The Boy Report

I suppose when I inform you all about my upcoming dates, I should update you once the date has been...dated.

But, as you've probably figured out, no update means...no more date.

My dinner with Sushi Guy last week was perfectly fine. He was pleasant enough company, cute in a scruffy dorky sort of way, he bought me some delicious fish, laughed at my jokes, it was...you know, fine. He was polite enough, and thanked me via text for coming out to meet him. But he did not request a second date, nor did I want one. But: free dinner. So I consider it a win.

And as for LTB, Mr. Lawyer-To-Be, Mr. He Who Has No Car...meh. As I said last week, I thought we had fun. I mean, we did have fun, I highly doubt I'm so delusional that I interpreted his complete and total boredom as "fun". It wasn't like it was the best date ever or anything, and we didn't have electrifying chemistry, but it was decent...in retrospect, I probably shouldn't be so surprised that I didn't hear from him. 'Cause I didn't. Which really is for the best, since he doesn't have a car.

There was one other guy I gave my number to. Super cute, super witty, seemed like fun. But he very quickly killed any shot he had with me. Two days in a row he texted me after 6PM asking to hang out that night, which offends me because I am a lady and I deserve a little forethought. Then he texted me on a Sunday morning at 2AM. No please thank you. Moving on.

Right now, I have no one I'm currently communicating with, and no dates scheduled. The messages I've received lately have reached an all time low---or high, depending on how you think about it.

No worries. I really don't have time for a boyfriend, anyway. 

I'm entirely too busy being self-involved.

'Merika, FUCK YEAH!

PUSSIES FOR OBAMA!

I'm sorry.

There's really no excuse for what I'm about to inflict on you. Believe me, I feel the appropriate levels of shame.

But right now, I love this country, and I need to celebrate it, in a pure and honest fashion.

 

I adore you, America. 

Sleep well tonight.

Election Dysfunction

I'm nervous, guys.

I'm sitting here, refreshing results, and being nervous.

Oh so very nervous.

Sure, more Obama masks were sold for Halloween. And yeah, he won Vigo County. But the Redskins rule says it'll be Romney. SO WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE?!

I'm actually like, butterflies situation right now.

Hello, pumpkin beers...my old friend.

See you on the other side.

My Dirty Fucking Mouth

The Binge Monster

As you may have ascertained from my constant stream of negativity and lack of yoga-mentioning, my self control has been pretty shit lately. It's horrifying, really. I am up some pounds, and down some joy. I am not a happy camper. I am a camper who realizes they're 80 miles from civilization with no cell service and they forgot the beer and the bong and a pillow. And clothes. And sanity.

The root of my problem is any combination of the following: 1) I have serious emotional issues 2) I lost a lot of weight really quickly, and my brain and self-perception didn't adjust 3) My goal is now within reach and that terrifies me 4) I'm worried about gaining all the weight back anyway 5) I'm fucking lazy as fuck 6) I now want perfection which I know is impossible and if I'm not perfect I'd prefer to be a shit-show 7) I know being healthy makes me happier so clearly I just don't want to be happy 8) I don't feel comfortable in my skin 9) I hate everything 10) It's all your fault anyway.

A few weeks ago I bought "The Willpower Instinct" by Kelly McGonigal (PHD!) in hopes of fixing whatever the fuck is wrong with me with a little self-help. It's a good book, so far....you know, 20 pages in. See, I don't even have the willpower to commit to READING the book, so it's a bitch of a Catch-22. ("Bitch" was a typo from "bit" that I chose to leave because hilarious.)

In the beginning of the book, McGonigal suggests you give names to the different parts of your personality that pull you in different directions. Like "the obsessor" for the part of me that fixates on the tiniest things, or "the planner" for the part of me that loves lists and schedules and plans and gets very irritated when things are not set.

The part of me that needs the most work, I have named The Binge Monster.

The Binge Monster is my nemesis.

The Binger Monster wants food, in vast quantities, in short periods of time. The Binge Monster thinks any negative emotion can be erased with calories, and any positive one can be enhanced, despite a decade of evidence to the contrary. The Binge Monster is not swayed by logic, in fact, the Binge Monster is skilled at rationalizing the most fucked up things, like eating an entire roll of cookie dough in twelve hours. ("Well, I haven't binged on cookie dough yet, so obviously I will eventually, so I might as well do it now...") The Binge Monster is smarter than you...or at least, a better manipulator.

The Binge Monster makes you act like a crazy person. The Binge Monster tells you to order two sodas at the drive-through so the bespectacled teenage worker doesn't think all this food is for you. The Binge Monster thinks everyone is staring at you when you go to the work kitchen for another piece of chocolate. The Binge Monster forces you to eat so fast, so mindlessly, that you barely even taste anything. The Binge Monster mocks you, yells at you, punishes you, even as it forces you to do its bidding.

