MeMe Lives For a Day

Wait, wait, wait... Wait. Did MeMe just have a good date?

With someone who actually is attractive and also happens to not be four inches shorter than claiming on their profile?

... Apparently one just has to give up hope entirely.

Even better than the fact that he was incredibly cute head-on... and then he'd turn just-so and hit the perfect angle and becoming what I like to call "shockingly attractive holy shit..." he was super interesting and seemed totally unaware of how much I was daydreaming about boning him.

He's a nerdy hipster pirate with an interest in sociology and the human mind and one of those people who gets so caught up in a project they forget to eat. I don't think I've ever forgotten to eat in my life. I eat while planning my next meal. I suddenly feel like I'd be way cooler if I got so intense I forgot to eat... but low blood sugar on my part results in destruction and death for those around me so I'll settle for developing my alcoholism. That's sort of interesting too.

Still waiting to hear from him and get that all-important follow-up contact, though we talked for two hours, took a walk, and he mentioned meeting again so I feel pretty confident all is well--which probably means he won't call.

Or has finally recognized that he is gay will only call to thank me. Dammit!

If he does contact, I will certainly meet him again and see how it goes. This has definitely been the best date I've been on thus far, and the only one I'm actually eager to see again. I want to skip over the awkward getting-to-know-you stage and just lay my head on his chest while we stare at the stars and do other ridiculously annoying romantic crap because he's just. that. cute.

Huzzah!

To Everything... Turn... Turn... The Lights Off and Go Away.

To my loyal readers:

I apologize for dropping off the face of the earth again. I've been so terribly busy, rushing to and fro, recording documents, scanning, faxing, dialing... okay, whatever, fine. I dropped my laptop and then about fifteen minutes later dumped a margarita on it for good measure. Don't worry though; I had more margarita on hand. Crisis. Averted. 

There is a Season: 

Turning 25 for the third time this year, I've learned a few things.

ONE: No, you can't spend the whole month binge-eating pizza and burgers and then expect to eat a salad one day and drop five pounds. Your body has finally turned on you. Your glory days are gone, and you SQUANDERED them you terrific fool! God bless your oddly youthful face; all is not lost.

TWO: You will start saying stupid shit like 'they seem like such a nice family!' and meaning it. You will also read ingredient lists while grocery shopping to avoid aggravating your lactose sensitivity or prompting heartburn. Probably while parking your cart in the middle of the aisle with joyful obtuseness and smiling at babies.

THREE: More cats will show up. You can walk down the street, and cats just fall into line behind you. They can sense that you're single and know that it is only a matter of time before you doze off in an armchair and they can chew off your face. Keep extra bags of food handy and take short naps to maintain vigilance.

FOUR: Suddenly, a night on the town seems like a lot of work. You know what sounds fun? A mellow night in with friends. Possibly a board game and some mixed drinks. You can have fun, be in bed by nine and you don't have to worry about avoiding sunlight and loud noises for the next six days. Doesn't that sound nice?

And then there's FIVE, where you realize that you're suddenly an adult and your entire life is now moving you toward a "future." You've got a real job that pays you this amazing thing called a "salary," and your days of watching TBS until the wee hours of the morning are screeching to an end. You now own a twill dress and a jacket and you're working on an air of quiet authority. Most horrifyingly, you're stuck between joy that the bills will be paid and you won't always live in your mom's basement and you can buy a car that isn't held together with duct-tape... and a clenching worry that you're turning away from the things that are important to you. Like watching TBS until the wee hours of the morning because you're feeling "artistic."

Worse, the weather is changing, and, as a female, sights, smells and even a specific temperature prompt memories from random moments in your life. Remember that one time you played hide-and-seek with your brother in the field outside a red church and it was of absolutely no importance or note? You do now.

Lately, to my chagrin, it's been those "happy" moments I shared with Thing Two... when what is now "crazy" he still considered "fun" and "challenging."

