And They Called it Puppy Love

There is something strange that can happen when you get in the habit of meeting people online. Something so odd, and often wonderful, that you will feel like a crazy person for even mentioning it. But then, how could you not?

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine suggested, in a rather forcible tone, that I sign up for an account on OkCupid. (And yes, I can literally hear your groans, laughter and sarcastic comments from here – because they are quite possibly the exact same ones I made when he brought it up!) At first, it really wasn’t much of a diversion. I would visit peoples’ profiles, be mildly amused, maybe send a short message, etc. It seemed that all the cute ones lived in the next city over, and that most of the guys interested in talking to me were just a little bit off.  Every once in a while, I would get someone wanting to instant-message and a little message box would pop up in the bottom-left corner of the screen, usually with a pretty lame attempt at conversation. Usually from someone I wasn’t really into.

One such lame attempt appeared as follows:

“Awesome look in that last photo of yours “

However, as I’d remembered seeing his profile and not being particularly creeped out by it, I decided to respond. And then, seconds later, he called himself out on the lame attempt and started an actual conversation.

We talked for four hours.

The next day, we talked for five.

The shortest length of time we’ve talked so far has been an hour. And that is only because I told him he was being cut off so I could get some sleep!

The point is, we’re pretty much in love. I kid! But honestly, it’s been a nice week. We talk about whatever we want, laugh about the stupidest things, and flirt uncontrollably. It’s fun, it’s sweet, and it’s absolutely no work whatsoever. It’s not love, but it is infatuation!

But like with all things, when one area of your life is going really well, another part will turn supremely crappy. Unfortunately, both these parts are contained within the same specific area. Because he lives… in another State. and while he likes to say that the distance is the clincher, I’m more of the mind that the distance is the reason it’s even possible in the first place. Because the fact that we can’t meet anytime soon also means that we have nothing to lose. Which means we can be completely honest. Which means we can fall for each other much faster and more readily than we would in real life. And also, none of our flaws are very apparent. Because, you know, there is so much distance.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m completely happy that I met him, even though we would in all likelihood never work out. But doesn’t it just suck that the one person who can make me this happy by a) joking around with me non-stop, b) keeping up with and sometimes even outsmarting my sarcastic/combative side, and c) saying sweet things for no particular reason, has to be so fucking far away?! It’s completely unfair. And yet, it’s perfect. Because it really isn’t real.

Comedic Relief

Sometimes, when life gets you down, there’s only one thing to do… laugh it off.

I’m not going to say that laughter is the best medicine, because apparently someone else has already said that, but I will say that comedy is the one thing I can count on to restore my faith in love, life, and humanity… you know, for a good hour or so.

Because the truth is, nothing seems quite so bad if you can get yourself to laugh at it.

Speaking of which, have you all met my new boyfriend?

We’ve never met, of course… but when you are in love, I think you will find that you have to deal with all sorts of little obstacles, and it’s best to try not to let them overwhelm you.

And now, for a quick rendition of that old classic, Slutty Sundays:

Pick a comedian to be your secret lover, and give a (semi) detailed account of your perfect date together.

For example: On my secretly loving date with Jemaine, we will walk down the streets of Paris, serenading innocent passersby with a choice selection of show-tunes, which we will sing at full volume and without apologies. Later, we will go skinny-dipping in the Seine and be caught by an American paparazzo, who just happened to be walking by at the time. After being bailed out of prison (by none other than Rhys Darby, of course), we will retire to a perfectly charming Parisian hotel (or , you know, The Ritz) and eat chocolate-covered strawberries while Jemaine sings “Business Time” whilst playing the guitar… and of course I will be so impressed by his ability to both eat and sing and play the guiture that one thing will lead to another… and well… you know…

(We’ll get slutty.)

Your turn!!!

Trapped

Recently I have been finding it rather difficult to update this blog on a daily basis. I have posts in mind –  things I want to say, things I probably will say but know I shouldn’t, etc. – but I just can’t seem to find the motivation to write when I am actually at a computer! It’s beyond frustrating, especially as I seem to be suffering a decline in readership at the moment…

BUT, I will continue on… because I have to, godamnit! And because, really, why give up now?

So… today I am not feeling all that great (physically)… The shaky/freezing aspect of last night is gone, THANK GOD, but now I have a cough and I sound like a frog. Well, okay, I don’t really sound like a frog… I still have a human voice, but it is just a little froggier sounding than usual!

