Helllllllllllllooooooooooooooooooo youth! I never want to give you up! I don't want to grow up, I'm a [sex] toys 'r us kid!
When is it exactly that we are supposed to be mature and old and respected and boring and sensible? When do we have to commit to the youth-availing suit and tie, the sobering death via cubicle and the life-sucking routine of adult life? Really, when do I have to stop investing in re-runs of Teen Mom and start investing in oil bonds or mortgages? Do I really have to stop boozing six nights a week to wake up at six in the morning and like, drive to work?? Wait, so I have to eventually make enough money to BUY a house? WEIRDDDDDDDD. [insert hand over face emoticon]
Stop, does this mean online dating is going to become an option now? [pause for existential life questioning and read "L’Étranger" to make oneself feel only slightly better]
I'm not so sure about the other twenty-two year youngins out there, but sometimes I am still afraid to admit I am tired. If I fall asleep I might miss out on the conversation, or the good times, or the fact that Clarissa is *finally* admitting to taking it in the butt from that fugly foreign exchange student five years ago in high school [cue sleeping puppy eyes - MUST STAY AWAKE]. Sometimes, I deserve to be put in a diaper. Sometimes, I want to call up mommy and tell her that everyone hates me and that she needs to send me something nice in the mail to make me feel better and loved by someone in the #cold, #dark world. Sometimes, ok, always, I am afraid of the dark (c'mon that one scene in "The Sixth Sense" with the chick and the arm under the bed will forever stay with me and I swear to whatever god I am praying to at this point that that sneaky little bitch has lived under each and every bed I have ever slept in to this day - leave me alone already!).
When will it actually be inappropriate to make jokes about Hellen Keller, or to scale back on my usage of words like blumpkin, fart-bomb, and wiener? Can I still call sex "stuffing my pork sword in a gentle meat grinder" when I am fifty? Can I? CAN I?
Ah youth, why doth thou evade me so quickly?
As the new year approaches, and as quickly as the greys creep into my luscious new mustache, I shall compile a list of those things I deem may be slightly too boozey to take forth into the new year, simply as a remembrance [of the past two weeks - giggle giggle - KrAzEe TiMeZ] of what not to do as I become the more 'mateurized' (similar to pasteurized but with a human twist) version of me.
1. There is no such thing as an obligation to sex. (So I may or may not have used this as an excuse to sleep with someone who might as well have been a 0 on the binary scale - let me say that it is not one of my prouder moments)
2. A shot is not a date, nor is it enough time to get to know someone enough to rodeo them back to your bedroom for a rodeo.
3. Peeing on an ATM is both disgusting and difficult if one is trying to take out cash simultaneously.
4. Street food does count, even if you don't remember it, and even if you throw half of the rice in the air pretending its your wedding because at the time you were depressed (duh, you were eating your forth chicken and rice) and sobbing that it will be your only wedding because you are unloveable.
5. Fighting at a club will only be an ok look if you have as many Twitter followers as Kim Kardashian (otherwise, you look like one of the tools from the Jersey Shore clawing and gnawing at their inevitable loss of fame).
6. Public blowjobs, 'nuff said.
7. "Am I not cute enough" is a line that will not only lose interest of the person you are hitting on, but will make you seem as though you are fishing for a compliment that no one wants to give you because you are a conceited betch, and beb, you already know the answer. [mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the most vain of them all? - YOU, YOU HOTT BITCH!]
8. If you don't have a perscrip, chances are you don't need the pill (you're thinking, whatevs I took a bio class once in college, it'll be fine, cue puking and screaming for your life naked somewhere in the desert and pondering every insignificant decision you made about your life up until this very point in time).
9. Challenging oneself to a makeout million night is only successful in seeking oral herpes (which reminds me to go to CVS and pick up some cold sore cream - ouchskies!).
10. Faking an accent is not a real accent. Faking the need to wear glasses does not magically create blindness and general style points.
From here forth these things shall be thought about as I begin my 'pre-game' with 200 jello shots and a bottle of Crystal Palace next time, and therefore considered to be on the naughty list before I get hammesauced. Will these easy steps be followed or will I simply continue to be plain ole easy? All I'm saying is, I definitely don't have to go to work tomorrow, and there are two for one specials tonight at the strip club so... you do the math.
