your chosen must drive on over to your friendly courthouse or scientific lab and pee on a stick. The pee will be analyzed for behaviors, characteristics, strengths and flaws and then a detailed report returned to you. You then read your report, find out that you are scientifically a nag, and then compare to your prospective romantic partner. Here is where you really find out what’s going on. If his report finds that he’s a nag as well, well, it might work out. You’ll nag each other to death, but at least you can’t point fingers. If his says he’ll cheat on you no short of 50 times during your relationship, you can drop him off at the nearest brothel. Unless, of course, you’ve got the 3% gene that says you don’t care if he cheats on you, or the characteristic that says if he takes care of you financially and emotionally, you don’t care what goes on. It would really make things much simpler. And come on- it’d save lives! Look at that football player who got murdered by his crazy mistress. If you’re gonna take a mistress, you better be sure she doesn’t have the crazies.

Look for legislation in a city near you.

 

When A Girl Travels Alone

What nobody ever tells you, as parents and authorities alike ingrain from early on the behavior is bad: Running away is sometimes really good. Sometimes, it's the best option possible.

I've always wanted to travel alone, and this past weekend I did just that. In the spur of the moment with a long weekend looming ahead and plans that had unraveled due to recent unfortunate social incidents, I decided to travel solo to a place I've wanted to see and had never been. I always find myself waiting for travel- waiting for the right time, waiting for the perfect person to enjoy it with, waiting to have tons of money so I don't feel guilty. But the problem with eternal waiting is that eventually time will run out. Money may never come. The perfect companion may never come. So I gave a mental "screw that" and booked a spontaneous trip.

In the process I got an inside look at what it means to be The Solo Female Traveler. People think you're nuts. Worried phone calls from family members, thinking collectively I may have reached the end of my wits. Meeting people on foreign public transportation who ask, "Surely you are meeting someone here?" When I shook my head no, their faces froze in whatever expression they had so not to reveal how they really feel (sad for me, scared for me, amazed I can self-entertain for extended periods of time). I laughed it off, shrugged my shoulders, and simply replied, "Why not?"

But The Solo Female Traveler shifted me into a whole new character. Suddenly I was carefree, fun, adventurous. I commonly possess these traits- but to the outside world, they dominated. I felt more open, free. I actually initiated conversations with strangers (may or may not have been due to my getting drunk on the plane with an Irish professional soccer coach). I think I might have even been more attractive, more alluring. People complimented me. I was hopeful. I felt awesome. I walked around the city with nobody to cajole out of bed early in the morning, nobody complaining about walking steep hills, nobody bored when I took 10 minutes to get the perfect picture, and nobody telling me when I had to eat (well, this got me in trouble later, as I got quite intoxicated after only a piece of sourdough to nourish my 8 hour walk). It was splendid! Of course there were times it would have been nice to be with someone special. My heart felt a slight ache. Sharing the beauty of a beautiful city. Discovering a cool restaurant together. Sharing the swanky hotel room. But I have to say- it was still a perfect runaway. An experience I only know about, my secret to keep close to me.

Arriving home was a bit tougher. As I walked off the plane I got hit with reality. Gloom passed over me, wanting to leap back into the fun adventurous hopeful life. I was reminded of the reasons I felt such a need to get away. But maybe pretending is the best way to go about it? My trip assured me I am not destined to face a reality that sucks. I just need to figure out what I can afford to runaway from.

To The Girl Who Wanted To Be "The Other Girl" With My Boyfriend

Dear Wannabe Mistress Girl,

I'm writing you this letter to help explain to you where you've chosen to stand in this world. When you peeled your clothing off and made your way into my boyfriend's (ex-boyfriend's) bed and into the warm cozy corner that I've slept in for the past 9 months, you also peeled away the scant amount of dignity you may have had. Now I understand why you'd want to sleep in my body formed spot. Being the sub-par female you are, you probably hoped some of my morals & genuine character could rub off on you in the process. However, it seems your education has also failed you, because this isn't actually possible. A person's essence cannot be transferred via skin to fabric. The only way to move up your quality to a classy and good woman is to change your entire being. Lofty goal I am sure. Maybe impossible. 

I also understand by removing your shirt, while my ex-boyfriend slept in a drunken stupor, that you had the interest of relations with him. Relations that were exclusive to he and I. Perhaps you imagined yourself a beautiful seductress? The problem in this equation is you are not beautiful, you are ugly. I know, because I was lucky enough to see you. And I know you know me- because we've all enjoyed drinks together. A woman who must crawl into another woman's bed is a pathetic scrounger, picking up scraps of attention wherever she can get it. A beggar. Sloppy seconds. Afterthought. A 2% need in a 100% world.

While I do not know what did/did not happen that evening, I do know this: when I looked at you and told you that "you are a horrible person" and you replied with "I know"- that should be a massive clue to you. Take that clue and plaster it on your boobs you seem to be so proud of and wear it as your scarlet letter. Bottle those self-loathing insecurities and save them for self-reflection, as your outward expression hurts others. Ruins lives. And the man who makes the mistake of letting you slip into his bed, well, he has to live with the fact he let a snake replace beauty. We all fall, but some are. You are.

As I drop this letter into cyber-world I jump on a jet plane to discover unknowns in life, to clear my aura of your sickening stench. I'll breathe new air I've never inhaled, all the while exhaling my sadness over people like you. When I return, you will be just as you always are, a distant memory of a mistake.

Best of luck to you in your future endeavors,

Girltwentiesh

Yup, I'm Single. Now Getting Hit On is Gross.

It's like once you're single you emit some silent vibe inviting all in, some powerful magnetism that lets men know to act inappropriately towards you. Is there a body wash I can use to throw the scent? The other day a guy actually WINKED at me. Winked! It was a slow-mo walk by as if he believed some crappy 80's love song and a windy burst were pushing him along, with his head cranked towards me plastered with a his "sexy" smile his entire stride. I stared. I think my mouth might have even dropped open in awe. Of course he thought it was the most irresistible thing he's done to a lady in years. A little bit of my own sexuality died as a result of the offense. 

The thing is, getting hit on when I'm happily attached doesn't bother me. It's always funny (particularly when played out as above) to some degree. But while I'm in a relationship it serves as merely  a humorous justification that yes, my man can feel proud to have me. Why thank you sir for telling me I have beautiful eyes! Yes, yes I am attached. Why thank you for telling me he's the luckiest man in the world! I think he is too.

But when you're very recently singleized (definitely not a real word but should be), it just feels dirty.  Like a mockery. Like the man winking at me in the bar is the pointing finger to the population I now belong to...not the blissfully in love and floating above on cloud nine shooting rainbows down at crappy bar scenes. Now getting hit on, it's just soooo gross.

*And lets be honest, we never call it "getting hit on" when it's a man of substantial quality and charm. We then just call it "a chance meeting."