DUH!

I don’t understand people and their criticism. Reading takes some sort of conscious effort. If you don’t like what I write, then why are you putting the energy into reading it? Unlike television, you have to work to read, even if it is just the teeniest little effort.

Don’t get me wrong, I love rubbing people the wrong way, getting a reaction is what I do best. I’m sure most of my friends and all of my ex’s would describe me as difficult in one way or another. So, for everyone that has had something negative to say about my blog, let me just say this, thank you.

That being said, I’ve had a busy week. Let me introduce NYU, not the university, but the person. A new addition to the ever-turning disaster wheel that is my dating life. We finally had a “date” which was good overall, leaving my neck bruised like a high school virgin. I have two reservations when it comes to NYU.

1)Only 20 years old

2)As an “artist” he may be too into the illusion of an artist

I tend to date up when it comes to age. With the exception of a few people, I find that dating older is easier. Younger guys are typically more interested in racking up a certain number of partners than they are in a lasting relationship. We’ve all been there, so it’s to be expected. That’s not to say that there aren’t a ton of older guys that behave in the same manner. How many of those have I encountered?

The illusion of an artist: It’s easy to be defined by what you do when you’re a writer, painter, singer, dancer, etc. The problem is when people are so enveloped in being an “artist” that they have this smug air about them that’s almost intolerable. For example I’ll tell people I’m a writer, but if you ask what I write I’ll tell you that’s my other life. I have no interest in discussing my books with people unless it’s a signing and mandatory. I don’t know if NYU actually fits the artist illusion profile, but I get the feeling that it isn’t far below the surface. It might just be because he’s young and very into the idea of what he’ll eventually do with his life. There’s nothing wrong with dedication.

The reality is this: I’m staying single for my own metal sanity. One-night stands are not an option, and I’m remaining in the realm where it’s all about me. There’s nothing wrong with being selfish sometimes. NYU is cute but in reality I’m positive he wouldn’t be able to handle me.

The surprise of my week came last night when my roomie woke me up at 4:00a.m. with,

“the fire department is here.”

I’d taken a sleeping pill and gone to bed at 2:00a.m. so it was a wonder I responded at all. I fell out of bed, making my way into the living room. There was a smell like burning plastic. As fireman prodded about the apartment we just sat on the couch and laughed, mostly because I was two steps outside of my head. Unfortunately I knocked over the smelly perfume thing my roomie had on the back of the toilet. Our apartment is now infested with mold and smells like a brothel. I suppose the two really go hand-in-hand. We were never informed if there was a problem, but went back to bed when the three fire engines left. The apartment hunt is on. We have one month to find a new place and be out of this pit of doom.

I’m dedicating this blog to my B. Brown who is my biggest fan and a close friend who understands what it’s like to be inside this head.

Pretty Pretty Pretty

Is it such a bad thing to have this concept floating around your head at all hours of the day and night? When vanity takes a key role in your life is it something to be revered, or something to be corrected?

The Animator had made comment on my ability to “space out” during a conversation. He jokingly mentioned that he envisions me saying, “pretty, pretty, pretty” inside my head. Some of the time I am, who am I to kid you? There are other times that I’m actually just lost in thought, or even completely turned off. There’s no need to run your brain 24-hours a day, give it a rest.

I bring this up after watching ‘Confessions of a Shopaholic’. I thought the movie was ok, but overall it felt like a normal day in the life of a New Yorker. There was nothing that remarkable about this girls’ life, aside from the fantasy romance that is completely unrealistic. Though I do understand the high received when swiping your card for that new pair of jeans, or that shirt that you can’t live another moment without.

What’s my pretty point? This: We use shopping to fill the gaps within ourselves, not to mention a handful of other things. Such as: friends, alcohol, boyfriends and vibrators (for some). I’ve always been one to choose myself over anyone else. In my list of priorities I’m up there on the list, along with work, school friends, and pets. Relationships don’t even round out my top ten priorities in life. I’ve left guys for not liking my friends, I’ve felt sweaters instead of emotions and I’ve moved along a path that leads to labels, not love.

The dilemma I’m facing is my inability to understand why people consider a label life to be a bad decision over a love life. Love is promised to fade, how can it not when we live in a society that encourages us to break up, move on, and start over again? Knowing I’m probably destined to spend the rest of my life in short-term mostly meaningless relationships, why not chose the jeans over the jerks? I know if one guy doesn’t fit, the jeans will, and if they don’t I can exchange them for store credit. On second thought, if the city were willing to offer a love-back guarantee with every relationship, I might be more willing to make the investment.