The Binge Monster is not concerned with your goals or dreams. The Binge Monster don't give a single fuuuck. You have no control over the Binge Monster, none at all. The Binge Monster operates on auto-pilot, and ignores any communication from your heart or your mind or your soul. The Binge Monster starts a cycle of self-destruction, and hides the key up its own ass. The Binge Monster hates you and everything that makes you happy.

The Binge Monster is a motherfucking bitch.

If you are not emotional eater, I truly envy you. The helplessness, the self-loathing, the fear that comes with being completely out of control with something as simple as feeding yourself is heartbreaking, not to mention humiliating. I've been writing this post for two weeks, and it was incredibly hard to put these words down, and it honestly terrifies me a bit to post it. But I will.

I was doing so well for so long, and now have been doing so poorly for so long. I'm so incredibly frustrated with myself, but it's just not as simple as we'd all like it to be. I can't just stop, I can't just be better. It's been said before that food addiction is one of the hardest to deal with --- you can avoid alcohol, or heroin, or sex, but you can't avoid food. And believe me, I have tried.

I'll dig myself out of this, I always do. But I feel such panic when I consider dealing with these kinds of issues the rest of my life. Obviously I need to figure out the true cause and trigger of my self-destructive behaviors, but alas I did not come with a "crazy bitch" manual. All I can do is press on, try my best, and live my life according to the brilliant philosophy of Dory.

Favorite Songs: "Upside Down"

PSA (Penis Service Announcement)

I have complained to you all before about the rather pathetic emails a single girl receives whilst Internet dating. Short messages, rude messages, indecipherable messages, confusing messages. I have yet to receive an unsolicited dick pic but I'm sure one is on its way (fingers crossed). It's pretty easy to dig through my inbox most of the time, the vast majority of emails I get are automatic "no thank you please delete after copying for future blog mocking of course".

Now, it's time I discuss something far more sinister. Are you comfortable? Anyone need a bathroom break? Snack?

Okay.

Sometimes a guy sends you a nice long missive, and it starts off great. They reference something specific in your profile, they use the right "your", they resist the urge to use too much of this!!!! You click over to their page before finishing the message and find them to be cute, and employed, with a reasonably high match percentage. No red flags yet. You go back to the email, finish reading, and find yourself stuck on a line like this:

"You sound like a really cool gal (one that actually happens to BE funny, which is rare among females these days)"

I.....

Er....

Okay, you know what's NOT sexy, dudes? SEXISM!

"BUT WAIT!" You insist. "That's not sexist! Stop getting your panties in a twist, you feminist bitch! Learn to take a damn compliment!"

No.

It is not a compliment to insult the entirety of the female tribe in attempts to boost one of them up. I don't know who's been spreading this rumor, but it is a big fat lie. And I know fat. (The only compliment along these lines that is acceptable to me is "You're not like most girls", and only in very specific situations, and only if the implication is not "OTHER GIRLS SUCK".) It's like declaring "you're kind of good looking, for an ITALIAN", or "you're actually not that stupid considering you're from NEW JERSEY".

"Women, they're just so dumb, with their aprons and their ovaries, and they're really not funny, 'cause they don't have brains. But YOU. You are special. IT'S LIKE YOU ARE TOO AWESOME TO BE FEMALE. BECAUSE LADIES SUCK."

Maybe this is an attempt at "negging", one of the ever-so-brilliant pick-up tactics described in Neil Strauss's "The Game". If you give a girl a bit of a back-handed compliment, she instinctively craves your approval and will suck your dick. Or something. I think that's the general premise. Basically, we're all such fragile, insecure little flowers, we're easily manipulated by the judgy opinions of a random dude in a bar. Or on the Internet. Insult us and we are yours. 

Now, I'm not assuming that all the guys who thoughtlessly toss comments around like this one are total, blatant misogynists. They're merely subtle misogynists. They're probably the kind of guys who say they're "nice guys" who can't catch a break and complain about "the friend zone". Their misogyny is ingrained, built into the framework of their very beings, a natural result of their born privilege and they probably don't even realize it's there. I'm sure these guys are really polite to all their girlfriends and their grandmas and whatnot, and maybe they even consider themselves feminists.

But you know what? They're not. They're not, because they classify the females as one entity, ascribe a stereotypical identity to it, and if you demonstrate any positive characteristic that falls outside of the bell curve of what "most girls" are like according to these tiny little pea brains, then you are SPECIAL.You are like a MAN practically. And you should feel so flattered that you've been chosen to be removed from the box of vagina-having. "Thank you so much for declaring me better than a woman."

And you can't be more than one positive thing, you know. If you're pretty, you're not smart. And if you're smart, you're probably fat. And if you're talented, you're probably a bitch, and regardless of any other facets of your personality, if you're a lady, you're definitely not funny. 

