Welp.

I was scheduled to go out with the Deja Vu for a second date but, as per usual, I ended up canceling. I had liked him well enough when we went out, but I'm not looking to jump into anything, and it seemed he was pretty intent on Girlfriending me.

So I did the mature thing - panicked and disappeared.

Getting back out there? Yes. Rushing into another relationship? God no.

The irony that I get easily overwhelmed with that much attention from men, considering how desperate and needy I was for attention from my boyfriend, is not lost on me. I'd like to say you live and learn but that's a pretty solid pattern for me. Impossible to please? Apparently.

Though I prefer "cat-like" and "vaguely demanding."

I put the guys I was talking with on a brief back-burner hiatus while trying to work things out with Future Husband for approximately the 5670th time, because I am, apparently, 30-going-on-14 and I'm living through my Sweet Valley High phase.

Amazingly, despite his pattern of doing exactly the same fucking damn thing every time we got back together, he did the SAME FUCKING DAMN THING and you are just as shocked as me, my friend. 

So, finally, despite all of the binders I doodled Mrs. Future Husband on (that's time I'll never get back) I cut that shit out. 

Boom. MeMe is back on the market, for real this time. 

It's a tricky game I'm about to play. I was pretty sure that Future Husband was, legitimately, my Future Husband and the one I had been hunting for while sorting through and discarding all these other poor saps who actually care about me. I may love dating, but when it comes down to it, I'm not a relationship person, and it takes a lot to lock me down. 

Now I'm working through the realization that FH got the final boot, I'm back to square one, and I should just embrace the fact that down the road I'm probably going to end up remodeling an old farmhouse with my "good friend" Patricia and our seven cats. 

I met up with one of my Tinder fellas last weekend in my first group-setting date event. It was a bit awk. I'm not entirely sure why some people (cough cough, Karen) think it's ideal to get to know someone they've never met and are weighing potential romantic interest in while surrounded by their friends who they'd kind of prefer to be talking to, and his friend, who has a yellow raincoat for some reason and is sitting in total polite silence.

I was up front with this dude from the get-go about being out of something recently, and not looking to jump back into dating. He was nice, he was good conversation, but as usual, it just wasn't there for me, and while he said I was "fucking awesome" (he has good taste in women, too) and he would like to get together for a real date, I think he picked up on my vibe and let me flee with my friendsies.

I'll take it easy and wade into the dating pool again, most of the fish which, let's be real, I've already released back into the waters. I don't want to risk moving into something too quickly and hurting a nice dood, or sending myself into a panic by getting stuck in a dating wormhole spiral.

I've got plenty on my plate right now to keep me busy, my life is slowly (FINALLY) coming together, and Patricia and I have plans to go to the spring flea market, so really, I'm in no hurry.

Deja Vu

New experience alert!

What is comes down to is, MeMe worried that if she sits around and feels sad too long, she's going to close up entirely. Let's review my history, where I tend to go literal YEARS in between relationships and sexual encounters (I already regret using that term and I apologize), and then every time I try to get into something new, it's like starting from scratch.

It was hard for me to work on getting my walls down and get out of Single Mode, and I feel like I made progress. I want to keep that momentum going as best I can, rather than retreat inward like I tend to do when hurt. I'm one heartache away from turning into Clint Eastwood in every movie he has made since turning 106.

Okay, done. Dealing with that on the side. Point being, I made the decision (I will potentially rapidly regret) to bounce back out there and see what happens.

Locked in a couple dates for the weekend. Can't say I hated the attention and compliments, how I do. Mama needs a little ego-boost and validation.

One of the guys I matched with I instantly recognized as someone I had spoken with before. Ah, the dangers of online dating in a small town.

He remembered me too, but thought it had been a few years since we had chatted. We skipped a few steps, seeing how we have this long history, and went right on to texting, and met for a beer.

So, according to this guy, we talked back in 2013. But not only talked, we texted. And emailed. This, it seemed to me, was a relatively serious level of online relationship chatting. It was strange we hadn't met.

I was watching him tell me this, and thinking that he did seem pretty familiar. How much of that was looking at his pics, and how much of that was....

Okay. Okay. Okay. Had I gone out with this guy before?

I ran through the extensive catalog in my head of men I had gone out with, refusing to pause and take any time to acknowledge just how extensive this catalog was becoming...

I couldn't see him in there. But then again, I drink a lot. My memory isn't great.

Uhhhhh I wanna say Steve? Oh, Claire? Sorry, girl. My bad. 

Hold the phone: was I on a second first date? Jesus Christ. Was this what my life was coming to?

Have I officially made the rounds and started over?

If you need me, I'll be crying on my porch swing and yelling at kids to get off my lawn.

Grey Gardens

I'm definitely feeling the dating itch again lately (not the free clinic kind of itch - the other kind).

I tried to act on this the other night, when I went out with friends and got it into my head that I was going to flirt fabulously with every cute man in the city, be fawned over adoringly by all around, and end successfully with an earnest marriage proposal which I would laughingly turn down but also never forget. Perhaps my image would later be carved into a giant block of ice in the town square. The usual.

It was brave of me, I will give myself that, but I always forget that being a forward as a female in this small city makes the natives start to sharpen their pitchforks and light their torches. Instead of reminding myself, oh yeah, this place is super backward, I simply drank more and became increasingly desperate to make them love me.

Men were literally backing away wordlessly from my approach. It's like when a strange dog runs up to you on the street, or your great-grandma tries to kiss you on the mouth.

"Hi, what's your name? Where are you going?"

Every time I got shot down I just went after the next one harder, mouth smiling but eye twitching like I was trying to drown out the Voices.

I am pretty sure by the end of the night I was giving off a strong "serial killer trying to lure people into her van" kind of vibe.

Not far off from the truth...

Luckily, I had enough drinks in my body at the time that this all seemed hilarious and not devastating.  Bless you, alcohol, for all the marvelous things that you do.

Last weekend I finally wrangled some time off to go see my friends across the state. We started out grabbing cocktails downtown, near a certain campus. We drank, we had a nice dinner, we grabbed some more cocktails at a place we had never been, and staked out the dance floor, feeling ready to move.

Cropped up at the edge, watching the young and outrageously tall slim college girls dancing in various ways that made me embarrassed for them (but seemed to be working to secure men-folk in their vicinity), I began to realize that my days in the sexual sun were waning.

Now, I ain't mad about it. I've always known this day would come. I think I've enjoyed my peak more than anyone has any right to, considering I never expected to get one at all - let alone such a long and enjoyable one. I'm ready to step aside and let these crop-topped Yetis have their moment of glory.

I was more than happy to dance on the sidelines like a Fun Aunt, holding my cocktail and periodically yelling stuff like, "I DON'T KNOW THIS SONG AT ALL! DO YOU KNOW THIS SONG?" and "THE MUSIC IS SO LOUD I CAN'T EVEN HEAR MYSELF THINK!" or "I WISH I HAD JUST WORN FLATS, MY HEELS ARE PINCHING!"

