I was texting a friend and started to type the word “smiley.”
I typed the S and the M, and my phone decided to help: it asked me if I meant “S&M.”
Um, NO, iPhone. It’s 8 am. I haven’t even had coffee yet. I certainly wasn’t thinking about S&M.
But now I am…
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.”
As I start looking for a new apartment and decluttering my current one, this scene keeps coming back to me.
This apartment was not a good place for me. It does not represent a lot of happy memories. I’m looking forward to starting over in a new place that might hold better juju.
I took a break from a friendship, which…you know, is a totally healthy and rational thing to need. (It IS, when you can’t seem to stop yourself from repeatedly telling your friend you want to date him, but he’s not into you and you’re just making it weird.)
I’ve spent almost 2 years since my breakup struggling to pull myself out of being all “Behind These Hazel Eyes,” and it SUCKS, so I’m trying for more of a “Since U Been Gone” situation here. (Obviously it would also be ideal if I could stop defining my love life via Kelly Clarkson songs.)
It’s incredibly difficult some days (eg, yesterday), but What Doesn’t Kill Me Makes Me Stronger…Shit.
Sidebar: I wonder if my hair would do that. To the curling iron!
I’m not sure what it says about me as a woman that I’m more impressed by “He went to the grocery store!” than I am by “He went to Jared!”
Don’t judge. My needs are simple.
“I sorta wish you’d call,
Then again, not at all,
‘Cause I’m not ready to go steady,
But I’d like to know I’m not the muse,
Who paints your portrait and goes down on you,
Then gets the shovel and the sweep under,
Until you deem it due time to exhume her.”
— Anna Nalick
Oh. My. Fucking. Hell.
I can’t even.
A hundred dollars. For a bear. Who’s almost as tall as I am.
I am a grown-ass woman with clutter issues and no money. I would literally be more inclined to have sex with you if you presented me with the $100 in cash, rather than in the form of some hulking stuffed animal who probably goes all Ruxpin and plots my death while I sleep. (Whatever, you know Teddy Ruxpin was into some fucked-up shit. Creepy little bastard.)
For the record, I have never once asked a boyfriend if I looked fat. I have eyes, a brain, and a mirror — if I look fat, I can see it for myself.
P.S. I sent this to a friend and she wrote back:
“Is this commercial just code for a sex aid for furries? I was waiting for the part where they talk about ‘yiffing’ and the storage compartment where the dildo goes. But it’s possible I’ve just been on the internet too long.
“Also, if you’re relying on purchasing stuffed animals to help you get laid, you might be a pedophile.”
Talking to friends yesterday: “I think I may have successfully ended a ‘friends with benefits’ thing with simple avoidance. I haven’t heard from him in 3 weeks. So…Yay, cowardice?”
Two hours later I get a text: “Hey stranger how goes things?”
Ahhh, shit.
Fine, I’ll be an adult. (I know, I know — I’m an asshole and I hate myself and I wouldn’t want to be treated that way and BLAH. Trust me, self-loathing already covered it. But I really did think it was a double fadeaway.)
Pulling myself out of a weird funk. This helped, as it always does, in part because Chandler went on to participate in one of the all-time greatest TV marriage proposals. (My undying love for Monica & Richard notwithstanding.)
OMG, y’all. Bitches, amirite?
Smug Singleton 