Saturday, July 28, 2012

How to Have a Passionate Love Affair...With Your Crotch Biscuits

It truly saddens me to admit that I have been neglecting my internet presence. If this blog were a puppy, it would probably be dead right now.

...I think I started this off on the wrong foot?

My poor blog-puppy...Aw, now I feel terrible

Horribly depressing analogy aside, it is true. I can't even blame it on my job because even though that does suck up most of my time and energy, I still manage to come home almost every night to practice pole dancing for 1-2 hours. My pole obsession is growing into a monstrous beast. A sexy beast, but a beast nonetheless. My life is currently nothing but work, dance, and sleep. I think my friends have forgotten I ever came back into town. I end up doing stupid things like forgetting my lunch for work in the morning because I spend too much time watching pole tutorial videos. I am starting to get fantasies of being able to dance all the time, maybe even as a career. Then again, the only solid line of work that includes a lot of pole dancing also includes touching gross old men while half naked. My dislike of such a thing outweighs for desire to dance all the time. This is in theory of course, I have never actually tested out how much I like touching gross old men, but I have a feeling I would not enjoy it, based on how uncomfortable hugging even some of my best friends makes me. So you know, I have to be all obsessed with it as a recreational thing, which makes it difficult to fit it into my schedule.

I can't say that I love pole because of the ghastly bruises it gives me or the painful way my thighs have to grip the pole or how intensely exhausting it is. I would have to say I like it because of the way it makes me feel. I know I have talked about this in the past, and I don't want to bore you to tears with sappy mush about feeling good about yourself and your body and being happy and blah blah blah. But for real guys. I have been working out fairly regularly since I began this blog in January, and that has made me feel good about myself, not just because I can dangle my superiority over everyone's head passively aggressively through a blog, but also because it's, y'know, exercise, and it feels good for my body.

This is on a whole other level though. And isn't just because pole dancing is supposedly sexy and that makes me feel more comfortable with guys. Believe it or not, being a pole dancer does not actually make men easier to talk to. If anything, it makes it almost more uncomfortable, because once they find out about it--which for me is almost right away because my brain never shuts up about tricks, spins, combos, pole idols...and yea. As you can see it is difficult for me to keep it from spilling out of my brain-- you suddenly get self conscious that they are picturing you dancing without any clothes on instead of listening to your riveting trivia about the Legend of Zelda. Guys probably do that already, but it only makes me more conscious of it.

No, it isn't the idea that someone would pay to see me do what I do and then get off on it. It's more just about...body image.

I woke up the other morning and spent a good 5 minutes checking myself out in the mirror. All I could think was "damn." I didn't even have to suck it in or find my best angles or pretend my cellulite didn't exist. I didn't even care. All my pants have been very loose lately and I've literally had to tighten my belt more and more frequently. I was trying to keep myself grounded and told myself it's because all my pants are wearing out since I only have about five pairs anyway and haven't legitimately shopped for pants in about four years. But recently I put on a few pairs that I barely ever wear because of how tight they feel (and how my thighs like to explode out of shorts whenever I sit down) and lo and behold, they were loose as well. My thighs, in fact, did not explode out of my shorts when I sat down! It was a miracle. A christmas pole dancing miracle.

Also, there is nothing like seeing someone you haven't seen in awhile and having them tell you how fit you look. Yes, stroke my ego. It shall purr like a little helpless kitten in your arms.

I haven't lost all that much weight. At least, I don't think so. I don't have a scale because I am cheap and all artsy so numbers make me feel crazy. But whenever I find myself in a bathroom that has one, I discretely jump on and consistently find that nothing has changed all that much. Maybe a couple pounds here and there, and maybe I've gained some muscle along the way.  But still. I am pretty sure I look not all that different than I used to. It's still the same me. It's still the same body. So why do I feel so awesome about myself that it kind of makes me want to slap myself in the face with how obnoxious I have been acting?

