So damned romantic; or, rejection just means you’re trying

I really, really wanted to kiss the plane of his cheek. Which is, suffice to say, a WEIRD desire. But there it was. Looking all…plane-y in tandem with his very straight, aquiline nose, and the fact that he had surprised me by being something I didn’t remember and I just really wanted to kiss it. Almost the corner of the mouth, but not quite.

I didn’t, though.

Because I am a giant weenie.

Let’s back up a skoch. It looks as though my last blog post was 10 months ago…dang. Sorry- but the romance has been…limited. I attempted another on-line dating site, only to be discouraged by the continued feeling of “hey that was a really fun date and the guy seemed into it oh wait he never contacted me again shoot”. I also attempted my own version of “casual” (it’s only casual because I didn’t IMMEDIATELY begin discussing wedding colors and what a combined Roth IRA would look like), and again, very disappointing.

Though, on the plus side, I had first hand experience with my very own “fuck boy”; which up until then had remained a mythical creature, like a unicorn, or a man my age with a savings account.

A “fuck boy” or “fuckboy”, as it is alternately spelled, is basically a sucky dude. I researched this extensively (no I did not, I googled two sites), and Urban Dictionary has a bevy of pretty awesome definitions; click Here if you would like to scroll through them. They range from aggressively pissed off to mildly amused at the idiocy. Pick your poison. Slate also has a nifty article on the many varieties and connotations the phrase has- clickity click on this bad boy to be directed there, if you are a fan of etymology.

For my purposes, however, “fuck boy” simply refers to someone who purposefully allows themselves to pretend that their selfishness is not a horrible thing. Now, I knew this particular person had this streak in them (and by all other accounts, this person is quite nice), but I had yet to experience it in full force. Then I did and it left me with that “huh” feeling. You know the one. It happens when you aren’t angry or especially hurt;  rather, mildly confused. Like eating spaghetti squash for the first time.

What the ever living fuck?

 

So that bummed me out, especially since I am so awesome. As in, legitimately awesome. I have a plaque (I don’t). But it was also ok that it happened, because real talk- I am busy as fuck over here. I started a new job, which is overwhelming. I am going to school at night, and I just wrapped up doing three plays in a row (again- I am super awesome). I mean- it’s cool that romance has been back-burner-ed for legitimate reasons, but it has also begun to feel like maybe I am just perpetually in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In one of my night classes there is a guy who appeals to my aesthetic sensibilities. He’s funny, mildly sarcastic (in that bemused way), has impressively nice handwriting, and seems quite intelligent. Also he has a beard.

Now, here’s the deal…I suck at interacting with people I find attractive. I do. I Just….suck at it. I’ve gone over this in previous blogs, I think. Like, I don’t even make eye contact with people I am attracted to, for fear that they’ll see that I am attracted, and then make fun of me, or WORSE, feel bad for me…”Aw, this poor pathetic girl…” Because again, a huge weenie. As I get older, I am coming to terms more and more with how ridiculous that sentiment is, but it’s still THERE.

LOL nope. 

So here is this attractive guy in my class, who had the AUDACITY to sit at my group’s table one night. Naturally, I didn’t make eye contact, even though he sat right across from me. I was all ready to avoid the situation, and sulk inwardly, when I recalled something which had happened only a few days prior. I had tarot card reading done at a cast party for the

Mr. T does, in fact, pity me

most recent show I was in (yet again- so awesome), and it was all about how I had to stop standing in my own damn way (I mean- it didn’t literally say that..but ya know). Reminding myself of this, and how technically it was true, I was like, “screw this- I am gonna look this bastard right in the face and he will just have to DEAL with the fact that I am not a model, hell, I’m not even the prettiest girl in the class, but I am awesome” (In case you haven’t yet noticed, I use aggression to mask my insecurity. suck it). So we made conversation, and he laughed at some of my whimsical sayings, and the world did not implode into the fire ball of negativity and rejection I had assumed it would.

Plus one, me.

Then, at the official cast-party where we went to a bowling alley to karaoke (because OBVIOUSLY), there was once again a rather attractive fellow. Surprising, given the venue, but there it was (unless he was a figment of my imagination- OH MY GOD GUYS WAS HE A FIGMENT?!). I was all ready to think negative things to myself, along the lines of “no way would some guy like that be interested in you, you weird tall goon who can’t NOT sing classic rock jams when given a microphone” but then I stopped myself. Because I realized it didn’t matter. It didn’t MATTER what this rando dude thought of me. Yes, everyone likes the ego boost of mutual attraction (see that word MUTUAL there? It’s important…), but I wasn’t there to hook-up with someone. I was there to celebrate the show and the awesome people who had been a part of it. And to sing some damn Bon Jovi, and I did, and it was awesome. At the end of the night, as we were wrapping up, no joke, I caught this guy looking at me. Like- LOOKING- at me. That tickled me, guys. I won’t lie. I mean- coming to the realization that I am someone people “look” at has been slow and is still a surprise. Like when you find $5 in your pocket, or an uneaten donut (also in your

I’d still eat it

pocket)(not really). It’s not something I require to function, but it sure is nice when it happens.

[OBLIGATORY TANGENT] please please please do not misconstrue or misunderstand me when I say I like being “looked” at. I am merely stating my appreciation for when mutual attraction occurs, because it has been so rare in my own life. I do not support unsolicited advances, especially if one party has made it more than clear that it is unwanted. Don’t be a fuck boy. Respect each other. [OBLIGATORY TANGENT OVER]

Feeling pretty confident, I was. I mean- holy nuts, I’m the kind of girl who gets looked at by cute people. I’m the kind of girl who makes people laugh. I’m the kind of girl who absolutely crushes “More Than a Feeling” by Boston. I got this! I can TOTALLY Stop standing in my own way.

Except that I can’t. Not fully, not yet apparently.

An old friend, whom I haven’t seen in years, asked to catch up over drinks. Being an excitable goober, I said “Heck yes!” because who doesn’t like catching up with friends? Plus, I figured I could dress myself up and show off my new bangs in a bigger city with the possibility of getting “looked” at some more. Hooray! So we met up at a horribly pretentious and expensive cocktail bar (regrettably my choice- I did not know what other options the city had) and we started catching up. It was interesting and fun. It got even better when me moved to a sports bar. So much better, especially since a game was on, and lord knows I get invested real quick in sportsball games. During the game, the topic of dating came up; he mentioned tinder dates and responded to a text, while I mentioned the cute guy in my class and my crippling fear of rejection. My friend told me, “rejection means you’re doing it right. It means you’re trying.” I almost fell off my bar-stool. 

