Tag Archives: dating

Prompt: Unexpected Night


Sometimes, when I’m in a writing slump (which lately, is always), I allow Twitter to feed me prompts. There are an astounding number of tweeps whose sole tweet purpose is to motivate others to write. It’s pretty great. So here goes: an unexpected night.


Blue paint was creeping into my nostrils and caking around every crease of my lips but I was two drinks down and feeling anything but blue. I guess I can be more specific—it wasn’t blue paint exactly, that was curdling around my eyebrows—it was (unfortunately) more like periwinkle. Luckily, I had a BLUE long-sleeved t-shirt, BLUE shorts, and BLUE tights to combat any confusion: I was blue (even if my face was periwinkle). A long, RED (orange-red, if I’m being honest) wig draped itself around my splotchy neck and YELLOW (definite on this one) cat-eye contacts continued to rotate creepily since I was wearing them over my regular contacts.

In other words, I was a bit of a mess. The paint wasn’t spreading onto my skin very evenly, in fact, it was being downright exasperating. I had chunks on one side of my face that were thick and wet, spots on the other side that were thin and dry, flecks in strands of my hair (real and wig), flecks everywhere else within a 10-foot radius… I looked like something out of a budget Smurf production. An elementary school’s Spring performance. An understudy for a second-grade Smurfette.

Luckily, I didn’t give a damn. Amazing friends, Halloween excitement, and vodka do wonderful things to a mind, body, and soul. I hopped around my living room in my beige canvas slip-ons (apparently I don’t own blue shoes), sipping and laughing and unknowingly splattering a few paint specks on couch pillows and the likes.

“Girrrrrl, you are BLUE!” Anne giggled in her goddess dress and I eyed her (cat-eyed her) jealously. She looked like a goddess, with or without the costume. Giant green eyes, dark hair, olive skin, white dress, curves for days—she was straight out of a Greek myth.

“Do I even look like Mystique, though? Or do I just look like a blue girl?” Mystique has been an idol of sorts for years. First of all, holy hell she’s smokin’ hot. Secondly, she kicks ass. Third, she can literally be ANYONE she wants to be. I’d thought about buying a latex suit to look more like her—I mean, let’s face it, clothes really aren’t her thing. But um, tummy pudge is also not her thing, so yeah, I decided on the t-shirt-shorts-tights.

“Yes, you really do. You really, really do!” I knew she was lying, but in a lovely, daughter of Zeus kind of way.

“It’s actually creeping me out,” Jennifer the 80’s rocker chick chimed in. I was surrounded by such happy, “fluffy” costumes. Athena, the Molly Ringwald-esque punkstress, Tara was Rainbow Brite, and Sandra was a cute pirate. I stood out, obviously. I looked pretty evil, but like I said, Smurfette. So a Smurfette gone bad.

We eventually shuffled into a taxi and met up with a few more friends on Rainey Street. Here’s where I cut to the chase. Fill in the holes with (what else) drinking. There was lots of that. Also, random guys shouting out things like, “Ohhh, I get it! AVATAR!!!” and “Genie chick, cooooool.” To the bro’ who guessed that I was Beetlejuice: You. Are. An. Idiot.

—– cut>>>>chase:

Two pedi-cabs and lots of walking later, we drunkenly made it to our final destination: Gypsy Bar on East 6th to see our friend Brian’s band play.

Here’s where it’s important to know a couple things about me and alcohol.

  1. I’m pretty good at it.
  2. I get suuuuuper ballsy and confident and seductive sometimes (i.e. when I see something I want).

Also, I’d told Anne earlier in the night, “I’m gonna make out with someone tonight, OK? That’s the goal. You in?” And she was in, SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO EXECUTE THIS PLAN WITH ME. However, the goddess, Molly, Rainbow, and One Eye watched as I, and I alone, smoothly decided to yell at a stranger, “WHY aren’t you wearing a costume?! How lame! It’s HALLOWEEN, HELLO!”

Super sexy, amiright? Paired with my crusty paint job and rotating, wompy contacts, I was basically a catch. Did I mention that my skin was starting to itch underneath all that periwinkle? Downright foxy.

Look: he had dimples and he was really tall and someone obviously needed to yell at him for not wearing a costume (that’s just dumb…why even go out?).