For now, I’ll stick to what I know. Enjoy my friends, don’t invest in anything that can’t be hung in a closet, and don’t max out the physical or emotional credit limit under any circumstances (the interest on both is higher than anyone can ever payback).

Now What? That's What.

My roomie and I are celebrating six months together in our apartment. Considering all the problems we ran into in the first half of our lease, I have wondered what's in store for our future. It only took a day after thinking the question for my answer to arrive.

Tuesdays are the days that my roomie and I do some bonding. We go to breakfast, hit the tanning salon and then wander around the city looking for places to spend our hard earned cash. Together we are bad influences on one another. It’s like pin-pong of the shopping addicts. We feed the addiction of each other to buy more, more, more! Our plan was to play, I’d go to work, then we’d head home and start the sorting. Both our closets are bursting at the seams and I like to go through once or twice a year and get rid of what I no longer wear.

Playing, veto this and keep that, we started with my roomie’s closet. Jeans, shirts, skirts and dresses were tossed into the pile that would eventually be disposed of. Then she paused to ask a question,

“What does mold look like?”

I hopped off the bed to see what she was looking at. On the side wall of the closet the drywall was bubbling from water damage and covered in black circles. It was disgusting and relieving to see the black mess. For the past few months we’ve been trying to figure out what’s been giving the two of us rashes. We’ve changed laundry soap, dryer sheets, shampoo, cleaning chemicals, switched to bottled water, but nothing was changing. Knowing the mold was most likely the cause of our problem I was instantly relieved.

We took a few pictures and emailed them to our Jews, with an explanation of the problem. The Jews are our landlords in case you’ve forgotten. No response. The next day my roomie waited at home trying to get a hold of the Jews. No luck. The following day I waited at home, the Jews had said they would be there. When no one had shown up by three we pulled out the big guns. My roomie has an uncle that is a lawyer. We texted the Jews to tell them that if someone wasn’t to our apartment in an hour we would be moving ahead with legal action. Amazing enough there were workers to our apartment in twenty minutes.

The diagnosis: The removal and replacement of my roomie’s wall. I think it’s funny that this is how our second six months have started. If the problems start bigger, will they get worse? Will we get a karmic break and have good fortune for the rest of our lease? Either way I’m happy to know what’s causing our health issues and even happier knowing that it’s about to be over. YAY for no more itching!

Mostly Sexy Though

If I can run across two fist fights on the same street, in the same day, just hours apart, and understand to some degree the reasoning; then why can I not figure out gays?

Last night I ventured out for my first real night on the town this year. In the past month and a half I’ve backed off from the social scene to get myself in order and figure things out. What have I figured out: Not a freakin’ thing! Not that it matters. I’ve made a few adjustments and I’m almost ready to get back on the dating horse (no pun intended). I’ve been spending a lot of time with The Animator, still not sure what direction I’m taking that. We do have a great time together, though I’m still on the bitter barn side of things when it comes to dating. I’m really not sure I’m willing to open up to the idea.

Now for the dirt. Let us keep a drink count as we go along. I met up with The Animator at View Bar in Chelsea. It’s a total homo dive bar and I love it. We sat there while I drank my first four beers, waiting on my friend PETA to show up. It took two hours, but he finally arrived. Sadly, The Animator was down for the count and headed home. We moved on to one of my favorite clubs, Mr. Blacks. It only took five minutes after checking my coat for someone to attach to me. Hello, Short Man.

Opening line: You’re really cute. My response: I know. Shallow? A little, but in a really adorable panda way. He offered to buy me a drink and I couldn’t say no. Short Man was nice enough to buy PETA a drink as well. I don’t like people hanging on me when I’m out and about, that’s the point of being single, to be single. I did give him my number after refusing his first five invitations to exchange numbers at his nearby apartment. I may be young, I may be blonde, but I’m really not that dumb. I’ve never understood why everyone lives so nearby when they’re trying to get you into bed. Am I the only person that travels into the city from Brooklyn?

Grabbing another drink, that would be number six, I made my way to the giant fan. The only drawback of clubs would be the fact that they’re a million and three degrees inside. Guy number two approached me talking about random things that I wasn’t interested in. I noticed he was wearing a sweatshirt, which in NYC is not allowed outside of your bathroom. Not only that, but he was acting like someone who hadn’t been out of their house in ten years. I asked where he was from; I knew he wasn’t from NYC. He beat around the bush, finally admitting he was from Long Island. That made sense; he was socially inept, only about a skip, hop and a drink from being in the same group as the Ex.

