Tag Archives: dating

Mighty morphing body changers.

6 Jun

Smiles is, among many other things, an incredibly talented artist. She’s in an art show this evening which is accompanied by a reception for the artists. I’m not entirely sure all the details, but I do know that tickets are around $100 and because she’s an honored guest, as her “significant other,” I get to be her honored guest.

Win.

This will be our second major get-all-fancy-and-dine-with-people-who-have-loads-of-money event, and I’m ridiculously excited. We go to a lot of events together, but I live for the fancy ones.

So naturally, I went shopping on my lunch break.

I already have the outfit planned — an off-white pleated maxi dress with a black blazer and gold sandals; hair up in a bun, natch — but I needed to pick up some lady support to compensate for the extra padding that comes along with being in a relationship with someone who loves to cook delicious food.

I walked into the mall and catch myself smiling at all the shoes. Because shoes. I already have a whole room dedicated to shoes, including a high-heeled shoe chair. I also already have shoes planned for my outfit tonight. But I can’t help myself. Even as I engage in an angry conversation with myself, I can’t not try on a few pairs.

However, I do listen to my inner voice the second I brought up money, and decided not to buy the turquoise sandal wedges.

I then meander over to the wobbly bit section of the store to get what I need because I really only have twenty minutes to reasonably make my purchases and head to work on time. I grab the stomach-sucking-in-panties and buy-one-get-one free bras (now with more coverage!) and make my way towards the cashier.

But then I see jewelry. And I smile. Because jewelry. So I rush through to find a necklace that’ll match the earrings I have at home that I want to wear, only to find another pair of earrings on sale and a necklace that’ll go with that. I gather my things and head to the cashier.

But then I see purses. I do love a good clutch. Because purses. I spot this adorable emerald green clutch, also on sale, and seeing that I now have four minutes to check out and head to work, resign to the cashier.

The first checkout area I go to has a ridiculously slow worker and an even slower (but mighty adorable with her stark white hair — I’m totally serious; I hope to have hair like that when I’m old) customer. So I head to the other customer service counter, where I’m cut off by yet another slow (and adorable) elderly woman.

This may come as a shock, but I’ve always been fairly conservative. I still hide my tampon box underneath bags of apples or boxes of cereal when I go to the store. And my underwear purchases — especially the mighty morphing body changer ones — I prefer to be checked out by a woman who is older because chances are, she totally understands.

Behind the counter was a young man. If I wasn’t running so late, I would’ve walked around until I found my preferred cashier, but since time was a-ticking, I settled for the uncomfortable encounter.

As he’s ringing up my purchases, I reach into my purse (to avoid eye contact, mostly), only to realize my wallet isn’t in my purse. It’s back at the university, tucked away in a drawer. Because that’s where wallets belong. I explain to him that I’ve left my wallet at work, and he asks if I’d like him to hold them for me.

I think I have a shopping problem because while others might’ve considered this a sign to not make these unnecessary purchases, I said, “Yes, please. I’ll be right back,” knowing full well I had to get back to work. I scrawled my name and phone number on a piece of paper — effectively marking my territory on the to-be-purchased items — and head out the door.

I hurry back to the office to grab my wallet, then I hurry back to the mall.

When I walk in, there’s not one elderly woman, not two elderly women, but three elderly women standing in line at the checkout counter where my underthings are hanging out and about in the open, my name stamped on them.

I couldn’t not laugh.

At any rate, we’re going to look fabulous tonight. She is the Mexican Ellen to my chubby Portia.

— AM.

 

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Well that wasn’t what I expected at all.

30 May

I’m in love with a woman.

And the best part about it is that she’s in love with me, too.

Surprise couple!

I’d say I never thought I could be with a woman but 1) that’s clearly  not the case and 2) I’ve been living on a happy little island called “Denial,” population: me and a liter of wine. I know I talked about a square peg and a round hole before. It all makes so much sense now why I’ve had so much trouble finding someone.

I found land — and struck gold — with her. It’s like fighting an icy cold current and succumbing to the acceptance that this is my life, and then suddenly I can stand on my own two feet on solid ground.