Even closer: goddamn he was really tall and he had a random sprinkling of freckles and gray hairs and his eyes were kind of caramel in the light and he immediately matched my bluntness with, “Well, at least my paint isn’t weirdly coming off. And your contacts are all kinds of crooked too.”

Barely a breath between us: “Well then here.” I pulled the cheap tube of paint out of my purse—it was almost the only item in there. “And while you’re at it, go ahead and rotate my contacts for me please.” I leaned up towards his stubbly chin and opened my eyes wide, not allowing him to hesitate, my lips pursed in amusement.

All of our friends had vanished by this point, leaving us in a strange bubble we’d created within minutes. This is apparently the point in which I tell a stranger everything about me: teaching, my novel, moving from Hawaii…I don’t even know what else I told him, I just know that we were locked in conversation and we’d moved to a picnic table and it was ten minutes ‘til the bar closed.

“I really want to kiss you but you’re going to get blue paint all over your face.”

Yeah. That came out of my mouth.

He must’ve said he didn’t care or he might’ve not said anything at all, but as people shuffled out of the back gate and the lights were being shut off, Mystique made out with the costumeless man with two last names. He looked like he’d been periwinkle-pied. I giggled and tried to wipe it off of his lips. He asked for my number. I gave it to him, scampered off, and expected to never hear from him again.

Five months later and my friends still affectionately call him “Blue Man Group,” but usually just behind his back.

Sometimes it’s not a terrible idea to paint yourself periwinkle, take a few shots, and yell at a stranger.

Damn you, E.E.


So I just watched The Notebook a few days before Valentine’s Day. That was just downright stupid, amiright?

I’m glad I did though, because I now fully realize…THE NOTEBOOK IS TO BLAME FOR EVERYTHING.

Oh wait, this post has already been done a thousand times. No, seriously, it’s been done a TON. Ok one more because this is HILARIOUS. It’s not about how The Notebook ruins lives; it’s about how composition notebooks ruin lives (but it came up in the top ten when I googled “The Notebook ruined my life”). I am laughing out loud.

So I won’t write about The Notebook (or composition notebooks).

I honestly just want to write about love. I can’t freakin’ help it, ok?! I want to write about that sick, disgusting, unshakable love that makes me want to read E.E. Cummings and lay in the grass for hours looking at the sunlight coming in through leaves. THAT love.

I haven’t felt THAT love in a very, very long time. But I think I remember it swallowing me whole. I think I remember realizing what that “head over heels” thing truly meant and I think I remember trying to soak up another body and soul like a sponge. I definitely remember not being able to breathe for a long time after it was gone. I definitely remember ache and searching and want.

And I guess what I’m wondering now is…is it ok, to be waiting for that crazy, tumbling feeling again? Or is that just, sadly, immature?

I’ve met nice guys. I’ve met smart guys. I’ve met funny guys. I’ve met attractive guys. I’ve met ambitious guys. I’ve even met a couple nice, smart, funny, attractive, and ambitious guys. All my secret inner checklist boxes were checked off. But no swallowing me whole. No head over heels. No soaking up body and soul or reading Cummings.

I guess chemistry is something else entirely. And of course I’ve always known that looking good on paper, so to speak, doesn’t mean much in the real eye-to-eye, heart-to-heart, mind-to-mind. The whole checklist thing is pretty hilarious actually. We all kind of have one, whether we admit it or not. But the people we wind up falling for never seem to have very many of those boxes checked, do they?

Anyway, it’s V-day time. Everything’s pink and cupid-y. And I really am fine with the fact that the extent of my agenda is: House of Cards and pizza with my best friend. I’m actually excited about it (is he really going to become President?!).

The truth is, I really do want to wait until I feel that crazy, tumbling feeling again. I don’t want to settle for just some guy I have chemistry with, just some guy who has a ton of boxes checked.

Who needs those damn boxes, anyway?

“I do, sometimes, all the time, maybe, I don’t know…” says the angel on my shoulder who knows all the tricks to avoiding heartbreak.

“Shut up and read this poem!” says the other bitch.