Because of this momentary impediment in my physical wellness, I slept in REALLY, REALLY late this morning. Okay… it was noon, the morning had gone. I was punished for my lethargy with a splitting headache, but it has since been defeated by an Ibuprofen and coffee chaser. Western drugs, yay! And really, I should not be writing today, because my mood is crap. But I will go on! (Currently, the Spice Girls are playing on my iPod for energy-boosting awesomeness… no joke!)

Aaaanyway,

As it became very clear very quickly that I would not be doing anything productive today, I decided to break out the new NYLON and live vicariously through other people’s creativity. And then, it hit me – the reason why I have been lately feeling so Effing uninspired… I live in a SUBERB! As far as revelations go, this one is not very significant. I have been aware of my address for quite some time, ever since the amnesia wore off and I stopped insisting that people refer to me as Goddess Divine (kidding!)… But I guess the real revelation was in realizing just exactly how much my surroundings have been affecting my state of mind. How can I be inspired in a land where everything stays the same?! Is it any wonder that I feel this strange compulsion to shop/re-invent myself/cultivate ridiculous obsessions every other week?! I think I may be on to something here…

The only question now is – how the hell do I get out of here?

I need to start making more money, that much is clear.

In the past, I thought this meant college, a career, etc. But in going back to school and attempting to figure out what exactly it is that I want to do, I have discovered something – I hate school. Really, truly, physically hate it. I used to think it was my pathetic lack of social skills that made me so miserable in high school, but I was wrong… it was the being forced to sit through six painfully uninteresting classes a day that was the true source of my unhappiness! Of course, the having so few real friends part didn’t help either…

Currently, the plan is to get a Cosmetology license. I already cut and die my own hair, obsess over other people’s (celebrities) appearances, and see potential makeovers everywhere I go… so this should simply be a natural extension of that which I already am… right? I figure that if all goes well, I will be able to move out of my parents house (and into an apartment with oddball roommates… yes!) manage my own affairs (as in, shop, see movies, go to shows, etc.) and maybe, if I’m really good about saving (I’m not), I’ll be able to do some actual travelling - which I NEED… seriously, my soul is dying without it.

I also need to develop more of a personal life… for your sake as much as my own! I realize it is no coincidence that my view count peaks every time I write about one of those silly little crushes of mine… and I sincerely apologize for the utter lack of development in that area.

(Okay, I realize that it is really not necessary to apologize to all of you for simply failing to develop my own personal life… that I am probably, in fact, only transferring my own regrets onto you! But really, I think I would get annoyed if I were reading a story and all the author ever did was introduce love interrests who dissapeared a few pages later. I really will have to do something about that!)

So, right….

More money and a personal life

This should be do-able, right?

RIGHT?!

Nothing Happened

For background on this post (or, in order to understand what the hell I am talking about), go here.

I told my mom.

I had planned on telling her the day after the nothing/something had happened, but I felt too sick, too… scared. I had no idea how she would react. At best, I reasoned, she wouldn’t care. At worst, she would disown me. I understood, from a rational perspective, that my mom did love me, that our relationship was solid, etc., but I was still worried, I didn’t want to freak her out. She’s pretty Christian, after all… and Christians are pretty notorious for going around flinging the ‘S’ word (sin) at anyone and everyone in a same-sex relationship. Not that I was in one… but still.

I had, however, gotten up the nerve to talk to her about sex… or more precisely, to tell her that I might not be waiting until marriage to have it. That was step enough. It had taken all the boldness I could muster just to tell her what I meant (rather than continue on with my vague dithering about “things she might not approve of,” etc.) Surprisingly, she did not tell me that sex was absolutely forboden… that I would be cast out of the family immediately upon having it, nor did she ever use the ‘S’ word… not even once.

The talk was a big step, and only after we’d finished talking did I realize how big a deal it really was. I had been seriously slacking! Here I was, the oldest out of three, thinking that any subversive behavior would be grounds for dis-ownership… or at least a week-long lecture! How were my younger siblings ever going to be able to talk about these things if I couldn’t?

After the talk, I put the events (or non-events) of that haunting night out of my mind. I couldn’t think about it anymore… at least, not all the time. Instead, I plunged myself back into the warm, welcoming depths of my infatuation with The Blog Crush. I took comfort in its familiarity - tracing our mutual desire over pages of teasing, affectionate notes – and marvelled at its rapid, irrational growth. Sex in words, without the convolution of real life. Soon I was trading in my dreary darks for bright, flirtatious outfits. The self-repression was melting away, and I began to feel myself freed, and happy.

But as with any obsession, I quickly consumed too much. Now it was not just those same haunting memories that made me feel nausious and uncertain… but the over-indulgence of a dependency I myself had created out of my own desperate desire to be wanted.