Mr. Nipples came next, as did last call. Exiting the bathroom, my arm was grabbed and I was pulled to the dance floor. No sooner had he asked my name than stuck his hand under my shirt. I was tipsy enough that I was allowing it, thinking that I would later write about him. Within five minutes I was up against a wall and he was tongue deep into my nipples. Now, I’ve never really been a big nipple player, so to meet one was an experience and a half. Realizing it was nearly five I had to get myself to bed. I pulled myself away, Mr. Nipples following close behind. I ended up going home with him. Don’t label me a whore just yet. Nothing happened. I spent the night because he lived around the corner from my work, but I’m very much on this no sex binge. I left in the morning, giving Mr. Nipples my number. To be honest I’m not waiting for his call.

At work that day I was surprised by a visit from a guy I had gone on two dates with forever ago. Our first date was great and the second slightly awkward. I had assumed he wasn’t interested considering there had been no cues from him. This surprise visit leaves me wondering if he’s interested or if it really just was a friendly hello. Only time will tell, but for now I’ll continue to speculate.

He Just Wants Inside You

There are people in this world that were meant to be loved. I am not one those people. I envy and hate those people. I am a wanted person, not a lovable person.

What’s the difference? People that are loved find long-term relationships with one special someone and get the happy ending. The rest of us get screwed. I mean literally screwed. That’s what we’re wanted for. We’re the in between people that these guys are spending their time in until they find the person they really want. Wanted people are generally really popular when they’re young, extra pretty in their 20’s, often untouchable in their 30’s, and then invisible in their 40’s.

I still, and my roomie can vouch, believe my first boyfriend is the only guy that’s ever loved me. Now that the relationship is so far underground that it may as well be in China, I’m at a crossroads. Will I be single forever? Over dramatic, or possible reality? I was asked if I believed I would be single forever by a friend in PA a night ago. I answered yes. I am pre-disposed to think and feel this way, and I have a list of guys that have confirmed that it’s probably going to be a reality. I don’t find this to be disturbing, which you probably find disturbing.

I have always been able to get guys to want me. I mean, it’s not that hard, gay or straight, guys are guys. The problem is: I can’t get any of them to want more than my bedroom face. My theory is that you can either be loved or wanted. I’m fine with not being in the loved category and I definitely enjoy being wanted, but I don’t want to be seen as a whore. One of the guys I work with thought it was amazing that I hadn’t been having sex non-stop since the last douche I dated. Not that I’m a total lesbian, I just don’t feel the urge to put everything that walks by in my mouth or down my pants. Too bad I can’t apply that rule to Starbucks, as far as in my mouth.

Is there a happy medium that I’m overlooking? I’m constantly seen as a whore or hooker because I speak my mind and never censor myself. As far as the actual number of partners I’ve had, I know I’m way lower on the totem pole than a few of the guys I’ve dated. If you’re pretty, you must be a slut. If you’re ugly, you are tragic. If you’re average, you’ll be married. If you’re not in one of these categories, call me I need to know you’re secret!

Being serious again, I wonder what’s the point of dating if it’s a fact that I’ll end up alone? I don’t know if it’s worth investing time into another person when I know they’ll leave me when they find the person they’ve been looking for. Is there a slight chance that it is possible to move from wanted to lovable? If this transition is possible, does it mean that I have to change?

before & after

When a first date is on the way, there is that feeling of fluttery anticipation. That’s the before part. The part when you don’t really know the other person, and you’re feelings are all on the hope side of the scale.

After reading the rest of the posts on here you probably assume that I’m unable to get my emotional hard-on going. Fear not! It just so happens that I am not completely devoid of human emotion. Recently I was talking with my friend B. Brown about meeting people online. She asked my opinion on hanging out with someone from the Internet. I was a little on the fence in giving my initial response. On one hand you aren’t sure if they’re going to be nuts, and then they might turn out to be more normal than the people we usually date. We’re two peas in a pod when it comes to dating toxic guys.

Conveniently a guy sent me an email on Facebook, which I initially thought nothing of. Random strangers send me messages on Facebook all the time; it’s just how the site works. We chatted it up for a bit and then I noticed I was being drawn in by his sense of humor. That was a red flag. Turning back a few months, what was the thing I said drew me to The Devil? HUMOR! I was eager to throw in the towel, finally deciding I should have a proper date with The Animator before dumping him.