Then the game ended, and we swapped locations AGAIN. There is something so unquestionably glorious about bar-hopping when one is in the mood. It gives you a bit of exercise and fresh air; gets the blood moving. All very healthy things to offset the destruction of your liver.

At our final location- some things started maybe getting a bit more romantic? No…that’s not what I mean…but the suggestion of it being a date- the nuance of that came out. Maybe? Again, I am so unsure of myself that I can’t even confidently type that out. But I think maybe he was feeling something out with me, and like an idiot, I immediately shut it down. Not explicitly- oh no. I have to go one step further and be insidious about it. Wall after wall came up; fear after fear mortared a nice barricade so that I would not have to face rejection. This perfectly nice, attractive, surprisingly intelligent guy  who wants to be a farmer and who has a romantic streak in him a mile wide may have been open to something, and I had to go and respond with a knee-jerk reaction that I am sure seemed harsh or at the least, the exact opposite of what I wanted it to seem like.

I had been so sure that there was no way I was attractive. I had been so sure for so long that I was nowhere near the type of girl this dude (or any of my guy friends from back then) wanted, and I was so good at projecting that onto them, that I blithely destroyed any of the fragile attempts being made. Which in hindsight, sucks. It sucks a lot. But it has been a healthy reminder that I am quite far from being good at this. Doesn’t matter how often I get “looked” at, I still respond similarly to how I did at 19.

So any of the nebulous chances were effectively crushed, but as we continued to hang out, I realized that I liked how he spoke, and I liked his hands, and his nose and the plane of his cheek, and I realized that I really did want to kiss that plane, and I wondered what that would be like, and how it would feel, and would it be worth the awkwardness that might occur; but I also remembered that I ruined that chance hours before. I did it to myself, and can only blame myself. Or rather, not blame, but use it to learn. Learn that time matters- sometimes you know right away, sometimes things have to soak, to percolate. Sometimes I will be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but at some point I will be in the absolute right place at the very right time. And I will be able to act on my impulse, fearlessly.

Because I would rather try and fail then live a life of blogs about what could have been.

 

Advertisements

It’s been a long time; or, alliteration for the win

Could it conceivably have been this long since my last romantic encounter? Yes. Shut up about it.

I’d like to say that the lack of woo-ing in my life was due to a cognizant choice- but it wasn’t. A heap ton of stuff has changed in my life since my last blog…I changed careers (read- quit my job), moved back to my ancestral home (read- back in with my parents), and basically threw my entire life into a certain amount of upheaval (read- existential crisis). I speak of this rather glibly, as is my nature, but the choice was actually given great consideration. So suck it.

As I was saying, I wish this could be the explanation for my lack of romance, but the sad truth is, it isn’t. Up until the very end of my time in Portland, I was hoping for….what? A Mr. Right type to sweep me off my feet and make me re-think my carefully planned choices? Well- Thank GOD that didn’t happen. I value Portland as much as the next gal, but I also outgrew it. Not to mention it was turning into a hypocritical, xenophobic community that feared change. Oh- I’m sorry- did I type that out loud? Sorry- I know there is valid reason for being pissed about the rental market, but constantly berating transplants is absolutely NOT the way to go about expressing your concerns. Bashing someone because they moved there from, say, California, makes you sound like an uneducated fool. It also severely hampers what Portland claims is their forte, artistic weirdness. Art is a collaboration. Without new, fresh blood, it tends to stagnate. So, if my fellow artists living in Portland  (which is basically all of Portland) claim that they can’t stand any more people moving there (side note: MOST of the people of Portland are transplants….I don’t have specific data, as that would require actual research, and ain’t no one got time for that- but I would say the bulk of Portland “proper” came from somewhere else), then they are being woe-fully narrow minded.

Anywhoo- as I was saying, I was, in fact, hoping until the bitter end that some magical dude would enter my life. This strikes me as astonishingly stupid and dramatic now, a mere four months after the fact. Why on EARTH would I willingly hope for what would only have amounted to massive confusion and disappointment? What kind of a masochist AM I? Thank God the universe very politely batted me down like a cat toying with a mouse. So the element of romantic entanglement was kindly removed from my plate so I could focus on, oh I don’t know, the fact that I WAS CHANGING LITERALLY EVERYTHING ABOUT MY LIFE.

Therefore, I moved home. Literally. I moved back in with my folks. Which is a whole other blog. They have been fantastic and supportive, trust me. However, am I looking at this from the pragmatic, financially responsible angle which spurred me to make this change to begin with? OF COURSE NOT. Dummy. Instead, I am concerned with the “crimp” it may put on my “style”. Which is laughable, as my “style” consists of taking myself out to a public space, like a bar, only to isolate myself by journal-ling or reading;

I am THE WORST

then feeling morose that nobody has approached me. OR, worse, that the person who braved the lovely yet icy front was “not what I’m into”. Ew. I’m a dick. Yeah- so, there ain’t no “style” to speak of. And yet, here I am, concerned that my (very intelligent decision) to move in with my parents in order to save money while I figure out what to be as an adult would impede on my love life.

I make great choices.

The point is, this whole thing has forced me to dive further down into the muck and grime that is my…personality. It’s mainly a ton of back and forth dialogue in my head, with Casey A being the logical, rational, SENSIBLE entity, and Casey B being what I can only describe as an overly dramatic, un-medicated sorority girl who thinks Fireball and Fanta is a “classy” drink. It’s basically one part of me talking the other part down. CONSTANTLY. It’s flipping exhausting. Casey B: “Did he think I was hot?” Casey A: “It wouldn’t matter if he thought you were ‘hot’, you are super smart and awesome and are more than your body.” Casey B: “Yeah- but why didn’t he want to make out with me?” *Casey A weeps internally at the futility*  And this is all happening INSIDE MY BRAIN. It’s tough guys.

The bright side of all this nonsense is that I am getting a MUCH better handle on myself. I don’t feel as bad for knowing what I want, and expressing it. I do still get extremely frustrated when the guys I meet seem to be hell-bent on lying not only to me, but to themselves about what they really want. Have courage, fellas. Be honest. I recently had a fella (finally) tell me what it was he really wanted, and it absolutely did NOT line up with my desires. For pretty good reasons, too. But it took, like, an hour of me flirting and thinking “Hey this guy really likes me” before he came clean. And yeah, I felt like an idiot. Of course I did. I allowed myself to feel invalidated by this poor sap, who was just trying to be a gentleman. Even though my pride was damaged, though, I think I handled the situation pretty well. He only needed five stitches (bad dum bum ch). I jest. It actually was ok- I mean, I cried for like, an hour, of course. It was ok  because he was up front and honest; after Casey B had her freak out, Casey A swooped in and was all, “Hold up…his thing had NOTHING to do with you…like…literally nothing. You can’t feel bad about it.” And here’s the kicker- I DIDN’T. Our wants were misaligned, and I was able to (fairly) clearly see that.  This makes it a helluva lot easier to feel better about what I want.

