A single past (part 4 of 4).

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Not a lot of people know Spike was a part of my life. He and I didn’t have a conventional relationship; or a relationship at all.  But he’s a major part of my past. Most people don’t know what knowing Spike did to me.

He was my mistake.  My selfish mistake: that’s exactly who he was for me.

When I look back, I realize that what I wanted more than anything was to lose my virginity.  Callous, I know, but I’m being truthful here.  You see, I had the ridiculous notion that I should wait to have sex until I finally fell in love.  But, as my more seasoned readers know, I wasn’t getting anywhere close to that point.  18 turned to 19, 19 turned to 20, and 20 turned to 21; I wasn’t getting any younger and I was afraid of becoming a prude with a dusty vagina after a lack of use.

Then Spike rolled up with this attitude that combined an angsty teenager with a puppy dog and I figured, sure, he’s younger than me but he’s also eager and into me (which was in short supply at the time).  I can learn to like/love him.  So we started hanging out, whenever I decided we would, until, one night, I decided to sleep with him.  This decision changed my life.

And no, I don’t mean that I was “awakened into my official womanhood.” I didn’t have a different swagger the next day.

Honestly, the moment that I did it, I regretted it.  Partly because I wasn’t in love.  I don’t know what the other part was but I still felt awful about it.   The next year or so I felt empty.  I clung to other people and relationships trying to get that feeling to go away.  Either way, we finished and I made him leave.  I felt sick over what I had just done.

I never called him after that.  I ignored all of his texts.  I cut him out of my life completely because I was afraid of what I was feeling.

It wasn’t long after that I got physically sick.  I was experiencing blood-loss that I mistook for a month-long period (which I thought was weird but didn’t think needed me to see a doctor; I assumed it was just stress).   This manifested into abdominal cramps that had me bed-ridden.  That’s when a friend forced me to see a doctor.  I only went because she promised to take me to Taco Bell afterwards.

I never did get that Crunch Wrap Supreme…

The rest is a blur but the gist was that my first time resulted in my getting pregnant but, no, I didn’t get knocked-up like a normal Katherine Heigl character.  I had an ectopic pregnancy;  I had to have emergency surgery;  I had to have my parents come and learn my mistakes; and all of this happened in about a six-hour window.

Needless to say, this is not my proudest moment.  A lot of people don’t know.  A lot of people still don’t know.  I’m not ashamed any longer…though it’s not a story I’m about to pull out at a party.  Spike hurt me the most out of all of the others, I’m stronger for what I’ve gone through.  I’m learning that my mistakes make me human and I shouldn’t be ashamed.  It’s part of who I am.  He’s part of who I am.

Spike and I don’t speak anymore.  We haven’t spoken since I told him about the pregnancy.  But I wish the best for him.  He deserved someone who actually wanted to be with him and wasn’t just looking for someone desperately seeking something she didn’t need yet.

I know Spike won’t be reading this but I need to have a platform to address him from regardless.  So, Spike, I’m sorry.  I never meant to hurt you.  You got caught in the cross-fire that was my foolishness.

A single past (part 3 of 4).

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The first slow-dance that Phil and I shared was the final song of the Valentine’s Day Dance our freshman year of high school.  I don’t remember what the song was but it was 2005, so, use your imagination.  The dance was, inappropriately enough, held in a local bar that closed down for the event and we swayed and smiled. In that same spot, eight years later, I would be dancing with less-than pure intentions with a guy I never thought about during third period math class.

Our first kiss was behind the Museum in town.  We were seated under a tree and were joking about something (I don’t remember what) when he looked at me and simply told me to kiss him.  I did.  It was nice.  We did it again and his tongue came into my mouth and, in shock, I bit it.

The relationship wasn’t solid.  I still maintained my short-term dating style with Phil but over a course of four years.  I loved Phil, yet I was afraid of love, so even though he told me he loved me on a few occasions, I never admitted it back to him. Eventually he stopped saying it to me.  A small part of me is hoping he reads my blog so that he can just know that there was a time that I was in love with him.

We hugged a lot when we were together.  I was afraid to kiss him after the first incident.  I’d get over that by senior year when we weren’t together but tended to find each other in the dark room during photo class.