We met on my birthday last November. Barista Boy #2 brought her with him. I distinctly remember the second I met her because she has the most amazing smile. She calls it “malleable” and I think that’s a pretty fair description of her face. I was standing at the bar in my silver dress, several shots and a couple cucumber vodka waters into the evening, when they walked up. She wore red and has short, black hair that changes shape every day. I adore it.

She added me on Facebook a few days later, and I would catch myself feeling jealous when she’d post about going on a date with a girl, or post about someone flirting with her. It drove me insane. Then I finally realized that I wanted to be on the date with her.

I didn’t see her again until January when we had a writer’s meeting. We both write for the same local magazine, and I tend to write feminist prose pieces (surprise?) while she writes the horoscopes and video game reviews. We laughed through the entire meeting — which is why there’s a “no eye contact” rule our publisher bestowed upon the two of us — and exchanged numbers. Over the next month, we’d text periodically, but those messages started gaining frequency.

We’d go out to lunch, strategize about articles we collaborated on, and get drinks together. We even explored the tunnels under the city we live in. We never run out of things to talk about. She speaks in puns.

Next thing I know, it’s mid-March, and we’d spent nearly every day for two weeks together. I went to Las Vegas for a conference with BFF, and she was all I thought about. Her birthday was the weekend I got back, so I told her I’d cook for her. I made her Guinness beef stew and brownies from scratch. We went out and celebrated St. Patrick’s Day and took our first picture together from a friend’s phone. He sent it to me so I sent it to her in a text and said we looked good together and should take more pictures; we’re painfully attractive. She agreed.

The first time we held hands was after we compared the sizes of our hands — the exact same size — despite our height difference (I’m about 5 inches taller than her and have freakishly small hands. Seriously. It’s abnormal and hilarious to watch me play the piano. Or type. Or do anything people with “normal” sized hands can do).

I can honestly say without a shred of doubt in my mind that this is by far the healthiest, most beautiful, most supportive relationship I’ve ever been in. She’s beautiful and brilliant, and we can laugh for hours about nothing. Nearly everything we say is an inside joke that we both find delightfully hilarious. She loves my goals, and each day, we both end up pointing out one more thing about the other that we love.

She told me she loved me first. We hadn’t become official — and really, still aren’t “official,” although we have agreed to not see other people — but it just fit so seamlessly into our conversation. I told her I loved her, too. I realized it the night I picked her up from work and took her out to the lake to watch the sun set. I brought a bottle of wine and two glasses. We laid on a blanket, watching the stars come out, listening to the water lap on the cliffs and the crickets chirp. I wanted to tell her then, but I didn’t know if I was rushing into things or if I was making this into something more than it was. It wasn’t even a week later that she told me she loved me.

The hardest part with us is that I’m moving. I was accepted into a PhD program a 15-hour drive away. I have to go, and she has to stay. We both have commitments here, so we’re spending this summer loving each and every moment together, and hopefully, paving the way for something down the road. Who knows where we’ll be six months from now. Hell, who knows where we’ll be tomorrow.

I hadn’t planned on telling my mother when I did. I spoke to my younger sister about it all — about Smiles and how happy I was — and she was ecstatic for us. Then our conversation turned to telling the family. What do I tell them? How do I tell them? When? Who all can know? Certainly my strict, southern Baptist family wouldn’t approve. Would my picture be taken off the family wall? I was indignant. I am indignant. I don’t care if they choose to disown me. My mother is having a tremendously difficult time with it all. She has it in her head that I’ll never marry or have children. I told her before I even met Smiles, I wasn’t convinced I’d get married or have children. I don’t know how to help her cope, and I’m not entirely sure it’s my job to do so.

Little Sister’s focus — and what’s been the primary focus for my immediate family who have since been informed of my “life decision” — is what am I? They want the label. Am I a lesbian? Am I straight but just experimenting? Am I going through a phase? Am I just so lonely and desperate that I’ll jump into the first relationship that comes my way? My mother’s never believed in bisexuality, that much I know. I wasn’t ever convinced until I started realizing little things in my past and letting myself accept it.

Like when I was in the fourth grade, and my friend held my hand when we watched a scary movie. I felt the same way, lying in our pajamas in the dark and holding hands, as I felt holding the hand of my first “boyfriend” who ran for class president in the third grade (I was his “first lady.” How fucking cute was that). I kept it out of my mind because girls like boys, and boys like girls. I learned later that sometimes girls can like girls, and boys can like boys. But both? That’s just being greedy.

