The Fucked Up Circle of Friendship Chapter 3: The Donut and The Donut Hole

Alert. Here is a personal entry that contains many juicy details of my oh-so-thrilling life. So if you are really into stalking me, you just hit the jackpot. Hell yea!

If you are new to the FUCk-OFf Saga(yes I know my title is so clever), read from the beginning with Chapter 1: The Mystic Questioner of Questy Questions and Question Stuff. 

If you missed our last episode, check out Chapter 2: Waiter There is an Answer in My Soup

If you are really good at stalking me and are all up to speed on my personal life crises, carry onward, friend. 

Chapter 3: The Donut and The Donut Hole 

So there I was, 4:00 AM, 5th of July, picking up red solo cups, foam swords, and certain people's underwear in the rain, shivering in my tank top and yoga pants and wondering if there was ever going to be anything to life but stabby pains in my chest. You know how when you have insane cramps, and you are curled up on your bed and feeling like nothing exists in the rest of the world, there is only cramp pain enveloping your abdomen and blood eating your once harmless and friendly labia, turning it into a monster of un-forseen doom? Well if you are guy, then no, but I suppose it could also be something like being kicked in the balls if that comparison works better for you. Anyway, it was something like that, except instead of my female organs literally shedding their exoskeletons and squirting the excess blood out of my nearest body cavity, it was just my heart squealing and running around bumping into my chest like a piglet runt because it's a huge baby and everything. No matter what I did, I felt like it would never shut up. 

I think I just took this too far

Being the dirty iPhone whore/addict that I am, I robotically went inside to check my phone even though it was 4 AM and the majority of my friends were already passed out in various locations in my own house. Surprisingly enough though, I did have a Facebook message. It was from a friend that had previously been at my party inquiring about another person who had also been in attendance-- Since I've already used poet names as pseudonyms for other people I may as well keep the motif going. My friend Rudyard Kipling had contacted me in concern of another partygoer, John Keats. 

I did not know John Keats very well. He was currently employed at my previous workplace, and since I had just invited everyone from there as a whole, he showed up. I did not have a problem with this as I generally assume that if you work where I used to work, you are probably a pretty cool person and we should probably be friends. But John Keats had been not in the best of sorts that evening and seemed to turn off most people around him. I wasn't sure if this was normal or not. I tried to be supportive, but considering that I was feeling much like a lawnmower had just took my insides out to a really nice dinner and then never called like it said it would, my ability to help other people feel good was limited. John Keats seemed as if he were in a really dark place, but there was a lot of alcohol going around and I had plenty of other distractions, so eventually he left and I didn't take much notice. As long as he was good to drive, I was content. 

But Rudyard Kipling, who had also left the party awhile ago, had been up late on Facebook and noticed some posts from John Keats that were not so happy AKA borderline suicidal. They were vague in their meaning, but it was enough to be concerned. Rudyard Kipling asked if he was still there and if he was not, if someone was sober enough to go check on him and make sure everything was ok. I did a once over of my house to make sure John Keats had left and then, being insanely sober and not really ready to deal with laying back down and staring at my wall some more anyway, I offered to go check on him. In the process I had accidentally awoken my friend, William Blake. I told William Blake of the situation at hand and said I was leaving and didn't know when I'd be back. William Blake offered to come with and I said that was fine, but I was leaving right then. William Blake didn't even bother to go find his shoes; We jumped in my brother's truck right away and were off. 

I am kind of odd in the way that I go into Super Action Meri Hero mode whenever I observe someone depressed/suicidal and in need of help. It is probably because I have been there so many times myself and I have been fortunate to have had the aid of some really super-amazing-fantastic-friendly-friends that I feel the need to pay it forward. Or maybe I just don't want anyone else to have the same problems so I can feel special and miserable all in one tightly wrapped burrito of depression fun times. Either or... I tend to spring into action about these sorts of things. They are important to me. Besides, if you could make a life or death difference in someone's life, wouldn't you? No? Well you are a terrible person then.

If I were a comic book super hero action Meri, this is how Marvel or DC or whatever would draw me. I decided I'd throw in sexy hair and massive biceps because why not?

(What is really sad is that I am making fun Escher Girls style, but I am so freakishly flexible I can actually strike this pose.)

As I was driving in the wee hours of the morning to the address Rudyard Kipling had given me, my brain started conjuring horrible images of what could possibly be waiting us when we arrived and my stomach did a little somersault. "Please, oh please let this be a false alarm," it whispered to me. It also said, "Hey I'm really fucking hungry, all you've eaten in the past 8 hours is some potato chips and half of one really gross starchy hot dog bun." But I just ignored that.

When we arrived my heart immediately sank. Not because anything bad had happened--at least not yet--but because the address led us to an apartment building, but we did not have a unit number. I adamantly started writing messages on Faceboook to Rudyard Kipling, who began super sleuthing all over the internet like the super hero that he was to figure it out. Meanwhile William Blake and I started wandering around the complex to see if there were any clues to help us figure out where he lived: mailboxes, a night manager, people hanging around, phone numbers to call...anything.

It was unfortunate that it was 4:15 AM in the morning at this point and also that the apartment complex was rather large, which made our search difficult. Add on top of this the fact that my left foot was swollen like a pineapple in a bathtub/pregnant alien eggs and I was limping like the hunchback of Notre Dame and William Blake was barefoot...We were not exactly the best pair for the job. We did manage to find one dude (drunkenly?) passed out on an armchair on his front porch who was just barely awake enough to talk to. He thought the description of John Keats sounded familiar! Score! ...But had no idea where he lived. Then he passed out again.

As time went by my stomach kept doing somersaults, reminding me that the more time that passed meant a greater chance of bad things happening and the whole evening could end up with police lights and ambulances and lots of crying--crying that would actually be justified and not over hormonal bullshit, which is the worst kind of crying. I started texting and calling all the numbers I had from work to see if anyone could even tell me what John Keats' car might look like so we might get an approximate location of his apartment. Rudyard Kipling was still super sleuthing away. I finally got in touch with one of my coworkers who had actually been to his apartment! Hooray! ...But she didn't remember the unit number. She gave us a pretty rough explanation of where in the building it was. We went where we thought she may have been referencing and decided to knock, hoping that we weren't accidentally disturbing an innocent stranger at 5:00 AM.

We knocked multiple times but got nothing. I sank down to the ground, exhausted and starting to lose hope. Rudyard Kipling, who had been calling John Keats and suicide hotlines to try to and get in touch with John Keats finally heard from John Keats! He was ok! For now! ....But his messages hinted that the case might soon be otherwise. Then he stopped talking to Rudyard Kipling. More somersaults. Ninja somersaults. Summer Olympic trampoline event somersaults. Oh god.

I looked up. Me and William Blake were sitting on the floor right in front of the office, which I had previously thought was an mythical thing, since there were signs pointing all over the place indicating that one was around somewhere, but seeing as we had just hobbled around for 45 minutes and hadn't seen it, I decided it was like fairies or 9/11 or something. There were signs with lots of numbers all over the door and I started pounding them into my phone for Rudyard Kipling to call. He got in contact with the maintenance man, who likely had access to a list of residents and might be able to help us find John Keats! Hooray! ...The maintenance man swore and hung up on Rudyard Kipling.

We were doomed.

In a last ditch effort, I tried calling John Keats to see if maybe his phone would play through the door and we could at least know if we had the right apartment or not. Not only did we hear the ringtone from the door literally right next to the one we were at, but John Keats picked up, since he didn't recognize my number.

"John Keats. Where are you?" I was super stern like Mom when little Billy has been out all night and never called.

"Who is this?" John Keats sounded rather groggy.

"This is Robert Frost. Where are you? Are you ok?" (Hey, I get a poet name too, right?)

"I'm at home, I'm fine..."

"What is your apartment number? We want to come see you and make sure you are ok."

John Keats gave me his number and I scrambled up with William Blake and immediately knocked on the door right next to us. John Keats let us in.

Here is a basic illustration of how it went down:

I sincerely apologize to the friends and family of Robert Frost. The friends and family of William Blake and John Keats can suck it because they've been dead way longer and I didn't give them boobs anyway.