And I want to be able to sit and absorb these moments from my first dabble into love, but then I'm reminded that Thing Two sure as hell isn't wasting his time thinking about how we had a few laughs... he's too busy with the new girlfriend he picked up the moment we ended (or just slightly before, still not quite solid on that timeline which is a constant source of frustration...) so any effort I may put into reminiscing seems entirely wasted and I hate wasting my time unless it's by playing video games or blacking out after too many cocktails.

I think what's confusing is that, with the rest of my life finally on track, I'm ready for a real relationship. Yes, I've had to squeeze about ten years' worth of dating experiences into the past few months, and yes, I've probably acted like a sixteen-year-old for most of them as I've tried to absorb how the social mating process works after years of celibacy inflicted by braces and acne while I developed a "personality" and crippling phobias about opening up to people.

But, as stupid as this whole experiment may appear to an outsider, it's done its job. I can small talk, I share my feelings, I make extended eye contact, and I'm comfortable with physical contact.

So, I've gotten all that weirdness out of the way, and with warm weather here, I'm ready for someone to rub my shoulders after a long day of work and take me out for a nice dinner (he's so sensitive!). I want to do relationship-y things... like not talk for long periods of time, possibly while sitting on a porch swing. Make comments about the weather. Discuss varicose veins and the dangers of sun radiation. Maybe gently argue politics then fall asleep during sex.

As you may have picked up on by now, I go through phases: Desperately Want a Relationship phases, which lead to a few awkward dates, which lead to Thank God I'm Single, I Never Want One of These Morons to Think They Own Me phases. So this was only a matter of time.

In an effort to pull the rest of my life together and put myself on the track to a pretty diamond, two chocolate labs and a summer house in the country, I've reconnected with those men otherwise ignored on my dating website.

And so, inevitably, I went after the hottest ones first. Tomorrow I have a coffee date with a guy who is incredibly, smoking hot (if his pictures don't lie)... like, way, way out of my league, but who likes small dogs and is afraid of cats. I figure that balances him out. Makes it less of a challenge.

He and I seem to run the pattern of forgetting about each other, texting a lot, forgetting, and then marveling that we still haven't gotten together. I get busy, he goes on a tour of the states to film a documentary. Etc. He's cool, that's the point of that story. He films documentaries. That almost makes up for being afraid of cats.

Thank God that while I was sitting outside (drinking) thinking about past relationships and how much I hope they're miserable without me when the sudden reminder of this hot guy and his interest hit, and I contacted him and we made an actual official date.

Gerard Butler guy has messaged a few times trying to get together, but, while I considered it, there wasn't enough there for me to feel like struggling to make conversation for an hour (although he did offer to pay, per my comment that I couldn't go out until my check came in).

So, we'll see how tomorrow (coffee date) goes. If not well, then let's pray I become entirely absorbed in having a career and forget my recent urge to date again.

At least I can now afford, with some frugality, to regularly hire an attractive male prostitute to tell me I'm pretty and pretend that our lovemaking is entirely about the emotional connection. So much an improvement, and definitely worth the extra cash.

What's The Point Besides an Excuse to Binge-Eat Ice Cream?

I got a little nervous and excited for my date with Gerard Butler's Body Double Guy... as in, I drank a glass of wine to calm my nerves as I sat on the couch in my pajamas until the last possible moment I could do so.

I pulled out the stops, looks-wise, when I finally made myself get up. I even shaved my legs and put on the magic skirt that does some kind of wondrous thing to my backside, as if God Himself has reached down and given it a smack of approval. Bury me in this skirt.

I aimed for that cute, care-free and low-maintenance look that only takes about three and a half hours (and a serious level of skill) to create. I even strategically left my freckles make-up free, as if I'm just naturally fresh-faced and sun kissed and didn't at all have to wipe the foundation off of them individually. 

And I got to the restaurant only like five minutes late. That is a clear indication of my seriousness. I looked good. I made an entrance. I was fucking prepared for this.

Gerard Butler Body Double Guy had suggested we meet for sushi, which shows he has awesome taste in food and also suggests he probably read in my profile that I love sushi... which shows an ability to read.

I went in for the hug and he went in for the handshake. He was tall and I am not tall, though I wore my hookeryest boots, and the combination of all of this was an incredibly awkward hug where our arms bumped and ricocheted as if our bodies were unconsciously rejecting the embrace.