In preparation for this segment I went through my email to read our old correspondences.  There weren’t a lot but there were some that proved we were close once.  One conversation involved me just checking in with him to see that he was okay when he didn’t show up for school one day.  Another were a series of fractals that he sent to me on Valentine’s Day.

valentine's day

Hearts

This boy is the smartest person I knew at the time (he’s still pretty high up on the list).  He was teaching himself physics our sophomore year and I tried to get Chuckie to teach me something about it just so I could impress Phil (sadly, I think I just embarrassed myself with both of those boys).  He also is extremely talented with a camera in his hand.

He made me an earring once.  He never finished the pair so I would wear it on one ear and just part my hair in such a way that you couldn’t see that my other ear was naked.  I keep the earring in a keepsakes box on my desk.

At the Junior Prom after-party, a drunken me got separated from her friends and confusedly wandered around the bonfire.  Phil found me and held me until we fell asleep in front of the dwindling fire.  When it got too cold, he took off his peacoat and laid it over us like a blanket.  Looking back, that was probably the first time I realized I felt safe when I was with him; in a way he was home.

I don’t know who ended it for the last time.  We never had dramatic break ups for the whole school to witness.  We weren’t those people.  Our breakups tended to be simple, to the point, and with educated reasoning.

A friend of Phil’s died at the end of the summer after our graduation.  All I wanted to do was comfort him the way he had comforted me at that prom party.  I didn’t because this grief was too big for any of us to handle and I didn’t know then that comfort is the same in all arenas of life. I regret not going to him to this day.

Phil never tried to change me.  He never needed me for anything but who I was and didn’t complain when who I was compromised our relationship.  He was the first consistently inconsistent boy in my life.  He was also the first person to tell me to pursue my creative writing career (I have it in writing).

A small part of me wishes I could go back and love Phil as fully as he loved me.  I think my life would be different and I would be less afraid of love.   I don’t think we would have made it past high school either way but I think I could have learned a lot about love and relationships from Phil if I had just given him the chance.

A single end game.

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It shall hereby be known that I am, officially, the worst.

The worst at what? You may ask.

Well, dear readers,  I am officially the worst at the end game.  I can cast a lure, I can get the guy interested, but I can never seem to figure out an end game.  This always leaves the boy confused, me frustrated, and both of us disappointed.

The fact is that most of the time I know my end game is ultimately going to be different from his.

Let’s take Jesse, for example.  Jesse was dancing at the Box when I rolled up last Wednesday looking to dance and drink.  So my friends and I joined Jesse in a few moments of awkward 80’s style dancing (which is the best any of this group could accomplish).  At one point, I walked up and just started to flirt with him, luring him in to the situation.  We danced. We flirted.  We laughed.  We generally had a good time.

Then the Box lights came up and it was time to go home and Jesse looked at me expectantly.

“Want to come check out my room?” He asked.

“I can’t.  I have to be up early.”

“Me too but I can go all night if you’re up for it.” He moved in closer for the kill.

And that’s when it usually hits me.  It’s like a giant, red-flashing sign in my head that reads ABORT telling me to run and run fast.  I mean, I flirted and initiated the entire situation but, when it came down to it, I was afraid to reach that end game.

So instead of jumping in a cab and following Jesse home I simply said, “Maybe next time,” and then left so quickly that there is probably a trail of regret and poor life choices burned into the floor of the Box. I know how unfair that is to poor Jesse.  He put all his chips in, hoping for the best, and I unceremoniously just swiped them off the table and walked away.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Readers, I’m just worried that if I keep this up that this blog will become a barren wasteland of frustration and angst.  I’ve got to get out of this defunct end game.

Any suggestions for me, Kids?

Single Throwback Sunday: A single excuse.

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In school, teachers don’t let you get away with excuses.  If you didn’t have a paper or other homework assignment with you when it was due then an excuse just wasn’t going to cut it.  “What?” teachers would say accusingly, “Did your dog eat your homework?” No.  I just didn’t manage my time in order to actually finish the work but who wanted to admit that?  There was no excuse, that’s what we both knew, I just wanted them to give me the favor of believing that I had a dog who really wanted to eat my homework that particular night before a mid-term project was due.   I wanted some extra time. But we don’t get viable excuses to use in real life and that’s what our teachers knew before we did – that was the lesson they were teaching us all along.
 
If you are one of my loyal followers then you may have noticed my multiple-week absence.  No, my dog didn’t eat my laptop and my great-great-great distant relative, twice removed, didn’t pass away.  There was nothing even close to these unfortunate situations.   I simply didn’t have enough time in the day to actually try to fit in time to flirt with a boy whom I barely know or analyze the messaging techniques that I use when communicating with a mysterious bachelor on the internet and then write some witty words describing the situation.
 