Why grow up when we don't have to? We aren't dying at thirty five any more and we aren't rushing to the alter to make mommy and daddy proud, so why not live it up and make silly mistakes? After all, it's not a good look to be sixty and pissing in the closest Chase Bank, so why not afford these decisions at twenty two? Call me Peter Pan, I guess, but I'm on the pain train all the way to a massive hangover and waking up next to Lindsay Lohan. I'd rather live for the story then not have one at all.
7.12.11
21.11.11
_lost love lust
Some songs end far too soon. The beat leaves the speakers but remains buzzing in your head, annoyingly so, until you are forced to decide between playing it again or giving it up temporarily, permanently even, so that it no longer infects your memory with its contagious, disheartening, unbelievable sticking sense of permanence.
Wise men would let it go, fools would continue to play on.
Other would stick to their sanity, and rationalize that it is nothing more than a song, a powerless and emotionless play on words set to a mesmerizing, fanciful rhythm and time, meant only to manipulate those weak of mind.
Some things are meant to be, and some songs are meant to be repeated. So what I would need from you, then, is to please just take my hand through this, in fact, take my whole life too, I need you to be the DJ and spin the track into infinity. Take it all, rather than skip this song, or erase it from my iPod.
The ambiguity in certainty is what kills me, really. The not-knowing, the repeat once, twice or never. How many times can I put this on repeat before it become overplayed, or worse, sickeningly sweet? Will I ever grow tired of the repetitious beats? Will I sicken at the naivety of the lyrics? Will I forever appreciate the subtly written into its bridge?
When will this song, so short lived and so unmistakably poignant, become something that only the "kids" are listening to? When will I have moved on?
I could say it but you won't believe me. I can think it, but it may deceive me.
You are my not my song, you are my music. I fall mute in your presence. My life certainly feels silent without your crescendos.
I miss you terribly. And then I remember, to miss, is a privilege. To hear our song is a gift.
[Rpt x1]
Wise men would let it go, fools would continue to play on.
Other would stick to their sanity, and rationalize that it is nothing more than a song, a powerless and emotionless play on words set to a mesmerizing, fanciful rhythm and time, meant only to manipulate those weak of mind.
Some things are meant to be, and some songs are meant to be repeated. So what I would need from you, then, is to please just take my hand through this, in fact, take my whole life too, I need you to be the DJ and spin the track into infinity. Take it all, rather than skip this song, or erase it from my iPod.
The ambiguity in certainty is what kills me, really. The not-knowing, the repeat once, twice or never. How many times can I put this on repeat before it become overplayed, or worse, sickeningly sweet? Will I ever grow tired of the repetitious beats? Will I sicken at the naivety of the lyrics? Will I forever appreciate the subtly written into its bridge?
When will this song, so short lived and so unmistakably poignant, become something that only the "kids" are listening to? When will I have moved on?
I could say it but you won't believe me. I can think it, but it may deceive me.
You are my not my song, you are my music. I fall mute in your presence. My life certainly feels silent without your crescendos.
I miss you terribly. And then I remember, to miss, is a privilege. To hear our song is a gift.
[Rpt x1]
17.11.11
_b.f(renemies).f.
Dear BFF -
You're my bestie, damnit! Like it or not you are stuck with me and you will have to "Stand By Me" and get leeches in your panties if we ever so choose to go back in time and go on a very dangerous journey together that may even involve train tracks and broken limbs, ok?
You are from here forth solely responsible for:
1. My happiness, in its entirety, especially on those days where I am self-loathing and won't get out of bed on purpose because that what the movies tell me to do (could you be a doll and bring some ice cream, thnx!)
2. Standing there, watching, waiting unmoved, while I throw a tantrum
3. Eating popcorn through a drunken rampage, because let's be real, GGGGGREAT story in the morning
4. Rubbing my back throughout my unwarranted tears at the new Rihanna club track that has a line in it that reminds me of my ex that I will casually continue to play until I get a full on blubber going
5. Putting me to bed without letting me eat ANOTHER slice of pizza
6. Telling me when I am out of line when I shit talk someone else who, really, I know nothing about but JESUS they don't even look good on Facebook and I can't believe that my ex would ever even consider kissing them, PUKE, how could they!
7. Calling me out when I am an inconsiderate dick
8. Making sure that I know I am not ugly even though I will pull so many guilty lines to make sure you think I am and show you pictures of people who "I'll never sleep with"
9. Giving me a hug when it goes unsaid that I need one
10. Shooting me that look when you know its all I need, in any situation, even via the phone (I see ya)
You are mine, then, for bad or for worse, and until dominating romantic relationship do us part.
