Tag Archives: online dating

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.

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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.

I use the term “run” loosely.

21 Nov

Benefit of talking to hot muscle man: he’s hot. And muscles. And calls me “babe.” And sends pictures of him in Army clothes.

Downside of talking to hot muscle man: I’m not hot muscle woman. I like cheese and wine and gin. I’ve tried to teach my cat how to fetch things by tying strings to lightweight necessities and pointing a laser pointer at it so he’ll attack the string and pull the item to me. It fails every time because the loud noises of wine boxes falling off counters startles him and he takes off without my Franzia.

The majority of my “exercise” comes in the form of lunges from the living room to the kitchen and back to retrieve my failed endeavor of a feline delivery system.

So when he said he’s just getting back from the gym and asked what my plans for the day are, I lied and said “Oh, you know, finishing grading this stack of papers and then going for a run. There’s a park nearby and I like to run there. With my legs and tennis shoes, running.” Amused, he said if he lived closer, he’d go running with me. Fuck. I hate it when I get myself into these situations.

When I run, I’m like a mentally challenged labradoodle. I look like I’m having a seizure and I stop every seventeen seconds to “chase squirrels” but really I’m counting how many calories I just consumed in liquor, wondering if I just threw up every time I drank, I’d absorb less. Bulemaholic.

Over the summer, I would run every day with my neighbor, T&A. She has gigantic gazongas and an ass that just won’t quit — in a very different way than mine. She’s ridiculously attractive, and her boyfriend is equally dreamy, and I keep waiting for her to get in that comfortable zone in the relationship where she quits taking care of herself so she’ll get fat and I’ll feel better about myself.

When we’d go running, I’d push myself to keep up so that people watching would see us going the same pace and not realize that she’s the hot one. They’d get us confused, and be like “Hey Ava, nice gazongas. Whoa wait, who is who again?! You look like the same person because you’re running so close together at the same speed! Physics!”

I wish I was cute when I ran. I tend to go early in the morning so my only companions are the shriveled worms on the pavement, old people going for their walks, or drug addicted homeless people dragging themselves to a better corner of the park. The worms will soon be eaten, so their opinion doesn’t matter. The old people can barely see me, so if I run between trees, they’ll confuse me for a gazelle. And the drug addicted homeless people have no room to judge. Except for the fact that I’d kill for some of their figures, so homeless addicts: 1. Ava: 0.

There may be potential for Muscle Man, though. Because on my profile, I described myself as an avid cooker and eater, emphasizing the eating. There’s really no point in lying about looks online because eventually, my charming personality and perfectly angled pictures won’t matter and he’ll see the junk I’ve packed in my trunk as if I’m going away for war in the middle of Siberian winter. He seems to dig it and laughs and calls me cute whenever I say things like “You know Phoebe from ‘Friends’? I make that bitch look good.”

–AM.

My Little Pony complex.

20 Nov

Every so often, I create an online dating profile. It’s usually fueled by wine and the need to be told I’m pretty. I’ll post blatantly honest truths about myself, masked behind sarcastic commentaries on the very men who troll my page, and wait for messages.

It’s always the same type of message, too. “damn gurl i seen ur pics an i had to tell u ur 2 damn beatiful 2 b on herr” or “Im likin what i see in youre profile. Care 2 chat?” or my favorite “Those eyes……..wyd tonite beautiful.”

(I had to Google “wyd.” It means “What are you doing?” You’re welcome.)

Bro. Read my fucking profile. I’m a teacher. Of English. Damn near completed an MA and about to start a PhD. Know your audience, please, and speak to me like you’re not an idiot.

Every so often there’ll be one that’s half intelligent — a few spelling or grammatical errors, but no biggie — and fits my only criteria: tall. There’s a gorgeous muscle man I’m currently talking to about traveling. Even though he counted Rome as a country, I may let him buy me dinner. He’s really pretty.

I’m also talking to an ex-boyfriend, but in a ridiculously platonic way. I give him advice on how to devirginize his latest love interest, and he tells me I’m pretty when I need it.

I used to have a My Little Pony doll that when you’d squeeze its ass, it’d say, in this order, “I love you,” “I’m pretty!” “I love you,” and “Comb my hair.” I’ve also been programmed to say such things when you squeeze my ass. A likely cause to my incessant need to be squeezed, told I’m pretty, love, and groom.

He recently broke up with his girlfriend of about four years and jumped right into a new relationship. I told him being alone is good and it teaches you how to take care of yourself which makes it easier for people to love you. It’s allowed me to be as picky as I want to be and figure out what it is I want in love.

He asked me what it is I’m looking for, and then it occurred to me: I’ve never really been in love. I mean, I’ve loved, or what I thought was love, but not really. I’ve never had that all consuming, can’t eat, can’t sleep, do anything for someone else, have someone do anything for me, kiss in the middle of a rainstorm, scream names from rooftops because it’s impossible to hold it in, his face at the end of the aisle, dying old and in each others’ arms kind of love. Like Jim and Pam or Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon or Bert and Ernie.

I’d like to think it exists, not just in movies, but in real life. I’d like to think that the life I’m living could be a great story, one to pass down to my children and their children and their children forever as solid, incontestable proof that it lasts and it’s real. I see it with my parents or grandparents, and even though it wasn’t always easy, that’s what I imagine when I think of love.

All this time, I’ve held onto the memories of that last relationship that I ended two years ago and all the memories of what would have been that creep into my mind as dreams in the middle of the night, taunting me with a life I thought I should’ve lived, thinking that was love. But that wasn’t love. Not really. It was contentment. It was five years of never meeting his friends, of waiting for him to come home, of making excuses for his behavior, of him buying me jewelry or flowers or taking me on trips to prove how much he loved me.

I went to a palm reader last week for my birthday, and she said I’ll have two great disappointments in my life: one that’s occurred and one that’s about to occur. These will force my heart closed, and I’ll never marry.

On the bright side, she said I’ll have two kids, so that’ll be fun to tell the family. I’m banking on mixed race babies. They’ll be beautiful.

And maybe I’m one of those people that get love in other ways, like through illegitimate children or degrees hanging on my wall or the occasional ass squeeze.

–AM.

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