He was alive. He was fine. It was all good. My stomach stopped somersaulting and went back to just being hungry and hungover. I suddenly realized I had no idea what to do from here. I started messaging Rudyard Kipling again meanwhile trying to maintain conversation with John Keats, as if at the very second we stopped talking he might grab a razor and slit his wrists or something. Rudyard Kipling went to a suicide hotline website and started coaching me on what to say via Facebook on my phone. I tried to be as non-judgemental as possible (which is very hard to do when you are a girl and that is what you are basically raised to be by society), listen carefully, and make sure John Keats promised he would be safe and not hurt himself. John Keats did not seem phased by this. He apparently did not want to kill himself. He just wanted to leave society behind and go live in the woods and see how long he could survive. Which was almost the same thing just a little less violent, I guess, and not as immediate of an issue. As crazy as this plan, or lack thereof, sounded to me, it was better than the alternative I had feared.

After 30 minutes of talking, trying to reason about life, the universe, and whether or not human beings care about each other with John Keats and failing, making sure he promised he would not hurt himself, that he would take time to think things over, and also forcing him to reassure the rest of the internet that he was not about to kill himself so no one else would get confused, William Blake and I left. It was 6:00 AM. The sun had risen. We stopped by a 7-11 and I got one of those fancy Starbucks drinks to make my stomach stop being whiny and then went back to my house.

I couldn't even go inside. I felt like life had just pummeled me in the face major-big-time. I sat in my front yard, sipping fancy Starbucks drink with William Blake. The same friend who had told us where the apartment was had risen to get to work. She told me that I was such a good person. Just like the previous evening when everyone kept reassuring me that I was hot, throughout the rest of the day people kept reassuring me I was a good person. People seemed so...I don't know how to put it... incredulous? that I had done such a thing for someone I barely knew. Someone that wasn't even my friend. As if they would not have done the same. Which is what I assumed.

Apparently I have too much faith in society.

Me. Too much faith. Yea. Right.

Sad.

I eventually did go back inside and slept for an hour or so. Then I got back up again and started cleaning. Other people rose and helped me, being the courteous party goers they were. I had also told them that they had to.

The rest of the day was like grey, fuzzy haze. And not the fun kind when you go for a run in the really early morning and feel all fresh and good about yourself. I felt like a zombie. I went to brunch, where I didn't touch any of my food except a couple of really mushy slices of banana and a giant chai. I came home. I tried to sleep. I failed. I turned on Arrested Development, hoping it might make me laugh or comfort me, but instead all I felt was a burning inside me. A burning pain of confusion, anger, frustration, and most of all sadness... What had just happened to me? What was wrong? Everything felt like such a scattered, chaotic mess that I didn't even know where the source of pain was coming from.

In retrospect it was probably the fact that I hadn't slept in 36 hours, kept drinking secretly caffeinated beverages, and hadn't eaten for a considerable amount of time that made me feel like I was going to explode. But I just thought I was broken and dysfunctional. I somehow found myself switching between hyperventilating and sobbing my face off the entire afternoon. My insides burned. My heart screamed. My chest continued to ache in a very real and physical way. Even though I had just spent an entire evening trying to prevent someone from dying, I wanted to stop existing myself. This wasn't just stupid fake leprechaun analogies to explain emotions. This was real, unfiltered pain that had been waiting to get out for a long time.

I think this is going to become a thing.

Once again, apologies to Robert Frost and Co.

(Do you like my amazing hand renderings?!? YES I AM IN ART SKUL).

(...I should stop drawing these at 3 AM.)

I had my answers. Colorado did not bring me unquestioned and unchallenged joy. It was not going to be a place where I could just come back and everything would be easy. I was still going to be the same messed up person there, with the same messed up relationships and dysfunctional friending abilities and multiple personalities that fight each other more viciously and back-handedly than every Sorority cat fight ever.

And yet.

When I was packing up the next day to go back to California, I still felt sad and heavy. I still didn't want to leave.

I had all of the information I needed. It had all been laid out in front of me, right there, sitting on the top of my packed up suitcase like it had just been waiting the entire time to show up. I had just arrived upon serious decision making time.

Dun. Dun. DUN.

Join us next time for the exciting conclusion of the Fucked Up Circle of Friendship Saga in Chapter 4: I  Still Haven't Thought of a Title Yet But I Promise This Thing Is Almost Over!

The Fucked Up Circle of Friendship: Chapter 2: Waiter, There is an Answer in my Soup

Alert. Here is a personal entry that contains many juicy details of my oh-so-thrilling life. So if you are really into stalking me, you just hit like, the MEGA jackpot. Try to contain your excitement. 

Check out Chapter 1: The Mystic Questioner of Questy Questions and Question Stuff here 

Chapter 2: Waiter, There is an Answer in my Soup

We left off with me going home last May and finding myself happily happy there, and then I was stuck wondering what to do with my life. Should I leave California for a bit and try to figure myself out? Would I find the friendship, connection, and inspiration I was looking for at home or was I just fooling myself into thinking it would be an answer to problems far beyond simple fixes? Well, I decided to go for a second visit to see if I could work on finding some answers. Remember how I had a super awesome time and was totally happy throughout my whole trip in May? This trip was basically the opposite. This trip was like a shit sundae.

The hoard of crazypants feelings I'd been having over a boy exploded like a bloated, long over-due zit in the middle of my face. I hate to think that I really care that much about dudes--I like to think I am smarter and stronger than that-- so I choose to think that what happened has just been the cherry on top of the shit sundae that has really set me off down the dark path of total doom and self destruction lately. This is going to be the part of this saga where I simply go over all that stuff that went down, a large chunk of the reflection will come later, just so you know. Because I know you just LOVE reading THAT part. So yes, you will have to sit tight to get the full picture. As usual, there is a lot to say. I'm terrible at brevity. Now without further ado, let me attempt to describe the events that transpired in the most gracious way I possibly can.

I liked a boy. Let's call him Lord Tennyson. Look, I know it's stupid to use a pseudonym, especially one like that, but he chose it, so what can I say? I'm writing about all these poor boys and the least I can do is let them choose their own pseudonym. Anyways, pseudonyms are stupid but it's my blog and I've always dreamed of being like Carrie Bradshaw on Sex and the City because I really like that show because I'm girly and indulgent sometimes even though it doesn't even make sense because only like ONE guy has a pseudonym on that show and none of the others do and we are never really sure why, it's just kind of weird but whatever, it's my blog and my dream so don't crush it, OK?!? Anyway. Ahem. Back to what I was saying.

I'd always kind of liked Lord Tennyson passively in the past (hehe, I can't stop giggling about that sentence), but as it usually does with most guys on my part, the feelings of likingness took a, uh, particular turn when I saw him and did things with him and then I was like "Oh no captain, the feelings are attacking our spaceship!" and the captain was like "Feelings blasters, engage!" and I was like "Captain, our blasters have been knocked out by amazing boy smell!" and so the captain was like "Warp speed ahead, let's try to lose these bastards. They got my grandfather in 2351 and I won't let them get me!" And so we tried to outrun them but they were hot on our tail and they weren't letting anything get in their way. SO. I decided to do what everyone told me to do and I was like "Ok, fine, I'll try and talk to him about this shit and maybe these feelings won't eat me and the captain alive." The captain nodded in agreement. He was very tired. He hadn't slept for days piloting our ship. So yea. That was my plan.

I didn't really expect anything to come out of it, at least nothing good. I mean, I'd hoped, but I didn't expect anything because years of disappointment has taught me not to and I knew I was dealing with an emotionally scarred boy here and it's not like I'M ready to deal with anything serious I mean JESUS. Have you met me? I'm about as functional as the comic-con ticket purchasing system. Can you imagine the comic-con ticket purchasing system dealing with an actual relationship of some kind? Yea, I didn't think so. That'd be a shit storm. That'd be the definition of a shit storm. But I thought maybe if I just said something about it, we could all have a good laugh, establish some ground rules so the feelings monsters did not attack anymore, and life could move on. Because really my idea of “feelings” is “I'm happy to be around you, and I'm sad when I'm not,” and then it's just like “Yep, ok, uh-huh.” The end. And it's really not that difficult, so the whole thing should have been pretty easy to say right?

Well you know how I am. I can't actually talk about things! That is why I have this blog. I like to think I can talk about things and I prepare to talk about things but at the last second I always chicken out. But I was ready to try, for the sake of my poor, poor captain and his dear beloved grandfather. So that is what I set out to do. I arrived in Colorado and started to make plans with Lord Tennyson, who was busy, but said he could try to come over at some point later that evening. I told him that sounded good. Then I proceeded to not hear from him for three days. I, being a girl (y'know due to my vagina and all), started freaking out after about one full day and multiple unreplied-to texts. I knew things were not going to work out to be a dream come true, but I started to wonder if things were worse than I had realized. Was this going to be like high school all over again, where all these people that I loved didn't like me or want to talk to me for some unexplained reason? My brain went into full scale freakout just remembering the traumatic experiences. I tried to be tactful, trying not to vomit my freakout all over the place where people could see, but I could not even get in touch with Lord Tennyson even over a simple question about ice for a party I was planning, and the freakout vomit was building in my chest cavity.