I love you, therefore I mistreat you.
I hate you, therefore I stand by you through everything.
I have history with you, therefore I will never let you forget it (especially since I have pictures to prove it, biotch).
I want nothing for the best for you, therefore I will give you shit until you recognize that you deserve it.
I hold you to the highest of expectations, therefore you will let me down constantly only to keep me grounded and patient.
I respect you like none other, therefore I am jealous your every success and so proud that I was there to watch you grow into it.
I never want you out of my life, therefore steer clear of that asshole (cause you're better than his wack ass anyways).
Beb, you are my whole world, and although sometimes we don't reciprocate, or we do so in the ugliest ways, just know that the bullshit is what keeps me hanging on. The rough times, the catty tweets, the little jabs here and there, that's what let's me know we are for real, that we are real.
And even if it comes down to you and your competitive knitting class or that one night stand who I am thinking of calling back because I know I'll for sure snag some bootay, I'll sit through the knitting class and make a wool condom for later.
I got your back, boo. Don't ever doubt it. I'll fight you for your love, because that's what makes you worth it.
-- UR BFF<3
You're my bestie, damnit! Like it or not you are stuck with me and you will have to "Stand By Me" and get leeches in your panties if we ever so choose to go back in time and go on a very dangerous journey together that may even involve train tracks and broken limbs, ok?
You are from here forth solely responsible for:
1. My happiness, in its entirety, especially on those days where I am self-loathing and won't get out of bed on purpose because that what the movies tell me to do (could you be a doll and bring some ice cream, thnx!)
2. Standing there, watching, waiting unmoved, while I throw a tantrum
3. Eating popcorn through a drunken rampage, because let's be real, GGGGGREAT story in the morning
4. Rubbing my back throughout my unwarranted tears at the new Rihanna club track that has a line in it that reminds me of my ex that I will casually continue to play until I get a full on blubber going
5. Putting me to bed without letting me eat ANOTHER slice of pizza
6. Telling me when I am out of line when I shit talk someone else who, really, I know nothing about but JESUS they don't even look good on Facebook and I can't believe that my ex would ever even consider kissing them, PUKE, how could they!
7. Calling me out when I am an inconsiderate dick
8. Making sure that I know I am not ugly even though I will pull so many guilty lines to make sure you think I am and show you pictures of people who "I'll never sleep with"
9. Giving me a hug when it goes unsaid that I need one
10. Shooting me that look when you know its all I need, in any situation, even via the phone (I see ya)
You are mine, then, for bad or for worse, and until dominating romantic relationship do us part.
I love you, therefore I mistreat you.
I hate you, therefore I stand by you through everything.
I have history with you, therefore I will never let you forget it (especially since I have pictures to prove it, biotch).
I want nothing for the best for you, therefore I will give you shit until you recognize that you deserve it.
I hold you to the highest of expectations, therefore you will let me down constantly only to keep me grounded and patient.
I respect you like none other, therefore I am jealous your every success and so proud that I was there to watch you grow into it.
I never want you out of my life, therefore steer clear of that asshole (cause you're better than his wack ass anyways).
Beb, you are my whole world, and although sometimes we don't reciprocate, or we do so in the ugliest ways, just know that the bullshit is what keeps me hanging on. The rough times, the catty tweets, the little jabs here and there, that's what let's me know we are for real, that we are real.
And even if it comes down to you and your competitive knitting class or that one night stand who I am thinking of calling back because I know I'll for sure snag some bootay, I'll sit through the knitting class and make a wool condom for later.
I got your back, boo. Don't ever doubt it. I'll fight you for your love, because that's what makes you worth it.
-- UR BFF<3
_i'm the captain of this relation-ship
Well everything revolves around these anyways, especially with us kids, right? Relationships, I am talking about, of course. The stuff that only fools fall for. The kind of thing that every Hollywood film has at its essence, even the action flick doesn't come complete without the forever-sealing kiss with the hot double-D blonde at the end. Relationships dictate our everyday and our every move, and whether or not we buy into it, no matter how asexual or apathetic one may claim to be, everything revolves around l.o.v.e. for one reason, because it is the single connecting blip of humanity.