To be honest, I don’t know what I am. I don’t know if it really even matters when it comes down to it, because at the end of the day, we’re all just a conglomeration of atoms somehow interacting with other chunks, all whirling around on this tiny planet, in this tiny solar system, in this great big universe.

The only thing I know is that I love her. And that’s enough for now.

— AM.

Sacrificial goat, anyone?

16 Feb

I suspect that at the end of this life, I’ll find out that I’ve really just been living in a simulated reality controlled by a failed Lifetime movie screenplay writer.

Or an angry teenager.

But I guess that’s probably the same thing.

(“I’ve heard it both ways.” Name that show!)

The last three years, I’ve been Valentine-less. So I usually just drink. But yesterday I had to teach, so my tradition had to wait until the evening. About half of my students showed up which crippled the lesson plans I had so we watched Harlem Shake and Bad Lip Reading videos on YouTube. And we ate candy.

I would’ve tried to be a little bit more productive, but about twenty minutes before I went to teach, I received an email from one of the PhD programs I’d applied to. They would not be accepting me for admission for the fall 2013 semester. I’ve spent the last five years postponing really trying to have a relationship (aside from the comedic adventures I find myself in to keep things interesting) in order to put everything I have into school so I can have my doctorate well before I turn thirty. So on a day already riddled with being emotionally rejected, I was now also academically rejected.

Yes, it’s just one school — and one of the most competitive in the nation — but I still couldn’t help but notice the irony and sadistic humor my comptroller has.

The YouTube videos helped.

And the candy. And the coffee that Barista Boy #2 made me that had “Olive Jews” written on the cup. And the donuts.

During “class,” I made a comment — within the context of our video watching — of how someday, when I have kids, I’d love to move to England so they grow up with accents. One of my ridiculously attractive black students (who’s on the football team and has dreadlocks) said “Do you want your kids to be in your own race or do you want mixed babies?”

In hindsight, there are so many ways I should’ve handled this. In the moment, my response was simply “I just want happy babies with British accents.” And skin like caramel.

To continue the excitement of my Valentine’s Day, I decided to tell my parents that I got a tattoo the day before. My whole life, my mother has been vehemently against tattoos. And for the last twenty-three years, I’ve never disappointed my mother. Well, at least not to her knowledge or in any way that I’d ever feel comfortable revealing to her. At any rate, she was silent angry. Which is the scariest. My father thought it was pretty. My seventy-eight year old German grandmother looked at her wrist and muttered “I want one…”

I then went to a pathetic concert at a small, local venue with approximately six patrons who weren’t in the band. The Chemist invited me. He wore a bow tie and an argyle sweater.

Last week he showed up at my door wearing sea foam green pants from the 1970s, a turtle neck, and a fedora. He then came in and made me a drink with his homemade limoncello. He also wore this outfit in public later in the evening. My younger sister was in town for a visit and kept remarking how much my life resembles a sitcom. She doesn’t even know the half of it.

Today the Pastor messaged me about a show at a coffee shop tonight, asking if I’d come out, and said he hoped I didn’t find it weird, but he’s been praying for me. I’m not sure if I should be flattered or insulted. So I’m going with contentment.

I’d go to the show — which starts in ten minutes — but I’m about to go explore abandoned tunnels under the city I live in with one of The Boys, the Quizmaster, and this really great girl I write with.

Seriously.

Here’s to hoping I don’t die or stumble upon death. I have a night vision camera and heat sensor camera app on my phone.

And a six-pack of Rascal’s Wild Red in my trunk.

— AM.

Rainbow-shitting unicorn.

29 Jan

I’ve always been hesitantly superstitious. Although I’m familiar with the theory that big numbers negate any sense of coincidence, I can count high enough to calculate grades, so I just don’t own that train of thought as well as the alphabet which only feeds into my thoughts of something grander and more miraculous.

And I don’t necessarily mean God in the normative fashion.

Perhaps a flying spaghetti monster.

Or a version of myself aboard a unicorn. Or a centaur.

I said in class today — at the present moment, quite unsure of the context — that for all I know, I could be God. Then I said “My bad. That’s probably sacrilegious. Oops.” I think it’s early enough in the semester for that to not appear on my evaluations.