You Being In Love (excerpt)

ask “life, the question how do i drink dream smile

and how do i prefer this face to another and
why do i weep eat sleep-what does the whole intend”
they wonder. oh and they cry “to be, being, that i am alive
this absurd fraction in its lowest terms
with everything cancelled
but shadows
-what does it all come down to? love? Love
if you like and i like, for the reason that i
hate people and lean out of this window is love, love
and the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love and the reason
that i do not fall into this street is love.”

Ok Stupid


My roommates think I should write a book about online dating. There’s no way that’s ever happening because I’d have to go back into the danger zone; I’d have to turn around and walk straight back into the fiery Hell that is Bokay Poopid. I’ve only tried it out for about 5 months in total—over the course of the last year and a half. I disabled it multiple times—either right after deciding to date/semi-date someone or right after receiving a disgusting “last straw” message (see Dating on an Island). To write an actual novel, I’d have to go on MANY more dates and I think I’d also have to try it out in other cities and on other websites for that matter. Ha!

Although I’ve decided that another blog is the only attention I will ever give this subject, I have to let you in on the possible book titles that were thrown around:

Ok Stupid

Online Dating: The Weird, The Ugly, and The Weird AND Ugly

My Online Dating Experience: A Story of Humor and Disgust

I have to copyright these because you never know—maybe I’ll fall back into the dark, deep pit again one day. But for now, let me just fill you in on a few memorable events that have occurred between the blog I wrote a year ago and now.

  1. Harmless lunch at my favorite Thai place? Yes, until my date tells me that he couldn’t decide whether to put straight or bi on his profile. “But I decided I do prefer girls. For example, I’m very attracted to you.” Oh, cool. When I said no thanks to that bedazzling gentleman caller, he offered his roommate’s online username. I passed on that as well.
  2. Received a message that said, “You seem like you have brains, which is great because I’m somewhat of a zombie when it comes to women. Brainssss nom nom nom!” Could’ve been cute and acceptable, especially since I dig The Walking Dead, a lot. But the thing was, he looked like a zombie. One of those rotting, half-eaten, reallllllmessedup zombies. I think he actually wanted to eat me—nonsexual; straight-up Hannibal Lecter style.
  3. “Dated” a guy for a bit who literally lived off of chicken fingers. He hated all vegetables, ALL ethnic foods of any kind, and he had a very serious ginger allergy. I fucking LIVE for vegetables, ethnic foods, and ginger. We could never go anywhere but Chili’s and I realized we’d never last long. Relationships are built on dinners, duh. We were food enemies. I also thought on multiple occasions that I was going to kill him. He’d told me that his ex kissed him once, after she’d just eaten ginger pork. He broke out into hives and had to epi-pen the hell out of himself. I grate ginger into a lot of meals that I cook. He’d come over, I’d forget, start kissing him, realize that I might be killing him, and start freaking out. Like I said, this was a solid failure of a fling. If you can’t take me to a sushi joint OR kiss me after I’VE been to a sushi joint, you don’t deserve to be in my life. He also once told me that we had a lot of charisma. He meant chemistry. He was real pretty. Plus, he accidentally took my roommate’s DVD and now, months later, keeps saying he’ll bring it by but never does. I did, however, get a text the other day that simply said, “Shower :)”… I replied, “Ok, cool. So about that DVD…” and then, a day later, he said his phone was “being weird”… Like I said, he was real pretty.
  4. One guy had real promise. He took me to a fantastic seafood restaurant on the water, he was educated, funny, AND beautiful. Something has to be wrong, right? Well, he kept dropping hints/making jokes that he was a stripper. When pressed, he said he had no job—that he’d saved enough money from bartending to now just live in the richest part of town and finish school. Right. On closer examination, he did look an awful lot like the guys in Magic Mike.
  5. After I’d deleted my profile, one guy googled me and found this blog, commenting on a few posts and asking me out. Hi Randy!
  6. Last, but certainly not least, I met up with a guy named Tidus. I knew this name sounded a little too much like The Little Mermaid’s dad. Turns out, it was his “stage name.” He was working extra hard to be discharged from the Navy so he could go make it big in L.A. First of all, do you think it’s admirable to lie to your employer about your mental state just so you can be a captain’s golf caddy for a few months before you’re quietly let go, years before your signed contract? There’s only one word for that: pathetic. Secondly, yes, he can sing (of course he brought his guitar), but there is no way he will ever “make it big” with an attitude/ridiculous name like that. Plus, he was about 5 feet tall, with shoes, on a slight incline. Even if you reach Beiber status, I will never buy your CD, ALBERT! Oh man, what if he does make it big…and sues me for this blog? Changing the real name now. Is that enough? I can’t change Tidus, because of the whole Little Mermaid joke, that was classic. This is tough.