Love is reserved simply for those "idiots" who can't help but to give in to their every whim, who carry on with their arbitrary and capricious distractions that soon there after solidify into the most fundamental, patient thinkings of their undeniably detailed lifetimes. It's so hard to know that they are out there sometimes. It's difficult to know whether they are deceiving, or perfect, whether your heart is in the right place, or your touch is making you believe that you're spinning into an infinity. It may seem so real, but reality is so very relative. Who cares? Who doesn't? Who manipulates who? Who sends the texts? Who breathes heavy? Who regrets? Who is consumed in thoughts of the other? Who forgets the first hello? Who remembers everything?
At what point does the marathon end? When do we cross the finish line? Is it when we find that singular connection with someone that defines our corporal and emotional selves, or is it the race itself that keeps us running, keeps us interested, and keeps the hamster wheel of life churning towards the foreverness, inescapability and volatility of the undefined relationship? What helps us to achieve the primitive finish (I'm NAHT talking dirty here, folks, BUT it works too as per usual), going against the grain or sticking with the stream?
Wowzers, WHAT A WHIRLWIND, huh? I know you're probably thinking, "Why so serious? Aren't you just a fugly slut? Why are you writing about love?" Well, because I can guarantee one thing, us jokers are the ones who are really looking for love "in all the wrong places" (had to).
This is my take on love, my take on the relationship, rather, that is absolutely unoriginal, but somehow still pervasive throughout the times and trials of the twentysomethings that I know. Sure, there are those of us who adore the idea of comfort and content, the attractiveness of the safety net. Even still, there are individuals who like nothing more than the societal ideals of the relationship, the approval from others that spawns for the facade of the "healthy" couple. But really, when we boil it down to the conceited, fast-paced, Facebook-Offish type of relationships that a lot of us in our younger years are entering, there exists some [ALL] of us who have fallen in the idea of falling in love.
That idea, as uninspired as it may be, is our youthful obsession with falling in love. Not love itself, not the pooping in your pants in a nursing home next to your 70 year marriage type of love, but instead, the idea of the first kiss, the first bangsesh, the casual dates, the facebook stalking, the cute tweets, the showing off to your friends, the bragging to your mom and dad, the disapproval of your mom and dad, the late night phonecalls, and the overwhelming sense of lust that tickles even the darkest place inside of you (or perhaps thats just the sex again).
Call me guilty because the evidence is all over my hands (and sheets), I am a sucka for lov(ing love). Its all about the thrill of the catch, because really that's what keeps me racing. I love (HEH) it when you are the bunny and I am the greyhound, and fuck I really, really want to catch up with that mammal, until wait, I have it, well shit, now what?
Why is it that love, the most domineering factor in our young adult lives, the relationships that become dictators to our every mechanism, is something so flighty? Is it our nature, as a young, germinating generation, or is it because we are constantly seeking better?
Or is it that we are constantly seeking some sort of approval, some sort of confirmation, that we are lovable, we are able to snag that catch, we are pretty enough, witty enough, vivacious enough, to seal the deal?
All I know is what I know, and that is that I am a perpetrator of the love detonator. I am the one with the hand on the grenade, I am the one in charge, because once that power position seems to get lost in the mix, once that vulnerable transition from lust to love sets in, I have to be the one in charge, or else (self) destruction ensues. I think it is a combination of our egos, or seeking validation and our overall sense of "it always gets better" attitudes that lead us into believing that love is something that happens and fades. All the pop songs speak of a spark, well, that's far from an eternal flame. Our relationships, then, are hardly a roaring fire. Instead, they are projections of our own self-worth and our idealistic expectations onto another. They become a struggle for power amidst lust.
SO WHEN DO WE GROW UP? Scary.
In any case, in any capacity, in any relationship, one thing is for sure, we love love. We love being in love. And whether that means 70 years or 70 minutes, that love is what drives us forward and keeps us sailing. Sail on, sailors.
Love is reserved simply for those "idiots" who can't help but to give in to their every whim, who carry on with their arbitrary and capricious distractions that soon there after solidify into the most fundamental, patient thinkings of their undeniably detailed lifetimes. It's so hard to know that they are out there sometimes. It's difficult to know whether they are deceiving, or perfect, whether your heart is in the right place, or your touch is making you believe that you're spinning into an infinity. It may seem so real, but reality is so very relative. Who cares? Who doesn't? Who manipulates who? Who sends the texts? Who breathes heavy? Who regrets? Who is consumed in thoughts of the other? Who forgets the first hello? Who remembers everything?