There was once upon a time I really, really hated my body. I was disgusted by it, in the typical tortured teenage fashion. "Tortured" being a relative term here, of course. I am little more than an over-privileged white girl, after all. It all started around the time I hit puberty. Big surprise. When I hit the about the age of 13 or 14, instead of my chest magically inflating like the water balloons me and my friends used to stuff in our shirts as preteens, my hips, butt, and thighs did instead. And not in a smooth, attractive way. There had been no water balloon prep for what began happening to me. I flew through pant sizes in a whirlwind, meanwhile my chest remained exactly the same as it had always been. If you think that is an exaggeration, it is not. I can still wear the same shirts I wore as an eight year old. Sometimes I even do it out in public. That is just how unnoticeable the difference is.

During this time of lower-body inflation, most of the girls around me had not quite hit that point. They all still seemed to be beanpoles. I just didn't understand what my body was doing. I didn't know quite what to do with it. I didn't know how to dress or style my hair. Boys called me ugly. To my face. It all just... snuck up on me. It was like when you are supposed to be watching a kid and you turn your back for a second. The next thing you know you turn around and he is hanging by an electrical cord in the ceiling by his foot and covered in blue paint and glitter. And you have no idea where the blue paint came from. That is what my body did to me. It was a struggle and I am sure I am not the only one who went through this as a teenager.

I did get through it, however. With the validation of one very nice boyfriend and finally seeing some other girls gain weight in the oh-so-womanly places (other than their chests) by the end of high school, I had finally come to accept my body. Which was good. But that was it really. Just acceptance. More like, indifference. I didn't hate myself, but I didn't love myself either. It hasn't been up until just recently that I have finally understood how to go beyond acceptance and what it is like to love my body and how I look. There is a huge difference between the two that I feel a lot of people don't acknowledge.

Think about it. If you were going to get married, you would be about to devote your whole life to someone; you would have to be faithful; you would have to spend the rest of your days with them. Well, let's hope anyway. So say that were about to happen. First of all, you may be completely insane and I am warning you it is probably a bad idea. Don't make me say I told you so. But second of all, would you really want to be with someone you simply just "accept?" Unless you are over the age of 40 and have come to accept the secret truth of the bullshit of relationships that we younger folk aren't yet privy too, you probably don't. You probably want to marry someone you love. So why is your body any different? You are going to spend the next lifetime with your body. For heavens sake, you can't even divorce your body and squeeze it for every last penny it is worth out of spite. You are stuck with your it. This isn't a sci-fi movie people, you get what you get. So you may as well rekindle that flame and put the romance back in your relationship with your body. Take it out for a nice picnic with wine and caviar, play it a sweet love song on the guitar beneath it's bedroom window, buy it roses, or do some other bullshit move that is supposed to be a symbol of love or whatever. If it were me, I would take my body out on a romantic getaway. To the great city of San Diego. For comic-con. To show it the wonders of the world, of course! Yes. Ahem.  Like any worthwhile relationship, there will be rough patches, but you have to work through them. Because loving your body feels good, and with enough love it can love you back.

I am not saying it is easy. Loving what you've got can be tough, because nothing is ever perfect. I'd love to be able to see my abs or get rid of my crotch biscuits*. There are always going to be days when you want to hid in a hole and eat your body weight in ice cream. However, I know I have worked bloody hard for what I have, even if it isn't the penultimate of bodies. I am conscious about what I put into my body and how I treat it. If this is the best it gets, then so be it, because I know I am working my hardest, and honestly, that satisfies my needs. No one can tell me I am not trying. And if they do they are a bitch so their opinion doesn't count. In the end, no matter how much work you do or don't do, people are always going to look at your through their own eyes and have their own opinions. If you are as bad at persuading other people as I am, these opinions probably will not change. You can't do anything about it. So you may as well ditch the anxiety and become a narcissist, because it is much more fun. Feeling important is great! You ARE the most important person there is, and no one can tell you what to do. I don't care if Obama came up to me and told me I was looking a little porky. I would say, "Eff that bullshit Obama! I love my crotch biscuits and they love me. We are going to run away and elope and have a beautiful life by the seaside, and there is nothing you can do about it!" and then I would turn on my heels and walk away muttering under my breath about how I will show him a slice of real healthcare.
Don't let the haters get to you

