Friends/Fluffers

I’ve been discussing career goals with a friend, because I’ve been feeling totally stuck in what I’m doing, and I feel seven kinds of shitty** about it, just allllll the self-doubt/loathing, staring down the barrel of a TON of work and thought to figure out what my next move should be, because I have no idea. 
Friend’s response:

“I have always thought someone should pay you lots of money just to be you and write what you already write. I don’t know exactly who that should be — Cracked, Bustle, Jezebel, The Mary Sue, various advertisers for your personal blog? — but I very much want it to happen. I know you do too, I just thought you should know that I read a LOT online and I would read all your stuff even if I didn’t know you. Just saying.”

Awwwww! You guys! ❤

I mentioned this predicament to another friend, and SHE complimented my writing, too!

“I know you’re not fishing for compliments, but I LOVE reading you. Anything you write is super smart, quick, and has so much relatable stuff with large dose of humor and humility. You seem like you have a treasure of stories you could write about family, men, and relationships. WRITE!!! For me.”

I was not fishing (nor am I now), but DAMN, I should’ve done this YEARS ago! Ego. Boosted. My friends are like my self-esteem fluffers!

** There actually does exist a chart ranking the seven kinds of shit. The reason I know this is not as disgusting as you might think, but, I mean, possessing that knowledge is really never IDEAL… I’m going to stop talking now.

You are a terrible person and I hope bad things happen to you.

Via Raw Story: Prominent feminist writer drops off social media after rape threat against her 5-year-old daughter.

YOU ARE WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS.

Honestly. The FUCK ails you? How do you even have time to do this? I have shit to DO. Go to work and get out your mama’s basement, shitheel.

In all seriousness, I’ve been wary of posting certain things here. Not that 46 followers are going to garner me much hatred, but the page IS public. I actually just found out a friend was reading who I didn’t know was reading, and I’m a little weirded out by it. Apparently I’m totally fine telling strangers about my vagina, but I get ishy when it’s people I know?

But anyway, once you start threatening to assault children, I give less than one iota of one fuck about your rights. I hope the FBI investigates your ass. Literally.

Getting a Master’s in Ego Tripping

One of my favorite college professors — who taught me women’s studies but now teaches master’s level writing — just told me I’m a real writer.

Feelin’ pretty preeny right about now. ‪#‎ExtraSmugSingleton‬

(Fret not, the crippling self-doubt will be back tomorrow. Hell, probably tonight.)

Last words on Waffles Guy

I almost forgot to report that Waffles Guy texted me Sunday morning asking when we could get together again. And that is my fault. I did let him kiss me, and let him leave the last date thinking there’d be another. So…my bad. I did want to kiss him, and I’ll admit I didn’t have the balls to a) stop him from kissing ME, or b) sack up and say to his face that there wouldn’t be a third date.

I let the text sit for a day because I was busy and didn’t have time to think about a response. He texted again yesterday morning, asking if I’d gotten the FIRST text. I apologized for the delay, told him I had, but that: “I actually don’t think we should get together again. I had a nice time, but I don’t see it going further.”

I said essentially the same thing to Elbows Guy, and he was cool with it, so… brilliant, right? I’ve created The Line? Kind, but clear? I AM a real writer!

Yeah, no. Waffles Guy texted back and said, “Why, what happened?”

And for as much of a snarky asshat as I was when recounting what happened on that date…nothing really “happened.” It was all MY preferences and issues. There’s gotta be a woman who’d find him charming…no woman *I* know, but surely someone.

So I told him nothing specific happened, but I didn’t think we had “anything in common except for George Carlin. :),” and he responded, “Didn’t get together enough to really find that out…oh well…good luck :)”

…Um, how much more time do YOU need? I knew 30 minutes into the second date. Do your stories about diverticulitis or shopping for shirts get better?

I told a friend about this and she said, “You didn’t need to give him any response, but seriously, was he hoping you’d say, ‘Never mind. You’re right. We should date some more?'”

I gave him a, “Thanks, you too!” and called it a day.

Waffles Guy, we hardly knew ye.

Cupid throws a curveball

I got an introductory message from an ostensibly grownup man on OkCupid.

It seems as if he knows how to use words, he doesn’t look like a murderer or Warrant, and he didn’t offer me anal (at least not immediately).

I don’t understand…Can the site even work that way?

I should call the police, right?

(By the way, I have no idea what to say. Are you shitting me? It’s bad enough I have no game in person. Am I seriously a writer who can’t respond to some random dude on a dating site?!)

My vagina, log flumes, and errant cleavage.

I’m doing this “creative lady mixer” thing tonight, kind of a summit of artists, writers, designers, etc.I mentioned before that I’d been debating whether to introduce myself as the writer of this blog because…I don’t want to say I’m “ashamed” of it, but maybe a little embarrassed? Even more so now that my most recent post compared my vagina to a log flume.

But I don’t know, getting ready this morning, I think there’s something kind of hilarious about “vagina as log flume” coming from a nondescript Feyschanel blonde wearing a demure Michelle-Obama-lookin’ Lands’ End sundress, with a camisole under it to corral errant cleavage. I’d like to think you wouldn’t look at me and immediately assume I’m the creator of “my vagina is a log flume.” (Worst John Mayer B-side ever.)

“I write a blog about women’s issues.” That includes sex. (And log flumes, apparently.) If the real writers don’t like it, it’s not the right group. I have enough friends, fuck it. Let’s do this.

Burning sage. Only mentally, because I can’t be trusted with fire.

I’ve stopped calling it decluttering at this point. I’m a writer, goddammit — these are “life revisions.” I’m deleting the parts of my story that don’t work, expanding and carefully editing the parts that do.

Remember when I was Slut Singleton? My email and cell phone no longer do. (OK, yeah, my brain totally still does, but I’m working on it.)

Sad Singleton apartment? I won’t let the door hit me.

Couch of Horrible Life Choices (AKA the whorecouch)? Out by the dumpster.

Lingerie I wore when making said bad life choices? Let’s call it what it was: Trash. Not the good lingerie, don’t be silly. Bad decisions got made in $12 Target shit…and also a $6 super-clearance dress from JCPenney. (Don’t judge.) I threw that out, too.

I’d throw out the mattress, but I think that was just ONE bad decision, and I can’t afford to buy a couch AND a mattress. I’m clearing my brain, not my bank account. Though I did order new sheets and a new mattress pad. That should cover the bad bed juju.

Oh…and I guess I should replace that bathmat. (Ahem… Shut up.)
P.S. I just have one more post about clutter/moving after this, and then I’m done, I promise.

“It’s like a booby zoo.”

Sometimes I worry I’ll never be a “real” writer until I can adequately describe how good it can feel for me to take off my bra at the end of a day. 

There are days I don’t want anything other than myself or a man touching my boobs. This is one of those days. Bite my ass, bra.