Happy New Year!

My new year was great. Lots of champagne!

The less great part was being presented with further proof that no relationship lasts. (Or mid-life crises are really terrible, whichever way you choose to look at it.)

My aunt and uncle have been married for almost 24 years now. In fact, my grandma LOVES telling the story of how they skipped out on my 1st birthday party to go get married (and I’m turning 25 in February).

Last night my aunt told me that she had filed for a divorce and was just waiting on my uncle to sign the paperwork. Something about how “it’s rough being the only person trying to keep up the relationship.”

Crazy stuff. Looking at them I almost believed it was possible to be with someone for a lifetime, but I suppose being further disillusioned can’t be a bad thing.

On the other hand, my aunt who has been a vegetarian (well, you know, one of those ones that eats fish) for 20 years also had a bite of chicken last night. So I’m thinking the mid-life crisis theory is not completely off-base. We’ll see, I suppose. My uncle doesn’t exactly seem to be putting up much of a fight.

This is my 100th post on here. Kinda fitting!


It took me a long time to realize what a shithead my first “real” boyfriend was. I think it only really hit me when we had finally broken up for the last time.

Throughout our four year relationship, as people tend to do, I asked him questions about himself. What’s your favorite food? What kind of music do you like? How in the world have you never read Harry Potter?? (That should have been the obvious dealbreaker, but I was young.)

A couple times I asked him what his favorite color was. He usually said “I don’t care” or “I don’t have one.” It was one of those things where I thought if I asked once a year or so, he might decide he had a favorite color. Sometimes if I’d specifically ask him what color to get something for him, like a shirt or whatever, it would always be black or red. So I assumed that his favorite colors were black and red.

We broke up a bunch of times but it wasn’t really over until I decided I wanted to date a different guy. Well that time I guess he realized it was different and I wasn’t going to beg for him back again. He came over to my apartment one day to try and get me back, or at least for a final fuck. It was whatever, I wasn’t officially dating the other guy yet and the ex-boyfriend had an excellent dick (probably the only reason I stuck around as long as I did).

So we had breakup sex, not exactly anything special, and as I was getting ready to kick him out of my apartment he randomly burst out with, “Do you even know my favorite color?”

“Yeah,” I said, “you don’t have one, or when you do it’s usually black or red.” Lemme just say, at this particular second, things were pretty lighthearted actually.

And then he said, “No. It’s blue. And sometimes silver.”

And for a moment I just stared at him. I’m pretty sure if someone had taken a picture of my face, it would’ve been perfectly filed away under the definition of “WHAT THE FUCK.”

And then I burst into tears.

Throughout our relationship I’d asked him the same question several times, not trying to badger him but just trying to learn more about him. To feel more connected to him in some way, because I had these basic fucking facts about him. But in that moment it became infinitely clear to me how little of a shit he had given about being connected, about sharing these details with the girl he supposedly “loved” for four years. There he was, at the end of it all, with a question and an answer that emanated this sort of “you didn’t try hard enough” attitude, when he had not once bothered sharing that information with me despite my repeated desire to know it.

We did talk about it later on. I think he may have actually grasped what an asshole he was, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part.

Point is that I learned a real lesson in the span of about 3 seconds. You can think for years and years that you love someone, that they’re right for you, that they feel the same way. And you can be so, so wrong. Thinking back though it’s like… You know that meme? “When you look at an ex and you wonder if you were drunk the entire time you were dating”? I think back and that’s the exact thought in my mind – what kind of drugs was I breathing in around him that I couldn’t see that when this asshole said “I don’t care” about his favorite color, he really meant “I don’t care” about sharing his life with me? It seems so obvious now.

With my now ex-husband I managed to turn off the blinders and see the same thing in about half the time, so I suppose it’s all a matter of practice. I just hope that for the next one, whether that’s the Lawyer or someone else, I’ll see it even more quickly. Oh sure, there’s the hope that it won’t be there at all, but that’s probably just more wishful thinking.

That Song That Reminds Me Of You

I fall in love too quickly. Oh sure, it’s really just infatuation, but let’s be real – in the moment it sure feels like love. I suppose on the bright side it’s nice that I fall out of love just as quickly.

I’m feeling it again. Some days it’s mild, just an irritating ache. Some days every song reminds me of him, every note breaks my heart. But there’s always that one song, isn’t there? That one particular song that brings his smile into sharp focus from the very first chord. It’s like the other song goes, “Cause there’s this tune I found that makes me think of you somehow and I play it on repeat…”

It hurts and feels amazing at the same time. And I’ve always been good at keeping those feelings a secret, but maybe I’m getting old. Maybe I feel like I don’t have time to waste anymore, because this time around I want to tell. Not sure why, since I’m not sure I even want anything to come of it if I do. We have such different life goals. It could never work in the long run. And okay, I don’t care so much about the long run – I want to have fun now. But he does, so he’d never go for it. So what’s the point of telling? It would just make things messy.

But that logic isn’t being all that convincing. I might just blurt it out anyway. Maybe because I want to hear the rejection out of the horse’s mouth, as it were. Make absolutely 100% sure that I need to move on. Maybe that’s really my role in life, not so much to be a serial monogamist but a serial unrequited love-ist.

And let me clarify that I’m not depressed. Not anymore anyway. This love of being hurt emotionally doesn’t come from a place of sadness or turmoil. Or well, I suppose it does, but only from the mere vestiges of sadness and turmoil. It’s not an expression of those things anymore. It’s just a reflexive way of having masochistic fun.