If you’re ever bored out of your mind, desperate and lonely, live on a manless land (Iceland or Hawaii, everywhere else has men, go find them!) and even just a creepy, erotic message would make you feel better, go online.

If you ever want to take this book idea and run with it (although I’m sure there are a ton just like it…let me check Amazon real quick…yup, a ton), go online.

But if you have the slightest chance of meeting someone halfway decent—without the aid of awkward multiple choice question tests, analyzing photos, checking for grammar/spelling mistakes before you even know their middle name—just don’t go online.

Ok, Stupid?

Dates for Dorks


First of all, these date ideas ARE stolen from another blog. Can’t take credit for this awesomeness. But I did want to reblog and add my own comments. I need to find someone who is willing to do some of this crazy nonsense.

1. Go on a search for as many good climbing trees as possible, climb as high as you both can in all of them, compile photo evidence.

Ok so this one, not so interested. Simply because I am a terrible tree-climber. Ever since I was little really (which is when you’re supposed to be into this kind of thing and good at it too) I’ve looked at trees and thought, “Yeah, fuck that.” I’d rather sit underneath them. Or eat whatever fruit they provide. Or ignore them all together.

2. Go to a major chain bookstore and leave notes to future readers in copies of your favorite books.

This one is BADASS. Why haven’t I done this already, on my own?? English major, nerd status, need to do this asap. Maybe it seems creepy if you slip notes into books, by yourself. When you have an accomplice in something like this, it automatically becomes poetic and cute. Here’s the question though: what do you write in the notes? I mean, they’re your favorite books so I guess you’re like, congratulating the buyer? Or building up their anticipation? “I hope you love these words as much as I did and do. –Just another reader” Cheesy? Don’t care.

3. Have her dress up as a ghost and you dress up us pacman. Walk around downtown holding hands, and whenever anyone sees you two, pretend to be embarrassed, and run off screaming “wocka wocka wocka.”

I’d rather dress up as Ms. Pacman, but this is pretty sweet. And hilarious. Maybe for Halloween? Any other day might be a little strange. I also don’t want him to run away from me. What would I do? Awkwardly wait for him to come back, and then start the whole charade over? That’s odd.

4. Create photo evidence suggesting that you went on an adventure that didn’t really happen.

Why can’t we just go on the adventure? But I guess it’d be cool if it was an unattainable adventure. Maybe involving dinosaurs?

5. Dress up as superheroes and stop at least one petty crime i.e. jaywalking, littering…

As long as people don’t get pissed at us and kick our ass or something. Because I can kind of see that happening. “Halt! Pick up that cigarette butt! You there!” *Stab* Death.

6. Build forts out of furniture and blankets and wage war with paper airplanes.

Yes, please. But then can we sign a peace treaty, combine our forts into a kingdom, and live happily ever after? J

7. Try and visit as many people as you can in one night and turn as many things inside their apartment upside down as you can without them noticing.

Oh man, I would hate if this happened to me. But damn, it is hilarious when it happens to someone else! How do you turn some things upside down though? I need to experiment with this, I don’t think I fully understand.

8. Go to the airport, get the cheapest, soonest departing flight to anywhere when you show up, and stay there for a weekend.

Yes, yes, yes. I’ve always wanted to do this.

9. Write a piece of fiction together. Outside at a cafe. Ask strangers when you get stuck.

Creative writing major, so of course this got to me. But I don’t imagine my significant other being a very good writer. I’m just saying, most people don’t like writing. Plus, I’d probably hate all of their ideas. I’d definitely hate all the strangers’ ideas. Writing snob? Yeah.

10. Dress to the nines, pretend to be married, and test drive very expensive vehicles at an auto dealership.

Does this work? I think I’d need to look older. Or he would. I still get confused for a middle school student at the school I teach at. Fail. But hey, I love dressing up.