Oh right. The party. There was a party. That I threw. We'll get to that.

Turns out that my freakout vomit is rainbow.

The party was actually the only reason I ever did finally get in touch with Lord Tennyson. There was a large debate over whether or not we would be getting a keg and there came a certain point where I needed to know. Seeing as the drinks were his responsibility, I finally managed to get him by phone. That is when we finally had the conversation I had been hoping for, except that it was not the conversation that I had been hoping for because SURPRISE. I couldn't say a word. The conversation was, as I had expected but hoped would not be true, me receiving the same schpeal that I feel as if I get from every guy ever. “You're awesome! You're pretty! But I don't want to date you because of vague reasons related to me being a 20 something dude afraid of commitment, emotions, and other reasons and stuff. Blah blah blah. I just want to be friends.” Yea, I love that speech. I know that speech well, it seems. I, of course, was on the other end like a business call. “Yes, uh-huh, good to know, thank you sir have a nice day.” The end. It's like I had nothing to say.

Ugh.

I really didn't have anything to say, though, at least not at the time. You hear stuff like that enough to know there isn't much use fighting it. I guess if I'm being honest I don't usually hear the speech per say, but I've been bro-zoned many, many times and I'm sure I've mentioned my invisible penis to you before? I'm cynical enough to know there is no such thing as changing a man. In the end you just have to come to accept that no matter how awesome you are told that you are, you are still not amazing enough to be “the girlfriend” or even “that girl that I am kind of seeing” (because let's face it after three years of being single you've definitely lowered your standards to that). So what happened from there?

I hung up the phone, went home and attacked the crap out of some cookie dough, feeling frustrated like I was one of those gymnast chicks who had spent her whole life working her butt off to get to the Olympics and then hit puberty and simply grew too tall to ever make it. I let a friend take me out for a drink that evening. I didn't intend to get drunk; I wasn't in the mood for it and I knew I'd be throwing a party the very next night, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't expect to get at least a little buzzed. It's basically unavoidable with my laughable alcohol tolerance. Seriously, a 12 year old boy with acne and a cracking voice could probably drink me under the table. I also wasn't driving. So yea, I intended to appreciate the fact that I was 21. But then there was this drink on the menu called a “slurricane,” which was so intriguing I decided I needed to try it. It came a personal sized pitcher and turned out to be very tasty; I quickly learned that it was very rightfully named, especially when my friend declared she needed to go in ten minutes so I better finish my drink and I still had half of it left.

This very liquor-rich drink was dealt with in just an hour. By me. You do the calculations. 

It wasn't even dark out yet and I was hammered. I asked my friend to take me by the liquor store so I could buy a handle of vodka to stuff down one of the watermelons for my 4^th of July party the next day. This was the beginning of a series of poor decisions on my part. I sat alone in my room, sipping on straight up vodka (bad decision number one) and vigorously cutting holes in the watermelon, angry at boys and angry that Colorado was not giving me what I wanted right then. I was halfway through my trip and had spent the majority of my time miserable and alone in my room crying. The other half I had spent doodling crazy cat ladies alone in my kitchen. I then asked another one of my friends-- we'll call him Dylan Thomas (his choice not mine)-- to come over, drink vodka, and watch only the best show ever with me so we could make fun of the main characters' clothing choices. In order to convince him to come, I used the phrase that probably no inebriated girl should ever say if she has absolutely no intention of hooking up with a guy: “I don't want to be alone right now.”

I was drunk, ok? It didn't occur to me that this is commonly used as code for “let's do it.” I don't even know if that was how it was interpreted on Dylan Thomas's end, but I still should probably not have said it. I mean, it was true. I didn't. My moodiness over the past few days had escalated in a way that I knew was dangerous. I could feel myself in that black, inescapable pit and I really did need some platonic company to keep me distracted. I had had enough nights of crying myself to sleep. The point is. I said it, and he came over, and we watched the best show ever for a little while and then yea, that happened. That thing that I do usually when I drink too much even though I'd much rather do it when I'm not drinking but somehow it never happens that way. Yep. I passed out shortly after, slept a good long while, then woke up in the morning still partially drunk. It took me a few moments before my brain registered the events of the last night and how I ended up where I was, and suddenly I was half mortified at what I had done and half ridiculously entertained, laughing at myself like “Oh Meri, you little rascal, you did it again!” Or maybe it was something more like "Ahahahahahaha. Hahaha. Hahaha. Ha. Ha. Heh....Fuck." 

Dylan Thomas is my good friend. We talk a lot mainly because we share the same angst. We are depression buddies. Talking to each other doesn't necessarily help our problems, but at least for me it is nice to talk to someone who knows how it feels, confirm that yes, that is a legitimate feeling and you are not totally and completely insane. He also doesn't try to tell me to “chin up,” or “look on the bright side of life!” like most normal people do before I attempt to punch them in the face, because that isn't how depression works, dammit. I never, ever intended to hook up with Dylan Thomas and I wasn't that I was upset because I had or even that I had hooked up with someone when I was drunk yet again...Ok, so maybe I was a little upset about that. But I was mainly upset because I had been really, really drunk. I was kodak moment drunk, meaning that I only have a few quick snapshots of the things that transpired in my head. How had things transitioned from one to another? I have no idea. How the experience as a whole was? Not a clue. Still frame images and big blank black spots. That's all I've got. It's not that I said no but I don't particularly remember saying yes either. That's what bothers me. It didn't feel like I was in my body at all; I didn't feel like the same person. That's why I didn't want to talk about it, or why I didn't want people to know. I've never been that reckless about drunken hook ups before. I felt like I had crossed a line. But yet the word got out pretty quickly. Gee. Fun how that always works.

I spent the morning contemplating what I had done—or whatever my body I had done, because my actual self had gone far, far away the previous night-- huddled over a trash can by the toilet, daring my body to get sick, but it refused, like the big fat tease it likes to be (or not). I informed Dylan Thomas that if he told anyone I would punch him in the dick (that threat didn't work) and then proceeded to let him know that I really just wanted to be friends. There I was. Perpetuating that fucked up circle of friendship. Everyone is “just friends” with each other and I felt as bad as I did the day before when I heard it from someone else. Sometimes I wish I could control who I wanted to be with and who I didn't, because then I would just fall in love with a rock and that rock would never disappoint me because rocks can't speak and tell you that they just want to be friends. We'd have a beautiful love, me and that rock. If only I could learn how to love it... Sigh. One day little rocky, one day.

True love. <3

Somehow despite what will probably be my worst hangover of 2013, I managed to get things ready for 20+ people to come over and get smashed while I did not even want to think about another drop of alcohol entering my body. It was going to be an interesting night, I knew that much. And thus began my party.

Oh boy.

After the week of sludge-feelings and one deathly hang over, I really struggled to get in the party mood, but I tried my best. I honestly was thrilled to see so many awesome people that I had missed so much (and then a lot of others I had never really met, but whatevs, it was cool), but there was this tiny part of my chest that was like, “No fuck you, you just get to be sad no matter what,” which is always so inconvenient during party times. I was fortunate to be the party host, I think, since it meant I could run around everywhere distracted and neurotic as much as I wanted and it would make sense... I just had to check in on my party peeps, yo! And then when Dylan Thomas and Lord Tennyson showed up later, I tried to keep my cool by repeatedly commanding my body to “be cool be cool be cool be cool be cool dammit,” when really there were these leprechauns made out of freakout vomit dancing around in my chest cavity now like it was no big thang. Dammit freakout vomit leprechauns, you're making me nervous! You might break something with all that dancing!

I kept trying to drink enough to make myself chill and content with the whole situation, but my body very dramatically refused to get drunk. So I was just like this on the inside for awhile:

Then some things happened.

Lord Tennyson wanted to talk again, like conversation real talks, and I was just like “Oh god.” I wanted to talk too, and I vaguely remember having things I wanted to say but I can't remember them anymore. We walked away from my house across some grass and into the open space and had conversation real talks, which I wish I could remember better but because I was so anxious about having a serious conversation in person, my body went into a really weird state of awareness and a lot of it was a blur. I was also slightly tipsy at that point, thanks to my anxiety driven attempts to get drunk, and my friend Donovan's wicked strong drinks. 