It’s all fun and games until he grows up
to eat your boyfriend.
From: http://static.gotpetsonline.com/pictures-gallery/
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And, as I write this, I can only wonder what my time management skills will mean for me in the coming years.  What if I don’t have time to sit down and flirt? What if I end up alone because I couldn’t manage my time well enough to actually try to get me a man? What excuse would I use then? Because some day, about twenty years from now, my mother is going to look at me and ask me why I’m the only one of her daughters who hasn’t given her grandchildren.  I’ll have to look down at my shoes while I mumble something about how the dog ate my boyfriend.  
 
There is no denying that is a viable excuse but that doesn’t mean I can use it all the time.  There is not a single excuse that I can use now that will make me feel like I have accomplished anything more. Nothing will convince me that I have found love, that I have traveled.  There are no excuses for life.  All that can be done is your best.  That’s what I’m doing – my best.  I’m just finding that it’s not enough these days which means I’m going to have to do better than my best.  Will that require even less sleep from me? Yes.  Will that require some serious planning? Yes.  Will that require me to stop asking so many questions in my blog? Yes.  I’m going to do more.  Stop making excuses for myself and keep the masses entertained with more blogs.  
 
But you all should know that my blog did eat my homework.  
 
I couldn’t resist that one.
 
But, really, it did.
 
 
 

A single past (part 2 of 4).

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I can’t listen to Norah Jones’ “Come Away With Me” album without thinking of Tommy.  He was short-lived but also at the height of my hormonal stints.   Most of what I remember about Tommy came from before we even dated.

Tommy, for me, was the anticipation of dating.  It was the flirting, the day dreaming, and the excessive contemplation of everything he said over uncooked cookie dough with my friends.  When I started crushing on Tommy, I had recently moved my bed near the window of my room, I’d stare outside and listen to “Don’t Know Why” and “Come Away with Me” over and over again on my disc-man.  I’d wish I had some instant way to send him a message right at that moment (text messaging wasn’t big yet) that didn’t require me to log on to the family computer.

The worst thing about this relationship is that I don’t remember how it started.  I can’t figure out who asked who out, where we went for our first date, or how I felt afterwards.  I’m guessing this is the beginning of my aging process and my memory is, apparently, going first.  I’m going to assume that I was asked out over AIM.  That was the norm at the time and I’m sure I wasn’t any different.

The few moments that Tommy and I did date are still precious to me.  They’re also straight out of a 7th Heaven episode (but with less making out on the couch).  Tommy would take me to the movie theatre, we’d share some popcorn, and I’d put my hand on the armrest, hoping that he’d get the hint and take my hand, because holding hands was the most important thing for us.

But, like I said, it was short-lived.  It was a “Summer Lovin’” scenario and it “happened so fast.”

Still, I can’t look back at these relationships and not stop on Tommy.  He represents the innocence of relationships – a time where holding hands was enough – and it’s sometimes a trait that I miss when I’m dating now.

I broke up with Tommy on the phone.

For no justified reason, I just broke up with him.  He was the beginning of the boys I would break up with just because I didn’t feel like playing anymore – I used to have a three-month relationship tolerance…actually I still do.

A single Lame-o.

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Listen, sometimes, and this may come as a shock to you, seeing as most of my posts suggest otherwise, I don’t drink.

And sometimes, just hold on to your hats folks, I work on my writing.

I stay at home, sit on the couch in the most unattractive sweat-suit I can muster up, and I write for hours – my only interruption coming from a cat needing attention or that episode of Once Upon A Time that I just can’t miss.

I honestly don’t go out as much as you might think.  I mean, I am trying to save for NYC and I’m a natural home-body.  I like to pay homage to my introverted self.

However, Trevor (of A Single Alpaca fame) got the wrong impression the other night.  He caught me on a night where I decided to go out. I got a drink and then five and BOOM I was giving him my number and hanging out making out with him.  Which I still regret to this day. So now, every time he goes out, he texts me and expects to be able to meet up with me because he assumes I’m at another bar.

For a while I played along.  So when he texted me asking me where I was I’d say, “Getting ready to go out,” or “My friends bailed tonight :(“ because I didn’t want him to know the truth.  But, around the fourth night he texted me in a row, I was done.

I was done for two reasons:

  1. It was annoying.
  2. Every time I saw him and he was sober, he wouldn’t give me the time of day (and I was simply asking him “how his day was” or “what slice he wanted from the case” because I only saw him when I was working at the Pizza Place.

