NY-EWWW

One-night stands are not an option, or so I’ve mentioned before. I can happily say that NYU is officially a two-fer. Don’t get too excited just yet, there’s still a story to read.

Leaving the gym a few nights ago, I thumbed through the messages that had been left on my phone in the previous hour. NYU had called a few times and left some frantic sounding messages. We haven’t known each other for a considerable amount of time, but this seemed out of character. I called him back to see if everything was ok. He said he was fine, but asked if I could meet him, considering it was only two blocks, I agreed.

We met and he looked drunk and upset. Oh, that look, how well I wear that look. Looks I also sport: Drunk and angry, drunk and messy, lastly my favorite, drunk and passed out. Handing me his guitar case, I carried it as we walked into the train station. NYU mumbled a bit, saying,

“Let’s just go home.”

Instantly I assumed he meant to his place near Chinatown. That wasn’t an option for me. I still had work to finish before bed, and I hate traveling that far downtown, I’m a lazy traveler. When NYU made his way for the L train it became clear that he was inviting himself to my home. That was fine, but all I had on the mind was work.

True to myself, as usual, I started working as soon as we got to my apartment. Not for lack of trying, but NYU did his best to get into my pants. There was a good thirty minutes of me pushing him off of me before he finally gave up. I wrapped work up in about an hour and NYU was back at it. I was up for a little diet action, but I was in no mood for going all the way. (How 12 year old did I just sound?)

Light kissing, turned into light touching, then petting, then begging. Yes, begging. Please, please, please was all I was getting, but I just didn’t want to have sex. I’d worked all day and I was beat. In that moment I suddenly realized I had gotten back to myself. For the longest time now, I’ve been more interested in playing than working. I’m not sure what caused the change, but I’m back to my old work self. The problem is that I give into peer pressure if it will get someone to leave me alone.

So, we did it. After about fifteen minutes I was ready to be done. I pushed myself to finish, but NYU was taking forever! Finally, I hopped off and told him he had to be done. I offered a hand, but it was still taking too long. I told him to finish it up as I hopped in the shower. VIOLATION! NYU joined me in the shower. I have very strict bathroom policies. There are only four people I will allow in the bathroom with me. Unless I’m drunk, then all bets are off.

As a person, I like NYU. I think he’s a nice guy, but still too smug for my taste. Also, we would have to work on the space thing. I’m very; ‘you need to not be in my bubble’, where NYU is like; ‘hey, I’m throwing penis darts at you form every angle’. I think this may be the end of his time in my story, but we’ll see. I mean, you never know when one of those penis darts are going to hit you in the eye.

Lesbianism

Every time a drunk girl gets groped, a lesbian gets her mullet. That’s how it works in the gay bar, and all lesbian arenas, I’m guessing.

Once a year a holiday comes along that boost enrollment of alcoholic’s anonymous chapters nationwide: St. Patrick’s Day. It’s one of those magical holidays that leave you feeling warm and tingly. Caution must be exercised, else you’ll be wearing that warm and tingly down the front of your shirt. This year St. Patty’s Day landed on a Tuesday, and that’s the day that my roomie and I always play.

The day started with breakfast, shopping and coffee; all very standard for a Tuesday. Next we made out way downtown to meet our new lawyer, then back on the train for dinner and drinks. For the first time, in a long time, I got turned around. We rode the train into the heart of Brooklyn, which explains why we were the only white people in sight.  Luckily, my roomie dates chocolate and I have an honorary chocolate card.

Jumping ahead to the fun: We arrived at my favorite Brooklyn dive, racing for the bar. Two beers in The Animator arrived, three beers in PETA arrived. At this point my roomie was loosened up. I know because she was letting us all play with her fun bags (I may be a lesbian after all). It wasn’t long before The Animator and PETA left us, and we were left to our own devices. It’s never smart to leave us unsupervised.

We talked to another odd couple, Candy Mountain and his lesbian sidekick. The two were a cute duo and we talked to them for the remainder of the night. As I continued to drink I wondered if perhaps my roomie would be willing to go girl for a night. She was drinking her boyfriend drama away and the girl she was talking to was cute. Then again, where would they play? My roomie and I are living in my room now that her bedroom has been consumed with mold. Not that I’m totally opposed to letting them borrow the bed for a night.

The hour of our departure arrived faster than anticipated and we made our way out of the bar. We walked with our “friends” to the train, letting them grab a cab while we headed underground. I didn’t realize how drunk my roomie was until we sat down. When she drinks, really drinks, she gets hyper. It’s like watching a kid have a pound of sugar. The train crawled to our stop and we giggled our way down the street. My roomie said good night and hopped into bed, I plopped on the couch. I texted a few friends to talk about their nights. The evening had been a hilarious spectacle and totally worth almost turning my roomie into a lesbian.

