In 2007, I started this blog to use as a sounding board for all of the things I couldn’t say out loud. At the time, I was just beginning a three-month-long celibacy vision quest. And, as a result, I was quite literally going out of my mind. At 20, when I began this, I had already racked up too many awkward sexual moments to deal with on my own. So, I decided to blog about them. After about six posts, I kind of gave up. My vision quest ended on a lonely night around Thanksgiving.
But, alas, I’m back. It’s 2010, and I’m still that awkward girl of 3 years ago. Sometimes, my life is so ridiculous, that I cannot believe it’s real. So, in an effort to convince myself—that this is, in fact, my life— I’m blogging again. And, this time— I’ll be reminiscing about every horrible date, mortifying sexual situation, and all the bouts of self-loathing that follow. Lucky you.
—————————————————————————————————-
And now, the conversation that inspired this new vision-quest…
Mom: “You should make a cartoon strip, like that Cathy’s World.”
Me: “You mean, Cathy?”
Mom: “Yeah! Aack! Sounds just like you.”
Me: “Grrreat.
It’s snowing outside. The first real snow this winter.
And where am I?
At Starbucks.
Why?
Because I’ve been kicked out of my own goddamned house. Forced to brave the icy roads, so someone can get their swerve on. A swerve which has been denied over and over again. But, I’m not stupid. Every time that bitch comes over, The Palace REEKS of swerve. Nasty.
Bitches everywhere, I’ve got some advice for you. Wash your ass. Do it often. It doesn’t take long. Maybe an extra 6 seconds— 5 if you become experienced in ass-washing. Hell, if you ain’t got the time to wash it, at least let some water up in there. That’s what those detachable showerheads are for. Well, that, and getting off. But, that’s your business—not mine.
I like being single. I do. I can sleep in as late as I want— alone, taking up the whole bed and wearing granny panties and a raggedy New York Dolls t-shirt. The pressure to be “on” 24/7 is gone. I can go days with no make-up, and who cares if my hair looks like a rat’s nest? Not me. No late-night phone calls. “Talk dirty to me baby.” Ha, yeah right. The Office is on. I’m on Season 3, Disc 2. So what? And yeah, I just had 4 beers and ate an entire round of cheese. And maybe, I’ve been wearing pajamas for 2 days. But you know what? It’s ok. Because I’m single. And I don’t have to impress anyone.
But, damn it. Sometimes enough is enough. I’m bored and starting to smell a little like my grandma. So maybe, tonight, because I am single— I’ll go out on the town in my fanciest gear and maybe even comb my hair. The Office is getting kind of boring and my t-shirt is covered with crumbs and beer stains. And sleeping is a little nicer when you’re doing it with someone else. Especially after you’ve just had a lot of sex. Definitely then. Being attached would make that a little easier. But, I guess that’s what bars are for.
Oh yeah, and Thanksgiving sucks.
The End.
Did you know?…
Ithyphallophobia is a morbid fear of seeing, thinking about or having an erect penis.
I only have one of those symptoms. Mostly just because that would be awkward.
Although, the more that I think about it— having an erect penis for a day would be kind of fun. First, I would probably jack off a lot— at least for the first half of the day. Then, I would try to find nicely shaped holes to penetrate. A doorknob hole would be ideal. Or maybe I could just fashion a glory-hole in a public bathroom. Or both— what the hell?
Having a dick sounds like a blast!
How do you boys get anything done? Honestly.
Day 14:
It’s 2:24. I have been awake for about an hour now. And I just realized that I have replaced sex and late-night phone calls with sleep. I’m not sure if that’s a complaint or not. Sometimes it’s hard to be on the same page with yourself. Anyway, I’ve been going to sleep around 11;30 or 12 every night and waking up some time in the mid-afternoon. Either I have a sleeping disorder or way too much free time on my hands now. It’s funny how much time we waste with relationships and communication— or lackthereof.
Anyway.
“Hello?”
“Hey, are you awake?”
“I am now, thanks.”
“So, what’s up?”
“Nothing, just woke up.”
“Awesome. Hey, I have a proposal for you.”
“Shit. What now?”
“Well, I’ve decided to hire you as my personal historian. I figure, you know, so much crazy shit is always happening that I should be documenting it. So, I’m going to pay you $100 a week to follow me around with a tape recorder and to stalk my friends and family.”
“Wait. :long pause: Really? That’s what you came up with? Are you high?”
“No, I’m serious it’s a good idea. We’re going to make so much money. Or you will anyway when you sell the book.”
“Wait. So you want me to write a book, too? Really?”
“Yeah, but I want like half. I figure it’s my life, so I deserve half.”
“You are officially completely insane. But, I’m in. I listen to you talk about yourself all day anyway, might as well get paid for it.”
“Exactly my point.”
“Well, awesome. And now, I’m hanging up.”
::
We’ll call him #3 or the juvenile delinquent. What is it with me and the gays? They love me. Literally. We met many, many summers ago. “Hullo, love.” He had many levels of intoxication— British Accent was Level 4. He was sexy in that, I’m Never Going to Have Him way. But, I did have him— while his boyfriend was on vacation. Over and over again. It lasted all summer. After awhile, the bad boy act wore off. The whispers of our friends became too much. The run-ins with the law put me over the edge.
He was a mixed-up kid. But, I’ll never forget that summer. His ex will never let me forget it either.
Day 6:
I’m currently wondering why I’ve chosen to begin this experiment. Maybe after all the failed relationships and disappointing one-night-stands, I’m tired. Tired of all the “musicians” and “artists.” More like, narcissists. No, thanks.
I need this though. My body needs this. A rest. Especially, because I’ve begun to feel like an addict. Addicted to the whole process— the booze, the bed, the awkward morning after. I’m not sure if that makes me self-destructive or just “experimental.” And is the whole thing really all that bad??
20 questions with no answers. Maybe they’ll come in the next few months. If I’m lucky that is. Hell, I could come out in the end even more confused than I am now.
Eh, I’ll go with it. Just to see what happens.
And so it continues…
::
I’ll call him #29. We met at a hip-hop show. Made eye-contact from across the way. He’s cute in that way that babies are cute when they’re just born. Kind of wrinkled and misshapened. Except, he’s hairy. And manlier than I expected. I’ve always been used to a certain kind of man, a girly man if you will. But, I met my first lumberjack— man’s man, meat and potatoes kind of guy. Traditional in every sense of the way. I am woman, he is man. Pink and blue. Only and always.
We were the farthest from a perfect fit.
I am woman, alright. “Whoa-man! Get your own fucking beer, I’m busy making history over here.”