So the other night he texted me and asked:

“Sup?”  Seriously, the man is a genius with words.

“Writing.” I replied.

“Sounds lame.”

“Are you at the Box?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Sounds lame.” I responded.

I’m not asking Trevor to date me.  Hell, I’m never going to ask that of him.  I’m not even asking him to be my friend. I’m not even the one that initiates these texts! I’m just asking that this guy, who deign to text me when he is drunk and make out with me after three shots too many, will show me the slightest amount of respect when it comes to my life.  And my life is writing.  Which he would know if he paid attention to me when we spoke the firs time we sat next to each other at the Box.

I’m a writer.  That comes first.  I don’t point out that his constant drinking is lame.  He shouldn’t point out that my writing is lame.

Get over your lame self.

Single Throwback Sunday: A single friend.

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There is a sixth dimension which is known to all single men and women.  It is a dimension as vast as space and timeless as infinity.  It is the middle ground between loneliness and closeness, between friendship and relationship, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge.  This is the dimension of friendship.
  
It is an area we call the Friend Zone.

I’ve been thinking about the Friend Zone lately.  I’ve been thinking of all the times I’ve been placed there and all the times my friends have had their fates sealed away there as well.

The Friend Zone is a lot like the Island of Misfit Toys.  Those who are almost right for the job but just don’t meet all the standards of a person are sent to the zone.  It’s not that you’re never going to be wanted, after all the Misfit Toys eventually are loved by children everywhere, it’s just that you’re not right for that individual.

But the Friend Zone hurts initially.

“Let’s just be friends.”  Ouch.

After that horrible sentence is uttered then the shock flushes through you: Am I undatable? Is there something wrong with me? Can no one love this water pistol that shoots jelly?

Being in the Friend Zone leaves you totally helpless – you can’t say “no” to the Friend Zone without becoming the jerk. How do you tell someone that you were really only spending all that time with them because you were hoping it would pay off with them in the end?You just can’t do that.But luckily you can have other misfits in the Friend Zone with you.

So, look around.  Maybe you’ll find someone who fits your standards in that discard pile that is the Friend Zone.   Even if they aren’t perfect, even if they are an elephant with pink polka dots, they might be what you’re looking for.  And if they aren’t what you are looking for you can just Friend Zone them yourself and get a little satisfaction that you’re on the other end of things for once.

Welcome to the Friend Zone, friend.

A single past (Part 1 of 4).

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Chuckie wasn’t necessarily the coolest guy.  He would grow up to play the bass clarinet and he’d teach himself the mandolin; he’d become a miller; he’d work with computers; he’d remain a smart dude.

And, like I said, he wasn’t considered the coolest guy, but I think I liked him because his quirkiness matched mine.  How does that song go? “That the freckles in our eyes are mirror images…” Yeah, it was something like that.  But, I was “cool” by association and tried to keep up appearances (this was middle school, you guys), and I strung Chuckie along.

He’d give me a necklace and I’d break up with him by letter.  He’d ask me to slow dance   at one of our middle school dances and I’d hide in the bathroom.  He’d become my secret admirer and I wouldn’t give him the time of day.

I was a bitch.

Or I seemed like one because I was afraid to be as openly quirky as Chuckie.  He was comfortable with the fact that he wasn’t like everyone else.  He didn’t need to fit in.  I did.  All my friends fit in (and they never required me to be like them but I was afraid to not be like them) and I wanted to fit in even though that was tiring for me to do.

Chuckie and I broke up three times that 7th grade year.  We got back together one last time at the of end of our freshman year.  Not much had changed.  Friends were the same; I was the same, scared, hormonal me; and Chuckie was more himself than ever. But we gave it a go.

It lasted about a month.

He was the first boy I kissed.  He was the first boy I got drunk with and then drunkenly kissed.  He was the first boy I let get to first base (that’s the one with the boobs, right?).

But the thing is, I never fully appreciated Chuckie for who he was – I do now.  Although I couldn’t see it then, I learned to embrace my personality from him first.  It would take me until my sophomore year of college to begin seeing that being weird was normal.  Everyone was weird.  I think that if I had to do it over the only thing I would have done differently is be myself.

I don’t think we would have worked out either way.  I never felt myself love him.  But I think he’s the one that taught me the most about myself, even if this was realized through drunken reminiscing, years after our final break up.