That’s the key, I suppose. Not feeling guilty or “bad” about what you actually want. When did this trend of being made to feel bad begin? Why on earth should I feel bad because I want a boyfriend who exhibits the qualities I respect and admire? It all boils down to accountability. No matter how hard I have tried to pretend to want whatever the guy I liked wanted…my real expectations and desires always came out in the end. Usually in a firework display of verbal haranguing and snot. Seriously- my ugly crying involves an abnormal amount of mucus.

Case in point (about the not feeling guilty…not about the snot): A few weeks ago, I met a charming fella, who got my phone number. Was I excited? You betcha. Until I started getting that distinct, “I don’t plan on making any effort, I just wanna bang you” vibe, perfectly epitomized in the ALWAYS CREEPY “send me a pic” text. Um…I JUST met you. Why on earth do you need a picture of me? Ew. EW. STAHP. After a few more leading texts from me trying to set up an actual date, all to no avail, I broke down and told him it seemed to me that he was just looking for a hook-up (which I respect, actually as long as both parties are honest and upfront), and that wasn’t really my jam. Did he respond to my polite text with a “You know you are right! I am looking for a hook-up. Thanks for letting me know you weren’t into it. Have a good day!” text? OF COURSE NOT BECAUSE HE IS A LAME DUDE. He didn’t respond at all, actually, in a traditional, albeit cowardly, dude move. I refuse to lump all men into the same blase category, but dudes, come on. If you are one of the good ones, who respects human communication, please please please start holding your less aware buds accountable. It’s way more attractive.

In summation- I wonder if Fireball and Fanta is a real thing? If so, how gross is it?

Want vs. Need, or, Like a Boss

There have been a number of incarnations of this post. I can’t seem to organize my thoughts coherently with this one, so ima just jump in.

Friday….Get it??

I met a fellow last Friday,and there are a million offshoot topics I want to touch on, but I’ll narrow it down to three (which I’m sure will have their own lovely tangents as we delve in): 1) HOW I met him, ‘cuz it was BOSS as all hell. 2) Why am I REALLY bummed that he hasn’t contacted me, and  3) Why is it still “inappropriate” for women to have and/or express the same sexual appetites as men.

Holy nuts guys. I feel so freaking cool about this. So last Friday- I did not really want to go out. It was an opening party for a show I had worked on, and while I adored the cast, I did not actually attend opening night, and there’s always some awkwardness in being single and coming to these events. Plus my hair was a little greasy and I didn’t have time to wash it. PLUS my hot rollers weren’t working for some reason, so I had to feebley attempt to use my curling iron, before giving up out of boredom and frustration. Now, when I “go out”, I like to really “go out”. If I am dragging my lazy tush to something, I have to make it worth my (and, really, everyone’s) while. It’s a full on pampering of my own senses. Bath, shave the legs (another thing I did not have time to do), makeup, ya know, general purtifying.

For some reason, even though I know I looked fine (er…great…hot….whatever), I certainly wasn’t feeling it. There was no fierceness to me, no strut. Usually the result of a good dollin’ up is an

who’s gonna walk away from this?

overall feeling of sassy “rocking it” Beyonce-inspired awesomeness. This was a little bit lacking when I headed out. Instead, I felt insecure and ugly (sooooo many stress zits) and hopeless (sooooo many crushes left unspoken and unrealized) and just generally frustrated with myself and the world. BUT- I would BE DAMNED if I didn’t at least try. Worst case scenario, I go, have one drink, am mainly ignored (not maliciously so…just…’meh’-ly so), then head home to the comforting embrace of Netflix and whatever there is to eat in my fridge (all the cheese its are gone).

I arrive at White Owl (already ominous, as that was the location of horrible OKC date 1), and strut in. I am a firm believer of fake it till you are it, and nothing puts pep in my step like knowing that when I walk into a room, people notice. Vain? Sure. But also remember, I am cripplingly insecure about my looks, soo….it balances out, right? right? whatever….I walk in, greasy roots and weird curls flying, dress amplifying my genetic assets (girls got cleavage for daaaaaaays), ready to find my crew, and see where the night takes me. First stop is to stand in “line” for the bar. Really, I’m standing in mass. Luckily, I situate myself next to some actors from the show, so i don’t have to just stand there, forcing an attitude of cool nonchalance. We stand there chit-chatting for a few moments, and peripherally, I notice a bearded dude is standing next to/behind-ish me; again, we are in a mass, so we are actually pretty parallel to eachother. After a few moments, a spot opens up at the bar, directly in front of bearded dude, and just to the left of me. We sort of look at each other, and he does the “after you” gesture, and I do a sort of curtsy, and almost- ALMOST- mime flipping my hair, mutter, “oh thanks” and sidle up to the space. That’s when I get the brilliant idea. I’m gonna buy that bearded fucker a DRINK. Not only that, I’m going to do it without saying one goddamned word to him, and be smooth as all hell. I glance and notice he’s holding a Rainier can, which is perfect, since those mothers are cheap. I order my gin, and the Rainier, turn around, hold out the can to the dude, who takes it, and looks super surprised, and says, “Is this for me?” I nod, say “yeah” and then hit that hot bearded dude with my million dollar smile, then I just WALK THE FUCK AWAY.

Aphrodisiac

I myself cannot even believe how absolutely cool I was in that moment. I was the epitome of cool. Mainly because I was acting out of a true desire to reward a good deed (letting me go in front of him in a crowded ass bar), and because I had absolutely no stakes in the action. It’s not like I was looking to hit on anyone; nor was I seeking special attention (again-remember- greasy hair and 1′ long leg hair); but this was clearly my ONE opportunity to be balling as fuck, so I seized it. Not to mention, I had the wonderful knowledge that I there was a table full of people I knew, to which I was headed anyway. Having a direction, a goal per se, was very helpful.