They might not be in the correct order, but a couple of things do happen to stand out in my mind about that conversation, despite the bluriness of it all. Lord Tennyson assured me that he hadn't been lying to me, particularly when he said he found me attractive. Actually, this is something that kept happening all night. People kept reassuring me that I was attractive, as if I was insecure or had doubts about this or thought that due to their borderline sexual harassment behavior I somehow thought otherwise. Yea, because y'know, I'm not concerned what people think about my personality or anything. SEXISM. UGH. Anywho, back to what I was saying before Feminist Meri stole my blog for a moment...

We talked briefly about me and Dylan Thomas and then he asked me something. He asked me if I was ok. But like really. Was I ok? I shrugged. No. Not really. Somehow we had transitioned from walking to laying in the grass next to each other on the other end of the park. He asked me what I really, truly wanted and I could feel myself choking up as desire and truth knotted in my stomach as I said “I want to come home.” I wanted to turn away and be like “Nope, this is not gonna happen. I'm not going to cry in front of people.” Because even though I cry like, basically every day right now, I never let people be around while I do it. Badasses just aren't like that. But then he turned me back towards him and told me to look at him, in the eyes. The lump in my throat went away and all my freakout vomit leprechauns stopped their wild dancing and were like “Oh dawg, shit just got real.” Did I mention my freakout vomit leprechauns were totally gangsta?

Yea, I know my brain is weird sometimes, you don't have to tell me. 

I'd never had an experience like this before. I'd never had someone demand that I look at them like that and I had never so willingly said something I truly felt out loud and in person like that. We continued talking for a little while about California, coming home, and some other stuff probably, I can't really remember, but I do know that, at least for me, it was pretty hardcore conversation real talks. After a bit, he moved me to lay on top of him and told me to be still. I tried making a sarcastic joke about acro yoga (blog about that coming soon to a desktop near you!) but I eventually complied. I lay on top of him and sat still while I let him put his hands on me and hold me in the dark in the middle of that field.

Lord Tennyson was probably really drunk at that moment. I have my doubts about whether or not he intended to do something like that, because it was awfully confusing for me. But I wasn't about to stop it, because it was there that my hard earned cynicism melted away for a few moments as I appreciated that wonderfully safe feeling of just being held, of just being physically close to someone, of doing it by choice and being able to remember it later on. I'm normally terrified and anxious just about hugging my friends, let alone letting it last more than a few seconds, so you must realize what a big deal this kind of thing is for me. The person I used to be, the Meri that was once filled with love and earnestness surfaced for a split second. Earnest, Love-filled Hippie Meri met with the Badass, Sexless and Cynical Meri that took over the drivers seat after years of Earnest, Love-Filled Hippie Meri got us into all sorts of emotional messes, and they nodded at each other like there was one day hope that they could somehow coexist in harmony. It was like a surreal movie moment, like when a character meets himself in the future or becomes his own son or some other weird jam. And that was what was so terribly, heart breakingly cruel about Lord Tennyson: his ability to create these movie moments in my life like no big deal. First the severe sexual tension sunglasses moment and then this. It was utterly unbearable.

Earnest, Love-Filled Hippie Meri had meanwhile faded away and probably gotten locked back up in the trunk by Badass Meri, who proceeded to take control again. She was overcome by amazing boy smell and had to break the whole thing up by saying “You know, if you still want to make out...” Lord Tennyson looked tempted but said, “Yea, but then I'll probably get carried away and want to have sex with you.” Badass Meri nodded in agreement and looked off into the distance, “Yea...” like a farmer contemplating the weather and his crops and when he should try to harvest them. 

...Good simile, eh?

It was then time to head back to my party, and Lord Tennyson decided for some reason to help me up by trying to pick me up off the ground completely. This failed as he stumbled over uneven ground, dropped me, and then fell on top of me. Or namely, my foot, which screamed at the rest of my body in response. Ok, so maybe being held was not such a great thing after all. Sexless and Cynical was back on track. I limped back to my house, where my foot was already swelling like pineapple in a bathtub. Does that make sense? No. Does it have to? No. But really though. It did not take long for it to look like something had laid eggs in the top of my foot. Over a week later and it is still swollen and injured, actually. Dancing has been tough. Just what I need. Fun times.

Anyway. Back in the past at my party, I went back to being like this on the inside:

The almost-broken foot was just a bonus feature

Except distracted by the really intense pain in my foot that I was trying to ignore but failing. 

My moments of peace were gone and replaced by many moments of not so peace. The gangsta freakout vomit leprechauns went back to [break]dancing in my chest as time carried onwards. Party things happened. Someone broke a pot, and Lord Tennyson pulled me into the closet with the excuse of looking for a vacuum to clean things up, when really all that he wanted to do was put his hands down my pants. This was another very confusing but still welcome moment, although not quite as calm as the one before. I kind of treat sex like potato chips. If they are there, I am pretty much just going to eat them. It doesn't even matter, I just don't give a fuck. I don't get potato chips very often, ok? I'm going for it. I feel very guilty about it later, but you know, it is what it is. I don't do much to try and change the habit. So I let it happen for a little while. 

The gangsta freakout vomit leprechauns were so excited about this they decided to invite the unicorns next door to come party with them. The unicorns, being much more practical creatures, went ahead and alerted me that “Hey. You're in a coat closet fooling around with a guy that you want but doesn't really want you except physically which is kind of nice but ultimately probably not the best decision with where you are in life right now. I mean maybe you could be ok with that at some point but not right now when you just had all this mess inside you and did some stupid things last night and yea. Clear your head before you make any decisions, girly. Also this coat closet doesn't even have a proper door, it's just a curtain and people are looking for you so you better cut this crap out.”

The unicorns are such party poopers. Curse those responsible little gits.

But I did what they told me to do because I value the opinions of the unicorns. They usually steer me well. I then proceeded to watch Lord Tennyson turn around shortly thereafter and commence with what appeared to be an orgy of other people in my very own shower, which led to him disappearing with someone else for a few hours to do the you know what, which was really not ok. The gangsta freakout vomit leprechauns basically started a full scale riot where they looted all the businesses located in my lower intestine and burned my already half dead liver and other such things. It probably didn't help that I was incredibly sober while everyone around me was indeed quite drunk.

At about 2 AM I attempted to call it quits and go to bed. I went into my bedroom and lay down, where I squeezed one of my fuzzy bear-head-shaped pillows (yes I have one of those don't judge me) as hard as I could and stared at the wall. I was exhausted, but I could not shut my eyes for the life of me. My blood was pounding so hard against my entire body, my stomach still felt sick from the hangover earlier that day, and there was this tight pain in my chest. Everything was wrong. So wrong. Colorado was not supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be the place where I was happy. I felt betrayed by my home. I felt broken and sick. How was I going to make a decision about what to do now? THERE WAS NO HOPE. I was so tired that THERE WAS NOTHING. It was dramatic. You know, how I like to do things. 

I tossed back and forth for a few hours, getting up intermittently to check on the few stragglers still awake in my house to make sure they were all set for sleep and such. By 4 AM everyone else had finally found their heads on a pillow and the house was completely still, except for me, and the gangsta freakout vomit leprechauns rioting inside me. They were about to come out, full force. I made a quiet dash for my porch, where I sat on a chair and screamed silently to the hills and sky of my hometown, letting the leprechauns come jumping out as I breathed sharply and irregularly, swallowing down the lump in my throat and wanting to explode with pain.

I started cleaning up as much of the after party mess on my porch as I could as it began to rain. I shivered but continued, unwilling to stop moving anymore. To stop would just to be letting the pain come back. But I was soon to find a new, very urgent distraction, which! Will be continued in The Fucked Up Circle of Friendship Part 3: From the Donut to the Donut Hole*

Stay tuned!! 

*This title makes absolutely no sense but neither does my life so who cares?

Note: It really bothers me that I just wrote 4,000+ words on pretty much just boys, and I am probably saying this more for my own sake than anyone else's, but there is more to my woes than just all this mess. The few days described above here were kind of a build up towards a lot of different stuff, and I'll probably get to talking about that eventually, but I think I just needed to put this out there so I could be done with it. Stupid freakout vomit. 

Click here to read Chapter 3: The Donut and the Donut Hole. 

The Fucked Up Circle of Friendship: Chapter 1: Questy Questions and Question Stuff

Alert. Here is a personal entry that contains many juicy details of my oh-so-thrilling life. So if you are really into stalking me, you just hit the jackpot. Hell yea!