Our last conversation, about a year and a half ago, Chuckie told me that I had been a bitch (not in those exact words) when we tried to date.  It made me realize that I was more horrible than I initially thought (I tried to apologize but he said it wasn’t necessary to apologize to someone who loves you).

A single apartment.

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I’m moving to the place where single girls are made and often die alone in their apartments to be eaten by their cats: New York City.

And while I’m confident that I won’t die alone, only because, if I ever find an apartment, I’ll need a roommate since I’m a poor, struggling writer/waitress/lover of Ramen; I’m not confident that I’ll actually find an apartment.  I am confident, however, that I will probably end up living in a really nice cardboard box at this rate.

What I’m finding is that looking for an apartment in NYC is a lot like trying to find a decent individual on OkCupid.  Which, lucky for me, is what I’m particularly seasoned at trying to do.

I don’t know if it’s simply just a free-site thing or and online thing but, either way, people lie.  On OkCupid people lie all the time about their jobs, hobbies, favorite books (or that they read books in general), or even what they look like (By the way: Catfish is real.  It is so real. So, you’ve lost a lot of hair? Just own it don’t post a fake picture that makes you look like Fabio). I’ve found pictures of the same apartment for listings in Brooklyn, Queens, and the Upper West Side, and I’m pretty certain that’s just not possible.  Why must we lie about apartment locations? I mean, I’m desperate enough to live just about anywhere, and anyone else on Craigslist is probably in the same boat, let’s just be truthful.

Then there are the overeager sellers.  I contacted an owner about their apartment but when I found out they had posted the same listing over and over in multiple locations (seriously, what is that?) I decided that this probably wasn’t the best fit.  So I contacted the person again and said I wasn’t interested in the apartment because something else had come up.  That should have been it, right?

Right?

Wrong.

The guy has texted me three more times asking me if I have changed my mind.  No, I haven’t changed my mine, Crazy.  I mean, come on, I’d text you if I changed my mind about your sketchy apartment.  This actually reminded me of that guy from OkCupid who texted me non-stop after I fell asleep.  It was sheer desperation.  But, I can’t be the only person who was looking at that apartment.  Still, desperation is as desperation does.

So, like I said, there is a lot of common ground found between OkCupid Manor and Craigslist Castle.  And luckily I have my Single Girl Wits about me to guide me through these homeless times.  I hope that I won’t be single and homeless long.

I’d much rather be single and living in NYC.

Romantic Jesus, please help me find an apartment.

Single Throwback Sunday: 5 Reasons I’m Glad to Not Be Single in the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.

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It’s summer time but, thankfully, my hard time in the real world hasn’t started yet.  I’ve worked occasionally but not in a way  that would give me more than $0.61 combined in my savings and checking accounts.

In fact, the only thing I’ve worked on since I’ve been home is watching the first and second seasons of Game of Thrones.

I’m obsessed.

Sigh…

Just walk into my bedroom closet and you will find my Tyrion Lannister shrine made of used tissues and held together with my tears.

The one thing I love the most about Game of Thrones is how grateful it makes me feel for not living in their world as the single lady I tend to be.  So I’ve compiled a list of five main reasons why I’m glad to not be living in Westeros despite how much I love watching the show.

5 Reasons I’m Glad to Not Be Single in the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. 

5. I’d have to work for Little Finger.  If you aren’t married and you have a vagina then most likely you are going to end up as a prostitute.  And I don’t want to have to have sex with some fat, old, lord just because I’m being paid to – it doesn’t sound like something I would necessarily enjoy.

4. I’m worth about as much as a goat.  Being single basically means I can be traded without my consent.  Oh, what’s that, My Lord? You need an army? Sure, just give me to the first barbarian you meet in exchange for some men with sticks.

3.  Unless I’m married to a powerful man, no one takes me seriously. Oh wait, that’s not that different from our world…

2.  It’s got some medieval Mean Girls going on. It doesn’t really matter if you are single or in a relationship in Westeros, someone will stab you in the back, or cut off your hand, or kill your significant other.  They will do so with a smile and without the slightest flutter of an eyelid.  They will do so when you think they are your ally.

1. I would be eligible to be courted by the future king. This doesn’t sound that bad, right? But King Joffrey is a prick and all the other kings are old.  If the King of the North, Robb McHotPants, came to my door then we would be talking marriage but the chances that I would be stuck with Joffrey, fearing my life and beating other prostitutes for his amusement, are way too high.