So anyway. The next night we went to a different city, one not directly in a college town, where the vibe was a weird but perfect mix of yuppie young adults on first dates trying to prove that they can be fun, and enormous groups of black girls actually having fun. We found a small club hidden behind a curtain, where the girls were riding a mechanical bull and screeching in delight, and the yuppies were bobbing stiffly along to music that I actually recognized.

Better yet, there were Go-Go dancers and poles. Anyone who knows me knows that, while I am one of the most enthusiastically shitty dancers out there, I have some internal magnet that guides me to every available pole. The Internet is full of untagged pictures of me trying my damnedest to look like I know what I'm doing.

If I just... grab right here... and maybe... turn ninety degrees to the left...

I don't. 

Anyway. What I'm trying to get at here was that, after some trial and error, we almost-thirties found a place where we fit in and could still have fun ignoring our approaching middle age with like-minded individuals. 

And none of the men seemed scared of me (until they saw me on the pole. That effectively killed my chances of getting laid). 

So, while I do have a hankering to go out on a few dates, part of me says I should just wait until I make the big move, whenever that will be, and head to the magical land where the men text back, have the perfect amount of scruff, and don't flee at my approach. 

But then again... what fun would that be?

I'm Back, Bitches

Miss me?

I missed you. 

Do you even know how many adventures I've had this past almost-year that I wanted to share with you and couldn't? No, you don't. Like, I dated a guy who lived in his car. IN HIS CAR. And I didn't get to tell you all about it. I almost wonder what the point was.

I certainly had my reasons for retiring Kissing Frogs, but now I have equal reasons for bringing it back.

1) I want to. It's fun.

2) Apparently, if I do not document my dating experiences, my likelihood of staying at home in pajamas drinking alone from 11am-midnight increases substantially.

3) My ability to interact with the opposite sex has suffered. I underestimated how much less weird dating on the reg makes me. Apparently I waver violently between Ice Queen and Outrageously Aggressive if I am not kept in the social game. 

4) Friends are beginning to express concern regarding the caliber of men I pursue. Apparently once someone tells you they live in their car and you just shrug and go out with them again, you're setting the bar a wee bit low.

So, here we are again. 

I'm not saying things won't be a little different. I feel like I'm here to take things a bit more seriously, and thus, the dating prospects will be screened with true vigor. I may not post as often, because I'm going to be more selective about who I go out with. Hell, I may even wait until the relationship falls apart after the standard week and a half or so before posting. 

Maybe.

I have other reasons for resurrecting the Awkward Girl. In theory, I will be moving across the state this spring, and in typical overly eager fashion, I've already updated my dating profile to reflect this change. 

Yes, those poor fools think MeMe is in their neck of the woods, lurking prettily around some corner, haunting their dreams with hints of subtle perfume (it's just my natural stank, I quit using deodorant). If they bothered to read my INTRODUCTORY PARAGRAPH they would realize that the situation is unfolding, and no, we can't meet at four for coffee because I literally live hours away. I just want to see what's out there. 

Ah, what's out there. Same shit different day, as they say. 

But this shit is just way more attractive. Seriously. All of my speculation about dating in a bigger city is proving to be correct - the bottom of the barrel is still vomit-inducing, but the mid-range, compared to what I'm used to, is top notch. Don't even get me going on the ones that really catch the eye. I feel like I'm sending fan mail to movie stars.  

He's like a solid 8 where I live. And his friend on the left ain't so bad either.

They're largely still idiots, but I guess that comes of trolling for singles on a free dating site. Crazy bitches and idiots hoping to find that spark.

So stay tuned.

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

I started this blog approximately two years ago for several purposes, which, at the time, included getting past my first experience with heartache.

Key, however, was using this Dating Experiment as a way to accelerate all of those dating experiences I missed during pivotal developmental years (mostly because I wasn't doing the correct physical developing and no one wanted to date me during said years).

If your biggest relationships developed from friendships, it's painfully hard to get to know someone from scratch - especially for introverted, highly walled Awkward Girls like myself. Worse, it's hard to let someone get to know you. This seemed a fun and clever way to broadcast the horrifying but relatable task of learning how to do this. I can look it over, I can laugh, and best, I can share it with you guys.

I've rambled and gone off-topic and completely lost sight of what this blog had originally intended to be, but I've absolutely loved writing it, and I've loved you. I can't believe how many of you, those I know and those I don't, show an active interest in my tragic love life. Whenever I get a message thanking me for writing because it's helping you through your own bumbling attempts to fish through the weirdos, I can't even believe how happy and how lucky I am that I'm making some small positive impact on you.

It blows my damn mind, y'all.

And it's helped me too, of course. It's made me more confident in my writing and my relationships, and in myself, and I've felt your support and encouragement. That's priceless.

Lately, however, life threw a little wrench in my biznatch. I met someone, organically, that I actually liked. The total package, as they say. A game changer.

And all of my two years of self-training went out the window. I reverted back to the most Awkward of girls. I lost all my self confidence and assurance, and frankly, a lot of weight, out of sheer anxiety. I quit being the chill, funny, comfortable person I know that I am, and I became really fucking weird.

Not surprisingly, it was off-putting, and I messed it up.

Why?

I can't say entirely. So much success in life comes from who's in your corner, and I found out a lot about who is, or isn't, rooting for me. Frankly, I discovered a shocking lack of faith in my close circle that might have really just hammered that final nail in.

But I can only blame others so much.

I am myself  - and I am awesome, and smart, and truly kind. I love who I am. I love that I cry about everything, and that I pick up any animal I find on the side of the road. I love that sometimes I'm clever and sassy and sometimes I'm goofy and a total dope and can't get the right word out. I love that I'm a terrible dancer and that I'm embarrassingly bad at math. I love that I'm a fierce protector of those I care for, and that I'm learning, gradually, that it's okay to be vulnerable. I make stupid faces and I laugh like I smoke a pack a day, sometimes with a snort. I'm moody and forgetful and jealous, and honest and generous and sympathetic, and I really like to sit by the lamp and trim my split ends one by one, so sue me. I have clawed my way through a rocky life and I have come out on top, and I respect the hell out of myself for doing so. I've been hurt by a lot of people, but who hasn't?

We're all fighting battles, but the worst thing we can do is fight ourselves. I know that now.

So it's not all bad. I know now that elusive feeling I've been searching for exists, and that I really can be stupid creepy insane about someone. This might not have been exactly what I wanted, but it was the closest I've come, and it's given me a shining beacon of optimism that things can really work out the way I've always dreamed. I honestly didn't know I was capable of feeling this way and knowing I can is amazing. For all of those that think I'm cold, prudish, and incapable of emotion, I bite my thumb at you. You made me think it too, but now I know you are wrong. And I was wrong. I was settling for the level of happiness I thought I deserved, and now I realize I deserve so much more.

What I'm saying, my loves, you marvelous people who have been in my corner, is that I learned a lot about myself in a short period of time, and I learned that this is not the way to do things. I must embrace that I, too, deserve great things, and stop dragging my feet on my journey.