A lot of shit has gone down in the past month, culminating in a really traumatic week and now a lot of big life decision making time. My favorite kind of time! ...Not! Anyway, as usual, I feel the need to share way too many personal things with the world in order to sort out my crazy time head. Once I began this entry I realized it would be quite long and would take me awhile to write, considering it is not just a process in organizing thoughts and ideas, but also a process in trying to solve my life problems and be funny (aka random) all at the same time. Soooo I decided to split some things up epic novel style so I could keep the world updated and keep writing and make you all entertained and stuff. Are you entertained yet? Probably not. Proceed (with caution) to find nuggets of joy.

Chapter 1: The Mystic Questioner of Questy Questions and Question Stuff 

At the end of last May, I ran away home to Colorado for a week and had a pretty awesome time. I saw lots of super friendly friends, I worked a little bit at my previous crazy-day-camp employer (meaning more friends! Hooray!), I had romantic entanglements with a boy....Overall the trip was pretty nice. Being around all these friends and coworkers and people that made me feel cared for after living in a place where I feel disconnected on a constant basis was like magical unicorns eating ravioli in pesto sauce. In other words it was the best. I felt very much like I was meant to be there. You may remember in one of my recent entries that I discussed how aforementioned boy was making me a little crazy-pants. Well, to be honest the whole trip overall made me more crazy-pants, if that was at all possible. While I was at home during such a time, the mystic questioner of questy questions and question stuff appeared to me in a soft, fuzzy vision kind of like kittens or those really soft sheepskin rugs they sell at Costco. He waved his mystic staff and placed questions in my head to contemplate. Such as why is California so pretty in movies but so ugly in real life? Why don't prairie dogs wear little bow-ties so people like them better? What am I doing with my life? Why am I thinking about prairie dogs in bow-ties? And most importantly, am I in the right place right now? Should I leave school in California?

There was once a time when I was really talented at being a totally bitchy goodie two shoes who thought she was superior to everyone else and was going to rise to the top while everyone else floundered because they didn't work as hard as she did... Ok, so I still kind of am talented at being that person... except without the goodie two shoes part. What can I say? I love doing my irresponsible things in life these days. The point is that when I was younger, I thought my life would go like this:

1. Get good grades in high school.
2. Go to a well known, reputable college
3. Graduate from college and get a good, steady job.
4. Do things like travel and live comfortably.
5. Buy a house
6. One day get married and have a family.
7. Be really successful and have plenty of money.
8. Retire or something I guess.

Even though I still wanted to be a unique person, I was too afraid to think of my life being anything but at least somewhat comfortable. I never wanted to stray from the life I always knew or the responsible, mature person I had always been. (Ok maybe not so mature sometimes). I always thought that playing by the rules and fitting society's expectations would help me become the "successful one," whatever that was. Well, I got as far as getting good grades in high school before I started to become jaded. Big surprise there. Even though all of these things sound nice, when I list them above it makes me feel a little sick. Have you ever heard of a more boring and less badass life? Sure, I wanted to get out of town and go to an out of state college to make sure I wouldn't end up in a straight shot to a mediocre suburban life where I never grew or changed or experienced real things, but even when I stepped slightly off the mundane middle class highway and decided to go to art school, my biggest aspiration was just "to work at Pixar," which is one of the most well known, most desired, and most steady studios you could ever be employed at. I could not get any more generic... I mean, don't get me wrong, if Pixar knocked on my door and offered me a job right now I'd totally take it. But I like to think I can dream bigger.

A lot has changed since then. I want to live a very different life as much as I can, not just for the sake of excitement but also for the sake of inspiration. If I don't have a more pathetic and troubling life, how will I ever keep writing whiny blog entries?!? Sometimes I have trouble accepting the fact that the future I want might mean giving up a few luxuries. You mean I can't always have a 2,000+ sq foot house, a nice car, full insurance coverage, money to dye my hair and buy chai all the time, and the ability to get on a plane and go wherever I want, whenever I want? What is this, Soviet Russia?!? I've found that being where I am now has not given me the life I am aiming for. I constantly stare at computer screens hoping for people to talk to me, sit in traffic, and bounce back and forth between the same four places every day. With not enough lovely people of life-filled gladliness filling the gaps of mundane-ness (just made those words up), my life has become exactly what I always feared it would be. Turns out all those steps I took to be awesome didn't really turn out so awesome. It's like when you find a recipe on tumblr and attempt to make it and generally just end up with a pan full of half-burnt goop...That right there is my life in a half-burnt goop nutshell.

The point is, the person I always thought would be most ideal for me to be and the person I want to become now are very different. Even the things I wanted to do versus what I want to do with my life now are different. I still want to be creative, but I certainly don't think being a Disney-style animator or some worker drone in a studio is going to be a fun, happy muffin kind of time. It is especially hard for me to watch all the lame-os I went to high school with beginning to graduate and go to grad school or get real jobs and be like, the real adult people and stuff I've always imagined myself being. I still make fart jokes and pick my nose on a regular basis. Let's just say I haven't exactly grown up in the way I had envisioned.

Being home made all these warm fuzzy feelings of belonging rise up in me and I had a million questions buzzing around in my head like bees attacking a poor, helpless version of Winnie the Pooh that was allergic to bee stings, thanks to my mystical vision (Or was it just drugs? We may never know). I loved being around my friends so much and everything felt so right. I started contemplating leaving school and coming home, pursuing my own projects, being the person that I wanted to be and not the depressed, morose sack of human flesh that I felt like in California (albeit a really muscular and hardcore sack of human flesh ). Could coming back to Colorado be my answer? Would I be happy? Would it help me fix my problems? Would I find life and connections? Would I be able to rekindle the love I once had for art and animation, the drive to create something amazing and inspiring? There were many things to consider, what with stupid boy feelings and my unending restlessness seemingly clouding my vision. I had to figure that shit out, which was tough to do after only one week of perspective. I needed to return to Colorado for more answers. So that is just what I did...

Stay tuned for more personal adventure times in Chapter 2:  Waiter, There is an Answer in my Soup* (Trust me, that'll be the segment with all the juice!)


* Title pending on if I think of something less stupid and more clever, which will most likely not happen.

Summer Fitness Smorgashbord: Kayaking

I have recently tried a couple of exciting new fitness fun time activities that are so unique and special I thought "Hey, maybe I could share something nice and friendly and not totally whiny and personal with the internet for once." So here I am, ready to discuss fun time fitness activities with you for the first time in months. Aren't you excited?!?! No? Too bad! You should be used to the fact that I am a fitness freak by now. Sheesh.

We all know I do a lot of exercise on a regular basis already. Pole, silks, hoop, poi, contortion...you know. Normal people things. But it's nice every now and then to step out of the box and try some new stuff. Since my life is seemingly always teetering on the edges of a complete and total nervous breakdown, I feel like it is good to go out and try to see life from a new point of view by putting myself in a new version of pain (aka exercise). It gives you a lot of perspective, really. By that I mean that it makes all the emotional pain seem less real in comparison and then you feel even MORE crazy, if that was even possible. Still, I like to think it helps.

I WAS going to write about a lot of things at once, but in the effort to scale down on my entry lengths (which so often get very out of hand) and also in laziness to complete finished work, I'm just gonna split it up. More blog posts for everyone! Hooray!

Kayaking 

The first new super fun time fitness activity time I tried was kayaking! Wee!

A Kayak-Centuar in his natural habitat

I've always wanted to go kayaking. Not like, insane white water rapid kayaking where you see these bodies spouting out of kayaks like they are these mythical centaur/kayak beasts and they flip around in get submerged in water and have their faces scraped along the bottom of rocks or anything. But like, nice happy relaxing sea kayaking, where you paddle around and look at the ocean and sky and birds and stuff. I was supposed to do it in Hawaii when I visited a few years ago, but it was cloudy, so we didn't go. Sad day. Luckily for me, a super friendly friend of mine bought one of those new-fangled internet deals to go tandem kayaking. She got down on one knee and asked me to be her second. I said yes!

We showed up to the fancy-smancy kayak rental place in Newport Beach and this guy at the place gets us all squared away. Except not really. Because this guy is the weirdest human being I have ever met. It's not that he did anything crazy or whacky or strange really. It's that he showed no emotion whatsoever. You don't realize how much you rely on facial cues and vocal expression to communicate ideas and make people feel comfortable until you meet someone who has no concept of this. He kept making what I think were sarcastic jokes. I couldn't tell. When he told us we'd meet sharks and seals and have to fight them off with our paddles, he was so dead faced I couldn't tell if he was joking or not. It sounded so absurd and yet...he looked so serious! I couldn't figure it out! When I asked him to show me to the bathroom, he brought me back into this office hallway and said it was right there. I thought maybe he was joking or maybe he brought me back there to murder me until he pointed down the hallway to the bathroom sign. That's how uncomfortable he was.