I just laughed because Awkward Girls don't give a fuck, but he seemed truly horrified.

The date was, for lack of a better description, dull. He was good looking, but on the quiet side. This forced me to carry the conversation which is not something I have any talent in. I will literally just blurt out everything that I'm thinking as fast as possible with no real connection between ideas. I ended up talking about Sharktopus for like twenty minutes.

If you do not love this movie we can't be friends. 

The only part of the evening really worth noting was when the waiter came and asked how we wanted the check. Gerard Butler Guy went super quiet. I waited. And then I waited. And then the waiter looked at me with a sympathetic tear in his eye and I told him to just split it. 

The Rules of Dating (For Men):

    1) If you invite the girl out, pay. 

    2) If you pick the restaurant, pay. 

    3) If you don't plan on paying... do not suggest an expensive meal.

    4) Just fucking pay holy crap.

If I had known I was covering my portion of this, we would have been splitting a bowl of Ramen noodles on a pair of folding chairs in the backyard, and I would not have wasted my time putting on real clothes. 

Psst. Get those, will you?

Yes, yes, equality and whatnot. Listen, I don't care if you don't make a lot of money. I don't mind picking up my half, or trading off... down the road. But the first date is the one where you at least pretend I'm worth putting a few bucks into.

I have officially asked out one guy (who agreed, that is), and as I am poor, we got coffee. I picked up the tab, because I am a gentleman and also I had a coupon for a free coffee. Point is, not paying when you've asked someone out is tacky. 

Possibly he was just not feeling me, although he did seem to appreciate my boobs (who wouldn't?). Maybe talking about a land-walking shark-octopus hybrid developed by the government as a specialized killing machine was not the way to win his heart. He yawned and stretched a lot, and ate every piece of ice in his glass like he would be charged extra if he didn't. I suggested twice that he could go if he needed to be somewhere, but then he would insist he was fine. I supplied the out, so that's his problem.

 Don't rush me when I'm drinking a beer.

He did walk me to my car and mention doing it again sometime, but I've learned that everyone just says that because we're all fucking liars. Sure, call me. Just don't expect me to answer.

I have not heard from him yet, so either he is playing the Game or he was legitimately not interested in me and my fascinating talk about the mucus production of my foster cat. This will make him the first one who hasn't contacted me after a date, so my ego ain't hurting just yet. 

Going out with him and finding it was more or less another dud of a night put me into a weirdly desperate mood. Luckily I gathered a few friends together and over drinks they entertained me with talk about buttholes, and all seemed right with the world again. 

Some days I need to remind myself that there is nothing wrong with being single... and that is in fact pretty awesome. As of next week I officially plummet into my "late" twenties, and I still work at a job where pants are optional. I'm starting to feel the pressure of society, enemies, and ex's thinking I'm "failing" because I'm not in a relationship. My Facebook is blowing up with engagement and marriage announcements and I'm still at that stage in my life where if I manage to brush my teeth I consider the day a success. 

But then I remember that I have total freedom, friends that will take me out for margaritas, and that I'm fucking awesome at arcade games, and I no longer give a crap that my family members think I'm probably a lesbian. 

I'll make some lucky lady very happy one day.

Tomorrow I'll probably get a wave of hormones and decide my life won't be complete until I move into a white house and have four freckled children, but for right now I'll just enjoy. 

UPDATE:

Text at midnight: "Maybe we should just get sushi again next week."

... Does that sound incredibly resigned to anyone else?

FACE!

   With the deletion of my Plenty of Fish profile, things have seemed a little bleak. Mostly because I was bored not having messages to check... I have been okay not being bombarded with sexually explicit requests. Go figure.

    My messages on OkCupid were dwindling, and really, I didn't much care anymore. I'm back where I started in this whole Dating Experiment... Dating is stupid an' I don't wanna do it.

   Occasionally I hop back on and look around, but the options are just... really?

I messaged one guy with a hopeful optimism, because he was really cute and has a beard and was wearing flannel, but I kid you not, he included this in his profile:

"I write adult fiction (dirty stories... like NC16 dirty)."