Sick Satisfaction

Society says that we shouldn’t take pleasure from other people’s pain. I’m happy to say that this is one more way that I break with the conventions of public opinion.  I revel in the misery of others, that I feel deserve what they’ve gotten.

Would it surprise anyone if I said that I was happy to hear The Devil was having relationship problems? I highly doubt anyone would bat an eye at the topic. Well, it’s better than that. Relationship karma is punishing him with a vengeance. I believe that my punishment for treating Biker Boy poorly was The Devil. I believe that The Devil’s punishment for treating me poorly is his current “boyfriend”.

With a late night instant message The Devil and I were talking again. We have some sort of frienemiship that is functional to the point that we can converse. He told me that he and the new boyfriend were over. What was my initial reaction? I laughed for ten full minutes and almost peed my pants. It was no surprise, but it was just nice to hear that he wasn’t getting a happy ending after what had happened between us.

The best part came when he told me about the relationship and the fighting. He mentioned how much easier I was to deal with, and that he was always jealous of the attention I got when we went out. At that point I was given the closure I had waited months for. After The Devil had tossed me out in the snow for reasons I didn’t understand, I got what I needed. To make it clear, he has given a number of reasons (not directly to me) for why he dumped me. One was that he wanted me to learn a lesson about recreational drug use. I thought that was an interesting one considering he’s the one that introduced me to drugs in the first place. Then there was the excuse that I was too immature. What else was there… I was too young, too pretty, etc. I was a whole lot of too much for him.

In a way I feel bad for The Devil. His current “boyfriend” is doing everything he did to me. Blowing him off, saying he doesn’t want to be too serious, and every other ridiculous excuse for not wanting to date someone. The funny thing is, even though all of this is just what The Devil did to me, he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see that this guy is just an older version of him; no, he’s “madly in love”.

I gave The Devil honest advice. I told him the guy isn’t into him and that he should just hop online and look for his next trick. I know he’ll pursue this guy to the point of a restraining order because he’s “all about the chase”.  There were a total of three days that we instant messaged about the topic, and they’re not officially broken up. However, after the emails that were forwarded to me, they may as well be. I would place a hundred dollar bet that his ginger “boyfriend” is giving head to at least three other people.

I’m happy that I got what I needed. I feel slightly bad that The Devil screwed himself over without learning a lesson. His next relationship will be the one that could be good, but knowing him, he’ll toss the guy and move onto another asshole. To The Devil I say good luck in your endless cycle of breakups and heartbreaks.

Make Up Ur Mind

Life is filled with an unlimited number of choices. It seems with every decision we make, there are ten new choices available, and five that are lost. Which choices are good, which are bad? Is it worth regretting the ones we make, or the ones we lost out on?

   

In the last year things have changed, changed and changed again. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like myself regarding work. Yesterday my Disco Biscuits mentioned that I looked extra tired. I glanced in the mirror, of course, and there they were. I hadn’t seen them in some time. The black circles that accompany anyone

that works too much. They’re like little black hitchhikers hanging out under my eyes.

As of late, I’ve been sacrificing sleep in order to keep up with my growing workload. I can’t understand how, but I’m still behind on all the projects I need to get done. My hand is covered in a list of tasks, and my iCalendar keeps dinging to tell me something is late. Even now, I am sending reports to my boss and trying to finish up a grant proposal. I love the feeling of being needed. When it comes to work I want to be needed, I need to be needed. If only I could apply that to dating, but it’s like I told The Animator,

“What can a person do for me?”

I’ve made a load of bad decisions. In fact if we could stack all of my decisions on a scale, the bad side would greatly outweigh the good. I don’t regret most of the bad decisions I’ve made. I’ve learned a lot, had some fun, burnt my hands and had my ass kicked. Then there is that nagging in my head that tells me what if I had done certain things different, or what if I had made yes decisions where I said no?

I’m a what if’er. I’ve lost out on money because I hated a job, or a boss, or just quit. I’ve thrown away great relationships because I thought there was something better out there. I just wonder if I’m losing out on more than I bargained for? It’s no surprise that life has choices, but doesn’t it seem that not a day goes by without having to make fifty decisions? Even the simple things become exhausting, what to make for dinner, where to meet friends, what to do.

I do at times wonder what things would be like financially if I had made less drastic decisions. What if I hadn’t left the West Coast? What if I hadn’t dumped Jerome? That last one I used to think about a lot. We all have that one person that got away, well, I have the one I threw away. That’s the guy I should have stuck with, but I thought I knew better. It took two years of self-torment to finally let it go. We’re still friends but I no longer have that image of getting back together. Instead, I settle for the douche nozzles that come my way.