So when that encounter ended, he told us how to get down to the dock: by jumping over the side of the railing. We decided we'd rather use the stairs. I was slightly concerned by the fact that I didn't have to sign anything and they did not seem to be providing lifejackets, but I did not have time to ponder this as we were sat down in--no, on TOP of a kayak, there were none of those little holes or straps or seatbelts or anything-- and given paddles and told to go for it! I looked up at the 13 year old boy who was pushing us out to sea and said "Uh, where...where do we go?" And he stopped for a moment and thought carefully and said, "Probably left," and then pushed us on out to sea.

Ok, left it was. Not that we were just bobbing around in the harbor with no sense of direction, no experience, no lifejackets, no first aid kit, no map, no compass, NOTHING. They sent us out with nothing! Nothing but paddles. Well, and the kayak of course. I can't even remember if they asked for my name or emergency contact or anything. But I guess they had my purse so they could probably figure out how to call my family with the bad news if I never returned. Since we were already out there, what choice did we have but to paddle? We barely even knew how to do that, but we got the hang of it pretty quickly as we "went left." From there it was pretty nice. It was a warm day, not too breezy or cloudy, there were lots of fancy houses and boats to look at and ponder how many rich people can there possibly be in the world. There were even seals! Well, one seal. He was chilling on someone's boat like a baller. I can appreciate that.

Respect for these bruthas

We paddled paddled paddled around the Balboa Peninsula for a couple hours, wondering where the hell we were, and then we saw it! Open sea! We were determined to get to the real ocean where there were cool waves and the possibility of dying and stuff, because that is way more fun. So we paddled for pretty much another hour and made it all the way out to a buoy where two dozen seals were laying all over each other like the truly lazy bums I can only aspire to be. After seeing such a stunning landmark we decided it was probably time to turn around and head back. No big deal, right? Going back is always faster, right?

The answer is NO. Because by this point the wind was against us and we were quite tired. Tired tired tired. But we pushed on, knowing that we were probably way past our time limit and didn't have the funds to pay for an hour of kayak rental at full price. My forearms started to ache and part of my hand went numb as I constricted blood flow by paddling so vigorously. There was no time to rest. There were no other options than to persist onwards. The expensive, colorful houses and fancy boats mocked us as we panted and paddled at a very, very slow speed. No really. There was one guy who actually taunted us. It was not cool. I thought I was going to die. Our conversation ceased. We licked the salt caking on our lips (and hands and arms for that matter), focused completely on the one goal: not paying for extra time.

We were an hour late anyway when we finally got back, but no one seemed to care. Dead-faced soulless-man was no longer there and that is all I really cared about. I stumbled around on my wobbly legs, which had been laying useless in front of me for the past four hours and somehow managed to collapse on a squishy diner booth chair down the street, where I ordered the biggest friggin' milkshake I could get my hands on and inspected my new found sunburn, which swirled around my legs like my calves were candy canes. I had not rubbed in my spray-on sunscreen. It looked like someone had laid me down on an iron grill for a Sunday BBQ. Let's just say pole dancing was not much fun the next day. But at least I got my milkshake.

So! The summary:

Best parts: Seals and waves and sunshine and stuff!

Worst Parts: Ow ow ow my forearms. It took two days for the feeling to come back in the tip of my left thumb.

Who I'd recommend it for: Adventurous, not-frightened-of possibly-dying-at sea-type people.

Would I go back? Maybe if I could bring a sandwich with me next time. Or a map. Or a boat with a motor.

An Unemployed Young Adult's Guide to Doing Really Awesome Productive Things that are Totally Good for Their Souls

AKA My Life as a Cat. Which makes sense if you know anything about how cats live. Also if you get this movie reference you win all the cookies.

I haven't had a summer job in over four years. I like having jobs usually, because I can make money and do stupid little tasks for them and have friends at the same time and stuff. Some of my summer jobs have been pretty boring. For two summers in a row I worked for Target, where pretty much all I did was rearrange things on shelves and help annoying people. It was obviously quite lame, but I liked looking at all the stuff they had to sell, especially during the summer seasons. They always had super fun, colorful things like beach towels and plastic utensils in the seasonal section. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside every time I walked past it. But I have also worked at some places that actually are awesome, and don't just have the illusion of being fun! Namely summer camps. My last job at a summer camp consisted of telling ridiculous stories, constant improv acting, fighting with foam swords, and attempting to crush children's souls on a daily basis. It was the most exhausting and challenging job I've ever had, but possibly the best one too (my co-workers were also totally boss). It was also the most well paid job I've ever had. Which is kind of sad because it only paid $10 an hour. But it would've been $10.50 if I had gone back this summer. So ha!

I don't currently have a summer job, which is very weird and uncomfortable for me. I hate being broke and barely being able to afford even just fast food twice a week. More importantly I have absolutely nothing to do with my time. Where are your friends, you ask? Why, I have none! What about this summer class that is supposed to take 40-50 hours of commitment every week, you say? Why, I just don't give a fuck and haven't been trying very hard! Instead I have spent a lot of time laying around in bed, re-watching the most amazing teen drama murder mystery show ever (hint: It starts with "Pretty," ends with "Liars," and has a "Little" in between), and feeling sorry for myself and confused about what to do with my future. Can you say "the best summer ever?!?" I can't! I'm too busy weeping into my spoonful of peanutbutter!

It's not like I have not been trying to make my life a little less pathetic. I have had many fulfilling experiences which I shall now outline for you below as a guide to all the other unemployed, under-educated young adults so that you too can be as awesome and have a life as thrilling as mine. I have hand picked these selected items in the hopes that they will bring you as much personal satisfaction as they have brought me in the past few weeks. Enjoy.

40 Things Unemployed Adults Can Do that are Really Awesome and Productive and Totally Good for Their Souls:

1. Stab some grapefruit rinds with a fork on the porch all morning long for no apparent reason.

2. Research getting into the stripping industry.

3. Watch trucker vlogs on youtube.

4. Reread the entire Harry Potter series for the fifth or sixth time.

5. Steal cookies.

6. Eat all the cookies. Resolve that they will never be skinny enough to be a well-paid stripper.

7. Stare at walls.

8. Cry in your car when no one is looking. Or when they are because who really cares.

9. Cry basically any time of day in any place because you are constantly being triggered into emotional breakdowns by any random depressing thing, such as bad traffic, a sad song, admitting you need to be a responsible adult, and the fact that Denny's ran out of blueberries and can't put them in your pancakes at 1 AM on a Thursday.

10. Go into public and become amazed/terrified at where all the random people came from. Seriously. There are so many people in this world. Who knew! But where the hell do they all go at night?!? Homes or something?? How is there that much space in this world? I only ever go like, three whole places! Since when were there other people and places and things and stuff!?!

11. Vigorously clean the house you just moved into which clearly hasn't been cleaned in about a year.

12. Fart freely, and often.

13. Marvel at how smelly farts can be.

14. Marvel at how often you can fart.

15. Watch numerous Disney Channel original movies on Netflix, especially if they've already seen them before.

16. Need to do basic math for some reason and take over an hour trying to figure out simple algebra because it's been three years since your last math class. Feel accomplished when you have the revelation as to what you were doing wrong a full day later.

17. Be a normal Californian and try going to the beach only to be rewarded with a sunburn on your ass.

18. Be so lazy that you only just watch other people smoke pot. You aren't even motivated enough to smoke it yourself.

19. Take multiple naps per day.

This is basically my typical day in a nutshell. Although sometimes I pole dance in the mornings and get an extra farting session in during the evening. 

20. See how long you can go without showering before you can't stand it anymore. (My usual length of time is 2.5 days).

21. Look at porn of hot women. When you are a woman. Who is straight... Hey man, their butts are just really pretty, ok?

22. Forsake your underwear because... why the hell not?

23. Not do homework.

24. Go to the grocery store at 10 PM on a Friday night to buy Ben and Jerry's single serving cartons of ice cream so you can eat them in your car and feel sorry for yourself.

25. Stare at cats outside your window who are being more active than you are. Live vicariously through them.

26. Sleep 10 hours every night on top of the 2 or 3 naps you have every day.

27. Eat goldfish and mac n' cheese like it is crack. Seriously, your hands shake every time you take too long in between bites.

28. Watch a spider crawl across your bedroom wall and still decide to sleep in the nude because it's my summer dammit and I'm gonna live on the edge!