After about fifteen, twenty minutes of standing around, feeling ever so slightly excluded (which is just to say that I was not in the mood to be outwardly gregarious, and really, I just wanted someone else to really want to start a conversation with me), I chatted a bit with our stage manager, telling her my awesome story about inside. I lingered awkwardly for a moment; just enough time to make myself feel really pointless, before deciding to head back in for a second (and last) drink. I walk in, and who should be standing at the water station, which you have to pass in order to get to the bar? Yes- it was indeed hot bearded dude to whom I suavely handed off a beer. He looks right at me, and I give him a small, acknowledging smile, and start to walk past him, when he stops me by saying, “Hey!” So I stop, half in line, half near him. “That was really awesome, you giving me that beer.” I smile again, and shrug, and say “Well, you let me in front of you. Tit for tat, right?” I immediately kicked myself for being the type of person who peppers modern conversation with antiquated sayings. He didn’t seem too phased by it, because he actually struck up a conversation. He asked me what I was doing there, and I said the play I had costume designed had just opened, so we were having a do. I noticed he was wearing a backpack, so I asked if he was going somewhere, and he said, “Oh yeah, I’m headed home.” I thought to myself Bummer. I finally get to have an honest to god interaction with a member of the opposite sex I find attractive, and dude is headed out. But I wasn’t giving it too much thought. Instead, I said, “Ok, well, I’m gonna get in line for a drink…” and then I drew a parallel to the situation of saying goodbye to someone, only to find that you are both walking the same way for like, another five blocks. It absolutely NEVER occurred to me that this viable specimen was perhaps trying to strike up a conversation with me. Until, that is,  I noticed that the dude wasn’t leaving. He was, in fact, seeking out more ways of having a conversation with me. He introduced himself, and we shook hands, and he stayed next to me, having a full blown conversation in which we both were delightful and charming. Then, as I got my drink, he said, “Come on. We are going to have a four minute conversation.” And he headed outside to a picnic table on the patio. “Four minutes? What, do you have to catch the bus or something?” “Will you just go with it?” I shrug, and decide, yeah- cute guy, fun conversation, Friday night? Hell yeah, I’ll go with it.

Four minutes swiftly and easily turns into an hour and a half. We touch on everything from literature, to travel, to the Trailblazers. A couple of times, some people (girls…YES I NOTICED AND DID MY DAMNEDEST NOT TO CARE) from the birthday party of a co-worker he had been attending came up and, without looking at me, let him know they were all headed to Dig a Pony (ew. Sorry! but ew) and was he coming. He looked at me, then said, “Nah, I think I’m gonna stay here.” BLUSH. I actually really like this conversation, and am enjoying spending time with this guy. Finally, our conversation dwindles down, and I say what we’re both thinking, “See, here’s the awkward part of the conversation, where we can’t think of anything else to say, because we both wish we were making out with each other.” This is half bravado, half truth, so imagine my astonishment when he says, in all seriousness, “exactly.” SOOOOOO we make out in my car and then go back to my place, where he spent the night.

This is such an obvious euphemism, I debated even using it, but I figured I needed to give any readers (ahem- MOM), the chance to ease into the idea that I, a healthy red-blooded woman nearing 29, would maybe actually desire to have sex now and again. Being one who is traditionally single, and apparently destined to be so for quite some time, I have very few options open to me with regards to obtaining sex:

A. Blatant promiscuity; to which I say, no thank you. I have a discerning palette when it comes to people I am willing to spend time with, little own let see me naked. I am not the type to just pick any

way better looking than ACTUAL promiscuity

rando off the street with a penis. No. No, thank you. Not to mention, health class in high school pretty much did me in with fear of STD’s and babies and the like for me to be bangin’ strangers every weekend. But above and beyond all that, it is simply not in my nature to be super promiscuous. I am a Taurus, after all. So, if I’m not being promiscuous, how else could I get the physical attention most if not all humans crave and deserve?

B. Be in a steady, committed, loving relationship. Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…..see THIS ENTIRE FUCKING BLOG. The universe has, apparently, deemed me not ready to find my person yet. So this option is out.

C. Pay for it. That’s right. Find me a gigalo. But economically speaking- I simply couldn’t afford it. I can barely afford groceries.

I typed in ‘male prostitution’ and this came up and I can’t stop laughing

This leaves our final option:

D. Carefully weigh my options in a given circumstance and choose to do (haha) something moderately reckless; knowing that, fundamentally, I will be safer than most.

So, I chose option D. because at that point in time, in that situation, the stars had aligned for me. It was consensual, I wasn’t even tipsy, and after two hours in conversation, I felt I had a solid enough handle on this person’s character to rule out him being a sociopath (although let’s be honest….one never knows…). I figured this was my chance to pull a Beyonce, to go after something I wanted. And I did. Successfully! He spent the night, and seemed to genuinely enjoy my company. So much so that he asked me, the next morning, if I would want to get together and talk books again some time.

um.

OF COURSE I WOULD WANT THAT. I wish I could say I smiled seductively and coyly said, “I would really enjoy that.” but it’s me and I didn’t do that. Instead, I furrowed my brow, looked him square in the eye, and said, “I mean, I made it pretty clear that I am awkward at flirting, but I would very much like to see you again. You have your own opinions on that subject, though, so I’ll leave it up to you.” Because I SUCK AT ALL THE THINGS. Luckily, he sort of laughs, and asks for my number despite my awkwardness.

That was Saturday morning. It is now, as of this writing, Wednesday afternoon, and I have heard no word. There has been no tell-tale vibration, or exhilarating ding to notify me of a possible suitor. And I will not lie. That has been a HUGE bummer. Mainly because I actually quite liked this fellow and the conversation we had was promising (I mean we discussed books and travel for fuck’s sake….), so its a bit of a bummer to think that I won’t hear from him again. This silence has also stirred up some

this is actually me…no…it’s not. I lied. sorry

really deep seated and painful emotions in me; the same ones that happen with each and every new possible beau. I am not joking when I say that my reaction to men is pretty much always the same. I meet someone. They seem interested. They get my number. But they DO NOT OPERATE ON THE SAME TIME FRAME and instead of just shrugging it off, I look at it like it’s some personal insult. My ego starts to over-react BIG time, and before I know it, I have silently set myself up to sabotage any glimmer of a chance which may occur down the road. So this time around- I am determined to not follow my usual pattern of absolute self-deprecation and wallowing. Instead, I am doing my damnedest to reiterate the mantra that if I don’t hear from him, it has absolutely nothing to do with me, and that who knows what his life is like. I’m trying to be zen about it, but it is hard as fuck, guys. It’s hard not to accuse the universe of dangling a carrot. It’s hard not to call myself “idiot” or “fool” because I thought for once, a man would be interested enough to take a stab at getting to know me. It’s hard to learn to accept such uncomfortable emotions as frustration. I want him to want me. Do I need it? No. Here, the universe has provided me with a valuable learning opportunity. They gave me something I really wanted. Then, it went away, and now, the universe is challenging me to learn how to cope with the loss of something I wanted. Normally, I’d pitch a fit like a sugar crashing two year old. And since I am now very AWARE  that I behave thus, I did my best not to pitch that fit. Am doing my best. It’s tough. I’d still really like to hear from him; I want it, but I suppose the silence is the universe telling me I don’t need him (or what he would symbolize); not yet. Which is totes true, btw. My life is pretty fucking rad right now. Awesome, secure job, fabulous friends and fam, another costume design gig, AND I just got accepted into the Graduate program I wanted? Yeah- I’d say bearded dude was just the hairy chested icing on this awesomesuace cake.