For now, I’m content where I am in life. I’m hoping things as far as work somehow gel and the schedule becomes less exhausting, or I’ll have to leave one of my jobs. I’m fortunate in the sense that I can laugh my way through the hard times, and play with my friends in the tired times. I have my roomie to keep me occupied and my posse that roams the city, willing to venture out at a moments notice.

Are You That Slut?

I spent an evening with my friend PETA at my favorite local dive bar. When I say dive, I mean it. No heat, just a fireplace, plastic furniture, and free shots!

Having been overly busy with work I hadn’t had the chance to play with my friends. When PETA text me to see what I was doing, his timing couldn’t have been better. I had just stepped out of the train station when his text popped up; usually I hesitate when someone wants to go out for a late drink. I agreed to meet him back at the train station.

The bar was nearly empty when we arrived just before midnight. We grabbed a round, and sat on the only comfortable surface near the very back. The bar was freezing inside, but considering it was nearing zero outside, it felt mildly warm. We chatted about this and that, when I started getting texts from Biker Boy. This is my ex from more than a year ago. I fondly remember our break-up and him throwing a snowball at me. Memories.

Biker Boy was looking for relationship advice. Seriously? If you need relationship advice, you go to a therapist. If you need someone to instruct you on how to best hurt yourself, you come to me. Biker Boy said he was afraid his boyfriend was cheating on him, but seemed upset when I jokingly asked if he had caught the boyfriend with his mouth full. Come on, that’s funny. I told him I had no advice other than to back off. I dumped him for being too damn clingy and it sounds like this guy is about to do the same.

Then PETA’s boyfriend (I use the term boyfriend loosely. Very, very loosely) began texting. He was just checking in to see how things were going, and PETA told him that we were out for a drink. Then the thing happen that always happens when I’m out with a non-single friend. The boyfriend asked if I was the slut he was texting the other night. Yes, I was that slut. However, I am not PETA’s slut. We’re friends of the normal kind. The boyfriend flipped out before finally ignoring PETA’s texts completely.

As the night was coming to an end and my blood alcohol level was reaching its peak, I asked,

“What is it about me that makes people think slut?”

Is it the blonde? Is it the pretty, pretty, pretty? Or is it that I probably could get their boyfriends into bed if I were that type of person? PETA never really answered, but told me to work it and not worry about it. It doesn’t bother me; I’m just curious what the quality is. I’ll start figuring that mystery out as soon as I find out how you turn a wanted person into a loved person.

Maximizing the Satisfiers

I mentioned that there are two types of people when it comes to relationships. Wanted people are not lovable, but always desired. Loved people are… just that.

Let’s take the next step. There are two subcategory types of people. We have satisfiers and maximizers. Satisfiers are people that go for immediate gratification; these people usually fall into the wanted category. Maximizers are rational people that find satisfaction in choices that take time to make. The level of satisfaction is typically less than that felt by satisfiers, but results in a longer lasting satisfaction. It’s no surprise that maximizers are also the people that are loved.

Is anyone surprised when I say that I’m a satisfier?  I have no savings because it takes a lot of money to continuously satisfy myself. Maximizers fill the satisfaction void with love. I fill the satisfaction void with shiny bobbles. Just one more thing that adds to my shallow puddle of being, but I’m happier than you’d imagine.

Not all satisfiers fill their void with Hilton sized shopping sprees. Some fill the void with depression, drugs, alcohol, hate, and other people. Not to contradict myself, the people are not loved that they’re filling the void with. Wanted people are used to fill the void that some satisfiers have. Example: At my part-time job an Asian man has been stopping in with obnoxious frequency over the past three weeks. I’m unable to recall his name, but he knows mine.

With each visit of The Asian, there is a little more aggression in his approach. On his last trip into the store he mentioned that we should grab a drink. I laughed politely and told him that I worked too late to go out after. He then suggested that we meet up sometime. I reached for a little white lie and told him that I had a boyfriend. To no surprise he wasn’t concerned. Well know this, my imaginary boyfriend is big, bulky, and overprotective of my skinny white behind. He’ll f you up!

Luckily, there were other customers in the store at the time. The Asian tends to get scared off whenever he can’t get me alone, which feels very pedophile like. I don’t want to be rude, but if I have to tell The Asian I’m never going to slob on his knob, I will. The unfortunate thing about satisfiers is that when they want something, they don’t stop wanting it until they’ve had it. I want every shirt until I buy it, The Asian wants every boy until he gets them. At least that’s what I’m guessing.

I may have to go into the booty protection program. I’ll re-dye my spot, change my cloths, and wear a stick on mustache. If nothing else, I’ll be about as attractive as a lesbian at a mud wrestling party. Then again, he may be kinky like that.