At what point does the marathon end? When do we cross the finish line? Is it when we find that singular connection with someone that defines our corporal and emotional selves, or is it the race itself that keeps us running, keeps us interested, and keeps the hamster wheel of life churning towards the foreverness, inescapability and volatility of the undefined relationship? What helps us to achieve the primitive finish (I'm NAHT talking dirty here, folks, BUT it works too as per usual), going against the grain or sticking with the stream?
Wowzers, WHAT A WHIRLWIND, huh? I know you're probably thinking, "Why so serious? Aren't you just a fugly slut? Why are you writing about love?" Well, because I can guarantee one thing, us jokers are the ones who are really looking for love "in all the wrong places" (had to).
This is my take on love, my take on the relationship, rather, that is absolutely unoriginal, but somehow still pervasive throughout the times and trials of the twentysomethings that I know. Sure, there are those of us who adore the idea of comfort and content, the attractiveness of the safety net. Even still, there are individuals who like nothing more than the societal ideals of the relationship, the approval from others that spawns for the facade of the "healthy" couple. But really, when we boil it down to the conceited, fast-paced, Facebook-Offish type of relationships that a lot of us in our younger years are entering, there exists some [ALL] of us who have fallen in the idea of falling in love.
That idea, as uninspired as it may be, is our youthful obsession with falling in love. Not love itself, not the pooping in your pants in a nursing home next to your 70 year marriage type of love, but instead, the idea of the first kiss, the first bangsesh, the casual dates, the facebook stalking, the cute tweets, the showing off to your friends, the bragging to your mom and dad, the disapproval of your mom and dad, the late night phonecalls, and the overwhelming sense of lust that tickles even the darkest place inside of you (or perhaps thats just the sex again).
Call me guilty because the evidence is all over my hands (and sheets), I am a sucka for lov(ing love). Its all about the thrill of the catch, because really that's what keeps me racing. I love (HEH) it when you are the bunny and I am the greyhound, and fuck I really, really want to catch up with that mammal, until wait, I have it, well shit, now what?
Why is it that love, the most domineering factor in our young adult lives, the relationships that become dictators to our every mechanism, is something so flighty? Is it our nature, as a young, germinating generation, or is it because we are constantly seeking better?
Or is it that we are constantly seeking some sort of approval, some sort of confirmation, that we are lovable, we are able to snag that catch, we are pretty enough, witty enough, vivacious enough, to seal the deal?
All I know is what I know, and that is that I am a perpetrator of the love detonator. I am the one with the hand on the grenade, I am the one in charge, because once that power position seems to get lost in the mix, once that vulnerable transition from lust to love sets in, I have to be the one in charge, or else (self) destruction ensues. I think it is a combination of our egos, or seeking validation and our overall sense of "it always gets better" attitudes that lead us into believing that love is something that happens and fades. All the pop songs speak of a spark, well, that's far from an eternal flame. Our relationships, then, are hardly a roaring fire. Instead, they are projections of our own self-worth and our idealistic expectations onto another. They become a struggle for power amidst lust.
SO WHEN DO WE GROW UP? Scary.
In any case, in any capacity, in any relationship, one thing is for sure, we love love. We love being in love. And whether that means 70 years or 70 minutes, that love is what drives us forward and keeps us sailing. Sail on, sailors.
12.11.11
_katy perry sings about this stuff so it's real
What is Vegas really? To me, it seems like that strange horse of a pill that you so #casually take from the manicured hand of a radiating angel at a club, because nothing with a halo could every hurt you (or is that just a sorority glow-stick headband?). That pill, unassuming as it may be, and terrifying all the same, as it gets lodged in your throat whilst you chug down your Amaretto Sour (you thought Appletini might be too gay tonight) is just as much of a mystery as the city itself. It kind of sits there in your throat, allowing you to ponder both death and elation, the thought of throwing up and the promise of a random, wild DIY porno, and finally the pangs of regret and the boner of excitement because you're living on the edge of [the] glory[hole]. This is Vegas. Do they make, "I survived" Tshirts here?
Call it what you will, but Vegas is absolutely a rite of passage for the horny, belligerent, boozy, sleazy, fun-loving, ragtag American twentysomething. It's like every good Christian boy's first experience with choking their chicken, it feels soooooo right, but there is that strange chest pain that wreaks of punishment from the unknown, omnipresent one (and by that I mean Mom, if she finds your AOL password and your favorited porno sites).
Vegas is an inexplicable adult play-place that in a drunken stupor I proclaimed to be the Disneyland of addicts, whores and all who want to come and throw away their morals and incomes to a place solely based upon aesthetics and the lack of antiseptics (I can be quite didactic when hammered).