11. Do the lamest tourist thing in your area that you have both secretly wanted to do forever. Have an unabashed good time!

I think I’ve already done all the lame tourist things in Hawaii. Well, except maybe the Segway tour. I’m down for that.

12. In the middle of the night, drive to the beach, so you arrive just as the sun is rising. Have a breakfast picnic, and then fall asleep together. Bring a sun umbrella.

So this is perfect for the place I live…an island. Now it’s going on my Hawaii Bucket List.

13. Drive somewhere unknown and have dinner in a city you’ve never been to. With fake names.

Ooh la la. I want my name to be Alex. I’ve always wanted that to be my name. Now for a cool last name… For some reason, everything I’m thinking sounds like a stripper name. Well.

14. Go to a minor league baseball game under the stars. Tell each other stories about how bad you are at athletics. Randomly cheer for both teams. Eat lots of cracker jacks.

This is perfect since I suck at all sports and I don’t understand baseball at all (what is an inning?). He would ruin this if he got too into the game though. I want a hot dog too. And a beer.

15. Go around the city with sidewalk chalk and draw hearts with equations inside on random things.

Equations? What do I look like, a math teacher? Let’s cut that part out and just draw on sidewalks. And play hopscotch.

16. Walk around a city and perform short silent plays in front of security cameras.

This is kind of funny. I’ve done this drunk multiple times I believe. Except I guess they weren’t so much plays as they were…drunken dances.

17. With camera and pair of boots, make photo-log of a day in the life of the invisible man.

This is dumb. That is all.

18. Walk around the city all night and find a place to eat breakfast at dawn.

This sounds awesome. Do we have to walk around ALL night though? I mean, there can be some sitting and laying down, right?

19. Go to a restaurant and convince the cook to create something completely new for you.

This would be legendary, even if the dish sucked. Even if the chef hated us and spit in it. I’d eat every bite.

20. Rent a movie you’ve never seen before. Set on mute and improvise dialogue.

I WANT TO DO THIS SO BAD. It’d be better to do this to a romantic comedy, right? I don’t really want to be murdered by my date, even if he’s just doing the dialogue of the killer. Creepy.


So there you have it. Twenty pretty random dates. If you get bored, try one out and let me know how it goes! I’m definitely going to try to cross some of these off the list soon. If I find a date. Who doesn’t think these are absurd. Hmm…

If We Were All Honest


So I’ve mentioned this before—Americans aren’t the most forthcoming people. But that’s a stereotype, right? That’s not every single American out there. It’s not some golden rule that we have to follow. But for some reason, most of us simply do.

I don’t like this and I propose a ban. Or rather, a promotion of honesty. What would the world be like if everyone just told the truth? About how they were feeling, what they were doing, thinking…it’s a crazy concept, I’m aware. But I can’t help but wonder lately.

A friend recently told me that when he starts hanging out with a girl, and recognizes genuine, general interest, he lays everything on the table. He halts and throws out an open, but out of the blue question: “Do you like me?” He said that he likes to know “how to frame a person” in his mind. No games, no pretending, just up front yes or no and move on from there.

This kind of struck me, and I wondered if he’d ever ask me the same thing. After all, we’d been hanging out a lot…I’d shown genuine, general interest. But he never did. And then I started to magically want to be the honest one—I somehow became the one dying to ask that question. But I never did.

And why not? Because people aren’t honest. We don’t like others to know that we care about them, we’re too scared that they won’t give a shit about us and break our hearts. And many times, this is the case—they won’t feel the same way. But at least you’d know, right? You wouldn’t have that eternal hope that sticks to your ribs like oatmeal and constantly soothes you with a, “I’m sure deep down, they do care about you…” Unhealthy bullshit that we all write off as normal behavior.

Why is it normal to keep secrets? Ok, fine, keep some dark, heavy crap locked away, sure. No one wants or needs to know about your alcoholic mother or your lesbian phase. But when it comes to something as simple as your feelings for someone else—well that’s the problem right there, that word, simple. We’ve molded this should-be-simple act into something insane and complex when it really shouldn’t be.

