One of the things new people ask about is your relationship status. I get it. Are you married? Do y'all have kids? But...you have a boyfriend, right? Or a girlfriend? It's not like there's anything wrong with that.
Apparently there IS something wrong with being single. And that is starting to piss me off. When people tell me they are married or dating someone, i don't ask them why. But the first thing people ask me is why i'm not in a relationship. Like there must be something wrong with me. Or worse, they'll say, "Don't worry. You'll meet someone." I'm not worried. Yes, i get anxious about a lot of things, but this is not one of them. No one can wrap their head around the fact that i actually enjoy being single. I can do whatever i want, whenever i want and if i fuck up my budget or am late making payments on things, then i'm only hurting myself. Plus there's no one bitching at me for those things.
It's not like i'm sitting around, alone, pining for someone to sweep me off my feet and save me from a solitary life. Right now, i thoroughly enjoy my life. All of my needs are met by my friends. I have people to laugh with, people to shop with, people to art with, people to get crazy with, cry to, lean on, travel with, cook and eat with, watch movies with, talk to about anything (and i mean anything)... All the things couples depend on each other for i can find in my friends and family. Except for the sex thing. And even then, sometimes.. . . And the money bit - no one is supporting or depending on me and i like it that way. Anyway, assuming that everyone needs another person to make them happy and normal is fucking rude.
And then there's the fact that every major relationship i've ever had (with ONE exception) has been fucking traumatizing. Seriously. And not like your normal bullshit - fucking terrible. I seem to attract liars like no one else in the world. And, occasionally, a sociopath.
I've dated a couple times in the past few years but i always find myself in the same frame of mind after just a couple weeks. They're going to screw up what i have going on. I gotta get out of this. And so i check out. So, yeah, maybe someday i'll meet someone who doesn't seem like they might fuck up every good thing in my life. But i'm not waiting for it and if it never happens it won't be the end of the goddamn world.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Friday, October 18, 2013
Big Deal(s)
So, yeah, lots going on. I got a second job that i love because i get to cook. Every single time someone walks into the center, they comment on how good it smells. Without fail, every single time. The kids are quiet when they eat (except for that one, he's a real turd) and they are getting at least two nutritious meals and two heathly snacks on my watch. That's a good thing as most of them live in shelters and have very young, disinterested parents. Anyway, if two thirds of them weren't always screaming and/or snotting all over the place, it would be just about the coolest job ever. Well, besides my other one which is totally awesome.
Also, tomorrow, several members of my artist collective and i are headed out of town for a big reception at the gallery where the skateboards we designed are on display. Pretty cool shit. I'm way excited because my work hasn't been in a gallery before unless you count at County College, which i don't. It was just a damn wall. No one ever looked to see what was there. It could have been the same art for fourty years and not one person would have known the difference. Big whoop. Tomorrow, though, tomorrow IS a big whoop. A big, fat, hairy whoop. I'm even going to wear lipstick.
Also, tomorrow, several members of my artist collective and i are headed out of town for a big reception at the gallery where the skateboards we designed are on display. Pretty cool shit. I'm way excited because my work hasn't been in a gallery before unless you count at County College, which i don't. It was just a damn wall. No one ever looked to see what was there. It could have been the same art for fourty years and not one person would have known the difference. Big whoop. Tomorrow, though, tomorrow IS a big whoop. A big, fat, hairy whoop. I'm even going to wear lipstick.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
The Raspberry Body Spray Incident
Once upon a time (the late 90s), there was a young woman in her first real relationship after high school. Let's call her Daria. The "man" she was in love with was someone she had not-so-secretly been nuts-balls about for about 6 years. It was not bliss. On his side, it was sort of a revenge relationship. And on her side...well, she was an idiot who would put up with anything from "Trent". She put up with a lot. He was a rock star who never shared anything, especially drugs, even when he had more than enough. He would share with everyone else, just not Daria. Sometimes he would give in and give her some mushrooms if she did things like drive to a party with 50 people and bring back the keg he had left there. He also liked to wait outside of the bathroom door or right inside the front door when she thought she was home alone wearing scary masks and terrifying the shit out of her as she came out of the shower or home from work. Or he would throw parties and specifically invite all the people Daria hated most.
Daria let Trent move in with her because he was unhappy being 22 and living in his parents' shitty basement. While she was at work, he moved all of her things from her bedroom to the guest room and claimed hers as his own. She had thought they would be sharing a room but he had moved out for independence. Why couldn't she stop suffocating him?!