BUT I FUCKING LOVED IT.
Sure, my beer shits lasted a little longer the next [few] day[s] than normal, and yes, the overwhelming moral rift that shook me to my core for the latter term of my hangover stayed with me just about until now, but don't we need a place like this?
I am fully aware that Vegas, in essence, is not unlike any other city in the Red, White and Blue-Balled, but it has somehow been pedastaled as a version of insanity unparalleled in any other Amurican town. I'll take it.
So, Vegas, this is a thank you. Your a hard to swallow pill at first. You sat in my throat as I chugged down a $1500 bottle of Smirnoff that is upcharged just so that I had a place to sit and feel "with-it." You made me regret my decisions as I purged your toxins at a gas station off of the 15 where they sold freeze-dried crickets as a 9 calorie snack. You gave me so many many "Sarah Palin's invading Ke$ha's closet" types (for which I am grateful) when I did my late night casino rounds, scouring the floor for a visor-toting, Keno-playing grannies. But above all else, you helped me to not remember a single thing I did, so no tweet, no post, no text shall leave your sacred city limits, but instead be rebirthed into some other idiotic twentysomething who steps in cocky and takes the seemingly harmless pill from the face of an angel.
Call it what you will, but Vegas is absolutely a rite of passage for the horny, belligerent, boozy, sleazy, fun-loving, ragtag American twentysomething. It's like every good Christian boy's first experience with choking their chicken, it feels soooooo right, but there is that strange chest pain that wreaks of punishment from the unknown, omnipresent one (and by that I mean Mom, if she finds your AOL password and your favorited porno sites).
Vegas is an inexplicable adult play-place that in a drunken stupor I proclaimed to be the Disneyland of addicts, whores and all who want to come and throw away their morals and incomes to a place solely based upon aesthetics and the lack of antiseptics (I can be quite didactic when hammered).
BUT I FUCKING LOVED IT.
Sure, my beer shits lasted a little longer the next [few] day[s] than normal, and yes, the overwhelming moral rift that shook me to my core for the latter term of my hangover stayed with me just about until now, but don't we need a place like this?
I am fully aware that Vegas, in essence, is not unlike any other city in the Red, White and Blue-Balled, but it has somehow been pedastaled as a version of insanity unparalleled in any other Amurican town. I'll take it.
So, Vegas, this is a thank you. Your a hard to swallow pill at first. You sat in my throat as I chugged down a $1500 bottle of Smirnoff that is upcharged just so that I had a place to sit and feel "with-it." You made me regret my decisions as I purged your toxins at a gas station off of the 15 where they sold freeze-dried crickets as a 9 calorie snack. You gave me so many many "Sarah Palin's invading Ke$ha's closet" types (for which I am grateful) when I did my late night casino rounds, scouring the floor for a visor-toting, Keno-playing grannies. But above all else, you helped me to not remember a single thing I did, so no tweet, no post, no text shall leave your sacred city limits, but instead be rebirthed into some other idiotic twentysomething who steps in cocky and takes the seemingly harmless pill from the face of an angel.
9.11.11
_two pump chump, three month hump
I'm close. Closer. I might... Its time. I about to...
Fin.
All that hard work for that?! All the humping and pumping, the steaming and beaming (?), the floggin' and ugly rockin', the push and the toosh?
You know where I am going with this, and to be honest I am not sure that it is really worth it. Now, don't get me wrong, I LOVE SEX, but to what extent, to what extreme, does sex begin to take over our lives as young adults and control the way we view relationships and the way we view ourselves?
I know that I am ~*GuIlTy*~ of basing my self-worth on my Saturday night trick far too often and that if I don't make my wiener puke, I feel like I, for some irrational rationalization or another, am the one not fit to be in any sort of relationship, that I'm ugly, that I have no game, that my mom and dad never loved me and so on and so forth spiraling into a marathon of The Facts of Life and popping pimples (Blanche is just so misunderstood!).
But for realz, here in The Real World, how much of ourselves are we putting into sex. I know that cannot cut it out of my life completely, but I also know that I can't have four random nightie nights in one week (whoops last week). So now I find myself in this Catch-22 where I am trying to cut myself off but in doing so all I do is think about the game, the catch, the awkward walk home (DEFINITELY the stop for some pizza), and the boom boom baby explosion in my dainties.
And to put it bluntly, it sucks. HAH.