My favorite thing about January is that it has always seemed to set the tone for the rest of my year. It has this magical cleansing feel to it for me, and maybe building that expectation for it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I rang in the 2012 New Year with a kiss from a tattoo-faced stranger and one of my girlfriends, and I spent the majority of the month in reflective solace of the relationship that could’ve been only to take out frustrations and feelings of angst on a number of uniformed men.

So, accordingly, the remainder of the year was confronted head-on with type-guy phases and going into every potential relationship knowing it’ll never work out because none of them so far have worked out.

Did I mention I’m kind of a genius at relationships?

This year, while it’s still all brand new and shiny, has been monumentally different, which in my superstitious, pigeon-like mind automatically means that the rest of this year will be different.

Despite the fact that Barista Boy #1 still attempts to tug me along (although I did passive aggressively confront him on his behavior, pointing out to him the peculiarity of his text messages so perfectly matching up with the absence of his lady friend and his boredom), I’m not giving him the attention that I did before because he’s kind of a tool. And by “kind of” I mean “definitely.”

And Barista Boy #2 (Who, in all fairness, isn’t someone I’ve dated or will date, but rather just hang out with because he’s sweet and entertaining) and I have had a lot of really wonderful moments, like the last time we spent an entire day together drinking coffee, perusing the library, investigating the local art scene, grocery shopping, cooking dinner, and watching Big Bang Theory together, only to sum it up with a reassurance that it’s totally to be besties. I could use more of those.

I have some hope for The Chemist, my latest conquest. He’s everything I thought I’d want — tall, handsome, ridiculously intelligent, intriguing — and if it doesn’t manifest into anything more than a friendship (because mutual friends/acquaintances have told me to stay away, so I’m probably going to listen to them), he at least proves that this type of guy actually exists.

But really, it’s like a square peg fitting into a round hole. I find myself trying to force happiness with these guys, but never quite fitting. Maybe I’m really going for the wrong type of person.

After months of casually running into each other at parties, we finally had a full blown conversation at a mutual friend’s birthday last weekend, and within ten minutes of becoming Facebook friends after the party, he began messaging me. Every day since then we’ve spoken about his research and the progress he’s making on his thesis, about my research and the shenanigans of my students, or various forms of entertainment. Last night we listened to old jazz vinyls and drank tea for several hours. And tonight, he invited me to a ska concert.

We danced, we drank, and we sat in his car for a solid ten minutes listening to more music. He remembered the title of my thesis and was actually interested in the progress I was making. And when I left, he gave me a few CDs he burned for me that he thought I’d be interested in.

In a way, I’m embarrassed that something like that could mean so much to me. If it were a regular occurrence to have someone take a real interest in forming a connection with me, I don’t think I’d obsess and evaluate what I finally did right. But that’s where I am right now.

It’s nothing serious, and there’s nothing really to pinpoint. It’s catching him smiling at me out of the corner of my eye, or watching defensively as another man looks my way, waiting to see if I look back. Or it’s putting thought into the records he brings over to give me some familiarity, but also show me something new. It’s even saying that he’ll see me tomorrow even though we have no plans to spend time together, and work on separate corners of the university.

What I’m left with is all of these little moments and no idea what to do with them.

So I’ll be a fucking girl about the whole situation and mind-frolic in the residual clovers from the rainbow-shitting unicorn.

–AM.

All this and heaven, too. Well, maybe not the gin. But everything else can go.

12 Jan

School starts back on Monday, which means my extended vacation of rest, relaxation, and intoxication is coming to an end. To kick off the back-to-school spirit, I have training tomorrow morning. At 7:30am. On a Saturday.

So I’m on my fourth Stella Artois.

And I’m probably going to make pancakes soon.

Along with the “training” (which, in all honesty, is an egregious waste of funds since at the previous training, I learned nothing valuable to actually teaching in accordance to the rules and regulations of the institution, but rather was briefed on how to add a signature line to an email. Also how to send an email. Because I don’t know how to use computers), this week has brought back friends who spent their time elsewhere.

T&A went to Washington and came over last night to catch up and pick up her mail that I’d been collecting. Our conversation went something like this:

T&A: How was your break?! What did you do? Did you have fun and go out a lot?

