Tag Archives: love life

Supposed To Be

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chaos

I’m supposed to be working on my novel.

I’m supposed to be sipping this Live Oak Hef, my favorite beer, and working on my novel.

I’m supposed to be enjoying the Texas summer (before it gets too hot)—wind through my hair, sun on my skin, taco truck scents drifting my way—and working on my novel.

I told my friend Ashely that it’s been difficult to write lately because I’ve been so happy. “Give me a heartbreak and I’ll pump out a few novels,” I’d laughed and given her tiny Pomeranian a pat. And it’s true, it really is. I mean, that’s how the first novel came to be.

But the thing is, you make me want to write all the time. And that’s not always a good thing. Usually it is. Usually, you make me want to write sappy poetry after I’ve had a few glasses of Cab. I grab the first writing utensil I find in your grungy garage and jot some cheesy observations into the legal pad that you draw in. I sketch stanzas about your whiskers and kisses and huge hands and you telling me you loved me in that sketchy motel we stayed in. I paint lines with your expressions, sayings, Spanglish, noises your watch makes.

But sometimes. Like now. I’ve felt on the edge of crying for a couple hours—thankful for my Ray Bans and lipstick and beer. I wish I could explain why. I wish I could be honest when you ask me what’s wrong. I think the sad fact is simply that I’m in love, I’m so in love with you and I’m so scared and I don’t want to feel completely destroyed ever again and that’s the only thing I wind up being able to write about.

I get anxiety, I feel this intensely strong desire to put giant walls back up, brush these feelings aside, break this off and avoid any kind of pain. I thought I’d be over this—I thought you’d be the one to be freaking out, tight chest, on edge. How hilarious that it’s me!

I wish I could explain this…better. But that’s what it is—you haven’t done anything wrong, necessarily. I think I’m a little crazy is all. Isn’t everyone? That Kerouac quote about “mad ones,” you know?

I need reassurance by the bucket or else I think you’re going to leave. It’s sad, really, but it makes me feel better that I’m not alone. So many of us have these skeletons, the burned past—the exact same insecurity, fear.

I wish it were my fault and I could fix it. I’m great at fixing things that are my fault. But I didn’t do this…my father did this, my ex-boyfriend did this, my friends and their stories, their nightmares, almost every single man I’ve dated, actually. It’s a long list, it’s a lot of pain, it’s kind of like this campfire experience of ghost tales that travels with you forever, the smoke seeping into your heart.

I hope you won’t be added to the list. That’s all I can really do, I suppose. Drink my beer, try again tomorrow to work on my novel (I’m supposed to be working on my novel).

Twenties

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How long can you shop at Forever 21? How long can you listen to Taylor Swift’s genius “22” and really connect with the lyrics? How long can you, with a flip of your hair and a giggle, say, “Oh it’s ok, I’m in my twenties!”? These are the questions that women everywhere have been asking themselves for thousands of years…

I’m technically in my mid-twenties (soon to be a complete quarter of a century) and I just gotta say…DOIHAAAAVETOGROWUPPPP???

I’ve said numerous times that I can’t wait til I’m 30—I feel like by then, I’ll have a lot of shit figured out, I’ll have a stable job that I love, and hopefully a man… But in all honesty, I just have no interest in being boring or responsible. I don’t want to have kids, I don’t want to buy a house, and I don’t want to shop at Dress Barn (although my mom’s been trying to buy me stuff from there since high school).

I guess getting older has nothing to do with that really. There are plenty of people who choose to never grow up. But I don’t want to be a beach bum nor do I want to marry one. I want to have it all, basically. My cake, eat it, the whole enchilada. I want to be young and carefree and stupid but I want paychecks and vacations and nice things. This screams twenties. You can have BOTH…it’s amazing.

I want to make out in a bar if I so please and blame it on too many vodka cranberries (TWENTIES). I want to go on Weight Watchers and use all my points one day on Coronas and cookies and then eat nothing but fruits for the rest of the day (TWENTIES). I want to semi fall in love a million times only to brush off the mere memory of a boy with a scornful purse of my lips (TWENTIES). I want to try out new places, new people, new hair colors, new jobs…without worrying about my future (TWENTIES). I want to go on more trips like my Contiki where I was alone, the only American, surrounded by crazy Aussies and had the time of my life (TWENTIES). I want to do more couch surfing (TWENTIES).

I want to do a lot of things in the next five years that to me, constitute as “Ah, to be in your twenties.” But I also think maybe it’s about finding friends (and a partner) who want to do those things with you forever…Twilight drinking games, reading scandalous Cosmo articles out loud in sexy voices, pancakes for an appetizer, playing never have I ever, skinny dipping…all in your 80s. That would be awesome.

That WILL be awesome 🙂

Ok Stupid

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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?

Pieces

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It’s funny how there are pieces of people that stay with you forever, even if the actual people don’t. You can go years without seeing someone, or even talking to them, but all it takes is a smell or a taste or a song—and they’re figuratively next to you, live, in color, in the flesh, dimples flashing.