I love this newfound feeling. I mean, I don't have a boyfriend (as if I can't mention that enough times), so this kind of makes up for it, right? I can just spoon my own beautiful body at night! In all seriousness though, it is nice. I can wear shorts without feeling infinite shame. I love being able to show off my shoulders. Heck, during vacation I pretty much pranced around in little more than a bikini all week and didn't even think twice. There was a time where I would try to cover up my bathing suit with every scrap of clothing I could to the point where I looked more prepared for ice climbing than I did swimming. But now? I find any excuse to shed the layers, baby! Because clothes suck and it is hot out these days and I don't care what anyone thinks. I like this newfound freedom. It tastes so, so sweet.

So that is my little spiel, I suppose, about body image. I apologize if it makes you want to bash your head against the wall. But I promise you--and I don't want to be obnoxious and repetitive like every tween magazine out there, so excuse me--it really is about your choices, and you CAN do it. Just remember, you are the most--nay, the ONLY important person there is. So you can do whatever you want. And if you are already totally in love with yourself and have a great body image, then great! Welcome to the club! There is a $50 membership fee, so just wire that to my paypal account, and you will be all squared away to become totally superior to everyone else. We have meetings every third wednesday of the month where we meet to drink non-fat vanilla lattes, eat pretentious healthy snacks, and bitch about how no one is good enough for us until we eventually break down sobbing because of our crippling loneliness. It's super fun, you should definitely come!

*the wobbly bits in between my upper thighs...term coined by Tina Fey

Friday, July 20, 2012

Fail Fail Fail...AKA Rawr I am a Drama Queen I am Going to Eat Your Happiness

I am going to warn you, this is going to sound kind of dramatic and petty, coming from someone like me. Or at least someone that pretends to be cool, which is me.

I feel like nothing but a big, stupid failure in just about every aspect of my life right now. I don't feel like I can do anything right. I hate myself...a lot. 

I can't believe I said that. I can't believe I feel that way. I thought becoming a badass and being cynical meant not caring--even about myself. But apparently I haven't reached that stage yet. Which makes me feel like even more of a failure. And so the cycle continues. Dun dun dun.

Let me rewind for a second, and explain a few things. 

I have not written in nearly 3 weeks because not only have I been busy and maybe kind of forgot about this blog for a bit (whoops), but also because I have had some serious writer's block, both mentally and physically. I sat down two nights ago with some ideas that had been floating around in my head for a few days, prepared to win over all my Facebook friends with some hilariously witty material that probably went into way too many details about my personal life, as per usual of course, but I found that writing was much more difficult than normal that night. Not only could I barely string together a sentence that made any sense at all, let alone be funny or entertaining in any way, but my keyboard decided this was the time....the time to rise up, to rebel, to be abused no more! My keyboard became mutinous. Things went wrong. Very wrong.

And it has only gotten worse since then. My "i" key randomly decides not to work for 30-60 seconds every few minutes and then saves up all those times I try to press it for later, when I am in the middle of typing something else that doesn't require its vowel-y services. My delete key, which hasn't been connected to my computer for months now and only stays in place by the mighty power of my keyboard condom, has decided every now and then to take a break and just not work at all, even when it is in it's rightful place in the top right-hand corner... the prick. My shift button sticks, so every time I need a capitalized letter, I have to wait a few seconds before I begin typing again. OTHERwise I STart looking like some asshole n00b trolling on youtube, or possibly some website a little more retro than that like Gaia or Neopets. Worst of all, my space bar has started to become schizophrenic. It won't stop pressing space. I had to rip the key off and placate it by literally rubbing my fingers inside the computer in the hole where the space bar is supposed to sit. It's like my keyboard is trying to get me to have sexual relations with it, like some crazy guy that won't take no for an answer....oh wait, I wouldn't know about that would I? I've never really had that problem before. Well, let's just assume then, that this is kind of what that is like. I feel so abused!