The feelings I had seemingly developed for my friend did not make me happy. Even after removing all the questions, all the anxieties – instead of feeling myself fallen for her, it was as if she had awakened some deep, primordial need within me. But I would still have to tell her. I liked Evie, and I wanted our friendship to last… keeping secrets was not the way to do this. And even though I now knew that what I wanted was to be her friend and not her lover, I had to face the facts. I was attracted to her, and with all the time me and Evie were used to spending alone together, something could still happen… I could even change my mind… eventually.

Knowing this, I had to tell my mom. If something did end up happening, if I did change my mind, I wanted her to have fair warning.

So I told her.

She was surprised, a little confused, but over all… supportive. I had thought it would be difficult to say to her, but for some reason or another, I had felt so relaxed and self-assured before-hand that I really didn’t experience any of the fear I thought I would.  It was almost as if I had said, “You know mom, I’m thinking about going to medical school…” and she had said, “Really? I would never have guessed that about you.”

(Which, incidentally, is what she said about my crush. But not in a disapproving way, thank God!)

Something’s Happened

Or, nothing’s happened… depending on how you look at it.

In case you hadn’t noticed, not a lot happens here in The Land of the Weirdo (i.e. me); unless, of course, you count all of the things that happen in The Mind of the Weirdo (also me).

Seriously, if you were made to live a day in my head, I can pretty much guarantee your desperate attempt to escape within the hour. Except on some days. Some days are brilliant and holy, and full of Stevie Wonder, The Blog Crush, and hilarious music videos. Some days it is all that is lovely and warm and perfect. Some days it is all happiness. Today, however, was not one of those days.

Let me give you a little introduction…

Me and my friend Evie have known each other for about 6 months… not exactly life-long friends, but we’ve gotten close. We enjoy spending time together and she’s one of the few people in life who I’ve instantly “clicked” with. We’ve had our ups-and-downs (there was one month where she thought I was perpetually mad at her for no apparent reason) and we’ve made it out the other side to what has become an even, balanced friendship.

Well a couple months back, Evie decided to ask me if I thought of her as more than a friend. She had been getting what she percieved to be mixed-messages, and was having trouble “figuring me out.” In one of those pivitol-moments-that-would-be-a-lot-more-pivitol-if-it-weren’t-for-the-invention-of-texts, the truth came out: I didn’t have feelings for her… but she had feelings for me. We decided to stay friends anyway. I hoped it wouldn’t be weird at all, and she assured me that it was no-big-thing, that far more embarrassing things had happened.

And she was right.

I’ll admit that I did feel a little awkward the first time we hung out post-confrontation… I mean, if I had sent her mixed-signals before, who’s to say I wouldn’t end up sending them again? I didn’t want to confuse her, so I became even more  aloof than usual.

Fast-forward to the age of now, and our friendship is once again on equal footing, thank God. When you find someone who you can laugh with at just about anything, and who just inherently gets you, it’s not exactly pleasant to think that you may have lost them. Sure, I have my own varrying personalities (you know, the ones in my head) to talk to, but this is different. And sometimes, better.

Anyway, as I had Tuesay off from work this week (as I always have Tuesdays off, possibly because they think I am in school), me and Evie and Suzy-Q all decided to spend the day together. We went to lunch, we drank a little, we talked about sex a lot (okay, mostly they talked, I listened. Hello- virgin!) and we went shopping. It was EXHAUSTING. Too much alcohol, too much sun, too much estrogen. Just… too much. Once the little outing was over (and not a moment too soon… though I do lurve them both) we headed back to Evie’s house to make applesauce-cake (yes, that’s a real thing) and watch a movie (Frida). SQ, as fate would have it, had already made plans to go out to dinner with some other friends (huh?), so she had to leave before the cake was even made. No biggie though, Evie and I have always been great at the one-on-one thing (something about both being just that little bit “off center.”)

So me and Evie made the cake, watched the movie (which was hot – seriously), and were just about to get into the car so she could take me home…. only, it had gotten late. Being pretty sleepy already, Evie didn’t exactly want to get into a car, especially as the ride home from my place would leave her alone and bleary-eyed, which equals danger, and possibly death. In the end I decided to spare her life. We would sleep at her place and get up early enough for me to get home, get showered, and get to class. Perfect.

Now I would like to preface this next bit by saying that I have slept in the same bed as Evie before. I slept fine, although I do generally have trouble falling asleep in surroundings that aren’t very familiar to me. This was the first night in a new room (she had just moved back with her Grandma) so I should have anticipated some trouble in that department.