Now, some of you may feel uncomfortable reading this, much like I felt uncomfortable writing it for a hot second. Then I sat myself down, and asked why, WHY was I so uncomfortable about it? I was worried about the kind of judgement which may happen. People thinking that I was being in some way inappropriate….but then I realized I really didn’t care. If I actually cared, i wouldn’t have had sex. I have nothing to be ashamed off. My body had a natural desire, one that women have been forced to hide for far too long. And honestly, the fact that anyone would look askance at me (or any fellow woman) for having sex on the “first date” actually pisses me right off. I have no idea how this moral superiority can still exist in this day and age, but it does, and it’s infuriating. If you, yourself, do not want to or believe in having sex on the first date/before marriage/ever, that is certainly YOUR prerogative. But to start condemning those who behave differently, especially those who are simply following natural, normal impulses, and still managing to be responsible? UGH I SAY. And while the thought did cross my mind that perhaps dude isn’t going to call me because we slept together, well, if that is truly the case (and I honestly don’t think it is, but if so) he can go suck a duck, because I have no time for judgey mcjudgersons in my life. So if you read this, and felt uncomfortable or judgemental, and you AREN’T my mother, then it may behoove you, like it did me, to sit down and reflect on why.

So, long post short: Bummer bearded dude didn’t try to see me again, Hooray for all the self-reflection and realization, and don’t be a sexist dickbag.

I love you all

Feng Shui, or, A Bibliophile’s Dream

ohmygoshguys- I bought a chair.

YES. My apartment now has two items which were SPECIFICALLY DESIGNED WITH THE INTENT TO SIT in mind. Granted, this new one is an armchair- but still! It has the word “chair” in it! And it is amazing. I love it. Mainly, I love it for what it symbolizes….LIKE I WASN’T GONNA GET ALL METAPHORICAL ON YOUR ASS. But let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?

It began a while ago, when I went into the nap room at my work (what, your work doesn’t have  a nap room? Sucks to be you, I guess), and I curled up in the armchair there and I read on my break. It was so cozy, and awesome; and I realized that I really needed a devoted reading space of my own at home. I yearned for an armchair; something to tuck my knees up into, or drape my legs over; something to read cozily in, while up-right, and therefore awake, and able to read more than one paragraph at a time without the tell-tale dip and then inevitable drop of the book on to my face.

In case you weren’t aware (because, why would you be unless you stalk me in which case why don’t you bring me wine?!), I live in a studio apartment. It clocks in at a whopping 490 sq. ft., which is

LOOK AT HIM

shared with an exuberant Australian Shepherd/Border Collie mix named Cowboy, who apparently has it out for any and all dust covers on my bed. Suffice to say, space is limited. BUT- I also noticed that if I just rearranged a little, I could totally provide myself with a reading nook of my very own, and it wouldn’t take up any extra space. It also, quite conveniently, would mean that

my new armchair would be located in the Love and Relationship gua, according to the feng shui of my apartment.

OH MAN GUYS- do you even know about feng shui, and how utterly cool it is? Because it is, and if you think otherwise, you are a cynical, jaded, empty person. Or you just don’t know about it. Without getting too in depth, as I am no master, feng shui is basically a way of harmonizing your environment in the most auspicious way possible (lyrical, no?). Basically, any space you are in, can be divided into 8 quadrants (which is the literal translation of the word “bagua”). Want to know what that looks like? BAM:

get yo qi flowin’

This image is pretty cool, in that it also gives you the corresponding “power” colors for each section. It corresponds to a physical space in the following way: Imagine you have come to my apartment (I hope you brought wine) and you have just walked through my front door. You are now smack dab in the middle of the “career” section. Regardless of where, or how your entrance is situated, it always falls on that southern perimeter.  But Casey, you may ask, how does this relate to an armchair; and why are you writing about it in your blog about romantic experiences? WHEN DO WE GET TO WHAT THE CHAIR SYMBOLIZES?! Well shut up a minute, and I’ll explain.

I bet you can guess which gua I have really been focused on? That’s right- LOVE AND RELATIONSHIPS! Go ahead and pat yourself on the back for that one. I have done EVERYTHING to enhance this area. I wrote adorable love letters in pink ink and red paper with hearts and smiley

romantic shit

faces and all that shit. I have placed romantic imagery there. I have placed flowers and “sensuous items” like soft fabrics and cheeze its. I have done ALL THE THINGS suggested to enhance that area in order to attract my person to me. And none of it has worked. NONE OF IT. So, frustrated as all hell, I cleared out the area of any and all “romantic” gear. I was a petulant child throwing a tantrum because I wasn’t getting what I wanted. Which is great, because it opened me up to focus and receive the kind of loving relationship I NEEDED. Which was…..are you ready for this? This is where the symbol comes into play….get ready…..the kind of relationship I actually needed to be focusing on and enhancing was the loving relationship I had WITH MYSELF. Truth bomb dropped.

Almost immediately after I cleared out that space, this yearning for a reading nook arose. It arose because reading is one of my deepest loves. Reading has been with me since I was able to formulate words. I can remember crawling into my parents bed with a Little Critter book (Side note- OH MY GOD do you remember how AWESOME those books were/are?! So awesome…) and I would pretend to read to them. Reading has and will always be a soul soother of mine. So it makes sense that once I made space for it, that self-love and self-nurture would kick in. All it took was a little mysticism to get me going. Lord knows, I love me some new-age hippie shit. Anywhoo- I drove my tush to Ikea, where I purchased a magnificent and budget conscientious armchair, which, subsequently, did not fit in either the backseat of my car, or in the trunk. But I am nothing if not resourceful (not true…I am many things at many times, but you know what I mean). Thanks to a tow rope and some pretty wicked biceps, I managed to lash the thing to the top of my car and drive home, while gripping the rope through the window.

It was also super fucking windy.