I type to you now from a dell keyboard I stole from our family PC in the basement, a sad, sorry old beast that only gets use from me blasting highly sexual and inappropriate music while I have dance sessions (inappropriate because some of it is rap and I am way too white to rightfully listen to it). That's all it's really good for anyway, the poor thing. Actually, to be honest, I haven't had a keyboard so cooperative since before my little accident several months ago, and it feels really reaaallyyy good to type at my regular pace. So it isn't too bad, actually. I was advised to use a USB connected keyboard by the man at the genius bar in the Apple  Store this evening. This is the same man who, after inspection of my bitchy computer keyboard, told me that the only option I had with them was to pay a flat fee of $1,280 to send it out and get all the parts that were affected by my olive oil spill replaced. They could not just replace the keyboard... something about warranting bad parts or whatever. I dunno. After the words "your only option is to pay $1,280" everything kind of blurred together. 

The unfortunate part of the story is that I will probably have no choice but to pay the price sooner or later. I could resort to another repair place that would just put in a new keyboard, however, I am sure eventually the oil will take it's toll on the logic board and disc drive and anything else that hasn't broken yet (so far my hard drive and keyboard are the only things to go), and then I will have to pay bit by bit for that, thus spending probably the same amount of money. Or I could just buy a new computer for about the same price. Of course, if I did that then what would I do with this hunk of aluminum? ...Other than just bash my head against it repeatedly. Whatever, I've already dropped it a couple of times anyway. No wonder it hates me so much. 

I am trapped in a corner, feeling like some terrorist has kidnapped my child and is holding them hostage for ransom. (P.S. remind me to never have children) This is only making me reflect upon the rest of my life, which, in light of everything, is looking like a big, stupid failure and I hate it. This computer thing is all my fault and so is everything else. I have no one to blame but myself. This is some sort of nightmare, I think. 

I haven't drawn or done anything artsy all summer really. I started a sculpture and drew a few doodles. One finished comic. Considering that I am an art student and this is supposed to be my "passion" and my future, you think this sort of activity would come naturally as a habit and that I would be excited to do it, like all my peers from school, but it hasn't. To be honest-- and I have a very hard time admitting this to people-- I actually feel relieved to not have to draw, a sign which says loud and clear to me "YOU ARE DOING SOMETHING WRONG HERE" like an obnoxious relative with no tact. So it could be that I am just really worn out, having a huge artist's block, or am doing the completely wrong thing with my life. You know, no biggie. I've only invested thousands of dollars and a couple years of my life into this. Whatever. 

Speaking of my career, my job isn't going so great either. I plan to go into depth about my summer work experience later once it is all over, so I'll be brief. I work with kids in an environment where I have to be very creative, quick thinking, and energetic. I know what you are thinking, because I think it too, why on Earth would I take a job like that? I am possibly one of the most passive, preparation-oriented, and quiet people that could possibly exist without imploding. But believe it or not, I like kids. I know. This might be a sign of the apocalypse, who knows. And yet even weirder-- if that is even possible-- I truly want to make them happy. I want to be good at my job. Because I like my job. When it goes well, it can be really awesome.

None of this has been happening in the past few weeks however. I had a problematic group last week which was challenging to say the least, so at the beginning of this week I thought it could really only get better, but oh how I was wrong. The kids I had this week did not pay much attention to me at all. I was not terribly bothered by this at first. From what I could see, they were still having fun even if they weren't sticking to the regular format of the camp, so I let it go. Then, on Wednesday, my supervisor came in to give me a break, spent 10 minutes with them, and the next thing I know they're turning around saying "and that is how you are supposed to do it." They told me things like "it would be better if you made it fun," or "maybe if you actually tried..." and they demanded nothing but more of my supervisor and less of me, saying that the week hadn't been fun at all up to that point. I felt like I had been smacked in the was more astonishing then when one of my kids actually smacked me in the face the week earlier on purpose (I think it was supposed to be a joke...I think...) Needless to say, I cried a lot that night when I got home. It really got to me. I didn't want to come back to work the next day, since I felt like they didn't want me there. There is nothing like a pack of kids you have been desperately trying to win over for several days rejecting you outright. It's worse than being passed over by a cute guy, because at least with a cute guy I know not to try so hard because I probably don't have much of a chance anyway. My coworkers tried to make me feel better, but in the end, it really just comes down to the kids and their experience. It doesn't matter if my coworkers or friends think I do a good job, it matters if the kids do, because that is why we work, as cheesy and stupid as that sounds. The week ended slightly better than that, but I can't help but feel like I have the conflict resolution skills of a jar of mustard. I feel like I am failing my job, because I am failing to meet the expectations of the kids I am in charge of. And surprise! That is not a good feeling.