What I didn’t anticipate, however, was the other reason for not being able to sleep.

To be honest, I had noticed a bit of a change of behavior during the day. Only this time, it was my behavior I was taking note of. Sometimes, when I am attracted to someone, this thing will just click in my brain that says “BE SEXY.” Without much warning, my posture changes, I become very aware of my curves (aren’t I always?), and what’s worse is, I become distinctly and utterly aware of everything I am doing. I become… self-conscious. So I suppose it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me that I would still be this way… in her bed.

We talked for a while about important things, things that you only talk about at night… or at least, things that seem to bear more significance when accompanied by darkness and relative silence. And then, we were just lying there… silent, tempting sleep. I listened to the sound of her breathing, to the little snores that proved she was asleep, and that made me smile in spite of myself. Apparently she wasn’t sleeping very well though, because she kept waking up and moving to a slightly different place on the mattress…. I would shift my position, she would change hers…. sooner or later, we were facing each other; separate, but close.

The sexual tension was keeping me up. I could not fall asleep.

At one point, while she was awake, she moved her leg ever-so-slightly and our feet connected at the toes. And it was… insane. I could feel an electric current pulsing through my leg, starting at the place where her foot touched mine. It was impossible not to be aware of. I was experiencing a full-blown, chemical reaction in MY TOES for Christ’s Sake! It was almost too intense. I wanted to move away, to pull my body away from hers, to the far edge of the bed, to safety. But then, if I moved, I wouldn’t be there anymore. And I wanted to be there.

***

(If you were geared up for a full-on lesbian-encounter story, I’m sorry, but it’s not going to happen. Seriously, you can get your hand out of your pants now! All we did was sleep… when we could.)

For those of you who may be confused, I am not a “lesbian”… I still like boys, very, very much. But I’m also attracted to girls. And I hate the word “bi.” And if that only serves to confuse you even more – go here immediately, it’ll make everything clearer, I swear.

No really, click the link, I don’t have all day.

The Big Blog Crush*

(*Damnit, does this mean I have to start referring to him as the BBC?)

There has recently been a rather shocking development in the land of The Weirdo (i.e. me)… one with so much inexplicable importance that it simply MUST be documented. This phenomenon, as it is now like to be called, is nothing other than a very big BLOG-CRUSH. That’s right, you heard it here first… blog-crush mania is sweeping the nation (as well as all the other nations, I assume) and I have been unable to escape its steely grasp! Finally succumbing to the inevitable lure of a love that dare not speak its name (no, not that love, the other one… no, not that one either… Ah, forget it!) I have found myself imprisoned in the chaotic mess of my own head…. again.

But wait a minute, didn’t you just have a fake relationship?! Like a second ago? Didn’t it end badly?! Yes, yes I did… and it did. Basically yes to all three. But wait! This is different! And here’s why:

1. I do not know the BBC in real life (Ack, terrible! Sorry, British Broadcasting Corp!) This means that,

a) I cannot make a total fool of myself by making inappropriate advances in inappropriate places (not that I ever did that, I swear)… I can however make inappropriate advances on Twitter… which I do, like, all the time. (No valley-girl jokes, please!)

and

b) There was never any real need to decide whether or not I should tell him… So, I “told him” right away. I mean really, what’s going to happen? Worst case scenario – he’s totally creeped-out and I simply stop Twittering. (Did that make anyone else think of the word “twitterpated”? No? No one has seen “Bambi”? Okay…)

2. The fact that all the flirting will lead to nothing is already well-established, because… well… he lives really far away! Also, the flirting has been relatively tame. Which means that,

a) We don’t have any fake children… yet. (Fake children are disastrous for many reasons… but mainly I’m just glad not to have to carry around that fake diaper-bag anymore. God, that thing was monstrous!)

and

b) I feel absolutely no need to decipher between flirtatious texts (i.e. “Does this mean the usual makeup sex?”, etc.) and the probability that he actually wants to go in the back room and make out. Wonderful.

I know what you’re thinking,

Right, having a blog-crush is fine. But you’re clearly insane. Do you realize there are other live humans right outside who you could actually… I don’t know… have a conversation with?!

And yes, I do realize that…
I realize that I am cultivating an attraction which can only go to waste;

I realize that if, in reality, we ever did meet, the chances of us both being attracted to eachother are very slim (because really, human chemistry is so un-predicatble);

And I realize that yes, I am incredibly lazy and should probably attempt to meet more people who are more easily accessible… ones that say, live within the same state, or hey, even the same city!

I realize all these things, and yet, I can’t help but like someone I barely even know, someone I’ve never actually met.

