Have developed two social media crushes in one evening.
You people have been holding out on me with your hot friends, what the hell? Is it because I’m insane? Whatever, man, send me That Guy — we’ll be bored of each other in a month, so he won’t have to deal with anything except my overwhelming need to lick his tattoos.
I just saw this on a friend’s Facebook and I couldn’t agree more. Half the reason I write in so many different places, private and public, is that things usually make so much more sense when I write them. Sometimes I just can’t think straight until they’re out of my head. Yesterday I sent an email to a friend that I cut from 1,000 haphazardly written words to 600 orderly, succinct ones. And I swear, once those thoughts were OUT, I felt lighter, less anxious, and less confused.
Friend #1: “I was listening to Savage Lovecast today. This woman called in and said once a month she treats herself to a massage, and found a masseur she liked. After about 8 months of massages from him, he was massaging her thighs, got a little handsy, and got her off. This is my fantasy. I have watched countless massage room porns. I know, I have issues, but I want this to happen to me someday. Why doesn’t this stuff happen to me?”
Me: “I don’t think you’re a perv — I can see the appeal there.”
Friend #2: “I think it is pervy (which my iPad corrects to Percy) and that’s what makes it hot. The stranger, the boundaries, the ‘good with his hands’ aspect. Yeah, I can see the appeal for sure. And I am also confused why this hasn’t happened to you.”
Me: “I don’t think hands get enough credit. I love men’s hands.”
Gentlemen, seriously…your hands are pretty great. I’m a big fan. I’d “like” them on Facebook if I could. They’re brilliant. Remind me to write a Dr. Seuss-inspired poem about men’s hands — how I love them in my hair, how I love them everywhere.
Some of you might remember, when I was “dating” Old Young Man, that I’m such a girlfriend by nature I bought a pint of his favorite ice cream and put it in my freezer, so after he had sufficiently pleasured me, he could have snacks. (Ice cream: the glutton’s gold star!)
Except that was 6 months ago, and we “broke up” when I realized yet again that I am damaged and unlovable. (Ahem. Or that we didn’t have anything in common, even sexually.)
Anyway. I’m cleaning my kitchen, and I noticed the ice cream in the back of the freezer. While it pains me to throw it out (Ben & Jerry’s, bitches — only the finest for my concubines!), it’s been 6 months. So there’ve been six menstrual cycles and countless feelings-eating days, and not once have I been desperate enough to eat this ice cream. (Maybe pistachio ice cream is my rock bottom?) Also, not one person who’s been in my apartment since Christmas has wanted this ice cream. You know why? Because fucking terrible people eat pistachio. I will use it as a future boyfriend barometer.*
As long as I seem to be experiencing odd, latent-adolescent emotional crises, let us revisit the master:
“I loved Jordan Catalano so much, and talked about him so much, and thought about him so much, it was like he lived inside me, like he had taken possession of my soul or something. And then one day… I got over him.
“It was like Jordan Catalano had been surgically removed from my heart. And I was free.”