Along with that bag of goodness this week came today at work, where I wore a costume I picked up in 11th grade that is a little on the short side. (Don't ask why I needed a costume, all you need to know is that my job is very strange) I admittedly bought it from the lingerie section of a retro consignment shop, but it looks more like a jester-like dress than anything else. Nothing is see-through or lacy or anything like that. It is just short. So I wore tights. However, as soon as I walked in the door this morning, the comments cascaded. Or at least the looks, if I am not giving myself too much credit, anyway. Sure, it was slightly risqué and I was wearing my prostitute face (my own personal term for make-up), but it didn't really bother me that I got attention for it. In fact I kind of enjoyed it, being the narcissist that I am, and also having a very damaged ego from the previous few days (darn kids). It did bother me, however, that up until that point, no one had really treated me that way at work. It only reminded me of last weekend, when I went to a party, met someone, hooked up a little bit, and then BAM. The next morning it was like I didn't even exist. We didn't exchange numbers, he didn't speak to me, he barely even looked at me. This is how much my love life is failing these days. People keep asking me how that is going. I have started forgetting to laugh when I get asked, because it is just starting to depress me instead. I am either invisible to men or visible for all the worst reasons. Why can't men just be into me for all the things that make me amazing? Like the fact that I've watched every episode of Community 6 times plus seen all the commentary? Or my fanaticism for female comedians? Or my lack of fear when talking about vaginas AND poop?

...Oh yea. That's why.

And we don't even need to go into the fact that my social life is as lifeless as a raisin (I am pretty sure most of my friends forgot I ever even came back into town), my financial aid for school is in a very precarious position, my phone got cut off several days early, making me feel more naked than actually being naked probably would, and how depressed the news about the shooting in Aurora made me feel this morning. I cried when I heard about it. It was just that upsetting.

So I am sitting here, after hearing the devastating news about my computer, thinking about how wrong everything is going right now, how tired I am, and how easy it would be to just not be alive. 

Yes, I went there. Somehow I have regressed into the terrible being that was my teenage self, which isn't helping the self-hate in any way. When did things get so messed up? What happened to not caring? Where has my badass self gone?? I was doing so well! I had even signed up for parkour classes! Shouldn't my badass self be rocking out right now? How could this happen? I swore an oath that I would never be as melodramatic and whiny as I was in high school, and yet, here we are. 

Something deep inside me tells me I need to be positive, but even my cynical self knows there is barely a positive bone in my body. I may be in too deep to actually try to be-- dare I say it-- happy. Can't someone just fix all my problems so I can go back to being a jerk, like usual? ....What? You mean I have been spoiled and privileged my whole life, and now that I am finally entering the real world I have to deal with my problems on my own? 

Well. This sucks.

(... Have I ever mentioned how I never wanted to leave middle school? I knew all along growing up would be totally overrated)

But for real, I need to get back on the badass track. This is shameful. I am complaining way too much and this blog is way too long and look, here I am complaining about complaining. I told you it was a vicious cycle!! 