I managed to make it home and get my chair all set up. One of the main principles in feng shui is to work on any one area with purpose. For example, I assembled my chair and placed it with great love and calmness. I nestled it between a book case and my window. I purchased a magenta pink pillow to accent it. I thought of how many awesome books I was going to read in that chair and how much my soul would flourish. I thought of those cozy rainy afternoons and of those bright and sunny ones where I would gaze absentmindedly out over the trees and just let my mind be. I prayed that my heart would never confuse the feeling of loneliness with the feeling of being alone in that chair. I imagined me putting my feet up on the bed and relaxing into my natural state of contentment. I poured all the self-love I had into setting it up because I was really pouring all that love into myself. My hopes for that chair and that space was not just to have a kick-ass reading nook (although I totes do  now). It was to heal myself from within. Clearing all that old stuff out was a way of mentally releasing myself from relying on the validation of dudes. Don’t get me wrong- I still very much want to find that person, but this unhealthy obsession with finding him RIGHT THIS FUCKING INSTANT OR ELSE I AM A FAT HIDEOUS FAILURE had to go. And it did. The time had come to slough off arbitrary timelines and previous expectations. The time had come to embrace the self, MYself, for all it’s singular glory.

fucking magic

And, anyway, I have two chairs now. SOMEBODY needs to sit in the other one at some point.

V-Day, or, Goddamn Ego Deaths

Unless you live under a rock, you will recall that last Saturday was Valentine’s day. And here is a factoid that may come as a surprise to you- I freaking LOVE Valentine’s day. Love it- I love flowers, I love wine, I love candy, I love smiles, and I just LOVE THIS DAY.

True Love

Before you throw up all over your screen with disappointment in my overly-sentimental reaction to what many call a commercial holiday- just stop for a moment. Also- shut up, Judgey McJudgerson. Any day that takes the time to focus on celebrating those that fill you with love is a-okay in my book. Sure, it’s something that should be celebrated all the time, and not just on this one random day, but GUESS WHAT? More often than not, it isn’t. People get busy; people get taken for granted. So this is a nationally acceptable, self-imposed day to take a damn moment and tell those that matter to you that they matter. People who make it all about romantic love are missing the point. Not that I’m blameless in this. I will be the first person to admit that I liked this day for the wrong reasons for a very long time. I can’t recall ever having a really great Valentine’s Day…I’m sure I have…but the bulk of them have been either “meh” or absolutely horrible. Guess which category this last one fell under?!

Basically, a guy from my past, who should have, admittedly, stayed there, popped back up. After much thinking and deliberation and discussion- I decided to accept his invitation to “hang out”. MISTAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE (imagine the opera singer from that one episode of Scrubs.…).

uggggggggggghhhhhhh

But how was I to know? Ya know? I keep working so diligently on myself- and I keep hearing the same things over and over again, from different men, that I have to think maybe it IS me. Maybe I do come off too…I don’t even know anymore. So I figured, alright- let’s give this dude another shot; maybe I really did fuck it up last time, and this is the universe giving me another chance to be what I think I need to be (i.e.- relaxed and go with the flow and essentially a land mermaid).

Nope. nuh-uh. This was not the case. Not this time around. I can absolutely and definitively tell you that I did not fuck it up last time. He did. And he fucked it up again this time. Now- after we had been hanging out and canoodling and being sweet…he had the flat out audacity to tell me how he just doesn’t like the way I make him feel, and that I am always so negative toward him. This is said to me WHILE WE ARE MAKING OUT. So I, as is my right, sort of shut down. Because- I am actually NOT being mean to him. But he wanted mean. He wanted a shrew. He wanted to be the long-suffering, misunderstood hero, and boy-howdy, did he ever get it.

Mother Fucking Majestic

I unleashed the wolf goddess on this pathetic coward. He was such a small person, that he wouldn’t even have an actual conversation with me, deciding instead to hide behind the safety and anonymity of text. Well- that was a HUGE mistake on his part, because I am equally effective in writing words that will destroy you, as I am in saying them. I called him a coward. I called him selfish. I called him pathetic and a waste of time. I owned my own suckiness, while berating him for thinking he was anything but less than equal in suck-itude. I was angry. Mother FUCK was I ever angry. I was outraged that this douchecanoe inserted himself back into my life, only to pull the same accusatory, “martyr-me” bullshit he did last time. I told him I hope he ends up with someone he hates. I told him I hope he gets all the negativity he so desperately desires. I told him to enjoy his feeling of superiority, because I was watering the seed of doubt in his brain. I made damn sure he never thinks fondly of me- but he will recall the accuracy of my tongue lashing. I can only hope, that twenty years down the road, when he has grown the fuck up, he looks back on his behavior, and cringes with all his might.

And yeah- duh- I cried. Because for a split-second (er..maybe forty minutes…), I believed his cruelty. I believed his projection of his own shit onto me. I believed that I was mean, and that I was unworthy

My Ego

of love (his exact words, mind you). I believed that I was destined to crave love but never know how to actually have it; destined to live in a world of awkward, misunderstood advances. Also, my pride was hurt, so my goddamned Ego was having a huge flare up. Captain Ego (who is very similar to Zapp Brannigan from Futurama in that he shouldn’t be in charge of ANYTHING) likes to make himself seem waaaaaaay more important than he is, which makes me get all huffy and absolutely shocked- SHOCKED I SAY- that someone would not like me. Essentially- I had to suffer through this ego-death, which is necessary in growth, but shitty feeling in application.

Despite the fact that, technically, this is another embarrassing and massive FAIL of a social experiment; I can’t help but secretly be grateful to this sniveling, pathetisad caricature of a man. His journey hasn’t even started- he’s so far from being self-aware, I feel for him. Because when those realizations hit, they hit hard (speaking from experience, here), and he is going to have to be so torn down before he is able to grow. I do not envy him that experience; and therefore I bless him. I bless him for allowing me to tap, unabashedly and without fear or guilt, into that deep well of power and knowledge and fundamental fearlessness. I bless him for helping me realize I am not one dimensional, and that when the wolf bitch comes out, it is for very good reason.

Here’s the other kicker, and the whole reason I am even sharing this tale- I LOVE when I turn all Mama Bear on people. I love that I have that capacity to put people in their place. I love that I will never call myself a victim. I love that I will own when I am being shitty, but that I will also demand in others that they own it, too. I love that I take action, and don’t suffer fools. I love that some people find me intimidating, because they are the types of people that should find me intimidating. And I love that despite all this- all the set-backs, and the humiliating experiences, and the frustrations- I am still so excited about meeting the person who won’t be intimidated. I bet he also enjoys eating cheese-its and binge watching Netflix in bed. I bet he will love my dog, and think I have the best smile. I hope he enjoys spirited conversation and cuddles. I hope he realizes how much I love flowers and sweetness. I hope I get to shower him with affection. I hope, come next Valentine’s Day, there is this opportunity for love, but if not, I hope I realize that’s ok too.

Science

How I Flirt, or, I’m Talking To You , and Aren’t I?

It has been brought to my attention numerous times that, perhaps, I simply do not know how to flirt.