Even more bizarre is how the current people who occupy your time, your present, can literally be next to you and yet not affect you at all. How can there be some people who don’t leave behind any pieces whatsoever? Were they not supposed to be in your life at all? Or is everyone meant to have these meaningless, vanilla time-fillers? And in that case, is everyone also meant to be someone else’s meaningless, vanilla time-filler? I guess it’s acceptable for the acquaintances that you see every so often, the friends of friends, the distant relatives, the people you ask the same questions to and vice versa every single time: “How are you? How’s teaching? How’s the love life, eh?”

But I hope to God that I never leave someone—someone of more importance than an acquaintance—mark-less, 100% unscathed by my presence in any way, good or bad. How tragic and boring, to never be thought of at all, ever, even if it’s just once in 20 years, when an old friend makes a disaster of mashed potatoes, walks by a person wearing a certain perfume, or sees someone with that same awful haircut that you had that one year…

I guess it’s more depressing to think of this happening with someone you’ve dated. And I can definitely think of people who I’ve dated and “dated” who won’t ever be crossing my mind, unless I’m writing about people who never cross my mind. Sucks to be you. But is it their fault, or mine? I of course want to say that it’s theirs—they should have been more interesting, funny, smart, gentlemanly, etc. They should have stuck around longer. They should have been more memorable, right? Or maybe I just didn’t give them a chance to be those things. Or maybe they were those things, and I didn’t notice or want to notice or care to notice.

We see what we want to see, right? I mean, if you want to hate someone, you connect them in your mind with petty or horrible shit. Bad memories, fighting, yelling, crying, lying. I had plenty of that with a certain ex, but instead, I think of him every single time I eat a cupcake, pick out a Halloween costume, go bowling, see a pair of incredibly blue eyes, or drink Dr. Pepper.

I think of my best friend Johanna every single time I hear any Ben Folds or Jack’s Mannequin, any time someone references Aggies, debate, Nicaragua, or little brothers, and any time I see someone with a huge, happy smile.

I think of my mom every time I eat spaghetti, every time people talk about role models or single-parent-stronger-than-steel-support-systems, and every time I see blue eyeshadow.

I think of my dad every time I see a magic trick, a gun, or a Santa, every time people talk about Texans, every time I eat a steak, and every time I really need a hug.

Every TV show or movie I watch is connected to someone. Every band, every song, every meal I cook, every outfit I wear, every restaurant I go to… The mind is a crazy gadget. Every time I drink tea—Grandma. Every time I smell a pipe—Papa. Every time I eat hummus—my roommate Leslie. There’s not much that my brain doesn’t associate to someone I care about.

I guess the real question I have is: when you reach a certain number of things that remind you of a specific person, does that mean that they should still be in your life? I mean, once you get to a certain point, and you realize that the smallest, most random things remind you of this person from your past, are you supposed to just keep living without them? Are you supposed to wait for it to completely go away? What if it never does? How often is “too” often for someone to pass through your mind? And for that matter, when you find yourself never thinking of a person, is that reasonable cause to drop them entirely? If you only think of that person when you’re in their presence, is that acceptable?

Oops, that was more than one question.

Let me try to nutshell these thoughts. I know that it’s normal to have silly, sporadic moments where an image of someone plasters itself to every inch of you. It’s like someone is drawing from a hat of your past and present relationships (platonic and otherwise) and then flinging the chosen photo down on your day when you least expect it. But I feel like this can’t ALL be purely coincidence via memory—I feel like at some point, life must just be telling you that this person is stuck to your heart for a reason. Especially when those everyday things (banana split ice cream, that one scar, that one expression) that they’re, for some reason or another,  sprinkled on top of are happy, funny, loving, meaningful, or delicious.

Right?

If We Were All Honest

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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

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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 Spain: SPAIN JUST WON, LET’S GET NAKED!

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.

Those Crazy Nomads

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What It Means To Be Nomadic

I’m so tired of excuses. Everyone has them; everyone uses them as a means to an end. It’s kind of pathetic. Stop blaming your fears on your made-up, self-diagnosed bullshit. Placebo effect gone wrong—if you tell yourself that the justification is true, it becomes true in your mind.

The latest and greatest from someone who I really thought cared about me: “I’m nomadic, I can’t grow roots anywhere.”

You’re kidding me, right? Just because you’ve moved around a few times in your life? You think this makes you nomadic? Get over yourself, we’ve all moved around! I hardly know anyone who’s stayed in one place their whole life. Do you think you’re nomadic because you plan on leaving this island as soon as you can? GUESS WHAT, SO DOES THE MAJORITY OF OAHU. That doesn’t make you nomadic. That doesn’t mean you can’t grow a root or two. That doesn’t mean you can’t feel or start something real. Stop blaming your fear of tough conversations, raw emotions, and commitment on some fabricated inability to settle down.

I’ll live in a thousand more cities before I die. I live in every city I visit, because I love it and I soak it in and I carry my whole heart to that new place and I breathe it in with both lungs. But I want nothing more than a shared happiness. And I will never treat any part of my life like a temporary fix or short-term comfort, because you never know when something great is going to jump out and scare the shit out of you (some people call this love).

Anyway, this wasn’t meant to be a rant about one person, but more of a message for anyone riding the tails of an excuse—grow up. I hope that everyone finds someone who is worth being scared for, you know? Worth knocking down protective walls and having hard conversations, worth the assurances and fights and honesty. Finding someone who’s worth all those things and more—that’s kind of the point, right?