Hrm. Mature.

   I messaged him with fingers crossed anyway (because damn, that beard), asking if perhaps he writes for profit?

Nope. "For giggles and boners."

... Okay.

What about this guy?

"hey hi hello hallow marhaba hola."

Right.

   I found one who looked more or less promising, although his pictures were just close-ups of his lips so fair guess he looks like Gollum with beautiful lips.

Maybe he's born with it...

He had mentioned on his profile this, regarding online dating:

"(for guys) at first, you spend time trying to read through profiles and think of interesting things to say, and then you put in the effort into writing to someone. and usually you get no response, or if you're luck, you get a simple 'no thanks.'"

  I messaged him and asked if this was true. Honestly, honestly, I would rather a guy just ignore me than message back "no thanks." If he ignores me, I can assume he is 

1) Dead 

or 2) Too intimidated by my good looks and charm to risk answering me with something off-putting, so, crippled by anxiety, they can only stare for helpless hours at my message, unable to respond. 

However if he answers, he's solidifying the fact that he just does not find me attractive, because, really, what else is he going off of here?

And if he does not find my profile pictures attractive, then he is really not going to be into me when I'm eating peanut butter cups on the couch at 2am, with no make-up and in the same shirt I've worn for three days.

I was informed "yeah you thought wrong" and "of course" a guy wants a rejection message. Something something only girls with low self esteem don't confront a guy and give him closure. 

Wow, my bad. I guess I shouldn't have anticipated any sort of kind or helpful response from someone whose profile calls everyone in his city "fat" and says "im becoming more and more convinced that there isnt a woman in the area that's good enough for me." 

But then... and now is my moment to really truly brag:

I was checking out the profile for a decent-looking guy, when I noticed something... something amazing. 

A picture of himself and Gerard Butler. Looking buddy-buddy. Arms around, smiles on. 

My stalking commenced. 

Let me just list off the awesomeness that is this dude.

1) He has worked on multiple film sets, including doing stunt work and working as Gerard Butler's body double.

2) He has competed on multiple Ninja Warriors. In fact, we have to push our coffee date to next week because this weekend he will be in Baltimore for another one. 

3) He substitute teaches for mentally and physically handicapped kids.

4) He spells correctly, and has not yet asked me to participate in anything that would require me to be naked. Gentleman! 

5) He cooks.

This is literally the kind of guy girls make up for family events in an effort to prove they're not a lesbian. He probably spends his free time volunteering at a homeless shelter and advocating for abused puppies. I'll bet he rides horses on the beach. 

My one concern going into this is that he sounds very active... and while I like to take a leisurely stroll now and then, and once in a while alternate a few minutes on the thighmaster with eating cupcakes, I'm a pretty mellow person. I love to go out, but I need a good two-to-three weeks to recover afterwards. I love being outside all day but where will I nap?

Either way, I totally get to brag about this to everyone ever. If it doesn't work out I'll just grab his ass on the goodbye, so I can close my eyes and for once, finally, know how it feels to inappropriately grope Gerard Butler. 

In my many fantasies that have already sprouted from this, I work my way up... body double, to face double, to the Butler himself, and make an honest man of him. 

...And here's where I tie her down and... no, it's okay, she's my wife.

So all in all, I think I deserve this:

WELL DONE, ME!

I think this is purely a bragging rights date, to be honest, and rather a time-passer, but rest assured BRAG I SHALL. 

And then, smugly satisfied, the snow shall cease, and I can finally go on my real date with my Groomsman, because, and I don't mean to be cheesy, it's like my friend says:

"If you look THAT happy in a picture when talking to someone, then there is something there."

The dating future is bright, y'all. 

Yeeeeah.

So The Texter never made it to a second date. I feel like I saw this coming, but I was sort of enjoying the attention for once, for a brief, darling period. Then I realized it was too much attention. Holy crap.

Here's the deal: he is a really sweet guy, and damn but if he isn't the cutest stinkin' thing. Maybe, though, a little too sweet. A lot too sweet? Too much, just... too much.

True story.