Me: It was pretty awesome. I watched the entire series of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” on Netflix and now I’m rewatching “Battlestar Galactica” with the cats. 

T&A: That’s so great! I hung out with the Seattle Seahawks.

I was also changing pants as this conversations took place since I was about to leave to meet up with The Boys (my heterosexual life partners). T&A stood in my bedroom doorway while I checked out my ass in the mirror. I think it was a subtle reminder of inadequacy. Only not so subtle.

I like to think that whoever controls the interface of this game of the Sims that we live has a great sense of humor. We’d get along.

I love hanging out with The Boys. They provide me the rare opportunity to peek behind enemy lines and try to really understand men.

I was officially granted bro status sometime last year.

It never ceases to amaze me how complex our conversations are. They’re both brilliant and we engage in long, drawn out discussions of philosophy, psychological theories, social constructions, and the nature of human dynamics.

What I have yet to understand is when the conversation inevitably turns to men vs. women, and we discuss the things men look for in women and the things women look for in men.

Their ideal woman is, of course, beautiful. She carries on intelligent conversations and challenges them intellectually. She doesn’t engage in dramatics and assimilates easily with their friends. She wears high heels and is the physical epitome of femininity, but her demeanor is strong and independent, lending her to more masculine traits. She watches football and is interested in the game. She’s talented and dynamic and has a sense of humor. She’s well read and is intelligent enough to have wit.

She isn’t a hair flipping, vodka cranberry drinking, fist bumping socialite.

They then systematically list every woman in the English program we were in together, isolate the “hot” women from the “cute” women, then weigh in personality, which effectively eliminates the “hot” women into the “okay” category, and the “cute” women to the “hot-but-still-not-exactly-doable” category.

Leaving the men. And the women who resemble characters from Lord of the Rings.

Since I merely observe this engagement, keeping my opinions and thoughts to myself, I can’t help but to always insert myself into their evaluations.

  • Beauty is subjective, but I’ve never considered myself Golem-esque.
  • I read Spider-Man and Soupault. And Foucault. In French.
  • I have more books than I know what to do with, so they’ve become piles not unlike the stones in The Blair Witch Project. And I’ve actually read them.
  • I wear dresses and heels and a tasteful amount of makeup.
  • I live alone, in a house I pay for, filled with things I bought with the money I’ve earned.
  • I went to a local bar, drank a schooner of Batch 19, and watched Bama defeat Notre Dame with a Buddhist, retired Navy officer and discussed Bama’s potential for a fourth year taking the BCS National Championship next year if Pruitt does move to be the defensive coordinator for the Seminoles.
  • I play the piano, draw, paint, and write anything from prose to poetry.
  • I crack myself up, and since I spend more time with me than anyone else, I know I’m hilarious.

But because, like the majority of my relationships with men, I’m such good friends with them, I’m never on the list.

Meanwhile T&A flips, giggles, and swills vodka crans where she’s invited to the VIP section of an exclusive club with members of the Seahawks.

I don’t understand. She’s beautiful and smart and sweet, so that I do understand. I also understand it’s an exercise in futility to compare with others, but it’s still easy to do.

Especially considering both of my sisters are newly engaged and the eyes of our family elders are looking to me, calculating how many baby-making years I have left in my uterus. I assured them I’ll bring in an illegitimate child someday.

That doesn’t seem to comfort them.

But it comforts me. As does the twelve-pack of Stella I annihilated, the pancakes waiting for me in the kitchen, and the second season of BSG.

–AM.

Auld lang syne and all that implies.

1 Jan

I’ve never been one for organized sports or any sort of activity that requires teamwork. Partially because I don’t enjoy getting dirty or doing anything physical that isn’t sexual, and partially because I have an innate sense of hatred for working with people.

In high school, I played tennis and was on the debate team. If I won, it was my victory. If I lost, it was my failure. I don’t like to compete or play; I just win, and when I win, I don’t share credit.

My whole life, my mother always taught us this idea when it came to dating and relationships. My freshmen year of high school, I was hopelessly in love (you know, the dopey, hormone-infused infatuation that Taylor Swift songs are about) with this guy who played tuba in band. He was also the president of the anime club. I have a history of dating winners.