Rando sex is not filling any sort of void that is left because of a lack of relationship. In fact (SPOILER ALERT) you could even be in a very healthy relationship but sex could become either monotonous or just not there, even physically, and even the saints of all dioceses could get caught up in the carnal embrace with some other Mary Magdalene. So then why do it?
Meh. So now I feel caught up with trying to slow down, trying not to go out as much and to seek my newest conquer, but to be honest it's very difficult. Let me break it down.
New city + Not a lot of friends + Time on your hands = Desire to go out to meet people
That Desire + (Drinking + Other Drunk people = Drinking more to cope with drunk people = Drunk) + Attractiveness of the general population in WeHO = LE SEX
Fuck. Literally.
Now I'm inside someone and not even inside my own head. WWJJD? (Translation: What Would Jojo Do?)
And now I am living in a new city, sleeping my way through and really not meeting anyone #dark #whaaaaat
Which brings me to my next quandary: the three month hump. Every time that I have moved to a new place this three month barrier has been DA WURST. Its just about that time when you begin to realize that everyone in the new city hates you AND your life is close to over AND you have no money AND you just hate the very consistent objectively beautiful weather because there should be a dark cloud trailing above your head and always raining on you gosh darn pity parade, amirite?
Why does everything get so gloomy in the third month. Am I pregnant? Again? Woooof, must be all that sexin'.
I think the third month is the point of inflection in my relationship with my new surroundings. It is ever so important, then, for me to keep my head on straight and my head in my pants so that I don't self-destruct and glitter bomb West Hollywood.
It Gets Better, right? Or is it just that you get older and learn how to deal? Because lezBhonest, its F*@$&#G hard as S%!@T right now.
Did I provide any sort of advice in this or did I just rant? Oh well, I feel soothed. Sort of.
I say just grow a pair and go in balls deep to your new city, keeping your teabagging for hiking and finding work, and not inside some trick's wahoo.
Fin.
All that hard work for that?! All the humping and pumping, the steaming and beaming (?), the floggin' and ugly rockin', the push and the toosh?
You know where I am going with this, and to be honest I am not sure that it is really worth it. Now, don't get me wrong, I LOVE SEX, but to what extent, to what extreme, does sex begin to take over our lives as young adults and control the way we view relationships and the way we view ourselves?
I know that I am ~*GuIlTy*~ of basing my self-worth on my Saturday night trick far too often and that if I don't make my wiener puke, I feel like I, for some irrational rationalization or another, am the one not fit to be in any sort of relationship, that I'm ugly, that I have no game, that my mom and dad never loved me and so on and so forth spiraling into a marathon of The Facts of Life and popping pimples (Blanche is just so misunderstood!).
But for realz, here in The Real World, how much of ourselves are we putting into sex. I know that cannot cut it out of my life completely, but I also know that I can't have four random nightie nights in one week (whoops last week). So now I find myself in this Catch-22 where I am trying to cut myself off but in doing so all I do is think about the game, the catch, the awkward walk home (DEFINITELY the stop for some pizza), and the boom boom baby explosion in my dainties.
And to put it bluntly, it sucks. HAH.
Rando sex is not filling any sort of void that is left because of a lack of relationship. In fact (SPOILER ALERT) you could even be in a very healthy relationship but sex could become either monotonous or just not there, even physically, and even the saints of all dioceses could get caught up in the carnal embrace with some other Mary Magdalene. So then why do it?
Meh. So now I feel caught up with trying to slow down, trying not to go out as much and to seek my newest conquer, but to be honest it's very difficult. Let me break it down.
New city + Not a lot of friends + Time on your hands = Desire to go out to meet people
That Desire + (Drinking + Other Drunk people = Drinking more to cope with drunk people = Drunk) + Attractiveness of the general population in WeHO = LE SEX
Fuck. Literally.
Now I'm inside someone and not even inside my own head. WWJJD? (Translation: What Would Jojo Do?)
And now I am living in a new city, sleeping my way through and really not meeting anyone #dark #whaaaaat
Which brings me to my next quandary: the three month hump. Every time that I have moved to a new place this three month barrier has been DA WURST. Its just about that time when you begin to realize that everyone in the new city hates you AND your life is close to over AND you have no money AND you just hate the very consistent objectively beautiful weather because there should be a dark cloud trailing above your head and always raining on you gosh darn pity parade, amirite?
Why does everything get so gloomy in the third month. Am I pregnant? Again? Woooof, must be all that sexin'.
