Lately things have just reeked of chaos. Normally that would really throw a control freakish person into a tailspin but it seems like I might actually be wearing unpredictability a bit better than usual. For instance, I brushed my teeth with my right hand today. Get this: I'm left-handed. Did that give you shivers too? I'm a renegade.
So, dating. Oh sweet baby Jebus, it really doesn't get any easier. After the lone survivor of my okcupid escapades crashed and burned, I realized there was absolutely no rush to date anybody, ever.
No wait, you know what? There is. The rush isn't to couple up though. It's to hear what a man is saying when my psychotic inner voice is screaming over top of their very clearly stated honesty with "NO NO! WE'RE COMPATIBLE AND THIS WILL BE OK. YOU LOVE SANDWICHES! I LOVE SANDWICHES! WE'RE PERFECT FOR EACH OTHER."
Sandwiches does not a strong bond make. Nor alcohol, nor board games, nor intercourse. If somebody's saying they're at odds with your most fundamental expectations in a relationship, stop wasting everybody's time and bail out, sister.
When things don't work out and I'm feeling crummy for having my hopes up, I tend to hear a lot of "Why are you so worried? Just have fun!"
To this well-intentioned (but often uttered by somebody with a partner) piece of advice I respond:
Are you fucking kidding me?
Does anybody else realize that more effort goes into 'just having fun' than a pair of jeans and a pony tail? If I could roll on through these 'interactions' without caring whether or not a dude called me back, I'd be SET. But let's never mind the call back at this point! There's still preliminary maintenance for even the five-minut-iest of conversations.
If it seems like a lot of effort, that's because IT IS. Dying my roots, making sure I don't have any dead skin on my lips that seem to exfoliate of their own accord at the least opportune moments; not eating a lot of cheese; not eating a lot of anything, really. Not having pimples. Covering up the pimples. Looking like you have no makeup on even though you've got it covering your pimples. Not using the f word til they use it first; not using the toilet til they use it first. Don't be too funny. Be a little funny. Pretend they're funny. God. All. Mighty. Don't even get me started on what happens when you laugh and a booger comes out because you forgot to clean your nose before you left the house. CLEAN OUT YOUR NOSE. IT'S A THING, LADIES.
There's so much insecurity tied up in the fake version of yourself that you present to the fake version of whichever person you're awkwardly trying to sleep, marry and make babies with. To be quite frank, I could now and forevermore not give three fucks about a dude who is put off by a) my sass b) my cynicism or c) my bodily functions. Actually, or d) my love for rye whiskey over ice. I am my grandfather's granddaughter. We go hard or we nap in the La-Z-Boy. I don't cook. I an terrible at being tidy. Sometimes the reason why it looks like I haven't slept or showered in three days is because I haven't.
I would put this out into single male world and see what boomerangs back, but I won't. I'm shamelessly devoted to lying very still with a cat on my gut, horizontally devouring pepperoni sticks and Babybels while I watch Ian Somerhalder vampire-bang his victims. There is no mystery left here, boys.
Don't like it? Leave me alone.
I'd be remiss, however if I said I didn't love men for all the complicated things they make me feel. For all the ways I have bettered myself, FOR myself after feeling low because of one. Regardless of which gender you prefer to court/chase/stalk, we are obviously driven to do so for reasons unbeknownst to us. These reasons occasionally manage to overshadow and outweigh how livid I am that a decent Brazilian is intensely painful and also three quarters of a hundred bucks in this city.
We'll talk about pubic hair some other time.
Chomps
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