I guess the next step is to start brainstorming ways to make things better, other than just pole dancing all the time. Because as much as I love that and wanna do that, I don't think it is really having a direct effect on all the stupid stuff in my life right now, other than being distracting as my only escape and consoling me because that is the one area of my life that is improving. So here's what I am gonna do:

1. Eat something tasty, since I haven't had solid food in about 12 hours now, partly because of work, partly because of stress, partly because no one fucking made me dinner tonight. Goddammit growing up, you suck!!
2. Sleep 
3. Dance
4. No wait--I said I was gonna do something more directly influential
5. No fuck it I am gonna dance. We all know it's gonna happen no matter what.
6. Then I am gonna go to parkour
7. Then if I have time I might try to tackle some of my issues
8. I may run out of time and just go to a party instead
9. Oh yea, problems. Those suck. Blah. Deal with those. 
10. Fail and go back to bed.
11. Start all over again.

Sounds foolproof! 

I'll come back and let you know how things went in a little, while ok? Stay right there. 

Monday, July 2, 2012

The Urban Legend of Summer Romance

For all 3 of you who noticed that  I was gone, I am happy to inform you that I have at last returned from my adventures in the Southeastern United States. So you can have a happy, updated blog once again! Yippee!

It is traditional every summer that I must make pilgrimage to the land of my ancestors: The South. And while I am there, I must do exactly that. Visit my ancestors. Or in other words, family.

Yes, I am one of those super lame young adults that thinks instead of going to Cancun and drinking and being a slut in a bikini with other young people, "vacation" is penning yourself up in a house with a large portion of your extended family for a week and never going anywhere or doing anything. Super fun. Ok, so I did a bit more than that, although I did spend a fair portion of the past two weeks sitting around on my butt. However, everything I did, including the butt sitting, I did with my family. Which is fine usually, but I hate to say that it sometimes kind of ruins the whole experience. I mean, as fun as it is to jump of cliffs and do rope swings and other fun things about a dozen times over with no one but your string bean brother joining in, I'd kind of like to do it with other people, yknow, having fun as a big group, and not just be watched/ignored. But my family will have none of this "fun" nonsense. Other notable family vacation experiences included being all fitness-y and working out EVEN ON VACATION (I am so amazing), the super educational trip to a lighthouse (not), and "sneaking"into bars (aka just walking right in through the front door) to watch my mother and her friend do karaoke, and then watching a young, very intoxicated 26 year old man hit on my mother while sitting right next to her. Yup, nothing like being passed over by a guy around your age for your mom. That's always good for your self esteem.

Anyway, I've had a lot of this traditional paying homage to my family thing going for the past two weeks. Which in the end,  I really don't mind. I'd much rather have an uneventful vacation than none at all. But you know what is funny about that is that my desire to have a boyfriend always reaches it's peak during this ritualistic time every summer.  I can only imagine why. I just always seem to find my head off in some weirdly romantic daydream when I go on family vacations.

I guess I should just come right out and admit that I am pretty much a gigantic hypocrite sometimes. Most of the time. Whatever. I never get out of bed on Saturday morning to go the farmers market and I have yet to actually vote. Hey, I am a busy person ok? (...See? More lies) I am a hypocrite about a rather concerning amount of things, and among these things also happens to be men and all that romance crap.

I think romance is a load of shit. I think wanting a boyfriend is stupid. I think needing a guy to validate who you are is lame. I think everyone in the world who has not been in a relationship with the same person for more than 2 years is foolish and doesn't understand how love works. I gag when people talk about giving or receiving flowers or chocolates or anything along similar lines. Quotes about love? I might throw up. Love poems?? You may need to take me to the E.R. Romance movies are similarly painful. I just don't like romance or any of that relationship shit. Or I should say "relationshit.*" I won't have any of it.

And yet...

I can't help wanting some of that. I can't help it when I go on vacation to daydream about some guy being super impressed with my ability to jump off rocks or how good I am at boogie boarding (hey, it happened when I was 12! I unfortunately screwed that exchange up and when he asked how I caught so many waves like the badass I was, I just shrugged and ignored him. So young and foolish!) I want to meet some amazingly hot man who likes Community, Kurt Vonnegut, and sarcasm as much as I do. I want to ride off into the sunset on the back of some bad boy's jet ski, clutching his lean yet still slightly muscular physique! I want some guy to bury me in the sand and then gaze down upon my squinty, sunburned face and disgusting hair, brushing the sand out of my mouth as I tell him I am going to have to ruin the sand castle he constructed on my belly because I gotta get up and go pee in the ocean. And he will be impressed. Because a girl who isn't afraid to pee in the outdoors is a hot girl indeed.