I think the third month is the point of inflection in my relationship with my new surroundings. It is ever so important, then, for me to keep my head on straight and my head in my pants so that I don't self-destruct and glitter bomb West Hollywood.
It Gets Better, right? Or is it just that you get older and learn how to deal? Because lezBhonest, its F*@$&#G hard as S%!@T right now.
Did I provide any sort of advice in this or did I just rant? Oh well, I feel soothed. Sort of.
I say just grow a pair and go in balls deep to your new city, keeping your teabagging for hiking and finding work, and not inside some trick's wahoo.
21.10.11
_an open letter to open relationships
I feel like there is more to an open relationship than what Facebook prescribes to us, which reads loud and clear, "I love you, but I'm a whore! LoL!!" In fact, I feel like there are even more types of open relationships that the ones we necessarily give credit to (between to low budget prostitutes who seek to proclaim relationship status with someone while sucking on someone else's priveees twice a week). I think that there can be friend open relationships as well, and to be honest, I think those are even more dangerous.
I have found out about myself that I am a pretty loyal guy. I would even go as far as to say I am a mama wolf protecting her pack at times, because NOBODY will ever step on my babies toes unless its me. Then it's ok. Obv. So if no one is allowed to call you a C-word except for me, we are in the clear as friends and I will have your (bare)back until the end of days.
What really rattles me open friend relationship. Listen, I have never made the claim to not be a bit of a slore, so I can roll with the open romantic relationship as long as both sides are being honest and know exactly what's up. But the open friend relash I simple cannot relate to. Either you are my friend one hundred percent or you are not.
Friend things include:
1. returning texts/emails/facebooks/tweets/handjobs/bbms/carrier pigeon messages
2. defending you even when you are wrong (in the public sense) and then berating you for your fucked-up-ness (in private) to whip you back into shape
3. calling you out when you are an A-word
4. expecting you to call them out when they being a MotherF-word
5. being open and honest about being so far up their own asses that they cannot take the time to be a good friend to you
Simple list, right? I expect what I give. I simply find it frustrating to the upmost power when reciprocation is not had between friends. I don't do a one-sided open relationship with my friends.
So, honestly, is it too much to ask? Ryan 'O Connell, resident babe.com at Thought Catalog, recently wrote an article about Best Friends. LOVED IT. Read it. Anywho, this article really resonated with me, and to me it made sense to me that best friends just are. I get that.
So how can I honestly say I love somebody (in the friendship sense) and let them defy all of my 5 mother-f-word rules and still call them a bestie? Does that make me dumb, naive, needy or does it make me a good guy for holding out and hoping the person will come around? Am I in an abusive open friend relationship?
Help, I've fallen and I can't get up. Need answers here, people. Am I just trying to find love in a hopeless place?
I have found out about myself that I am a pretty loyal guy. I would even go as far as to say I am a mama wolf protecting her pack at times, because NOBODY will ever step on my babies toes unless its me. Then it's ok. Obv. So if no one is allowed to call you a C-word except for me, we are in the clear as friends and I will have your (bare)back until the end of days.
What really rattles me open friend relationship. Listen, I have never made the claim to not be a bit of a slore, so I can roll with the open romantic relationship as long as both sides are being honest and know exactly what's up. But the open friend relash I simple cannot relate to. Either you are my friend one hundred percent or you are not.
Friend things include:
1. returning texts/emails/facebooks/tweets/handjobs/bbms/carrier pigeon messages
2. defending you even when you are wrong (in the public sense) and then berating you for your fucked-up-ness (in private) to whip you back into shape
3. calling you out when you are an A-word
4. expecting you to call them out when they being a MotherF-word
5. being open and honest about being so far up their own asses that they cannot take the time to be a good friend to you
Simple list, right? I expect what I give. I simply find it frustrating to the upmost power when reciprocation is not had between friends. I don't do a one-sided open relationship with my friends.
So, honestly, is it too much to ask? Ryan 'O Connell, resident babe.com at Thought Catalog, recently wrote an article about Best Friends. LOVED IT. Read it. Anywho, this article really resonated with me, and to me it made sense to me that best friends just are. I get that.
So how can I honestly say I love somebody (in the friendship sense) and let them defy all of my 5 mother-f-word rules and still call them a bestie? Does that make me dumb, naive, needy or does it make me a good guy for holding out and hoping the person will come around? Am I in an abusive open friend relationship?
Help, I've fallen and I can't get up. Need answers here, people. Am I just trying to find love in a hopeless place?
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