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?

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.

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.

A single past. (An introduction of sorts)

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Rafiki told a young-adult Simba: “The past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it or learn from it.”

Now, as all 90’s babies can attest, I learned all substantial knowledge from Disney movies, the Lion King in particular. So, I took that with a grain of salt.  And, though there were other scenes that said you should learn to leave your past behind or whatever, I’ve found that going through my past and learning from my past mistakes has made me stronger (as long as I don’t dwell back there too long).

And in the next few weeks I’ll investigate my past relationships  in a series of posts.  You’ve only been with me for three years, Internet, you have about 20 years of catching up to do.  I think this will be a mental and emotional cleanse.  And once it’s out of me, I think that I’ll be more at peace with myself and my relationship status (i.e single).   Maybe  I’ll also be more open when a new relationship shows itself.

So this post is simply an introduction to Tommy, Chuckie, Phi, and Spike (all names changed – mainly for me because then I get to use the Rugrats characters in a post- to protect the person’s privacy).  You all know about my latest exploits with Josh so I feel it’s only fair that I air all of my dirty lingerie for the world to see.

Enjoy, Kiddies, it’s about to be story time.

A single alpaca.

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This is a story about a girl who didn’t shave her legs when she had the chance in the shower.  And how that stopped her from getting any.

Trevor was the not the end goal.  Hell, he wasn’t even the goal.  I didn’t have one.  I just (surprise, surprise) wanted a beer.  So I went over to the Box and BOOM! I was seated next to Trevor, watching the Red Sox game, and drunk because, well, sometimes just walking into the Box gets you drunk – The eight shots of FireBall definitely had something to do with my drunkeness levels but they never would have been ingested if I hadn’t walked into the Box (see how I just went full circle?).

So there I am, having a great time just hanging out, when Travis turns to me:

“I just got my car fixed.  Got it back for the first time in three weeks today.”

Not the most intriguing first line in the conversation but, hell, it had been a while since Josh and I figured that it could be fun to see where this goes.  At the very least, I would get an interlude from my very plain life.  And I decided to let Trevor slide, despite that opening line.

“Great Patriots game earlier.”

God, he was really making this hard.  I smirked.  He tried again:

“Want to go for a drive?”

Yes, there it was, the question I had been waiting for – my magical evening taking a drive away from the mundane.

I had him drive me to the beach.  And we got there and got out of the car – the headlights illuminating the white pilings up ahead.  Further out on the beach, a group of high schoolers smoked pot, occasionally checking their phones – a blue flickering light created a mini-lighthouse, alerting us of their presence ahead.  Trevor leaned against the front of the car.  He grabbed hold of his baseball hat and tugged it further on to his head.  Somehow I managed to saunter over to him.  He grabbed my waist and pulled me in for a kiss.

The most surprising thing about Trevor was that he actually could kiss.

He continued to kiss me until I thought I would break all of my codes and just have fun with him in the back of his car.  Then he stepped back:

 “Want to go somewhere else?”

I wanted to say yes.  I wanted to go back to his place. I wanted to have a good time.  I wanted to until I realized that I was in desperate need of shaving.

It seriously felt like I had two alpacas attached to my legs.  I just couldn’t allow him to know that I had that situation down there.  I don’t have a lot of pride but, for whatever reason, I have shaven-leg pride.

 So I politely asked him if he would mind taking me home.  He had no problem with it, especially after I lied about having to be up for work wicked early.  So, with a short little make out in the car in between point A and point B, I was home, and my exciting night was over and I was back to the mundane life of watching TV, knitting, and filling out my spinster application with a cat on my lap.

And that, Children, is how my unshaved legs managed to ruin my night.

Always shave.  Always.

Single Throwback Sunday: A single symposium.

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This past weekend was one of those roller coasters – you know the emotional sort.

And whenever I feel a little out of sorts, because of confused feelings or uncertain longings, I always find myself drawn to one book and one book only: The Symposium by Plato.

I lost you at, Plato, didn’t I? I know how it sounds – a little pretentious with a side of god awful and boring.

It’s none of those things.  Not even close.

It’s all the great minds of Plato’s time coming together to discuss the origins of love.  How can you hate that? Hm?

I’ve always been drawn to one particular speech within the text: Aristophanes’.  In which, Aristophanes looks at the history of the human race and how we came to need a partner in life.

Since some of you might still not go out to Barnes and Noble and buy this book to read – I’ve decided to give you the low down – consider this A Single Blog’s version of Spark Notes.

Here we go:

Basically the entire human race started out looking a little bit different than what we are used to seeing today.  Back then everyone was round and they had two sets of everything – arms, legs, heads.  Each body was made up of two genders: man & man, woman & woman, and woman & man.

They were madly in love with the other head they shared their body with.  And, since they shared a body and had so many legs and arms to spare,  these odd looking people would cartwheel around.  They were super powerful and super fast and super conceited  and the Gods became angry.  They wanted to remind the humans that they were, indeed, human.

So the Gods decided to split up the humans, making them more vulnerable.  Now, when they did this, the beings were scattered around the world, away from their mate, and the halves longed for each other. They didn’t know what do do without their partners.