Therefore, I am calling a wrap to The Awkward Girl's Guide to Dating. How can I guide you lovely people when everything I thought I was learning turned out to be crap? I can keep kissing frogs all I want, but that's just distraction. It's time to rise up.

Go forth, be strong, and be yourselves. It's hard as fuck but you deserve it.

The Double Date

And boom goes the dynamite… Another round of dating completed.

When we last saw MeMe, it was Valentine's Day and she had recently broken up with Future Husband #2. She was not eager to return to the dating scene, but recognizing that if she did not, it was unlikely she would ever again. Sweatpants and cat sweaters would be the inevitable conclusion if she failed to socialize with the male species and instead locked herself away in a high basement and never spoke to anyone ever again because she doan wanna just slip a sandwich under the door and be on your way.

In an effort to stave off vaginal cobwebs, I returned to my OKC account, uploaded a few stunnah pics, removed my firm suggestion that if you aren't looking for friendship you should go blow yourself, and hopped back on the market. 

Success on dating sites seems to come in waves. Waves that are few and far between. Generally when I've just completed a terrible date and my mindset has returned to "Screw men! I love my life and I hate everyone else" I will get a flux of attractive men who can more or less communicate, and my commitment to Hatred wavers.

No, no… no… HOLD THE PHONE HE'S FROM BRAZIL?

However on the opposite but more usual end of the spectrum, whenever I start looking for someone who I might actually be interested in going out with, OKC throws the worst of the worst at me. Blowjob requests, spelling that seriously shames the American school districts, an entire inability to make any sense whatsoever, or just downright (sorry boys) hideous.

The ugly ones of course tend to be the only ones capable of formulating a comprehensible sentence. That is the cruelty of the Universe.

Once in a while I'll stumble upon someone not only delicious, but with an excellent profile, and realize that OKC fucked up my settings again and is pulling me desirables from many states away. You know where the gorgeous men are? California and New York, go figure. Road trip? Um, for sight seeing.

So I've been responding very little to the messages on my account.

One guy, Designer, messaged me with a very nice introduction. He was not my usual type looks-wise, but not a bad-looking guy. However, I thought, upon first perusal, that he might make a better fit for my friend, also on the dating site. I sent her along his profile and asked if she'd be interested, and was told nope and to go for it.

So I messaged Designer back, and he was very eager to communicate with me. Long paragraphs I just have not had the time to respond to, what with being very busy lately and also all the Netflix I've been watching. I didn't have the energy to respond with the same enthusiasm, so in an effort to stave off conversation I sent him my number and we agreed to go out the next week.

The conversation continued, however, via text. Long long texts that really were distracting me from watching the same season of "Community" eight times. I responded succinctly. "Like a man" might have been noted by someone exploring our back-and-forth… typical. This is certainly not the first time I've been "the man" in the dating world.

As our drinks date rolled around, I was just not feeling it. Going out and talking to people I don't know? Being in public? Shaving my legs (just kidding - like I'd shave my legs in winter)? It all seemed like a lot of work when I could stay inside and be fabulous by eating until I fall asleep in front of TBS.

You can't handle it.

Luckily, aforementioned friend was going on a second date, and invited me and Designer to join. After some internal debate about whether that would be a better or worse environment (talking to THREE people is much harder than just one), I agreed. Designer agreed, and all was well. I bought myself bright red lipstick as incentive to go out, and we made the drive to a neighboring city that is way cooler than this shithole to meet ze boys.

Designer was, I am happy to say, a much more pleasant date than I had expected. He was polite and charming, and his questions translated much better in person than they did in text. He's intelligent, funny, and overall quite the gentleman. Still not my "type" (hipster pirate), but not bad looking by any means.

Unfortunately for my friend, her date was a dud. I can't invoke any particular comments, because I didn't have any desire to listen to him speak. Once he became fixated on the fact that I was the oldest one in the group, he lost any sympathy I might have had for him. Difficult to ditch, and too dense to take a hint, he clung to the group, who was otherwise having a nice time enjoying good food and some martinis at a great place Designer guided us to.

Finally it was time to head home, and I gave Designer an awkward car-hug as I drove him to his vehicle, with my now drunk friend giggling hilariously in the front seat, as instead of forcing conversation with her dud she had chosen to spend a nice evening getting closer to whiskey.

Driving home began the conversation - Giggles (sorry, love, that's now your blog name) groaned and laughed about the horrible awkwardness that had been her rude and socially inept date, while we discussed how well Designer had done.

The problem: No true spark, as usual. An enjoyable night most certainly, but I didn't exactly want to rip his clothes off. Giggles, on the other hand, was more enthusiastic. I'm going to go ahead and pat myself on the back for making that initial suggestion the two of them would be a good fit.

And they would, too. It was in the back of my mind while Designer talked - they would have been adorable together.

Thus it was established that somehow, some way, Designer and Giggles should be set up, while I stepped back and maybe pretended I was gay now or something. I'm not really sure what genius plan could be concocted to force the two together (honesty?), but I'm working on it.

After one text thanking me for a fun night, however, I have yet to hear from Designer.

Perhaps I needn't worry that he was irreversibly stunned by my wit and red lips after all, leaving the gate more than open for Giggles to swoop in. Unless he is simply participating in the antiquated Three Day Rule.

Spoiler, men: If you wait three whole days to contact me, by then I've literally forgotten who you are. I'm not exaggerating. By day three you have ceased to exist. Do not adhere to this stupid rule if you want to actually take the girl out.

So, we shall wait and see, and in the meantime I'll press my fingertips together in my swivel chair and try to mastermind a plot to get these crazy kids together.

And they'll live happily every after MWAHAHAHAHAHA!

Everything's Red, Blood Red…

Happy Valentine's Day!

And I'm not even being facetious! As discussed in last year's Valentine's Day post, I love VD, whether I'm single or happily committed. You can go ahead and quote me on that.

This year, as usual, I fall into the "single as fuck" category on the most romantic day of the year.

Future Husband #2 and I made it about a month before I put the kibosh on that one. Long story short, I've recently upgraded my Jerk Policy to "No Tolerance." At the first sign of jerkiness, I'm cutting my losses. Call me crazy all you want, but I've wasted too much of my time on this crap already.

Jerk me once, shame on you… jerk me twice, shame on me for not listening to my instincts the first time and sticking around despite my better judgement. Again, feel free to quote me on that. I'm full of gems this evening.

One disappointment I am facing on this V Day is the lack of messages in my newly reactivated OKC account. Usually, the entire week of Valentine's Day (or Sweetest Day, whatever that is), I'm bombarded with messages begging me for my love and attention, which I of course refuse to respond to because that sort of desperation is very unattractive. BUT WHERE ARE THEY THIS YEAR? WHY AREN'T THEY TALKING TO ME?

I'm a wee bit torn as how to spend my evening this year. Generally, the options are:

1) Get the other single gals together, doll all the hell up, and go grab some cocktails at the bar while smiling at men and then brutally shooting them down whenever they try to approach us.