If you have any sense of self worth, you're probably recognizing the flaws of that statement. Indeed, I am literally beginning to question if there is something deeply skewed in my idea of romance at this point. I'm pretty sure I get a bigger thrill from cancelling a date than going on one because if I put on my good make-up and the date doesn't go well, I legitimately feel cheated because that shit ain't cheap.

Even my best friend was on this guy's side. He just likes me. A lot. That's something to pity, not fear.

Okay, but...

The day after our date, he bought me a stuffed animal. Not like he won it at a fair in my honor, but still. I tried to tell myself it was a cute gesture, but you know what I really don't need at this point in my life? Stuffed animals. I have like 60 real ones shedding on my bed and pooping right as I'm about to eat. What I really need is someone to take animals from me.

Then there was the texting. So, so much texting. Again, I reminded myself that, while in a long-distance relationship, texting was extremely important to me. If he wasn't texting me, I assumed that he was probably flirting with someone thinner and prettier and with lower moral standards (Side note: I have since been reassured by others suffering through long-distance relationships that this is, unfortunately, normal behavior). So shouldn't I be grateful that this man was making a serious effort to keep in touch with me at all moments of the day including when he knows I am asleep?

Okay, but Texter lives like... 30 minutes away, tops. I don't really know him so I don't really care what he's doing.... but isn't he at work? What the hell -- 7 missed alerts? And that funny picture is sort of racist.

I was going to respond but I took a nap instead.

Additionally, he wanted to plan a second date as soon as possible... Okay, not a bad thing. He liked me a lot and he wants to spend time with me.The issue came when I wouldn't commit to scheduling a third date as well. No, I am not planning my week around seeing you as much as possible. We hung out once.

I hedged my way out of that one without having to blatantly tell him it was more of my time than I was willing to give to someone I barely know. He did, after all, remind me a few times he has been off the dating scene for a while, and was rusty. He would gently remind me of this when I started to seem irritated, which was kind of a lot, and I would take a deep breath and remember that I am kind of a nutcase and should be sympathetic to other awkward daters.

But the next incident pushed me over the edge.

Since I was sick and couldn't hang out, he asked me to help him decide what to do on his day off.

I'm not sure why this annoyed me so much. I guess I feel like people who are pushing thirty should be able to make their own decisions about what to do with their free time. Again--I don't know you. I don't know what you like to do, and honestly, if I'm not involved, I couldn't give a rat's ass. If a decision in any way involves my happiness, please just assume that I will make it. Lay the options before me and accept that we'll be doing whatever it is that suits me best and that it probably involves cocktails... but if I'm not participating, I could not possibly care less how you're spending your day. Now leave me alone so I can watch this Psych marathon.

But he couldn't just let that go. He was insistent that, as a writer, as an adventurer, and as a woman and thus by nature opinionated, I should be jumping to make choices for him. Strange that now I'm taking the damn reins, whereas previously, I was "needy" and cute like a little animal for being sick.

I can be your mommy or your kid, dude, I can't be both... and also that's disgusting and I don't want to be either.

Somewhere along the lines he threw in a Princess Bride "As you wish," which maybe I am taking way too literally as a Princess Bride fan but did you just tell me that you love me?

Oh. Um... 

So, I told Texter that I think we are looking for different things in a partner. I was informed, very quickly, that I had misinterpreted his intentions, and he was just looking for a friend.

I've gotten this one before. It seems to be a knee-jerk reaction to rejection. I once had a man try to give me a fifteen minute talk on why, when he asked to buy me a drink at the bar and I told him I wasn't interested, I should be open to accepting friendship from strangers and less inclined to assume a man asking to buy me a drink at a bar is a romantic (sexual) overture... and did I have some animosity issues toward men?

Strangers.

Really? Just friends. Then why don't you go and buy that dude over there a drink? Let's just say frankly that your odds of going home with him are way more promising.

Maybe I'm speaking for myself here but do women do that?

If I hit on you and you reject me, I'm not going to pretend I wasn't hitting on you while mentally naming our future children. I'm just going to call you a dick and resent you. No big deal.

How about in a month or two? I can wait. 