There was that one time, in Ashland, where I tried to seduce the concession attendant by saying something akin to “Hey…can I get a…muffin?”, while fondling said muffin. To be fair, I was 14 at the time, and surrounded by my giggling girlfriends.

Oh haaiiii…..

There was that other time, when we were at an ice cream parlor, and I very coyly said to the attractive soda-jerk who was washing dishes, “You know…if your water isn’t hot enough…it won’t kill all the bacteria.” To be fair, I was 15 at the time, and socially awkward.

Romantic

And who could forget that time I made that co-worker I had a huge crush on bleed because I misjudged my aim and accidentally threw the roll of masking tape at his face, instead of his chest, thereby splitting his lip open. To be fair- SHUT UP.

damn you!!

The point is, my “flirting” game has never been what one would call “traditional” or even “accurate”. I suppose it has something to do with the fact that I have never understood what society called “flirting”. I always just assumed attraction was evident because time and energy was being spent with the sole purpose of being around the other person more than would be deemed “standard” (I am going to be using a TON of air quotes in this blog…only written out…so…I guess just quotes).

In my mind, with my perspective, I have thought that “flirting”, according to modern society, with the stupid hair-flipping, and laughing at jokes that ARE NOT FUNNY NO MATTER HOW HOT THE GUY IS, was idiotic. It seemed like a game that had no real set of rules. It’d be like if golf and tennis hooked up, had a lovechild, gave it up for adoption, and it was adopted and raised in a Quidditch only household. Could you imagine the anxiety and tension?!

I recall talking with a guy friend about a recent encounter where I felt I had been honest and open, and I was wondering why I hadn’t heard back from the dude. My friend said, very matter-of-factly,

hell no

“Oh, no. You won’t hear back. You didn’t  play the game.” I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Whatgame?” “You know, the game you play with men.” Again- blank ass stare. “Seriously? There is seriously a GAME we are supposed to be playing?” My guy friend (who is a heterosexually oriented male identifier, in case you were wondering) nodded his head solemnly, and said, “Oh yes. Men like the game; they like the chase.” I let out a long sigh, before exclaiming dishearteningly, “Whelp, I’m fucked.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I want to be chased a little. I want to be wooed and courted. I want flowers and sweet texts, and dates. I want an expression of interest to be displayed on a slightly above average level. For example- if my lady friends make the effort to see me once a week, a dude who is interested in me should make the effort to see me more than that, or communicate with me more than that. I guess, for me, and my personality, THAT’S where the flirting is. The flirting is the in-between time, where attraction and interest have been mutually expressed, but solidification of what the hell is going on has not been established. So if a dude writes me a flirty text, and I respond, and then I don’t hear back for a week- well, in my mind, that just ain’t flirting. That’s “keeping your options open”, and I have no time for that….I mean, I do…but I get quickly irritated with the lackadaisical nature of that philosophy. Which means- if that’s all part of some grand tennis-golf-quidditch game of courtship- I am screwed, because that seems like a massive waste of time.

I also find it hard to believe that dudes out there are actually happy about game-playing. I thought that’s all you men-folk did, complain about how us women-folk played mind-games and were never honest about how we felt. Well, I say fuck that- because I am an extremely honest and up-front lady, and all it’s done is made you pansy-ass men tuck tail and run. It almost as if the notion of a woman who DIDN’T emotionally fuck with you, scares the ever living hell out of you (blanket statement- YEP- deal with it).

In order to be a well rounded blog-ist, I did some research (read- looked it up on wikipedia). This is how good ol’ wiki describes flirting:

Flirting or coquetry is a social and sometimes sexual activity involving verbal or written communication as well as body language by one person to another, suggesting an interest in a deeper relationship with the other person. In most cultures, it is socially disapproved for a person to make explicitly sexual advances, but indirect or suggestive advances (i.e., flirting) may at times be considered acceptable. On the other hand, some people flirt playfully, for amusement.

Basically- wikipedia just told me to stop being an old fuddy-duddy. Some people just want to have fun, and I suppose I shouldn’t infringe on their right to pursue what makes them happy by selfishly pointing out that their behavior is slightly malicious towards another (resentful? me? noooooooo….). And here’s the thing- I actually LOVE flirting when I know absolutely NOTHING will come of it. It IS fun. You get to banter freely, be as sassy and brassy as possible, and smile a lot. What’s not to like? So what does that mean for me? It means a couple things:

1. I need to calm the hell down when it comes to other people’s actions. I tend to take things too personally (me? nooooo….), and I am constantly working on assessing my reaction to situations. There is a Polish proverb I really like, and recite to myself when other people start to behave in ways I find odd or hurtful: “Not my circus, not my monkeys.” I don’t know what their life is like, nor can I ever truly know; so it’s best if I stop trying to guess why a dude did or did not do something, and just accept the moment and move on.
2. I need to calm the hell down with myself. Knock it off with the arbitrary timelines and expectations. Stop berating myself for “not knowing how to flirt” (I totally know how to flirt, by the way- it’s just unique to me, is all), and “being too opinionated and strong”. Just calm the hell down, Ballard. Flirt if it’s an option and you want to, and feel free to be more serious and open if it’s an option and you want to. Which leads to…
3. Being more powerful in my choices. This one is a doozy, that I just barely realized I have been struggling with. On the exterior, I seem like the type of person who makes her choice, and that’s that. And, technically, I am. But inside, in the brain and hearty space, there is a constant struggle and comparison act going on. “Did I do the right thing?”, “Because this happened right now, will it happen forevermore?” , “That person did the same thing and got different results; does that mean they are more worthwhile than I am?” etc., etc., and so on. Focusing more on the values supporting my choice, means I will be fundamentally more ok with the fact that when I make my hilarious club soda joke to the insanely attractive lumbersexual bartender at Free House Pub, and he thinks I literally mean I could drink him out of club soda, so he assures me that they have plenty of cases in the back, thereby causing my playful, “flirtatious” banter to come off as more of an economic inquisition- I’LL BE A-OK WITH THAT! Because at least I’ll know I was flirting, and that’s all that really matters.

got any AWESOME flirting stories of your own? Feel free to share in the comments!

Wooing With Words, or, I Segue Like No Other

I recently took an on-line strengths assessment test through a class at work (BECAUSE I AM RAD), and it yielded some fascinating results. Fascinating, mainly, because I love hearing (reading?) about myself. Especially when it turns out to be totally spot on. This specific test assessed your strengths and weaknesses and broke them down into four categories: Unrealized Strengths (Shit you’re good at that energizes you, but you don’t realize it so you don’t use it), Realized Strengths (Shit you’re good at, that energizes you, and you totally know it), Learned Behaviors (Shit you are good at, but sucks your soul through your nose, and you use it ALL THE DAMN TIME), and Weaknesses (Shit you straight up suck at, drains you, and all around doesn’t really matter to you). Not surprisingly, my Realized Strengths were Curiosity, Narrator, Scribe, Authenticity, and Action.