So I’ve decided. I’m going to start this “promotion of honesty,” I’m going to kick it off. I mean, I kind of have to, since I’m the one trying to make this a new trend, right? Step 1: Tell this guy how I feel. I mean, I already know the worst that could happen—rejection. Been there, done that. We’ll still be friends, he’s a great guy. It’ll sting for a day or two and then it’ll all just be a memory. And the best part is, if he doesn’t feel the same, I’ll at least know how exactly he feels—which I never would have known otherwise. I would’ve been hoping and dreaming for a  year, assuming and inferring and analyzing his every word, thought, and feeling. Lame. So this is a win-win really.

Fast forward to one week after I wrote that previous paragraph: I still haven’t done it.

So maybe I should go back to, “If it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen” kind of thing. Why force honesty on people? If he felt the same, he probably would’ve been honest about it already. Maybe he is being honest by not saying anything. Maybe honesty is overrated.

I think I’ve officially decided that I either a) like the American way of games and secrets or b) I’ve been too conditioned to escape it. No matter how much I complain about it and say that I wish people were different, the truth is, I’m just as guilty as everyone else.  I’d rather keep it inside until it fades away. Tragic, or necessary, preventative measure also known as being a powerful, independent American?

Let’s be honest, it’s both.

Men in Spain v. Men in America


I really hate to break this to you ladies, but I’ve learned that men are the same everywhere. I thought maybe I’d find some tall, dark, and handsome Spanish man to sweep me off my feet (for the summer) but surprise—assholes, creepers, and boring dudes are everywhere. Here are the differences and similarities that I’ve calculated and recorded. It’s all very official.


Men in Spain: It’s ok to wear a pink shirt with purple pants, half a bottle of hair gel, half a bottle of cologne, leather loafers, and Gucci sunglasses. We like to look pretty too.

Men in America: I’m with you on the hair gel. But throw on an Ed Hardy shirt and some ripped, faded jeans, bro.


Men in Spain: Let’s go find an American who only knows how to say, “Hola! Cerveza, por favor.”

Men in America: Let’s go find some foreign chick who only knows how to say, “Hello! Beer, please.”


Men in Spain: Maybe if we stare long enough without blinking, she’ll take her clothes off.

Men in America: Maybe if we stare long enough without blinking, she’ll take her clothes off.


Men in Spain: It’s ok to live with your parents until you’re 30 years old. It’s also normal to not own a car (possibly not a bike either).

Men in America: Definitely. Being poor is very “cool” these days.


Men in Spain: Let’s get wasted! I also have cocaine.

Men in America: Let’s get wasted! I also have weed.


Men in Spain: I went to Miami last year. Is this a good enough connection to wherever it is you said you were from? Because that’s all I can think of that we have in common.

Men in America: Oh, Texas, cool. Yeah, I’ve never been. Yeah, I’ve heard that Austin is cool. Yeah, I have nothing else to say really. Oh, I thought of something—do you say y’all? That is hilarious.


Men in Spain: You sound like a Mexican.

Men in America: You’re Mexican?! Never would have guessed.


Men in Spain: My girlfriend is very, very far away tonight.

Men in America: No, of course I don’t have a girlfriend!


Men in Spain: I would just like to have sex with you.

Men in America: I’m just not emotionally ready for a real relationship, I can barely take care of myself, and you deserve more than that. I still want to see you though…


Men in Spain: We don’t use AC or fans here even though it’s unbearably hot, so I’m just going to take off my shirt. What I can offer you is a place to put your clothes, if you would also like to survive the heat.

Men in America: Do you want to get more comfortable? I can give you a thin, white shirt or something.


Men in Spain: Yeah, I’m going to University, but I’m just going to take over my dad’s business. Why would I try to do anything else?

Men in America: Yeah, I majored in Business. A lot of other bros were picking it, so it just seemed like a good choice.


Men in Spain: Can’t hang out, soccer is on. SOCCER IS MY LIFE!!! Blah, blah, blah World Cup.

Men in America: Can’t hang out, football is on. FOOTBALL IS MY LIFE!!! Blah, blah, blah Super Bowl.



Men in America: I’m sure I can find some excuse…hold on…IT’S MY LANDLORD’S BIRTHDAY, LET’S GET NAKED!


Men in Spain: You can be my American girlfriend!

Men in America: Just so we’re clear, I don’t do long distance.


Men in Spain: I can get my grandma to whip us up some paella, croquettas, salmorejo, and pan real quick.