2) Get the other single gals together and eat brownie batter out of a communal bowl while chugging wine from the bottle and screaming profanities at some romantic movie where everyone dies in the end.

Unfortunately for me, all you bitches got hooked up this month, and don't have time for either. I'm also way too tired and lazy to doll the fuck up tonight. I've been painting my new place for approximately half of my life and I can barely lift my arms let alone squeeze my winter ass into a red dress and curl my hair.

I can't even stay home and cry into a bowl of brownies this year; I'm off gluten and my new place doesn't have furniture yet. So basically I'd be sitting on the floor in the corner eating a sweet potato in sweatpants and unwashed hair. That just doesn't have the same romantic appeal.

Ideally, I can arrange some combination of the traditional options - maybe grab some cocktails in my sweatpants, and later drunk text an ex or two, or that crush who I tell everyone I'm totally over. I'm pretty tired and cranky today so I could really cross hard into belligerent, and that's an opportunity I don't want to waste.

If a single gal can't get shit-faced and rude on Valentine's Day, than this is not America.

Feb. 15th: National Apologize to Your Liver Day

It doesn't really matter. Tomorrow is the true holiday - when all that chocolate goes half off, and I feast like a friggen goddess.

However you're spending the day, I hope you're enjoying it! <3

Obligatory Follow-Up

Unfortunately (for you guys), I must keep this post short… because my hang-out with Future Husband #2 was so much fun that I'm having dinner with him on Wednesday.

WUT. A second date??? Yes. Many yeses. Trying not to freak or psych myself out.

Which means that, unless things backfire entirely, I have to keep the deets under wraps… I'll have enough weirdness to deal with if this continues to work out, and he finds out his nickname is Future Husband. 'Cuz that doesn't freak guys out, they love that. He'll probably be disappointed I didn't already name our future children (Sydney for a boy OR a girl!!!)

Wish me luck. Right now I feel like a frigging schoolgirl in a classic 80's movie, and as a pessimist, I'm not totally reconciled to this experience.

Who, me? You're fucking kidding, right?

Extra Extra: MeMe's Heart Grows Three Sizes, is Almost Normal-Sized.

It seems a little strange and nostalgic to be back on here after what was essentially a hissy-fit fueled hiatus.

Let's face it. Dating in a small town? It honestly might just be the wise and mature choice to NOT DATE AT ALL SO THERE.

And, honestly, I've enjoyed my single-ness, as I usually do.

I switched all of my dating profiles to "only looking for friendship. FRIEND. SHIP. I'm serious," and then basically ignored anyone who tried to talk to be because who is on those things to really meet friends? Losers without friends, that's who.

I focused on the friends I do have, and myself, and doing the sort of things I normally would consider too totally wild and crazy to bother with, like paying off my credit card and other expenses. And it felt good. I was happy with it.

But was I?

A few too many drinks and some less-than-flattering insecurities last week sent me into what I'd like to consider a significant backslide. I lived up to my nickname of The Make-Out Camel, wherein I go for long periods of time without male companionship, and then break it with a terrific binge of lip-on-lip action.

Three or so hard-ciders in and I was kissing, smooching, macking, and literally chasing down any man (honestly, anyone of any gender who didn't move fast enough to flee my embrace) and forcing myself on them. I became THAT girl again, who was sort of charming and fun when she was 21 and those forced to endure her advances were equally young and excitable, but at… older-than-21… it was not my finest hour.

Just kidding, I'm going to make out with your friend now.

Although it's good to know I've still got it.

So, concerned that my vagina might have in fact sealed up by this point, backing up my hormones to my mouth and perhaps prompting other worrisome bouts of attacking, licking, biting, and terrible dancing (because that's how Science works), and given a little free-time by the fucking snowpocalype us poor Midwesterners have been stuck with, I returned to the newly reformatted OK Cupid, and began trolling for men I could potentially use for a quick attention fix.

Because I'm not at all serious about this, and the world runs on irony, I of course have found the man I can only refer to as Future Husband #2.

WHAT.

ZOMG he loves camping!? I love camping!!

I learned my lesson from Future Husband #1, of course. Let's not be too hasty!

But one must consider how long it has been since I have had a legitimate interest in any of these poor fools, and acknowledge this is sort of exciting. I, much like the Tin Man, know I have a heart because I'm horny. Or something like that.

Where the heck have guys like this been hiding?

So I won't get my hopes up at this point, but I will say that Future Husband #2 looks good in a beard, loves beer, arcades, and dogs… and teaches at-risk children. A-fricking-dorable. He'd almost be sickeningly cute if he wasn't also sarcastic and witty.

Uh, yup! Major bonus: his sense of humor is eerily similar to my own. Which, actually, does make me mildly concerned that if we combined our powers we could literally take over the world.

And by concerned I mean excited and hungry for domination. Sometimes I confuse the feelings.

So, anyway. I will continue to follow this lead, and see where it may go. It may lead nowhere, or we may end up making out awkwardly in the pee-scented plastic jeep of the Jurassic Park video game (a girl can dream)… but sometimes, even for me and my deadened emotions, it's nice to have a little crush on someone.

Peace and Happy New Year.

And the attention span is short, people.

Introspection and Shit.

I've been thinking a lot lately.

I blame the weather - come this time of year, a darkness peppered with rainstorms creeps in over the Midwest like it's heralding some terrible future (it is: snow), and I, along with about 70% of the population, take to my bed at high noon because it's so dark outside it looks like the climax of a horror flick.

Maybe I just read "Julie of the Wolves" too many times as a child but already I am starting to revert back to the ways of our ancestors as a means to survive. I'm striking up alliances with neighborhood animals and finding my place in the local squirrel pack (it's lower than I expected). I'm performing strange mystical rituals by the light of the candle I finally lit by rubbing two sticks together (matchsticks). I'm doubling my caloric intake in preparation for the long winter and also because mozzarella sticks were on sale.

Long story short, it's dark, I'm dark, and I've been thinking a lot.

One of the first things I'm realizing is that I'm a lot stupider than I used to be. More stupid? Dammit. See? I don't even fucking know.

I'm not sure whether to blame this on the fact that I'm now on the downward slide toward thirty and that my brain is deteriorating within my skull more and more with the passing of each day...  or that I've been pumping my body so full of various forms of alcohol for the past ten years and I can light a flame with just my breath (and two matchsticks).

For whatever reason, I'm dumber. I'd worry that this will impact my future career options, unpredictably alter my social interactions, and inevitably steer me down a much simpler and safer path in life than I had envisioned for myself as a quick-witted teen... but my poor brain can't process that much all at once.

Frankly, I need to conserve any remaining strategic abilities for kicking Fluffertail out of the pack. I'm tired of getting the shittiest acorns. That bitch gotsata go.