So what is my problem? Am I just so fed up with being rejected that even thinking about getting to know someone else is exhausting? I don’t really think so…

But maybe, just like so many other girls with their romance-novels, or sappy movies, or… umm, Twilight anything… I simply wanted to experience something fictional for a while. To believe I was falling for someone who could be (nearly) perfect, if only for the reason that he did not exist in my real life. Maybe it is easier to fall in love with someone when you don’t have all the facts… when you don’t have to deal with/adore all their little idiosyncricies… when you don’t have to learn to communicate with them in a way you can both understand… when they can’t see you, and all your finer flaws. Maybe, just maybe, fake love is a viable way to exercise real passion… a passion that I quite honestly have no other outlet for.

But then, wouldn’t it be nice to be able to kiss someone I could actually feel?

What Dreams May Come (and bug the hell out of me)

Part One: Sex and the City makes me want to shop!!!

For the most part, I’m pretty well satisfied with my life… I live at home, but I love my family (and we actually get along, gah!); I work in retail, but I like my co-workers (one in particular I like a little too much, but we’ll get into that later); and I have friends whom I adore (though some of them unfortunately live very far away!)

For me, it’s all the little things that really count, like the fact that I can be made inordinately happy with the mere mention of musicals – live or filmed, have a very good time being obsessed with certain books (Harry Potter and Twilight series’, anything Jane Austen or Oscar Wilde, etc.), and love nothing better than a good night in playing SingStar or watching the beloved TV. But sometimes, I come across something that makes me feel as though I need to drop everything and become a world-wide success (and subsequently become filthy-stinking-rich) IMMEDIATELY! One of these things is Sex and the City. I love this show for many reasons… unfortunately one of these reasons also makes me feel severely inadequate, and that reason is THE CLOTHES. I know, I know, it’s just material, they’re just possessions (I barely even believe that at this point), but that doesn’t change the fact that one episode later and I am more than convinced that if I could only dress (and maybe even look like) Carrie Bradshaw, my life would be A MILLION times better!!

Honestly, I had the computer on my lap while watching, and before the show was even over I had this very strong impulse to go to UrbanOutfitters.com and completely re-invent myself. (For me, UO is like the version of SATC that I can actually, sort of, afford. I know it’s not the same, don’t be confused.)

The good news is that I PREVAILED! I resisted the online-shopping urge and am no more in dept today than I was yesterday (or the day before, when I bought two Cd’s I really didn’t need.)

(Part two to come. Although I should mention that the only things Part One and Part Two will really have in common are the titles and the dates published. Bare with me, it’s fun.)

Oh, Doom!

Tomorrow night is New Year’s Eve and I am SO excited… that it’s not Tomorrow night yet!

Working in Touristville, CA may have it’s perks (Hot co-worker anyone?), but mostly it just has many, many un-perks (i.e. hellish events.) One such event takes place tomorrow night, because if Touristville is anything, it is a place for people of questionable taste to get together and stumble around drunk, yelling at anyone and everyone. (Also a place for surprised families to wander around dodging said drunks, but we won’t get into that.)

Every Year, our shop takes part in this horrible event by pitching a tent (like the ones at the State Fair), and selling the most tacky New Year’s Eve trinketry imagineable. People come, try to haggle, fail, yell, etc. It’s quite a show.

Luckily for me, I do not have to work in the tent (which will be outside and freezing); but The Co-worker will be there, which makes me nervous – mostly because this means spending most of the night fighting off the urge to a) jump him, b) bring him a cup of something hot every other minute, c) be the warmth he craves. (Have I mentioned we’re not even dating?) Most of these urges are pretty much unnavoidable since clearly I am attracted to him, but be that as it may, I would much rather have him indoors with me where I can keep an eye on him (I fear for his pretty face around all those drunken loons, possibly armed with legal explosives) and effectively decrease my worries to points a) and c).

Even greater than the fear of possible (unwarrented) separation-anxiety, however, is the fear of actually being sent to The Tent! I am, among other things, terrible at math – and being in the tent means, you guessed it, no cash register! Which means no handy little built-in calculator to magically tell you how much money to give back to the customer so they do not a) yell in your face, b) look really confused, or c) laugh horrendously (we must remember that these people are drunk, after all.) The Tent will not do me any favors, and I hope to God I am not asked to choose between my job and my dignity tomorrow night, because it’s going to be a close call!

Anyway, wish me luck! I promise to do my part by supplying you with as many hellish details as you can handle. Here’s hoping your New Year’s isn’t as lame as mine!