Men in America: Do you want to order a pizza or something?


Men in Spain: I’m going to just call you “guapa.” Or Alicia, take your pick. Because I sure as hell can’t say or remember you actual name.

Men in America: It’s a lot easier for me to just call women baby. Or just never use names, that works too. Avoiding catastrophe.


Men in Spain: No, I don’t know how to do laundry or clean, or any of those other woman things.

Men in America: I agree completely with that guy.


Men in Spain: I am a very uninteresting person, so I’m just not going to talk to you.

Men in America: I am a very uninteresting person, so I’m going to ramble about a very uninteresting topic…


Men in Spain: Kissing on the cheek in greeting is normal. I’m hoping you won’t know the difference if I kiss extremely close to your mouth instead.

Men in America: I’m going to put zero effort into this hug. Then, later, you’ll be dying for more.


Men in Spain: I’m going to touch you inappropriately and blame it on the European culture and sense of love.

Men in America: I’m going to blame it on my penis.


Let it be known that I’m not giving up. Next stop: I’m thinking Canada. Somewhere that I’d never expect anything good to happen. Maybe that’s where all the hotties have been hiding.



This is that beautiful early step in the wrong direction. This is that can’t-get-enough, giddy, breathless, silly phase. This is the good part, when it doesn’t seem possible for it to ever be any other way.

I take another sip of my “Tall Skinny Vanilla Latte Thank You Have The Best Day!” (She said that to every single customer and it got pretty annoying. I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone actually had the BEST day…but surely, on one of your best days ever, you wouldn’t be at Starbucks in the middle of the afternoon. I sure wouldn’t be.)

I try to think back to when this part of a relationship usually ends. I don’t remember, it’s been too long since I was sucked into dating someone really. For the past couple of years, I’ve been in and out of short bursts of flings and things. Who knows what you could even call them. But they definitely haven’t lasted this long, AKA long enough for me to start worrying about liking someone too much, getting attached, getting hurt, blah blah blah, etc. etc. It’s a little frightening how much we have to worry about these things, now that we’re at this stage in our lives. Some people still see themselves as young and invincible, but I’m definitely feeling a bit worn down. I don’t think anyone should have to have their heart ripped out more than once, that’s just not fair. Therefore, I will not be signing myself up for a second go-around, and I think that’s most people’s sentiment. So what do we do when we start getting that sickening irking in our gut that’s saying, “Hey you! You’re about to fall face first you idiot! Get outta there!”? Do we listen, and run like little chicken shits? It’s an option.

Option #2: Let the pieces fall. Take the risk. Put my heart on the chopping block right when it’s finally become whole again. THIS IS NOT AN OPTION. Obviously.

So that brings us to Option #3. Don’t run like a little bitch, and don’t put all my eggs in one basket either. The blissful in-between. The gray area that, for most, is impossible to stay in for too long. Well fuck that—I’m going to stay in it for as long as I damn well please. Maybe this means we can stay in the “beautiful early step in the wrong direction” for the entirety of whatever this is. No fighting, no boredom, no strings. Is this even possible? Challenge accepted!


It took about a day after that to realize that I was fighting for an impossible, unrealistic dream. Sure, I can keep it up for a little while longer. Hide the emotions, play it cool, pretend not to care. But I’m not built to bottle things up. So this is what the options change to for those of us who aren’t very in control…

Option #1 becomes running after you can’t take it anymore—after you’ve lived out the blissful in-between, squeezed it for every last drop, and now you must GTFO before you pull your hair out or fall in love or something like that. Option #2 stays the same—jump off, leap into the abyss.

Why are these our only options? Shouldn’t there be multiple ways to protect ourselves from all the bitter blues of breakups? Think about it—there are multiple ways of protection for almost anything. Birth control: condoms, pills, shots, patches, and more. Burglary: house alarm, sensor light, surveillance, Dad’s shotgun. UV rays: sunscreen (spray or lotion), wear more clothes, sit in the shade.

And then we come to our hearts, our feelings: never get in too deep, run away from anything real, and never look back OR…oh wait, nope, that’s it. That’s the only way to ensure a pain-free experience.

It’s 2012. I have options for every single decision I make, every day. Except this. C’est la vie, right?