Secondly, that I care less. Possibly this is because my critical thinking skills are degrading so fast that next year I'll only be capable of sipping a juice box in a rocking chair for the better part of the day, but I just. Don't. Care. I'm getting older and stupider at light speed, and I've wasted a lot of my life putting up with people I shouldn't have, laughing off jokes that hurt my feelings, and having crushes on men that would probably rather date Fluffertail if it came down to a choice.

I'm done with that shit, I really am. Something switched on inside of me (it was probably just hidden beneath all the intelligence, before) that I'm grateful for. People will call me a bitch, people will call me overly sensitive, but I'm going to just call it like I see it now and follow my freaking bliss. I don't need people like that in my life. I'm edging closer to death with every breath, and I need my final days full of people that appreciate that I'm learning to stand up for myself.

Third, I'm noticing that other people are really stupid too.

Yes, I've always known this, because until my brain rotted away I've held myself above these silly, simple fools. I laughed at their little antics, and rested assured in the knowledge that I was better than them.

Well, now I'm down on that level, and since stupidity has given me confidence (aren't most of the stupid people you know strangely confident? That is because they literally don't know any better), I'm ready to tell you folks how stupid you're being in the hopes that we can all band stupidly together and form one and a half or so reasonably intelligent beings. Idiots, we need to unite.

Most especially when it comes to dating.

I do believe I already had a small rant regarding the Friend Zone, so I'll gloss that one over.

Let me just reiterate this: If a girl or guy tells you they just want to be friends, and you stick around hoping they change their mind, you are an idiot. I don't care which movie you think your life is based on, it ain't happening for you, Julia Roberts. Pull your head out of your ass and quit pretending you care about their feelings when you're really just biding your time to bone them.

Guys, being nice doesn't mean you deserve a hot girl. If you're so fucking nice, date a nice ugly girl and quit complaining that the 10 won't date the 3 even though he's like, always there for her. 

Girls, if he's not interested in you, plenty of other men are. You have boobs.

This is not all rocket science. I have seventeen brain cells left, and even I know this.

Uh, do you have an ass? Asses count too.

One of the biggest complaints I hear from my guy friends (or "friends") is that dating is too difficult because they don't want to get rejected. In real life, they lurk in that Friend Zone hoping that one day she'll get drunk, cry on his shoulder because her cat died or something, and see that he's been there for her all along. In the online world of dating, they message one or two girls significantly out of their league, complain when neither Tiffany nor Amber responds, and throw up their hands in defeat.

This all is very stupid. I love you guys, I do, but you're being really stupid.

However a whole new brand of stupid has revealed itself to me as of late. I haven't been dating much lately, probably because I've been so busy trading pelts and growing Yeti legs to keep me warm during the winter months.

Some of my friends are, however, and the best thing about having other poor souls stuck in online dating with you is that you can all stalk the guys your friend is talking with.

Yes, we do that. Did you notice that a girl checked out your profile but did not message you? You probably have a coffee date with her friend that week.

Because I deleted my Plenty of Fish account, my stalking abilities were frustratingly limited, so I signed back up. My experiences with POF have been disappointing and disgusting to the point where I had to scald off most of my skin and some of the memories. So, when creating a profile this time around, I went the most unappealing route I could.

I left everything blank except for my hobbies (Eating. Cooking. Food. Recipes. Leftovers.). My body type is "carrying a few extra pounds." Looking for friends only. My profile pic was of me making an indecipherable face and drinking from a penis cup at a bachelorette party.

Still, the messages came. Other people like food too! Omg we have so much in common.

I consulted my friend on this strange happening, and she noted that my picture gives off the impression that I really love to party and have fun or, as she gently put it, that I'm "easy." I immediately switched it to one of my Halloween photos - entirely in make-up and costume, making the craziest eyes possible, there is absolutely no way to determine what I actually look like underneath it all. None. I could be Jessica Alba or Bill Nye, you would never be able to tell.

If anything, the messages increased. I'm getting favorited right and left. Hahaha, I seem fun. Nice picture. Wanna get coffee?

I have not answered a single message nor made any attempt to seem approachable, my profile is almost entirely blank, and there is no way to distinguish what the hell my face actually looks like. This is the online "Shields up" equivalent of wearing chain mail, a ninja mask, and using my Katana to lop off the hands of anyone who comes within striking range.

Why are men throwing themselves at an online profile that is so clearly not going to end well? The same reason girls think they can only date men that order salads for them at dinner.

BECAUSE WE ARE ALL SO STUPID!

Seriously. I love you all, I really do, and myself even more, but got damn. We need to get our shit together, people, before the squirrels take over.

I've been in their midst, and I know how they think, and the human race is in true danger.

Lets order a pizza and talk strategy.

Ah, Fuck it!

Hello my beauties!

Well, I suppose we all knew this was inevitable. It's time to get me back on the market.

I'm in such a hot, sexy prison right now, I can't even stand it. 

At the moment, however, I'm battling a little bit of Manhate. Why, you ask with such concern?

Because men are stupid, that is my answer. Don't worry though. I think women are stupid too. Basically, I hate everyone, and mix cocktails in the dark whilst muttering black thoughts to myself and shooing mewing cats away from my slipper-clad feet.

First, I am continually, wildly disappointed in my men friends. Not all, mind you. A select few I still text very hopefully, but the general lot I am finding are really annoying.

The concept of male/female friendship seems to have gone out the window. I clearly am not capable of being friends with a man without desperately seeking to remove all his clothing AT ONCE SIR.

This seem to largely tie into the fact that I can only be their friend until they start dating someone. That someone assumes I wish nothing more than to remove the clothes of the male friend I had somehow magically controlled my baser impulses around up to this point, but now that this friend is in a relationship, I clearly seek to destroy it.

Ladies, a word of advice. Let your men have female friends, even attractive ones. And be NICE to those female friends. If I like you, I won't sleep with your man. If you piss me off... there really are no promises. I may just show up at his house at random and flash some boob, not because I would take pleasure from it but because I really just want to make you that mad because you took my friend away and I no longer have anyone to grab a beer with on Friday nights. Okay, Tuesdays.

I just like hanging out with people who are impressed by how much I can eat.

There's no way of sugar coating that. If you piss me off, I will show your boyfriend my tits. You've all been warned. If you're sweet to me, we will all be best friends until the end of time and I will casually laugh off his jokes about threesomes that make us both uncomfortable.

Another thing I'm sure most women who have reached my age (year "supple") have noticed is that rejecting a man, honestly and openly, but still asking if they want to be friends leads them to lie. They just lie. Yes, that's okay. No, not a problem. We'll still be buds. UNTIL A CHICK WHO WANTS TO DATE ME COMES ALONG.

At that point, I cease to exist. Thanks, pal.

Honestly, this has happened so many times I could literally market my life's story for a movie plot and be financially set for life. Yes, it might end up on Lifetime because my life basically sucks, but you get the point. I'm somewhere in between "Good Luck Chuck" and "Misery." I honestly pray those in question all end up divorced.

I have already mentioned the problematic situation of being forced to go single to a wedding, as a bridesmaid, where I will no doubt be pitied and possibly stoned to death by older Polish relatives.