There would be times that they shared a bed, however. Most of the time it was whatever. Nothing mind-blowing, but they had good times and occasionally would spend hours messing around and being goofy and laughing while they got their rocks off. But, then, something changed.
Trent started drinking more. Daria began to dread his invitations to his bedroom. Refusal wasn't exactly an option as he would simply crawl into her bed. And he started requesting things she was uncomfortable with; most noteably, back door access. He had been "accidentally power jabbing" her for weeks. Encounters would end ubruptly at that point because Daria would become angry. And also because it fucking hurt and she fucking hated it. She simply tried harder to please him in every other way. He wasn't having it. Pleading ensued. Then chasing. Once, he chased her until she threatened to call her dad.
One night, Trent was more persistent than ever. He was practically crying and saying shit about how this would make them closer than cancer and dying and other such things. She had always been a sucker for Tool lyrics. So she said miserably, "Well, go get something from the bathroom so you're not going in dry." And then mumbled about him being a son of a bitch while he practically skipped to the bathroom.
He came back with his raging boner glistening in the dark. "Roll over!"
He never made it in. Daria cried out, "Nope! It fucking hurts! Get off me!" So he unceremoniously flipped her over and did it the right way which hurt immensely too. He finished in record time with her screaming in pain for the short duration.
"What did use you? It BURNS!!"
"Raspberry body spray, dude. It's all I could find." And he fell asleep. She, however did not. Her cooter burned and burned and swelled and swelled over the course of the next 3 days until she broke down and called her older sister who immediately took her to the ob-gyn. She was far too humiliated to say what really happened so after parading every doctor, resident, and nurse through the room and snapping photos (which Daria is POSITIVE she saw in a medical book years later), the horrified doctor ordered some tests and sent Daria home. She was to return in 3 more days for the results.
Worst 3 days ever.
When Daria came back to the doctor, with labia 6 times their normal size, it was to a mystified medical crew. She had no STDs or anything alse they could pinpoint. The time had come to tell the truth. She cried as she admitted that she was dating an idiot who thought raspberry body spray was a lubricant. The doctor's eyes lit up! He knew the solution! The solution turned out to be 12 shots. It was simply an infection. All that needed to be done was to shoot 3 doses of steroids into each labia majora to force the infection to erupt but in order to make that pain toleralable, a total of 6 shots of novocaine were required. The doctor assured her that it would hurt more than giving birth but not last as long. It took 4 nurses to hold her down. In less than hour her junk was back to normal.
Anyway, she threw away all her raspberry-scented everything but stuck by her man. Until she learned that he had dumped her 2 weeks prior while she was too drunk to remember. What an asshole.
Daria let Trent move in with her because he was unhappy being 22 and living in his parents' shitty basement. While she was at work, he moved all of her things from her bedroom to the guest room and claimed hers as his own. She had thought they would be sharing a room but he had moved out for independence. Why couldn't she stop suffocating him?!
There would be times that they shared a bed, however. Most of the time it was whatever. Nothing mind-blowing, but they had good times and occasionally would spend hours messing around and being goofy and laughing while they got their rocks off. But, then, something changed.
Trent started drinking more. Daria began to dread his invitations to his bedroom. Refusal wasn't exactly an option as he would simply crawl into her bed. And he started requesting things she was uncomfortable with; most noteably, back door access. He had been "accidentally power jabbing" her for weeks. Encounters would end ubruptly at that point because Daria would become angry. And also because it fucking hurt and she fucking hated it. She simply tried harder to please him in every other way. He wasn't having it. Pleading ensued. Then chasing. Once, he chased her until she threatened to call her dad.
One night, Trent was more persistent than ever. He was practically crying and saying shit about how this would make them closer than cancer and dying and other such things. She had always been a sucker for Tool lyrics. So she said miserably, "Well, go get something from the bathroom so you're not going in dry." And then mumbled about him being a son of a bitch while he practically skipped to the bathroom.
He came back with his raging boner glistening in the dark. "Roll over!"
He never made it in. Daria cried out, "Nope! It fucking hurts! Get off me!" So he unceremoniously flipped her over and did it the right way which hurt immensely too. He finished in record time with her screaming in pain for the short duration.
"What did use you? It BURNS!!"
"Raspberry body spray, dude. It's all I could find." And he fell asleep. She, however did not. Her cooter burned and burned and swelled and swelled over the course of the next 3 days until she broke down and called her older sister who immediately took her to the ob-gyn. She was far too humiliated to say what really happened so after parading every doctor, resident, and nurse through the room and snapping photos (which Daria is POSITIVE she saw in a medical book years later), the horrified doctor ordered some tests and sent Daria home. She was to return in 3 more days for the results.