29. See the same spider the next day and decide to kill it. Smack it multiple times with a shoe and on the final smack, the spider mysteriously disappears and you must remain forever in fear, not sure if is dead or alive and is coming back to take revenge.

30. Discover the amazing patterns in which you can get sunburnt. Most recent discovery: the candy cane.

Get yourself the coolest summer tan line ever! All your friends will be so jealous, especially when you start peeling.

31. Drink almost an entire bottle of wine on a Saturday night alone in your kitchen while contemplating crashing a graduation party that you can hear across the neighborhood thinking it might be a fun adventure but it's probably too pathetic in reality.

32. Drink alone just in general. It is a really good practice to take up, trust me on that one.

33. Make conversation with strangers online as frequently as you can. Do this while after drinking alone for the best results.

34. Commiserate with your other socially dysfunctional pals, generally over Facebook chat because it's not like you really want to connect with other human beings or something. This is also good to do after drinking alone.

35. Drink hot chocolate every day even though it is the middle of summer. Make sure to put marshmallows in your hot chocolate to be a true gangster.

36. Discover all the software training and tutorials on Lynda.com and decide to queue up over 30 hours of instructional content. Sit down with a notebook and start watching attentively, determined to learn programming and web developer skills you always wished you could learn... Oh wait, no, sorry that one was a mistake, that is actually productive or something. Scratch that.

37. Get fed up with life and finally start making headway on the half dozen writing projects you said you were going to finish this summer... Ah! Oh god why does this keep happening, I'm sorry, must be some sort of technical error.

38. Go on fun, outdoorsy adventures trying things you've never done before like kayaking, where you can enjoy the sunny coastal scenery, fresh air, and --Ack! Sorry! So sorry! That one actually sounds good for you, I apologize deeply for all these errors. We are experiencing some technical difficulties and I think we need to take a short break to try and fix this issue. I really am quite sorry about that. In the meantime, enjoy this picture of cute kitty cat. It should keep you thoroughly distracted until we can return with our regularly scheduled snarkiness and cynicism.

Have a nice day Sir or Madam. 

The Crazy Pants Girl and Online Dating

Has anyone noticed I start off almost every blog post by either apologizing for not writing enough and/or letting everyone know that I fell off the happy wagon? I am starting to think I've never actually been on the happy wagon. At least not long enough to blog about it. The real question is how deep does the pit of depression actually go? Or is it just some kind of complex labyrinth with new tunnels to discover every week? Perhaps if I keep blogging about it enough we will one day find out.

It drives around every now and then just so I can remember what it looks like

So where did we leave off last time? Oh right, being severely unhappy in my life. What else is new?

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My Mom came to visit me recently. It was very nice to have someone to hang out with and make me feel like I am actually a human being instead of just a shadow that lurks around in art school. We did some talking--or rather, she did some talking, since I seem to have the inability to actually express meaningful feelings out loud. I have this lovely syndrome where I constantly wish that I had someone to talk to about things with, and then when people actually ask me about them all I can do is just shrug and try my best not to burst into emotional sobbing and embarrass myself. Anyway, my Mom likes to give me a lot of advice, because she is my mom and has a bunch of life experience and somehow manages to almost always be right. Her advice often changes depending on what is going on in her own life, however, so it usually keeps things interesting. The first time she broke up with her last boyfriend for example, she kept telling me all a woman needs in life is good friends, a good dog, and a good [sex] toy. Now that she recently has started dating a man that treats her very gentlemanly, she has been advising me in all sorts of new ways, such as that she thinks everyone should be madly in love at least once in their life and maybe I should try online dating.

I thought both of these things sounded ridiculous. First of all, the inner sexless and cynical beast that I have worked so hard to cultivate in the past few years screams at me that being "in love" is by far the most foolish and painful thing you could ever do and not worth my time. It would just get in the way of the rest of my life. The good news is that since I am so young, cynical, and anti-social, I do not have to worry about that sort of thing happening to me any time soon. Second, as far as online dating goes... do I look 40 years old and divorced?!? It sounded preposterous. Sure, I'd like to meet new people to go out with I guess, I could always use a free meal, but let's be honest here. The only people at my age using online dating sites to meet others are probably just on there because they have serious issues. I am talking major deal-breakers here. Like bad breath, being unemployed, serial killing... that kind of stuff. Not only do I not want to have to deal with those sorts of people, but I also didn't want to be considered one of them.

After my Mom gave me these tidbits of advice (among many, many others), and left to go back to the East Coast, I was left contemplative. And bored. Very, very bored. Not having a job or 18 units of course work will do that to you. Or any friends, for that matter. I lumbered around my new house for a couple of days, biding my time by doing absolutely nothing productive. One morning I sat on my porch and stabbed a grapefruit rind with a fork for an hour. I inevitably started to get curious about who really was doing online dating at my age and eventually, much to my own chagrin, started a profile on an online dating site that I had heard of. But only on one of the free ones, because there was no way I was gonna pay for that shit.

The productive times of an unemployed adult. I'm definitely ready for the dating world.

I uploaded a couple of decent looking photos of me, trying to have a nice balance between me looking like, y'know, a girl, and me doing crazy aerial and pole stuff, since those are the only kinds of pictures I take of myself anymore. I did my best to write the most sarcastic profile information possible, including my username, which I won't divulge here, but let's just say it is a real ice breaker and involves mention of aquatic animal feces. I answered some of the questions they use to match people which don't really work, because no one ever has an accurate self perception, and then I sat back and let 'er rip, Beyblades style.

Just a few tidbits from my profile. 

The first match that appeared on my profile had the username "DrugSexMachine." This is when I knew I was in for a good time on the site. Among others that came up were "SensualCoyote," "p1easingu," and "hubbahubba420." (I am sad to say none of these men contacted me.) After clicking through various profiles where almost every guy described themselves as "easy-going, laid back, down to earth, love to have fun, blah blah blah, the same vague, meaningless descriptors over and over again," I realized that the site had this fantastic function where it showed men every time I visited their profile. It is seriously great because it lets everyone know how often they are being rejected. As much as I just love making people feel like they aren't wanted, I decided to be a little bit more selective with what I was clicking on. I also didn't need to attract any more attention, what with my own profile having gained over 100 visitors in the first few hours.

I received over 50 messages from various men in the area within the first 24 hours. Not gonna lie, with all the additional profile views included, it was a little flattering. Just a little. I like attention. I can't deny that. But mostly it was just overwhelming. I am not really used to having men throw themselves at me. It wasn't up until this past year or so that I was pretty much invisible to the male species and even still it usually takes guys awhile after meeting me to realize that I have, like, y'know, a vagina or whatever. There was a lot to filter through. Luckily, I had nothing better to do. (See: grapefruit on the porch morning)

Since I have spent so much of my life on the internet, maybe 80% of it happily talking to strangers, it was really hard for me not to respond to every single message. That's just what I do, man. But the whole of idea that most of these men really actually wanted to meet me,  probably have sex with me, and/or possibly brutally murder me made it a little bit easier to have a process of elimination. After awhile it was pretty easy to axe out any username with a number in it (uncreative much?), profiles of guys where they say they like writing poetry (seriously, there are way too many guys out there that say this. It disturbs me), or any guy who had nothing interesting to say in his message to me. I got A LOT of "Hello. You are beautiful/cute/gorgeous and seem really interesting to talk to. I like how honest you seem in your profile. I'd like to get to know you. What adventures have you been on lately? Here is a question related to something you said you liked in your profile (most frequently Arrested Development). Here is a witty joke about how you say you are a red head but you dye your hair. How is you week/weekend going? Other lame question that really doesn't tell me anything about who you are beyond a surface level?" I also got some other nuggets of joy messages which I will now share below, because they were so amazing and appealing.  I definitely wanted to reply to all of these guys, but alas, I had to be pretty choosy.

Yep. This right there. 

Tip for you ladies: If he can't use Google, while already on the internet no less, he isn't worth the time

I am not sure exactly if he was referring to writing and animation or something else with the question, but I like to think it was more of litmus test to see what my confidence/aggression level was like. Good thing I am one of the most passive people ever and completely ignored him. I am sure that said a lot about me. 

I REALLY wanted to respond to this guy just to see what he was referring to. But I was also afraid of what the answer would be. 

No I don't fucking go to AI, I clearly have too much self respect for that. 

I bet you would!  You'd probably love to be anybody's booty call, in fact. That makes me feel extra special. 

I just like picturing a man saying this to me and then picturing myself slapping him. 