Since I have literally no one left to hang out with in this fucking hick town, and being denied the ability to bring one of the very few men left that I can honestly call my friend, this all chased me back to online dating in some vague hope that I'd meet someone who, if not worthy of introducing to friends, could at least keep me company on a Friday night until I could find someone else to keep me company on Saturday night.

Let's face it, I require a lot of attention.

Interestingly, the men who noted my return to OKC were those I had already been in contact with previously...

This includes Gerard Butler Guy, who holds onto the ridiculous optimism that maybe I've ignored him and dodged his texts and messages for months because I'm just so into him it scares me. Clearly his dull personality and unwillingness to pick up the tab have not taken him off the market.

It also includes what actually amounts to a "slew" of writers, as well. Apparently putting that I'm more or less of a writer on my profile inspires other people who consider themselves writers to think we have something in common. You know what makes me immediately not like someone? Potential competition.

Be good at math. We'll encompass all aspects together. Do not be a better writer than me or I will hate you. I am not even going to pretend I'm not petty in this. I have very few talents of which I am proud, and I refuse to date someone who is, in actuality, more talented at writing. That only leaves me drinking and picking up stray cats.

Only whites. Reds taste like feet. 

However, writers can at least hold on a conversation (via messaging, text, Facebook, and any other media that primarily involves typing thought). I've got a good handful that were happy to see me back online, that know the difference between "too" and "to" (and "two"), and thought the pictures I added of me making stupid-ass faces were "sexy."

That's one good thing about writers - we are idiots. I made a joke about constantly wearing sweatpants (I am literally wearing sweatpants as I write this. I wear sweatpants 96% of of the week), and he countered with a joke about how the only way I could be sexier was if I ate potato chips in bed.

I hope you meant that, fucker, because don't even try to pry this bag away from me.

You know who love lazy women? Writers. And Philosophy majors.

And the unemployed (this includes both writers and philosophy majors).

... In conclusion, I hate most men and most women, but I'm going to try to date again anyway. Whatever. At some point I still like to think I'll get something meaningful out of this experiment.

Let's do this.

It's probably wisdom. Yeah. Wisdom.

What. Fucking. Ever.

Welp, my lovely Mustache Man was spotted cuddling up on some very slim organic hippy-type lady today, thus ruining my crush much too early. Was it too much to ask that he not just throw that in my face at this juncture? Let's be real. There's no way I was going to actually talk to him. I would have dragged this out for months and been perfectly happy secretly pretending we were a couple. Those fantasies keep me going in my everyday life; those, and imagining I'm a guest on "Ellen."

One of the problems with living in a small town, especially being an almost-thirty in a small town, is that dating pickings are slim... especially if you're as picky as I am. Yes, I'm looking for a lot out of my next guy, but the next guy could possibly end up being my husband, so why not be particular?

But everyone is either married, has moved out of this stupid city (as you should too!), someone you know/grew up with, or just overall unappealing to you for whatever reason. Maybe there's something to the fact that they've stayed here while everyone else fled in a Biblical manner.

Possibly I need to go on a bad-boy binge and just sow some wild oats before stumbling upon the Future Mr. MeMe, but that's equally difficult in a small town where everyone knows everyone, unless you want that guy you randomly made out with in a parking lot to show up at your next social gathering. Not speaking from experience or anything.

'Tis the seasons for weddings, and it's turning out to be especially rough on me this year. Not that I'm not excited for everyone who's out there tying the knot or producing babies. But I'm faced with standing up in a wedding soon as the only single bridesmaid. This sets me up as 1) a figure of pity or ridicule for the older crowd and 2) a figure of sex for the males who assume I'll be upset and rendered desperate by my situation (they are correct, and I will also be drunk).

Perhaps it's time to reopen the dating files and get out there a couple times a month, at least to keep my spirits up and make me feel like I'm making some small attempt to socialize with the male species.

Plus, I'm bored as hell half the time, and I could use someone to hang out with on a Friday night. It won't hurt my bank account if someone else is buying the drinks, either.

Time to wade through the applicants. Wish me luck.

Alas.

Just a quick update on my Mysterious Mustache Man...

Three failed attempts to stalk him later, this endeavor was a bust, and frankly, a complete waste of my good make-up. Do you know how much it costs to make myself look like I fell out of bed gorgeous? That shit cannot be squandered. Time and money like that can never be regained.

I did this for YOU.

At this point I'm pretty confident I hallucinated him and all his mustachey gloriousness. He has left no trail.

We didn't even get a chance to make pottery together!

Or, more realistically, he pleaded with his employers to stop forcing him to go to the market where the creepy girl stares at him a lot.

Come here often?

Either way, I labeled this one "bust," cried into my margarita (spent a lot of time looking at gifs), and started pasting pictures of Joseph Gordon-Levitt onto all of my photos to see how we'd look as a couple.

It's a good thing I have hobbies or I'd be pretty bummed right now.

Kiss Kiss, Crush Crush

I know I haven't been around much lately... I'm sure your journals have had to hear all about this emotionally stressful time and the void I've left inside you, but you'll be happy (I hope) to know that it's for all good reasons that I've been so absent.

MeMe has been... content lately. Life is pretty good. Ducks are lining up reluctantly into their rows. Throwing in the added chaos of dating men I'm only moderately interested in has just seemed like an unnecessary way of messing shit up, so I've let it go for now.

They say that good things happen to you when you're not looking for them, and for once, I've stopped looking. With that, I've fallen hardcore into a new improbable crush.

I haven't had a crush in a while. One of the worst parts about learning more about your crush is that usually it ruins the crush because these are actually real people and not the perfection I've built in my head.

My crush tank emptied slowly, one by one. I stopped stalking people who don't like me and texting boys that are bad for me. I finally came to terms that my fall-back crush ain't going nowhere. I quit trying to make "fetch" happen.

So I've been floating around crush-free (more or less). Ryan Gosling a la "The Notebook" has had to take the place of a crush in all of my fantasies, and honestly, let's face it: my odds of taking Ryan Gosling to bed are only like... 40, 45% at best. It sort of ruins a daydream for me when I'm so fully aware that it will come to nothing unless Eva Mendes suddenly drops dead on set and everything goes according to my evil plan MWAHAHAHAHA.

And, while no doubt this crush will take some energies away from all the productive events in my life, like trying to not suck at my job, and paying bills and car payments on time... it's kind of nice to have one again.

Everyone likes to have a crush. It gives us something to think about when we're stuck in traffic, or right before bed, or when you forget to bring a magazine to the bathroom.

This weekend I was at the Farmer's Market hunting for organic food to make meals with, because in my transformation into an Adult I've become disgustingly adorable and these are the sort of things I do now. The organic booths are limited, but I know one in particular that I like to hit, largely because it's manned by a real cutie pie and I don't hate lookin' at the goods while I'm shopping.

Cutie Pie was, this day, busy helping others, so I stepped back and let him customer-ize. He glanced up at me and went back to helping old ladies pick out produce (D'aww), getting a little frazzled, and telling them apologetically that he was suddenly flustered.