He was in love with a girl in the flute section but she wouldn’t date him, so I was his backup. (He actually told me as much — this is no inference.) In all of my mother’s wisdom, she taught me to never be second. If I’m not number one, fuck it. There’s no point in playing. I win, or I’m out. After him, I significantly improved my dating selection with this mindset, but the long-term relationship I ended up with as a result of this life lesson ruined my sense of self-security and no-nonsense approach to dating, hence the catastrophic failures (but nevertheless entertaining stories) that comprise my pseudo-love life.

(Tuba boy actually has a kid from a girl who won’t let him see the child and flute girl is a drug-addicted Lindsay Lohan clone who’s one strong breeze away from setting sail. Told you I always win.)

Team Jacob told me I needed to prove myself (again, direct quote and not an inference) with him after I put him off for a year and a half. At first, I empathized and thought the least I could do is show him I’m just about him because I was playing him a bit before. I was always honest if I was talking to somebody else, so he never had any wrong ideas about my intentions. He just didn’t like that I had no intention of sleeping with him.

We’d already had separate plans for the evening, so I went out last night for New Year’s Eve with some girl friends wearing a skin-tight, deep plunging, red dress that will probably be my Halloween costume this year as Jessica Rabbit. Despite not spending a dime because all drinks were bought for me by single, handsome men, in an effort to honor my word to Team Jacob and set the tone for 2013, I remained without a New Year’s kiss.

2012 rang in with a kiss from one of my girl friends and a guy with a tattoo on his face with two flasks strapped onto my tights. I think it served as a premonition to how my year would go: drunk and kind of slutty.

I sent him a text at midnight saying Happy New Year and that I wish he was there for a New Year’s kiss. His response? “U too.”

Fuck that noise.

So today, to continue to conform to the obligatory decisions to remake my self and life with resolutions as the Gregorian calendar year changes, along with my resolution to learn how to cook exquisite cuisine (I made paella the other night), I resolve to regress back to the mindset of my formative dating years when my mother told me never to compete.

If a man thinks I need to compete for his affection and prove myself to be a worthy companion, he’s bat shit crazy.

Likewise, I don’t want someone to compete for my affection. His inherent awesome will be evident to me because my inherent awesome is written all over my face.

And in that dress, my boobs, hips, and ass.

–AM.

I need a new bendy straw.

27 Dec

I’m one of those people that constantly needs to be doing something to maintain any semblance of sanity. Since school let out and the holidays are over, these last two days have been hell.

Not to mention my younger sister is officially engaged and my older sister will be within the next week.

Meanwhile, I’ve sent out four applications to doctoral programs on all four corners of the United States so as to get away from everyone I possibly could know.

And my left eye hasn’t stopped twitching since November.

At any rate, I’ve been working extremely hard to get something together so I can feel like I’m being productive. Teaching part-time at two institutions (which ends up being full-time) while working as a program assistant and being a full-time graduate student has me in the mindset to where if I’m doing nothing, I go crazy. Which, to be completely honest, is why I date. It’s a distraction and something to keep me occupied.

I deleted my online dating profile after receiving a message from a former student, saying he was totally intrigued by my profile and wanted to get to know me better. He didn’t realize I was the teacher who failed him.

I’m back to dating in the real world.

I had a really great date with Beard guy, but he kind of face-raped me while we were at a bar. 1) I don’t kiss in bars. 2) I don’t kiss in public. 3) I don’t like being face-raped. 4) I don’t do well with guys that are overtly complimentary. 5) I don’t do well with guys that are insanely insecure and continuously ask why I like him. Dude, put your vajay away. Needless to say, I haven’t seen him since.

Although things with Team Jacob were going pretty well, he has this weird complex that I find incredibly annoying. There’s a fine balance to be struck, and he’s on the side of awkward enough for me to be attracted to, but almost too awkward to pursue anything with me.

Finally realizing that completing my applications to doctoral programs would be the best use of my spare time rather than making something “work” with some guy temporarily because I’d be leaving in a few months anyway, I have the boys on hold.

So after sending out my final applications and scrolling through the engagement/marriage/baby feed of my Facebook, I decided to celebrate/mourn/cope with a jug of sangria. It’s the cheap kind, so I mix it with schnapps. Twice the alcohol content and a significantly better flavor.