Does anyone else know what this means?

At least he got the "you're" part right. 

If this was meant to be ironic, it failed. 

Oh my god he figured it out. Someone get him a gold star. 

As much as I commend this guy for trying to stand out, I think he got started off on the wrong foot. 

This was far and away the best message I have received. I steered far clear of that one, as tempting as the offer was. 

Despite having to turn down all these incredible men, I did start a couple of conversations with a few others that showed potential. So far, the most interesting ones have been where there are no questions at all and mostly just random conversations about pancakes, otter pops, and senior citizens dancing. Unfortunately, those haven't gone anywhere. There have been a few other mildly interesting conversations, although if dudes just keep bringing up random questions I think I am going to go insane. Can we just talk like normal people? Are you really asking me what kind of tea I like? Why the fuck do you care? I have yet to go on a date yet, though. I am still a little afraid. Mostly of the awkwardness. I feel like it would be really awkward.

Meanwhile, as I mentioned in my last entry, I have been talking to a few guys back at home here and there. There has been one in particular where the amount of flirting has been almost too much to handle. Seriously, if I, of all people, am actually conscious that what I am doing is flirting, you know it's gotta be pretty hardcore. I liked this guy quite a bit awhile ago, so much to the point that one time after a couple of drinks I bit him on the neck because I thought he smelled so good. That is all I really remember about that. It makes me wonder if I am some kind of vampire. Maybe I am going around biting people and have amnesia about it! Oh god! I would feel really bad about that if it were the case. It is a little concerning. ANYWAY. When last summer ended and we parted ways, I got really upset about it and stared at my ceiling for a few days while I listened to the same Bon Iver song over and over again. I thought I would never see him again, so I got all girly and upset. Sue me. So when we started talking once more I got all these strange, fuzzy warm feelings in my stomach that I hadn't been forgotten (as I assumed I would be) and would actually smile when I saw new texts on my phone, as opposed to frowning and putting on my battle-gear when I looked at the messages I was getting online. The fuzzy-warm-smiling thing was was so out of place for me, it was almost as concerning as the vampire theory. Almost. 

"Oh Bon Iver, only you can understand my tortured teenager vampire soul" (who is actually 20 years old)

Shortly after starting an online dating profile, I came back to visit home for a few days. This launched me into a whole other world of questioning everything about my life, thinking about my options, what the hell am I going to do with myself, the easy choice versus the right choice and if they could ever be the same thing, and so on. Most of that is for another day, I think. In regards to what I am writing about now, I saw the guy. I saw him almost every day I was in town, which was really nice. We hung out and talked like normal people, which was also nice. We had what I like to refer to as "the severe sexual tension sunglasses moment," where one day he playfully stole my sunglasses and after girl-fighting for them, I put them back on and my hair got caught in the frame. He reached out and brushed it out of my face in a seriously hardcore movie rom-com style way-- It was like in Zombieland when Jesse Einsenberg said all he wanted to do was push a girl's hair behind her ear except I was the girl and I didn't know that was all I wanted until right that very moment. I thought I was going to explode if he didn't kiss me right then. He didn't kiss me right then. It was broad daylight in the middle of the street when we were both technically at work, after all. But I also fortunately did not explode. So at least there was that. I got what I wanted a few days later though, plus a lot more. That was really, really nice. 

Yes, exactly a year after the last time I debunked my sexless title, I did it again. Except this time it was actually good and with the most attractive man I have ever been with. So yea, worth it. I even farted in front of him beforehand, and it still happened by some miracle! Go me! Probably because I was pole dancing while I farted so the two cancelled each other out. At least I didn't queef. I'm not sure pole dancing weighs out queefing, although it happens a surprising amount while doing floor work. I always try to laugh it off in front of people and tell them I am just "airing out the batcave," but no one ever even cracks a smile. I think queefing just makes people mega-uncomfortable.... Just sayin'. THE POINT IS! The universe actually worked in my favor for a small moment. My body even did other embarrassing things that I won't write about on here because they are just that embarrassing. You know that means they were really bad. And yet, I still got what I wanted. I don't know why some greater force finally decided to throw me a bone, but it was much appreciated. 

The problem was that I kind of actually like this guy. You must understand a few things. I don't like a lot of guys. And even when I do, I don't get positive reinforcement from them. Seriously. Every time I meet some new guy that I am pretty into I say to myself or some random friend. "I really like this one. No really, I want him, like actually want him. For me. I am really gonna go for it this time. I just have to." And then I usually get rejected in a really awkward way. Usually by way of me asking him to hang out and repeatedly being turned down and then me looking like an idiot for awhile. Wee.

My experience with men, dating, and even hooking up has been pretty sub-par for the average woman my age, I think. Even though I try really hard not to be a slut, the majority of the guys I've been with in the past, I've barely known. (Although that doesn't count for much; I haven't been with that many guys.) The last boyfriend I had got on all sorts of nerves. I only really dated him because he was there (note: lesson learned). I only ever dated one guy that I genuinely liked, and that ended over 4 years ago. (God I feel old now.) Really, at this point, I am accustomed to men my age swinging one of two ways: They either want to have sex with me, wang, bang, and get the hell of out of there OR they want to get married to me right away so I can replace their mother and take care of them and all their emotional issues, cook them food, have their babies, pat them on the head, etc etc. Since this particular guy was not groveling at my feet and not declaring an undying love for me after knowing me for 5 minutes, experience has only taught me to assume the other option. Which I really hope isn't true, but at the same time I am hundreds of miles away. What can I do about it either way? Not much. 

Me. Right now. Every day.

Nevertheless, I am starting to feel like a crazy pants girl. It is one thing to get all sad about a guy you like who never wanted you back, but another thing to get all sad because you went into something knowing there was no commitment made and no real way for things to work out, but you did it anyway. It's not fair for me to expect ALL of the things I want to come true. But I am still sad and that still makes me feel crazy pants. I look at all the guys trying to chat me up on this stupid dating site, and now this stupid dating/hook-up app called Tinder that my friends showed me, and I just don't want any of them. I have no interest in seeing anyone else, EVEN if there is a free meal involved. I know right? That is kind of scary. Who the hell am I these days?!? Although I think I am mostly feeling crazy pants because I spent my last night in town with him and then my hair smelled like him for the rest of the day and I couldn't help but keep smelling it. It was just in there IN MY FACE all day, ok?? And note the really awesome man smell that turned me into a vampire previously from above. I don't know! I was tired! What can I say?!? Please don't hate on the crazy pants girl. The smell did eventually fade and I did eventually take a shower though, so I can't be that crazy pants, right? 

With all these smells and feelings and shit I don't know what to do. I thrive off my sexlessness and cynicism. And now it's all gone. Dashed! Ruined! Hopeless! I tried the things my mother said to do and look what it got me. A lot of uncomfortable messages that pale in comparison to real life thingy-majiggers that only make more trouble for me. UGH. I don't want to be a crazy pants girl. I don't want to feel things! Feeling things is hard! Especially with a guy that feels 20,000 leagues out of my own. Ok, maybe not quite that many. I have more confidence in myself than that. It just made a good pun. But still. You get my point. This is not my ideal situation, and I can't seem to do anything about it except for whine about it on the internet. Which is what I am doing. And you can't stop me. So deal with it. Or don't. I don't care. 

But at the same time, there is a tiny, secret part of me that is getting this sick little thrill out of it, like my heart has actually been craving passion or something. Dammit, heart. You're a twisted little fuck; Did you know that? Fuck you and how you like things like eye contact and holding hands and shit. Go home, you are drunk. On sappiness. It's like, sappier than maple syrup, yo. If you got pulled over by the cops you'd be sky high on your BSC or Blood Sap Content test. I am only trying to look out for you, ok? Just GTFO before you cause any more problems, got it? You know what they say. It's all fun and games until someone becomes emotionally damaged. 

No more driving for you, heart.

OK I AM DONE WHINING NOW, AT LEAST ABOUT THAT AND I AM GOING TO MOVE ON TO NEW PROBLEMS TO WHINE ABOUT THAT ARE LESS MAN RELATED SO I FEEL A LITTLE BIT MORE EMPOWERED. GO ME AND TRYING TO MOVE FEMINISM FORWARD ANOTHER STEP.

The end. 

Oh except for this:

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Congratulations to me for actually drawing something UNRELATED to school for the first time in, oh, like a year. That is one of the fun things art school has done to me. It's made me hate art. I should be so glad for chasing my dream, right? 

I see a new whiny blog entry on the horizon. But first. Something fun. Stay tuned.