I'd like to think this is because he noticed me and how adorable I looked in my leather boots, but in real life my ego isn't really that substantial, and I just waited my turn patiently while he got his shit together and distantly thought how nice it would be if I were the source of all the flustering.

When it was finally my chance, I picked out an ear of corn--yes, a single ear. Cutie wouldn't have it. He threw all of his remaining corn at me for the same price, met my eye with ridiculously pretty blue ones, and bam... I was head over heels.

A little dazedly, I wandered off, smiling like an idiot and clumsily balancing an armful of corn. Ryan Gosling went out the window--Cutie leapt into my imagination.

We wake together at dawn to till the soil, after he brings me coffee in bed, and we laugh as the sun comes up and our rescue pets and goats roam the land. Together, probably wearing little floral printed aprons, we built a mildly successful business and are the fucking cutest farming couple the local markets had ever seen. He wears plaid and smells like grass and Gain detergent and brings me sunflowers when I'm not expecting them. I carry everything in a wicker basket, and learn to like pie. We adopt twin Chinese babies and raise them off the earth to be selfless and good. Before bed, we all read classics together by lamplight (my fantasies always seem to take place in the cabin from "Little House on the Prairie"). We grow old together and die hand-in-hand (Wait, no, that one is special just for Ryan).

Happily, I found the rest of my party, and told them the news: I was in love. He had blue eyes, and he had given me free food. He was my dream man.

One major problem:

He has a mustache.

Not like, a little fuzzy mustache because he forgot to shave that morning.

I mean like ringleader of a circus mustache. A mustache ironic to the point where it's no longer ironic (ironically).

People who know me know that I hate, hate mustaches. Mustaches are for men in unmarked vans telling children they have candy. Mustaches make me think of 1970's cold cases, and the horrible boss I hated so much I once pushed him. A mustache is just the sad destruction of a perfectly good beard.

Yet...

My cyber stalking refused to pay off, so tomorrow I'll have to doll myself up until I look as natural as possible, put on something that projects that I'd make a fine wife, and go stalk him in person. Does he have a wedding ring? Does he like women? Is he too young for me? Is he open to shaving? These are all important questions I need answered.

Or, OR, the more likely scenario... I refuse to make eye contact, can only grunt and point at which items I wish to purchase (You, YOOOUUUU!!! My God, how much??), and slink off without any of this vital information.

But hey, at least I won't ruin my nice new crush by talking to him.

The Overshare

This may officially cross the line into an "overshare," but if you bear with me, I promise at some points it may or may not be relevant to dating.

My body is, at this point in time, gearing up for what can only be referred to as a Superperiod...

The Superperiod is one of the most deadly natural events known to Man... Specifically to Man.

You left the seat up again, you fool! You've doomed us all!

A little anatomy lesson for those who don't believe me:

Within the production of a Superperiod, a female's body goes through a confusing series of events.

First, she becomes enormously fat. Her uterus is convinced its time has finally come, and preps her for being pregnant by making her look fucking pregnant.

Add in combination an eruption of acne she hasn't experienced since she first hit puberty. Now she's even more hideous. I'm not a history buff, but I'm pretty sure right after God cursed Woman with the period, he felt bad and invented make-up.

She just wants to wear her glasses, avoid people (who will laugh at her for being hideous those pricks), put on pants without a waistband and eat pickles out of the jar, because deep in her belly her uterus is demanding a continual sacrifice of potato chips and brownies like an obese Mayan deity.

There's no arguing with this creature. She's up in the middle of the night fashioning together makeshift garlic bread by the shameful green glow of the microwave, and it can't be avoided. All you Men can do is pretend not to see and let her simmer in her own self-hatred.

Confusingly, while the tangle of hormones in her body has combined to make her as unattractive as humanly possible, somewhere there's an instinct that drops with the egg screaming BREED BREED! '

She will want to have sex with everyone. Everyone.

It's like beer goggles for your reproductive parts. Suddenly, everyone is gorgeous and probably her Future Husband.

That greased up 40 year-old guido in the volkswagon? Future Husband.

The fat guy in the deli ""sampling" every single cold meat? Future Husband.

That dude walking in front of her with the ponytail? Oh no, wait, that's a chick.

I wouldn't kick him out of bed... 

I won't even mention the mood swings, I think we all know the real dangers of the Superperiod. Beware, gentlemen. She'll sex the shit out of you and while you're climaxing she'll chew right through your spinal column, Praying Mantis-style, because you told her six weeks ago that you thought Jennifer Aniston was pretty.

Why don't you go fuck JENNIFER ANISTON YOU FUCKING PIECE OF CRAP?? My mother was right about you.

And then, she'll cry and ask you to hold her.

It won't make sense. Don't try to make sense of it.

So, where does this leave MeMe?

I had mentioned previously the very young guy that managed to stalk me down and ask for my number. I had given it to him, agreed to go out, and had a sudden rush of Ick that made me a little ill and thus provided an excuse to not go.

Unfortunately, for work, I still had to go to his place of employment. I hadn't expected to run into him on a regular basis. Things have changed. Shit got serious.

I steeled myself. I would just go out with him and act horrible. I would sabotage the date. I would talk about my many cats, and my Pinterest wedding, and how many children I wanted, and who were his grandparents so I could incorporate our families in their names?

That way, the next time I had to see him, he'd do the polite thing and hide in the back room for an hour.

However, when I went in there, pimpy and grotesque and about three inches away from bitch-slapping the people standing next to me for breathing (not heavily, just breathing)... I realized I had forgotten how attractive he was. Wow.

And not openly off-put by my horrible state. Still interested even though I'm stuffing gummi worms into my mouth- directly from my purse? Color me flattered.

Chemical changes. Brain waves. A gentle but persistent persuasion from the nether regions. SCIENCE!

Then this happened:

So, yeah. Ahem. I embark upon another dating... experiment.

The Younger Man.

This should be interesting.

The Gentle (?) Letdown.

My wild weekend of dating turned out to be somewhat of a bust. First the cancellation from the mistaken racist, and then a cancellation (blamed on a change of work schedule) by the second, who I would say I was most interested in meeting with (and not just because he's a bartender... only mostly because he's a bartender).

My third and only date remained steady, bless his little heart. We met for coffee today-- I arrived early and bought my own, because I am frankly feeling on the bitchy edge of anti-social off and on the past few weeks (I'm blaming a serious amount of stress all  at once, including a death in the family) and the thought of going through the "who will pay" dance made me cringe. I didn't think I could muster up enough fake gratitude for a cup of coffee to make it worthwhile.

He was nice, and he liked to talk, which worked out well for me since I've been more in the mood to glare and fester, but of course, as usual, there was no real interest on my part. The only thing I could arrange any enthusiasm for was our discussion of "Game of Thrones," which is my new obsession and a nice change from my conversations revolving around mutant sharks. I didn't even go into detail about my multitude of pets when he asked me, which is usually the topic of conversation that turns me into a warm-hearted tiny white Oprah.