Funny is for men.

Tragically, one of my lovers, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, made this mistake a few months ago and got called out on it, as well he should have. His comment killed my buzz for him, just a little bit. It doesn't matter how fucking hot and talented and adorably nerdy you are, sexism is not sexy.

So here's your PSA, guys:

Check yoselves, before you wreck yoselves.

Case of the Mondays

Dragging my ridiculously lazy ass out of bed this morning was probably the biggest accomplishment of my life. OF MY LIFE, I TELL YOU.

Yes, it's all nice and bright and shiny out in the mornings after daylight savings, the world is much more inviting now that it's not pitch black at an unreasonably late hour. But...but my bed is just so comfortable. And my Tree was purring. And birds were chirping. And my pillows had formed this perfect nest of amazingness.

And I really didn't want to go to stupid fucking work. My prison. MY PAIN.

Though there is a bright side, it looks like things maybe be improving for me on that front. I've been proactive and persistent, ish, and the beginning of the year is supposedly bringing some expansion to my job description. I'll start assisting in marketing and actually like, learning shit and doing useful things. Maybe one day I'll actually contribute something to the company. Maybe they'll give me more money. Maybe.

Ideally I still want to find a shiny new job because I'm pretty sure my whole life needs a reset, but still. This is an improvement.

Progress.

But for now, I'm still thoroughly unfulfilled. Today, I get to go to a nursery to exchange a dying plant (okay, it's dead, and I killed it), and put it an order on Costco.

Thrilling.

NaNoWriMo Check In: Day #4, Morning

Well, I am not knocking this shit out of the park.

But that's totally okay.

I was inspired reading a post at Running Around The Bucket, and have amended my NaNo goal. I am still hopefully making it to 50,000 words, but my true goal is just don't give up, like I have every other time I've attempted this little challenge. Even if I start nearing the end of the month and the full 50k isn't attainable, I will not surrender! I WILL NOT FALL. I WILL BE CHAMPION.

I'm trying to get back into my writing groove, where the words just pour out of me at a pace faster than I can type...actually, that's not true. Have I mentioned I'm a bad ass typist? Well, I am. One of the very few skills I will blatantly brag about without a hint of humility. I fucking pound the shit out of a keyboard and type something like 90 WPM if I'm trying. That's sexy, right? Totally.

I'm still enjoying the symptoms of writer's block. Pulling the words out of my brain is a slow and tricky process. Occasionally I find moments of inspiration and a whole paragraph forms right before my eyes, but usually it's painstakingly slow going just crafting a single sentence. And I know, I know you aren't supposed to edit, but what I do isn't really editing...it's just part of my process. I write the bare bones of a scene and go back and flesh it out with detail and deeper thought...which kind of feels a lot like editing...

But it's crawling along.

The story I'm writing begins with the breakup of an almost decade long relationship. My main character, Lilly, enjoying a quarter life crisis, cashes out on her car and her job and her friendships and flees to travel the world and fall in REAL TRUE LOVE. Or in theory she will, if I ever get her there. Definitely a little "Eat Pray Love" I suppose, which I haven't actually read and probably should if I'm ripping it off.

I knew I would need to pick a story and a topic I can really get lost in, and I think a bit of wish fulfillment is just the thing. I know I'll get wrapped up in describing the parts of the world I've traveled to or the ones I dream of, and the underlying romance will give me a bit of vicarious thrill. And to steal a piece of advice heard from a longtime NaNo-er, any time I get stuck, I'm throwing in a sex scene. WOOHOO SEX.

Fiction Word Count: 2,059
Blog Word Count: 2,184
Total: 4,243

The Lost Hour

Once in college, I was at a Halloween party at UC Irvine on the night daylight savings time gives us back an hour of our lives. In my drunken condition, dressed as a football player in my dad's old Nebraska Huskers jersey and fishnets, I fixated. The time change seemed to open up a whole world of possibilities to my adrenaline and alcohol laced state, and my tendency towards dramatics came out in full force.

If we were going to get a whole hour back of our lives, if at 1:59AM the clock switched back to 1:00AM, basically anything we did in that first hour could be wiped away. As if it never happened. A confession, a tryst, a mistake. A bit of sexual confidence. A moment of true honesty. I was totally fascinated by the potential stories, and tried to get my friends to engage in debauchery that could be rendered nonexistent by the turning of the clock.

Of course, nothing remotely interesting actually happened to me in that hour. I didn't exactly have the balls to make something happen, and I was at a party with a bunch of people I barely knew, trying to hide in corners as much as possible. I think I had a last beer and watched a friend of a friend make out with a random, dressed as Emo Minnie Mouse.

Still, this idea sticks with me. I'm sure one day I'll make use of that hour to do something "normal me" would never do. Because even four years later, I really don't have very big balls.

Not that it matters.