I try to validate my desire for a degree of romance by telling myself I only want romance if it is unique, well thought out romance, constructed specifically for the individual in a creative way. None of this boxed "flowers and chocolate" bullshit. Any bum can think up that. It's meaningless, essentially. But I still know deep in my heart I am violating my own rules. Even though I despise the idea of relying on someone to validate me... I want a guy to tell me I'm pretty! And not a creepy weird one I don't know, either. I want the legendary solid relationship built on a foundation of friendship and mutual respect, dammit! And I want to spoon and other shit like cuddling, even though I CRINGE at the word "cuddle" and it makes me want to puke and I hate people who say they like cuddling or that they are a "cuddler" and they sit on a couch with you and declare that they are going to cuddle and I start freaking out on the inside because I don't like people touching me and it makes me uncomfortable just thinking about giving people hugs even though a lot of the time I am kind of a little bit sad on the inside because I never get to hug people and sometimes I wish for more hugs even though I don't like it and AUUUGH. SO MUCH INNER CONFLICT. (Let's just call it spooning, ok?)

So as you can see, I am in quite a pickle with myself sometimes. I don't know what it is about myself that makes me want things that I know are stupid. I know, quite assuredly, that I would not be truly happy in about 99% of any relationships I could potentially have in my life. That is why I choose not to have them. I know that when people think they love you right away, they don't know what they mean by that. I know that the kinds of guys who like to be all sentimental and tell you about all their meaningful feelings will end up being giant pussies that you have to take care of, and I know I am not the kind of girl to put up with that. Then again, I also know that french fries are not good for you, but I order them every time I have the opportunity to anyway. Because life is just dumb that way.

I can't help but wonder if it was all those depressing (for me) rom-coms that I have watched like the well behaved middle class female I am that have conditioned me to believe that if I am totally cynical and sarcastic and deny all men that the most amazing and perfect man will come along and turn me into a happy person, after some romantic persuasion and a big misunderstanding that we eventually manage to work through. And he will do amazing and perfect things and have the perfect balance of being cool and awesome but not an asshole and very thoughtful in a non-annoying way. Dammit, rom-coms, that doesn't happen! Why must they lie to us so?? I guess the problem there is that if I still want it, I am not cynical and sarcastic enough to deserve some amazing man. This is why I must try even harder still to become totally jaded. So I can not want an amazing man and then get one.

...There may be a flaw to that plan.

Fortunately for me, whenever I am on vacation I am so glued to my family it scares all the potential summer romance candidates off really well. So I have yet to ever experience the conundrum that is a summer fling... The mythical summer romance of great love that instantly appears when you meet someone and then disappears the moment you return home. The legendary romantic-fling-beast that sometimes tourists and rednecks snap fuzzy photographs of something that looks like one and send it in The Enquirer. Or Cosmo. Whichever. Perhaps one day. Then again, I know it is a bad idea, because we all know (or at least I do) that life doesn't really work out that way. No matter how good the fries taste, they'll still always go straight to your thighs. So I guess I have to thank my family for being so utterly unexciting and my mother for deflecting all the creepy drunk guys I could potentially fall prey to (don't make me laugh) onto herself. I am sure she does it on purpose.

As for me, now that I am back in the real world I am off my daydream high and only have moderately stupid daydreams of maybe meeting someone nice and playing Mario Kart (wii version only) and drinking beer with them until they declare that I am "pretty cool" and would I like to stay the night, because after all I shouldn't be driving because that is like, my fourth beer, isn't it? That is a good enough dream for me. I think one day that might just be attainable. Until then, I'll just keep giving off the vibe that I hate all men everywhere all the time, as that is what I am so clearly doing. Ahem. Or maybe I'll just sit here on my butt and try to pretend to be cool. Or whatever.

*Unfortunately, I don't think I am the first to coin this term. Aw dammit, I thought I was going to be really clever for once!