Oh, and tell the story to my closest friends who will also act shocked at your horrible dickish behavior and offer me possibly reasoning for his decision.

Such as: He wants to love me... but it scares him how much better that him I am!
My beauty is really intimidating.
No, the girl with him in that picture is in no way more attractive than me; he is just covering his regret. Also she's a whore.

Yes, thank you, I would like more wine while you come up with more totally true statements.

So after that, I guess I'll probably Facebook stalk for a week waiting for any sign of a change of heart, and finally when that fails, I'll just resume my desperate love for celebrities who can never hurt or disappoint me and thus make the ideal crush. Like you're so great. If I'm a bird he will be a fucking bird too.

And isn't that the mature way to handle things?

So, anyway. The good news is that I deal with romantical disappointment by becoming immediately more thrilled that I am single and completely independent.

I go for a run. I admire myself in the mirror and applaud myself for being a strong, intelligent woman who knows her own mind. I have a glass (bottle) of wine and consider texting men I know do NOT want to hear from me. I cry over a few Jane Austen movies. I remind myself that the best revenge is living well-- as in, being more successful than the people you hate so you can rub it into their stupid faces. I dwell on that one guy I met in Indianapolis I was convinced was my soul mate and will never see again (Because I stalked him and he found out).

Whoops.

Thus, I return to the loving fleece-lined embrace of my sweatpants, and life is good again.

The bow tie makes this class out the ass.

Long story short

This will be a very short blog post, and so I shall make the font very large so you do not feel cheated. 

I went out with the Texter for a movie and drinks (Do NOT see "Admission," as a side note. Longest seven hours of my life), and you know what? It went well. I had a good time. 

He is, shockingly enough, just as cute as his pictures (super duper cute). 

He is funny in person, and less button-pushy (this is where facial expressions come in handy. When I make a face... stop that joke, quickly change subject). 

Any strangeness or awkwardness I think could easily be attributed to first date jitters, rather than a deep personality flaw. 

His compliments were really unique and said in a very genuine manner that I found refreshing. Also, I love compliments. Lay 'em on.

He was also terrified of "Ernest Scared Stupid." I don't want to use the term "soulmate," but... damn.

My mother called twice and texted twice, concerned because for once I had not rushed home after a date. We both admitted that neither one of us had actually expected to have a good time. What a pleasant surprise. 

I had a good enough time with him that we are planning to go out again soon. Like real planning, not where I say I had a good time and then just gradually start ignoring his texts until he takes the hint (which has NOT worked on HugsnKissez, who texted me out of the blue again today even after I apparently broke his heart).  

Therefore, no very detailed blog post, I'm afraid. Let's see if he makes it past date two (he'll be the groundbreaker!) first. 

I'm also very tired, because cute men suck the energy out of me like you wouldn't believe. I used up all my clever. It's hard work being charming and maintaining your most flattering angle for hours on end while your every shy-girl instinct is telling you to run away and put your hair back in a ponytail where it belongs.

G'night. <3

Well played. Let's see how you do on round two, Guy Who Texts Me A Lot...

Utter Disappointments

I haven't updated in a while, for which I apologize. In my defense I think I have officially hit the scummy bottom of the barrel... and it stinks like dead dreams and illiteracy. 

Seriously. If you ever want to feel bad about yourself.... like scrubbing-with-bleach-while-you cry-in-the-shower-knowing-any-sense-of-feeling-clean-again-is-a-futile-endeavor disgusting... join Plenty of Fish. 

Last week I officially deleted my profile. 

The first few offer for sex, threesomes, or other various, more unique perverted escapades were rather funny. However, the sheer amount of horror coming into my inbox by this time has caused my ovaries to shrivel up in self defense. My vagina has hung up the "Closed For Business" sign and is rocking in the corner with a Bible.

Things stopped being funny, and just became insulting, disgusting, and intentionally rude. 

For example: lose interest in a guy you've talked to a few times because he, say, proposed marriage? He'll just bombard your inbox, and when you don't respond, start sending you messages I can only describe as "rapey." 

According to his profile he works in law enforcement, so that's comforting knowledge.

Dear Every Guy I Know...