We spent roughly a week texting, all very innocent and comical. Then came the night that we were going to meet. It was arranged that we would meet at Starbucks (of course) after I got off work. He was 10 minutes late, I was 20. As I walked across the street, I could see The Animator standing outside the coffee shop. A slight case of panic set in, making my heart jump and my palms sweat.

After…

Hands down, the best date I’ve gone on in the past year, including the last two relationships I was involved in. I say involved in because I feel now like I was more of a character in them than an actual participant. Coffee turned into a movie; sadly the movie we were intending to see was sold out. The Animator and I decided to buy a movie and head back to my place. I must admit I had the intentions of molesting him upon arrival and then there was the part of me that just wanted to see my apartment. I hadn’t been home for the past four days (working in Baltimore).

We watched two movies and I was burnt out. I was falling asleep before we even crawled into my bed. There was no hanky-panky, don’t get the wrong idea. We did cuddle, which I usually find to be an annoying turn off. Somehow, it was nice, almost comfortable. I’m not sure if there’s anything between us, maybe it was just a coincidence. I’m not ready to count this boy out of the game, but I’m not putting all of my eggs in his basket considering most of them are still cracked. Stay tuned.

No Faux Ho

One of my talents would be the mind-numbing ability to analyze things to death. I think about situations from every angle, lying awake into the late hours of the night, trying to figure out what every word, touch and action meant.

**WARNING** I’m about to analyze another Devil situation.

There are those moments that catch you off guard. It feels similar to when you’ve gone up an extra step and your foot plummets through the air in search of what isn’t there. On an island as small as Manhattan, it is inevitable that you’ll run into people you know. I ran into the ex for the first time since our split. When it happened I was in an allergy daze. I’ve been taking an antihistamine that leaves me in a calm and distance place. The Devil tapped me on the arm as we passed in opposite directions. The conversation was awkward and somewhat forced but civil.

My brain didn’t immediately process what had just happened. The encounter didn’t sink in until later that night as the effects of my pills wore off. Temporarily in a normal state of mind, I was unsure of where The Devil found the courage to approach me. Had he not tugged at my coat sleeve, I wouldn’t have noticed him. Even if I had noticed him, in a normal state, I don’t think I would have acknowledged him. Then again, I may have scratched his eyes out, or shoved him in front of a bus, I’m just random like that.

I forgot the encounter until two days later when two messages from The Devil appeared in my mailbox. The subject lines read: “What happens to bad pandas,” and “The way this guy spoke reminded me of you.” *Insert irritated stare here* Yes, I opened them. I watched the panda one, because I love them, ignoring the other message. There was a quick exchange of messages back and forth as I was leaving the office. Here’s the part I’m forced by nature to analyze. The Devil was compelled to tell me that Monday was his one-month anniversary and he didn’t want to be in D.C., are you freakin’ kidding me?

There must be at least five separate occasions where I wrote about The Devil not wanting to be in New York and how he just loved D.C. I took this as a personal attack. So the reality is that he just didn’t like being in New York with me. The new guy must give phenomenal head to get The Devil to change like that, kudos to the poor sap. We exchanged a few more emails and then I took my allergy pills, moving back into a foggy state of mind.

I was unable to understand why The Devil felt the need to email me? It’s been happening almost weekly, even though on New Years’ Eve I made my feelings towards him quiet clear. Note, even when I’m drunk, I mean what I say. So I asked,

“I'm curious to know your angle. I mean, what's with the emails? Is there a point you're trying to make?”

Response,

“No, actually just being friendly. I do like you. You know that I spent a bit of time with you, so I don't want us on bad terms.”

Through the fog I wrote,

“And in that bit of time you, if nothing else, learned how bitter and vengeful I am. I reiterated that several times. I'm not saying we're on bad terms but they're not good. Your interests are in a faux friendship and mine are in the blissful ignorance of forgetfulness. We were together, now we're not. Done deal. There's no reason to communicate now, when we couldn't do it before.”

I am curious as to what time he’s referring to when he says we spent a bit of it together. Is it the time where I sat on his bed writing, while he was emailing hook-ups? Maybe it was the time we went to the diner and he sent texts while I was eating. No, it must be the time that he slept while I tried to not fall off the edge of the bed he couldn’t manage to make room for me in.

In the past month there has been no initiation of contact on my part. I’ve done my best to get over it and on with my life, yet he is insistent upon making his presence known. I don’t understand a person being that selfish. The Devil dumped me, am I not owed the courtesy of being left alone? The emails ended with him telling me to have it my way. I hope I do get it my way. Nothing would please me more than to never share another word, glance, or room with The Devil.