According to the history of my browser, the following are Google searches of this endeavor:

  • Exercise while drunk
  • How to properly shave a cat
  • Life size Barbie
  • Colorado prostitution laws
  • I think my cat is trying to kill me
  • How to tell if you have a brain tumor

–AM.

Avabot 9000: the consequence.

24 Dec

When I really, really need to focus, I like to pretend I’m a cyborg. In my mind, laser beams shoot from my eyes that evaluate my surroundings that determine, mathematically, the probability that I will crash into something, or the impending doom that awaits me if I choose a certain route. So far in the twenty-three years of my life, this tactic has kept me safe, but most importantly, incredibly entertained.

The cyborg feature of my imagination comes in most handy when I’m driving in inclement weather. The laser beams shoot from my eye sockets and check the road conditions as I’m driving. (Black ice — function: eliminate acceleration. activate blind scientific faith. jesus, take the wheel, por favor.) I haven’t had any issues or malfunctions.

As with everything in life that comes in handy, especially when trying to determine the possibility of allowing a gentleman suitor to escort me home (evaluate: popped collar, etnies, gum chomp. determination: major bro. likelihood of venereal disease acquisition: imminent. recommendation: accept vehicular transport. feign illness. coital denial imperative) the robotic feature to my demeanor has also helped in situations of absolute unpleasantness. 

In general, I’m a fan of the holidays. Food, gifts, family, and all the shit that comes along with it is for the most part enjoyable. This year? I’ve put serious consideration into taking up alcoholism as a New Year’s resolution.

2013 will be the Year of the Drunk. Check your Chinese calendar and look out, folks. Shit ’bout to get real.

I’ve also become considerably more hood since I started dating Team Jacob. He gets his name because he looks like Taylor Lautner in the first installment of Twilight. He’s been asking me out for the last year and a half, and I’ve finally taken him up on the offer and find him absolutely charming and adorable. Both of those qualities I hate, because they make me like him, and liking him goes against my robotic nature. He’s shaved his head since the dubbing of Team Jacob, but that’s his best identifier. And you know how I’m a fan of identifiers.

At any rate, this holiday season has really brought out the drunk ass mess that’s been locked up in me. My younger sister — three years my junior — is newly engaged. My older sister’s boyfriend, two days after the engagement of my younger sister, asked my father’s permission to marry my sister.

While I’m delighted that they both found happiness or whatever, I also kind of want to find myself in the bottom of a bottle of tequila. With the worm.

Nestled up next to its wrinkles.

Happiness.

This evening was a delightful celebration of the wondrous cheer and fruitful love that the holidays bring. My parents invited their best friends, their sons, and their sons’ wives to dinner. While we gathered in the kitchen, basking in the warm scent of roast and sipping the savory Merlot I brought, exchanging obligatory congratulations to the new engagements, my younger sister looks to me and says, “I’m sorry, Ava. This winter’s been rough for you, huh?”

“Yeah, it totes has. I cry myself to cleanliness in the shower while I’m clutching the empty bottle of tequila. If only I had a man in my life to pass me the limes while I curl up in the fetal position on the floor of the tub, scraping away the scales forming as a result of loneliness and desperation. P.S., I’m pregnant. And the baby could be one of four races.”

So I raised my glass, toasting to the local economic boost due to the increase in alcohol sales.

Six glasses of wine later, she gave me shit for not cleaning the dishes. My reply? “Yeah, sorry bro, I’m not training to be a housewife. That’s all you. And hey, can I get a refill on this glass? It’s almost empty.”

Fuck the holidays.

But in all seriousness, I was extremely grateful for Avabot 9000 at this particular junction in my life. He/she/it allowed me to keep a smile on my face with mechanical interaction to the guests.

Now, if only I could get Avabot 9000 to serve as a permanent stand-in to all family holiday parties. She can keep her shit together better than I can.

–AM.

P.S., I love the fact that I used “robots” as a tag in this blog post. I feel like I’d totally be okay if the world ended.

I prefer the end. Probably because of my rockin’ ass.

1 Dec

Most people can start something. I start ten thousand things every day. I counted. Well, I started counting, but then I got distracted. To make beginnings really count, it has to be something worth sticking to.