What really put me over the edge was yet another offer to "go down on me." I'm not really sure why guys make this offer thinking women are going to leap up and down with delight over it. They dole them out like they're doing us a favor... because they want to do us a favor. 

Dude: If you need practice, go to the farmer's market and buy yourself some soft fruits. I don't want to be involved on the low level of your learning curve.

Anyway. By the time I've read this message, I've had about three head-shakers, and I'm done. I sharply inform him that if he had bothered to read my profile (which has a pretty strongly worded recommendation that people only looking for a hook-up should look elsewhere), he would know that I am not interested in him putting his mouth or anything else anywhere near my poor, protesting lady bits. 

Well, he had looked at my profile, he told me, with smugness that does not have any place coming from a boy with that ugly a mug. But it is a unique offer, he added, and I had seemed like I was reasonable enough to accept it. 

Are you. Fucking kidding me. 

I let off a little steam informing this toity sonofabitch about how "unreasonable" I really am (muthafuckah!), and deleted my profile.

So I've been doing some reading on this phenomena called "negging," that is in no way new but has recently been given a cool wacky moniker so apparently it's mainstream now. Is this what has been going on? 

Respect, Reshpleckt. More Scotch!

For sure it's been used on me multiple times, and I can see where it can be effective. Because it makes you feel like crap. And when you feel like crap you want to desperately seek out that man and FORCE HIM TO ADORE YOU because otherwise, you're not really as pretty or drunkly hilarious as you thought you were, despite everyone else at the party insisting you're a delight.

But, even if it makes me feel fucking terrible (what's so wrong with meeee??), I'm not a shy 18 year old wandering a frat party while some dude tells my my friend is hot but I'm just "eh," so do I want to take a ride on his motorcycle? True story. 

I won't even go into a feminist rant about how much this annoys me, but I had multiple Women's Studies discussions that boiled down to this same situation... which I now know goes by the hideous term of "negging" (Probably named thus because it sounds like "leggings," and thus girls will think it's cute and want to wear it with Uggs and a Northface jacket tee hee!). 

Ladies, please do not ever fall for this cheap-ass douchebag crap. By his logic, you're too physically attractive for him, so he needs to make you feel uglier. We already have the popular media for that. This is like giving a dog a treat for biting you.

Bring booze!

Anyway, to resume. 

I switched back over to OKC, because the boys may be less attractive but no one has asked when he can put it in my booty, so I figure that's an improvement. 

Currently, I am on the fence about the latest interest. He's super duper cute, and we had a great conversation, but when it switched to text, things got iffy. Mostly because he doesn't just send me one text... he sends me four. I put the phone down to pee and I've got like seven pages of missed texts to wade through... though, to be fair I do take forever to pee.

......... g2g ttyl.

His sense of humor borders on immature, as does every sense of humor on every man I've even considered dating as of late. At least once in a while he'll throw something out that impresses me, so I know that he has the full capacity to be clever... but he'd rather try to think of a funny nickname for me despite my telling him, no, never ever give me a nickname. 

Again, it is the confusing conundrum of Boymen--they look like men, but they want to give you a purple nurple (HAHA BOOBIES) and stay out all weekend binge drinking and smoking weed around the coffee table. 

I'm 26 years old, dammit. I do my binge drinking inside, in the basement, like every other normal adult.

Summary: At the rate things have been going, I'm pretty content being single. 

-No one is telling me not to get more cats. I can get as many damn cats as I want, and no one can stop me except city ordinance if a noise complaint is received. 

-I can eat the entire bag of stir-fry "dinner for two" from the supermarket all by meself. That bag does not feed two people. That bag is lunch and I'm still hungry I do NOT WANT TO SHARE.

-I can watch "The Nanny" for seven hours a day without complaints, and no one can stop me except city ordinance if a noise complaint is received. 

-The highlight of my month can be that the sweatpants I wanted went on clearance at Meijer, and it's only sad if I make it sad. 

-When I wake myself up in the middle of the night with farting, no one else is disturbed. Except the cats.

-I no longer need to subject myself to the irritation that is eyebrow tweezing.  

And I feel pretty darn good about myself!