Worst 3 days ever.
When Daria came back to the doctor, with labia 6 times their normal size, it was to a mystified medical crew. She had no STDs or anything alse they could pinpoint. The time had come to tell the truth. She cried as she admitted that she was dating an idiot who thought raspberry body spray was a lubricant. The doctor's eyes lit up! He knew the solution! The solution turned out to be 12 shots. It was simply an infection. All that needed to be done was to shoot 3 doses of steroids into each labia majora to force the infection to erupt but in order to make that pain toleralable, a total of 6 shots of novocaine were required. The doctor assured her that it would hurt more than giving birth but not last as long. It took 4 nurses to hold her down. In less than hour her junk was back to normal.
Anyway, she threw away all her raspberry-scented everything but stuck by her man. Until she learned that he had dumped her 2 weeks prior while she was too drunk to remember. What an asshole.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Today is going to suck so hard
So as i was laying in my recliner trying to sleep -
Yeah, that's right, i sleep in my recliner sometimes. What of it? I've got back problems, okay? I have ever since that utter fucking douche bitch going 45 in her Lincoln Continental slammed into the passenger side of my Ford Festiva when i was 17. If anything had gone differently (aside from the old jackass not running the red light in first fucking place), i'd be dead right now. My car stopped, after spinning around 600 times, with the driver's door 15 inches from a telephone pole. If i hadn't been wearing my seat belt, i would have flown out my open window. If my window had been rolled up, i would've donked my head up in a bad, bad way. If she had been going 15 instead of 10 miles over the speed limit, my passenger seat would have totally crushed me. Anyway, back problems...i have some. Better than being dead.
So falling asleep in my recliner last night... I kept doing that thing where when my eyes would roll the sound of the fan would change and i'd hear a chunking noise which, of course, sounded exactly like a raper/murderer looking for the biggest knife in my kitchen. I kept "waking up", only i wasn't really waking up - just starting a new nightmare. By the time i did wake up, my arms were flailing and i'm pretty sure i looked like someone trying to swim to the surface of a jello pond. And basically i was.
By the time i did fall into a "regular" sleep, all my brain wanted to do was rehash the Scott Pilgrim series that i just finished. So i was fighting evil ex-boyfriends in my sleep all night. Then, all of a sudden, i'm awake at 5:09 AM. I think I'll have a pee and a glass of water and get another hour of sleep. But HELL NO! I gave up at 5:34. Sleep is just not in the cards. Do you know what this means?! It means today is going to suck so freakin' hard. AND it means my sleep schedule will be fucked FOREVER and i'm probably going to die.
So congratulations, utter fucking douche bitch. You did manage to kill me after all. It just took 18 years. Well played.
Yeah, that's right, i sleep in my recliner sometimes. What of it? I've got back problems, okay? I have ever since that utter fucking douche bitch going 45 in her Lincoln Continental slammed into the passenger side of my Ford Festiva when i was 17. If anything had gone differently (aside from the old jackass not running the red light in first fucking place), i'd be dead right now. My car stopped, after spinning around 600 times, with the driver's door 15 inches from a telephone pole. If i hadn't been wearing my seat belt, i would have flown out my open window. If my window had been rolled up, i would've donked my head up in a bad, bad way. If she had been going 15 instead of 10 miles over the speed limit, my passenger seat would have totally crushed me. Anyway, back problems...i have some. Better than being dead.
So falling asleep in my recliner last night... I kept doing that thing where when my eyes would roll the sound of the fan would change and i'd hear a chunking noise which, of course, sounded exactly like a raper/murderer looking for the biggest knife in my kitchen. I kept "waking up", only i wasn't really waking up - just starting a new nightmare. By the time i did wake up, my arms were flailing and i'm pretty sure i looked like someone trying to swim to the surface of a jello pond. And basically i was.
By the time i did fall into a "regular" sleep, all my brain wanted to do was rehash the Scott Pilgrim series that i just finished. So i was fighting evil ex-boyfriends in my sleep all night. Then, all of a sudden, i'm awake at 5:09 AM. I think I'll have a pee and a glass of water and get another hour of sleep. But HELL NO! I gave up at 5:34. Sleep is just not in the cards. Do you know what this means?! It means today is going to suck so freakin' hard. AND it means my sleep schedule will be fucked FOREVER and i'm probably going to die.
So congratulations, utter fucking douche bitch. You did manage to kill me after all. It just took 18 years. Well played.
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