And this picture is from when I gave him a bath! 

It was, as my friend termed it, the "Snore Date."

No rudeness on his part, just a general lack of compatibility. I was glad he talked, because unless my coffee magically transformed into a frosty brew, I didn't have the energy for feigning interest in the things he enjoys, and he didn't seem especially enamored of my own likes and dislikes, and was only lukewarm when I showed him a slideshow of my cats.

An hour into it, I was confident nothing was going to happen, and also hungry (bitchiness level: high), so I excused myself to go home and eat ( + sweatpants). The poor man checked his phone for the time.

"Oh, it's only been an hour? Feels like longer!"

Yes, it really did, but thanks for that flattering reminder. This earned its appropriate response from me... something between a sneer and a look of disgust, along with an acerbic concern I had bored him.

So, yeah...

I wasn't sure I'd hear from him after all of that, but I did a few hours later, thanking me for the date and asking to grab a drink another time.

I set my phone aside. I pondered. I forgot about it and watched "True Blood." I remembered. I worried. I watched more television and did laundry.

While most agree I am perfection (statistics show), one criticism I do get from those that know me and know of my dating routines is that I avoid letting men down in the worst possible way.

To me, this is utter kindness, with only a strong dash of cowardice.

"Wouldn't you want to know?" My friend says.

NO. I would not want to know. Absolutely not. I've touched on this before and I reiterate it. In casual dating situations (exceptions may exist based on how "casual" I consider the situation), I would rather assume (and hope) that the man in question died a tragic death on the way home from our date--possibly running his car into the river because he was lost in thought about how marvelous I am and didn't see that a freak storm had washed the bridge out, yonder--rather than that he found some part of me lacking.

Especially on such short acquaintance, when I work so hard for them to not notice all the Crazy I've swept under the rug. On first dates, I'm at my best. I'm charming, more or less. I'm pretending to care about your job and your interests.

I showered.

So what is the problem? Is it my crooked smile? Is it that one of my jokes came off wrong? Is it that I blurt out things before I can consider them? Do you not like an in-depth critical analysis of "Sharktopus?"

*eye twitch*

We've all got our tragic flaw, and mine is that I want that to be good enough... for everyone. I can't become prettier, or more interesting, or pretend to enjoy things I don't.

It is what it is.

But I like it, and if someone else doesn't... well, honestly, I don't want to know about it. Let's just gradually lose touch and pretend we don't know each other when we see one another on the street. That was I can go on thinking the problem is your sexual confusion, and nothing to do with me.

When I consider rejection of another, all I can think is of how I would feel in their place... how I am reducing them to a shivering glob of insecurity by my cold, heartless disinterest.

I spoke with them, I looked at them, and I found them lacking, or unappealing.

 How dare I? Who the fuck do I think I am? I DON'T GOT TO CHANGE FOR NOBODY!!

Apparently, though, this is not how the rest of the world thinks. Not everyone is on my level of defiant desperation. General consensus is: if you don't want to go out with a guy again... he should probably know that.

I can only change my phone number so many times. The kind thing to do is to cut ties, move on, and get a new phone in case they drunk text and make me feel bad.

So tonight I made the effort to man up. After a few hours of putting it off (fantasies of "how could you, you bitch? I loved you!" popping up on my screen), I had my first experience with gently rejecting someone I had gone on a date with.

I'm gonna need a bigger mug.

I did the best I could, using honesty and smiley faces and every other method of kindness I can portray via text. I told him I had a good time. I told him I just didn't feel the specific (nearly unobtainable) connection I was looking for... which was totally my fault, fer shor I'm practically dead inside. I told him I'd love to hang out as friends, which is true (he has all the DVD seasons of "Game of Thrones"). I threw in some more emoticons.

I have not heard back yet, so I assume he has killed himself.

Dipping My Toe Back In...

Damn. I need a Pedi.

I'll try to keep this short and sweet, since I'm low on topic, but fact of it is, I miss you, and I want to reach out and bad-touch you via Internet blogging. Shh... just let it happen.

Fortunately or unfortunately (seeming dependent on the day), my dating life has fallen to the wayside in favor of trying to get my shit together in other aspects of my existence. Like:

#1 Navigating being a good or at least tolerable employee, even though 75% of the time I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing and 5% of the time I'm crying in the car while I contemplate just driving to Mexico and becoming a drug lord.

#2 Taking care of my babies and cleaning puke out of my hair. God, they puke a lot. Why? Why, on the bed while I'm sleeping? Why on my pillow?

#3 Getting my health in order by eating crazy good organic food. See #1.

#4 Renewing my pursuit of the elusive Literary Agent.

And this is all good. This is what grown ups do, or so I've been told. I even bought myself a coffee maker with a timer, so I can get out of bed at a "reasonable hour," sit on the front porch and glare at the neighborhood children over a nice cup of java with almond milk.

But it doesn't leave a lot of time for dating. How can I tell those damn kids to keep off my lawn when I'm on a date?

When free time rolls around, it seems a more comfortable and logical choice to spend it with friends-- people I already know and don't have to feign interest in, or do my hair for, who will not be offended when I suddenly blurt out that I want to go home NOW get the tab, they just know that sometimes I just suddenly hate everything without reason and that's just who I am.

No fuss. No drama. No push-up bra.

The smoking hottie, I may have mentioned, was onto my blog, but what I did not realize was that he was onto it from the start, and I played into it rather like a mice in a maze hornily running after some hot cheese. Alas.

He did bring up something that made me think (yuck). He admitted he was nervous that I was analyzing him the entire date.

It's a fair assumption that I'm going on these dates ready to eviscerate the hapless men whenever they misstep, but it's not quite true. I'm still on these dates as dates, and I'm still vaguely hoping that something will click. I break them apart the same way I break apart everything I experience-- I write, and by nature I can't avoid that internal narrator that turns everything into an experience. If I got your love and approval for a detailed narration of my excursion to purchase Tampax, things may be different here.

Of course, then I post it all online, which is admittedly pretty weird but it works for me because I'm admittedly pretty weird.

Regardless, it was all a little confusing.

I got the dating itch again the other day, when a cutie was chatting me up at the car wash. I felt all giggly and gleeful, like I was in high school again getting attention from the sexy guy in my Biology class. How often do cuties chat me up, after all? I laughed, I tossed my hair, and I felt like a kid again.

When he found out we had gone to the same school, it was even better. And then when he asked what year I graduated, I figured out why it was giving me such a throwback to high school. He was practically still in high school.

I sobered up from my little high, put on my bifocals, and cut that shit out.

I've got two dates (with legal, consenting adults) this weekend in an effort to strike that memory from my mind. I had three, but the third cancelled because he was not comfortable dating "multiethnic" girls at one time.

Luckily, that was an autocorrect from "multiple" because I thought he was pretty racist for a few minutes.

Both are nice guys. Not my usual type (unshaven hippie pirates), but polite, and kind and complimentary. I feel this ensures me at least some good conversation... and who knows what else?