So Awesome

What exactly does that mean? I’M SO GLAD YOU ASKED. Firstly, and fore-mostly, it means I am incredibly, non-hyperbolic-ly, amazing. I am the stuff dreams and legends are made of. I am curious, meaning I am interested in everything, and I do mean everything. I’m a Narrator, which means I love me a good story, as anyone who has ever been forced to listen to me tell tales will know (if you think my blogs are rambl-y, you should try to sit through a story). The Scribe aspect, which indicates a love for the written word, is totes obvi for a number of reasons; and Authenticity just means I do what I say, and I never say or do anything just to appease someone else, especially if it goes against my own values and beliefs. Action means I’m a take charge kind of gal who acts immediately and decisively. If shit doesn’t pan out, well, there’s always another option.

In case you haven’t gleaned by now, I LOVE LEARNING STUFF, especially stuff that pertains to my self, and my actions. I like digging for the nuts that sprout into the trees that are my idiosyncrasies (that was a stretch). I have always believed that through education and knowledge comes genuine understanding. Maybe, just maybe, if I learn enough about myself, I’ll be able to understand what really makes me tick, or, conversely, what ticks me off (ba-dum-bum).

SPEAKING OF WHAT TICKS ME OFF! Take my reaction to emoticons in texts, for example. I have a long, complex relationship with emoticons in text-versations. If I have just met you, and you would like to court me, and you over-use emoticons in your texts to me, I am judging you. You are a man, who has met me (ME- who constantly and conscientiously uses language and word choice to convey

this is a real thing. Someone has used this in a conversation. Excuse me while I go vomit from pure disappointment in my fellow man.

her intent), and you still insist on peppering your texts with this guy -> ; ), or this guy -> x-D, or this -> :@ (what the hell IS that one? WHAT DOES IT MEAN ?). Did you go to college? Have you developed basic verbal and written communication skills? Then you should know how to text me, who is, for all intents and purposes, an adult woman. Now, before you think I am a stone-cold bitch about this, just shut up a moment. I used to view emoticons as deal breakers. I recall some poor, hapless soul who was trying to get to know me back in the days when texting was still sort of new (like…2007?), and not only did he overuse emoticons, he did things like put the number “2” in place of the (apparently too long) word “to”. Ugh. Then, as I grew older, and discovered how socially pervasive they were (like herpes), I decided to cut some people some slack, and give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they’ve only ever interacted with illiterate people, or people who only deal in pictographs. Maybe these stupid emoticons are literally the only way they have been able to communicate with other, less linguistically minded people. So, I figure, “well, I’ll just lead by example. I will pointedly NOT use any emoticons in my texts, and if they persist past three texts, then dude is obviously not a self-aware creature, able to pick up on my social cues, and ain’t no one got time for that.” As I am still single, you see how much that has worked in my favor.

This same agitation with poor communication skills applies to the messages I receive on OkCupid. Just what in the ever living hell do these people think they are accomplishing with these awful, grammatically incorrect, and borderline incoherent messages? Not to mention, half the time, they are icky as all hell. Here’s just a smattering of ACTUAL, VERBATIM messages I have received:

• “hi u look cute and nice and maybe we could chat ;)”
• “you look like your juicy”
• “hey gurl.”
• “sup”
• “My name Chris. i hope ur having a good day”

Does no one PROOF-READ??? I mean, ok, the occasional typo is bound to happen, and sometimes you mess up a “your” and a “you’re” because it’s the end of the day, or it’s been a long morning, or those three bottles of wine are kicking in; but this? This much awful to this extent? I am lucky if I receive one carefully constructed message in 25. And even those aren’t all that brilliant. Perhaps I am jaded. Perhaps I am disillusioned. Perhaps my standards are far too high for the quality of men that now exist (boom- bitchy blanket statement- deal with it). BUT, I refuse to abuse the beauty of our language (as I am both a Scribe and Narrator, what what?) by 1) substituting words with pictures, and 2) Mutilating current words by “condensing” them down to one letter (the amount of anger I feel at this is…borderline irrational). No. I just will NOT, and I have to believe (have to) that somewhere out there, is a gent who will also refuse to lower his standards of language and communication.

Now, just a quick word about emojis…I am far more likely to tolerate an emoji than an emoticon. Why? Because I do what I want, that’s why. Kidding- I tend to tolerate them far more than emoticons, because they are more intricate, and aid a story better. It’s flimsy reasoning, sure, but shut up. And if you need to know the distinction between an emoticon and an emoji, HOW ARE YOU READING THIS BLOG? DID YOU GET THE GRAND-KIDS TO PULL IT UP ON THAT NEW-FANGLED PAPER PAD OR WHATEVER THEY’RE CALLING IT THESE DAYS? (large print edition). [TANGENT- grandparent Tinder……is there something there? Think about it… no…wait..don’t think about it…ew…]

In an effort to learn from that which annoys me (BECAUSE I AM AMAZING IN CASE YOU FORGOT), I re-read what I wrote in hopes that something would be illuminated. This is what I came up with (and if it seems pretty obvious, shut up and just let me have my discovery. Jerk.): Language and clear communication are things I take very seriously. They live right in the center of my heart. I cherish them, nurture them, cultivate them. When I am faced with people who care so little about language and communication, I feel insulted, which is really just another form of hurt. I am hurt that

nom nom nom

these people don’t value what I value. It’s like if you really, really love pigs-in-a-blanket, and you go on and on about how amazing pigs-in-a-blanket are, and what a perfect party food they make, and how most of the world’s problems would evaporate if people would just embrace pigs-in-a-blanket; only to have someone completely ignore your very practical stance and declare that kale is obviously better. That analogy made more sense in my head. Does’t matter- the point is, when you don’t take care with words and how you communicate with others, it seems borderline disrespectful. Especially if the other person obviously takes care with what and how they communicate. So please, for the love of god, pay attention to what you write, but, far more importantly, pay attention to what THE OTHER PERSON WRITES. And also, bring me some pigs-in-a-blanket….

next time: How I Flirt, or, I’m Talking Aren’t I? 

authors note: want to learn more about that rad ass strengths test? You can find out more about it here : http://www.cappeu.com/Realise2/TheRealise24MModel.aspx
I didn't have to pay for mine, as it was through a class...nor do I even know for sure if you HAVE to pay...but...there you go!