Tag Archives: single life

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.


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.


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.


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.


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


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.


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.


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.


Interpersonal communication.

25 Nov


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.”


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.”


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.


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