I realized today that I’m much better at ending things. When I create my semester plan, I start at the end and work my way back. I just have to figure out how to get everything that I plan on being completed, completed. The end of the semester feels way more controlled than the beginning of the semester. I enter in final grades and I feel peace. All of the t’s are crossed and i’s dotted.

I have several novels and a couple screenplays that I’ve written the ending to. I just don’t want to deal with storyline that leads to the ending. The end is really all that matters. The rest could easily have just been a memory forged in my own subconscious, so why bother dealing with the hassle?

No one remembers famous first words, or famous 12,843,756th words. It’s the famous last words that count. The end of someone’s life, the final breath, the last brush stroke, the last poem ever penned. It’s eternal.

It’s the same with relationships. I’m awesome at breaking up with guys, mostly because one of my more marketable skills is getting them to break up with me first.

“My band is really getting off the ground. I should focus on my music. You want me to be happy, right baby?”

“I’m so ready for marriage. And kids. Ohmygod I love kids.”

Or I’ll disagree vehemently with something they’re passionate about so they think they’re deciding it’s over. I’m not too proud. He can claim the termination. As long as I don’t have to deal with the real beginning or middle of the relationship.

“Star Wars is way better than Star Trek in every way imaginable.”

“Oh I totally voted for Obama. Twice. I’d do it again if I could. He’ll probably change the presidential term. And take away your guns. But he should. Guns are stupid.”

I think that’s why I tend to skip over the beginning. When I became single again, my mother would encourage me to date because the beginning is just so much fun. I’d tell her I hate dating. It’s stupid. Like guns. She’d tell me to relax, be happy, enjoy this time. Fuck that noise. I’ve already determined his biggest flaw so I can point it out and be done before we even meet for coffee.

Like on this dating site. I’ve maintained conversations with two guys. There was a third, but I told him the theory I prescribe to about reptile aliens so he’d quit calling me. One is Muscles and that’s fizzled out — any guy that looks like him and describes himself as “shy” is full of shit. If I wanted a man with that much shit I’d have to clean up after, I’d volunteer at a senior center. The other is Rockabilly and that’s still going. He doesn’t like dubstep, so I think I can use that to my advantage later.

Every other one I judge immediately and with good reason. For instance, there’s absolutely no honorable reason to send me a message at 2:00am. On a Tuesday. There’s also no reason to take pictures of yourself with a girl kissing your cheek saying she’s “just a friend,” followed by an image of $10,000 cash laying on the steering wheel of a BMW while saying you’d like to meet me. I’m sure you would. But you, sir, are too sexy to handle. “I’ve recently taken a vow of poverty. Also, I’m celibate.”

And guys I meet in real life regular ways that are actually reasonable choices for a relationship, like Barista Boy, I’m so good at skipping ahead to the end that I somehow manage to fuck up any potential opportunity to make the beginning happen. I’ve known my end lines to him since the first time we met. “Maybe someday you won’t feel guilty. And maybe I’ll still be around.” It’s always a tiny victory when I prove myself right and get to say my parting words.

Tonight I saw what will probably be the last thing I see before I die when that day comes. He was a tiny — and I mean tiny — cholo with pants that I could fashion into twin sleeping bags. He was belligerently drunk, swaying his hips that could very well have been the size of a new infant around, and pointing to the band on the stage like they were beckoning him to return to his homeland — Lakertya. I don’t trust small things.

They’re too close to the beginning.

–AM.

Interpersonal communication.

25 Nov

image

I laughed out loud and obnoxiously as I walked through Wal-Mart to get cat food when I looked at my inbox. I went to a party last night and always text the men in my life when I’m drinking. The conversation usually carries on through the next day or until I quit responding out of boredom.

One thing I’ve learned through my adventures in dating is to never commit a guy’s name to the phone as a contact. Names blur together and unless he’s meeting my parents, he doesn’t have a real name. Consequently, identifiers become identities and my friends only know new guys by what I call them.

This can get tricky, because I run through a list of names or what I think a guy’s name might be when speaking to them. I’ve slipped up a few times but have only been called on it once. My reaction: “Why would I call you Dave? I think your subconscious is having an identity crisis.”

–AM.

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