Many of the beings died – they wouldn’t eat, sleep or move without their loved ones – but some were more fortunate than others.  Some found their other half and when they did they wrapped their arms around that person and never let go.

According to Aristophanes it is in our nature to constantly search for our other half – that person is male or female based on the original gender you are from.  


There is nothing in this world that gives me more hope than Aristophanes speech because, according to him, I’m doing the right thing – I’m doing what comes natural to me.  I’m searching for my other half.

A single clown.

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The costume I wore to my first Halloween party was carefully considered.  I spent close to an hour trying to decide.  The way I saw it, this was one night a year, and in the four hours that I could possibly be seen, I had to make a good impression.  Especially if Skyler or Max or Josh, or any of the boys of the week who caught my hormonal eyes were going to be there.  I knew that this would be the costume that would make me stand out.  It was just flashy enough without creating a scene. All the other girls were going to be jealous when all the boys were looking at me.

I was a clown for Halloween that year.

 A sexy clown? You might ask.  Well, no.  Not a sexy clown – unless the blue pom-poms on the front of the costume had an innuendo attached to them that I wasn’t aware of – No, I wasn’t a sexy clown.  I was just a run-of-the-mill clown with full make-up and wig (a wig that I made sure matched the blues in my costume, so that I wouldn’t clash).

Sadly, this was the same year that most other girls caught on to the sexy costume trend.  Or, at least, the earliest version of that. This means, mainly, that one or two girls wore fishnets, and another few had something leather on their person – we were far from the costumes that strippers consider appropriate workwear.

Still, my clown outfit hardly got me noticed by the boys. If it got me noticed, it was hardly for the reasons I wanted to be noticed for – such as tripping some boy with my giant, blue-rubber shoes.  And as the night wore on, I felt worse about myself.  I wanted to grab a pair of scissors and make this suit into a mini-skirt at the very least.  But, the thing is, even if I had the crafting abilities to fulfill those mini-skirt urges, I  would never have followed through.  A part of me knew that I didn’t want to be that sort of girl, even if it was pretend.

A small part of me, even if I didn’t know it then, didn’t want to be noticed by boys because of a lack of clothing.  It’s like a self-preservation instinct helped me from ever allowing myself to venture down that skanky, Halloween road.

I cried that night in the bathroom.  I watched as my makeup mixed with my tears in the sink of the bathroom before disappearing down the drain taking whatever hopes I had with it.  But, looking back, I’m proud of myself for not giving in to those societal pressures to moonlight once a year as a sexy nurse – not even in the next few years, when so many of my classmates were, in fact, sexy nurses.

And though my actions might have kept me single, I can still proudly state, that I have never once been confused as a prostitute on Halloween night.

Oh, and don’t forget to have a
H A P P Y  H A L L O W E E N!

5 Couples Costumes to Wear Alone

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Halloween is coming up soon ,Kids, and with it comes 5-pound bags of snickers, the right to scare small children, and a slew of Halloween parties to be invited to.  What to wear, what to wear? You could be a slutty nurse/pirate/bar wench/fairy/fighter pilot or you could hound Pinterest for something that doesn’t make it look like you have a corner you work every night.  But finding the right costume could take hours, days even.  In this social media world, who has time for that kind of costume hunt when someone could be posting a picture of their sonogram, or something else just as revolting, for you to spend your time judging?

That was my problem at least.

So I pulled myself away from Facebook for a few minutes a few hours and searched for random words followed by “costume” on Google (“blanket costume,” “hat costume,” ” when I found a picture of a couple wearing a costume that made them look like either side of a PB&J sandwich.  And that’s when it hit me – wouldn’t it be great if someone went as half a couple costume?  So, with that, I give you 5 couples costumes to wear alone.

  1. Peanut Butter and Jelly: There may be no other half to your PBJ but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a delicious time.  Pick a side, any side, and perhaps you’ll run into your other half at this party.  At the very least, you can casually watch others try to find the person you came with.
  2. Horse Costume: Yeah, what’s not to love about this? It has an immediate statement

    Add a cigar and it’s less creepy. Add a martini and everything is just right.

    of “I’m single but look at all the fucks I give.” You could go the pseudo-“American Horror Story” route and just wear the horse head or you could go with the more aerated route by just wearing the suspenders attached to the back-end of the horse (just be aware of all the jokes that may come with this end).

  3. Plug and Socket: Wear the plug costume by itself just for the more phallic of the options.  Just remember: Phallic is Fun.  And imagine the pick-up lines: “Hey Guy, who is bigger? You or me?”
  4. Finn and Princess Bubblegum: This one might not be the most classic but I find it nice because you could potentially wear both costumes in one night.  Just bring clothes for a costume change.  If you are feeling especially cool you could also switch back and forth between the two characters – when you are Finn ask people if they have seen Princess Bubblegum and vice versa.  A lot of creativity could be had here, Folks.
  5. Jessica Rabbit and Roger Rabbit: Living up to the dressing sexy on Halloween, you can dress up as the voluptuous Jessica Rabbit looking to exact revenge on the scoundrel Mr. Rabbit that left her at that party alone (I love a good role-playing scenario).  Get into it.  You might find someone willing to “ease your pain.”