Having to clarify that at all says something, though. I should have never made this blog so popular. I can’t hear myself think when I write anymore. It feels like it’s all for an audience, like I can’t quite admit to some things because people would judge.

Anyway. Really this post was about songs. From a certain age I started associating music with love. For every crush I’ve ever had I have a song that makes me think of them. I bet everyone has a couple like that. Right now it’s that “Take Me To Church” song, because it played once on his music channel while we were fucking and he made some comment about it. Such a minor thing I know, but now every time it comes on my heart skips a beat or two.

What’s your song right now? That song that reminds you of that one person?


Can’t remember if I mentioned this before. I think I did. My husband said to me a while back, “You can’t turn a whore into a housewife.”

Initial reaction was irritation, but upon further reflection I realized just how funny it was. I wish I had replied, “You’re right, YOU can’t.”

Maybe it’s true what they say. I just haven’t met the right person yet. That person that won’t just make me flustered and nervous around them, that won’t just love me unconditionally, but that will make me love them every day of my life. Because isn’t that the problem?

Maybe I haven’t ever actually been in love. Oh sure I had a 4-year relationship, followed by this 3-year one with my now husband. I’ve had other shorter relationships and fuck buddies galore. But how could any of that have been love if it didn’t last forever?

I used to make lists of boys I had crushes on. It was like a self-check for reality. Like I was making sure I was still alive, checking my pulse, because if I didn’t feel that desperate desire for someone, how could I be sure I still existed? It’s insane now not having a single person I really want, like I’m missing a part of my soul. And so freeing too, makes me really think.

Maybe I really don’t know shit. Maybe the reason I don’t believe love exists is because I’ve never felt actual love, just that constant repetitive heartbreak I keep talking about on here. And maybe I will feel it someday, but if I haven’t yet then I doubt it. I am the way I am, a certain way, and I think that way precludes love. At least the kind of love that everyone talks about when they tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about.

I think that’s why I’m a whore, in the super promiscuous sense. I’m trying to find this special, magical thing that everyone keeps referring to, and this is the only way for me to go about that journey. It’s the only way I know, anyway.

And yes, it’s easy to say “you should do this and you shouldn’t do that and three steps later you’ll find love.” But that’s bullshit, isn’t it? That’s not how it works. Everyone has to go about it their own way, because how else would they meet the “perfect” person for them? If they do it someone else’s way, it’s not real. It’s an artificial love, and I’ve had plenty of those. They all ended, and isn’t that the point? Real love doesn’t end.

I never thought of “whore” as an insult. I never thought of it as some basic thing that everyone could do. Not everyone could be a whore. Not everyone could get the same fulfilling experience out of it that I do. I’m doing my best to use this part of me in search of a greater goal, that “meaning of life” that everyone refers to, love. But in the meantime I’m not going to deny or try to change this part of myself, my personality, my soul, that has gotten me through the absolute hardest times I’ve ever been through, through a near-suicidal depression. How moronic would that be?

I’m a whore and I’m okay with that. In fact, I’m more than okay with that. I love that part of myself. And sure, I’m a narc so that might seem obvious, but there are parts of myself I don’t love. My tendency to procrastinate on everything. My aggression toward people I think are being stupid, even when I do the same things sometimes. My slightly bumpy nose. I don’t love those things, but being a whore I do love. And how many people can really say that about themselves, that they love the parts of themselves other people think are imperfect?

Criticize me all you want, but don’t expect me to take it personally, much less do anything about your opinion. I am happy. Are you?

Sex And Drugs And Knowing People

I don’t know a whole lot about a whole lot. Really my best stories are about sex and drugs – not so much rock and roll, but mainly because I’m more of a dance/electronic/club music type of girl. Part of making new friends is telling people stories about one’s past, and I certainly don’t have a bunch of appropriate stories to tell for the kind of friendships I want to make now. These are the people I’m going to be working with one day – I can’t exactly go around talking about my sexual exploits. I feel so quiet, which is very unlike me.

Everything has changed in the past two weeks – I suddenly have an insane amount of focus and drive for what I want out of life since I started law school. Which, by the way, I was totally right about – I literally don’t have a spare second to breathe, much less write on here. And dates? Ha. Those are a thing of the past. (Though I am meeting a guy on Saturday – after I spend 5 hours at school for a non-mandatory-but-actually-yeah-you-need-to-be-there class – at his place for dinner. Go figure.)

Honestly, if J’s new semi-girlfriend hadn’t been out of town for these past couple of weeks, I probably wouldn’t have been having sex at all. Because yeah, he has this girl that he’s focused on. The Lawyer got back with that girlfriend he had right before I started school (for pity reasons I think). And Mr. Superman has been off on an oil rig forever. My three main fuck buddies are basically unavailable, I don’t have time to go on dates, and I haven’t really felt like trying with any of the side fuck buddies – the result being that my life just got significantly more stressful with significantly less stress relief available in it.

Even J said the last couple of times we hung out that I have bags under my eyes and I need to sleep more. Ugh. I don’t feel tired at all actually, just a bit more worried than usual, but being told that is pretty shitty.

Speaking of J, he actually slept over at my house last night. It was weird. I liked having him over, but I think he was kind of uncomfortable not being in his own space. Even the sex was a little awkward – ended great as usual, of course, but still awkward. I think it didn’t help that we saw sides of each other last night that we didn’t realize existed, though. My dogs got into a fight over a curly fry and I got pretty angry at them, yelling and stuff. He’s never heard me yell like that, obviously. And then later in bed I tried to cuddle with him, and he said something about how I was “too lovey-dovey.” I might be over-thinking this one actually – maybe I just took it the wrong way, but it really didn’t sound like a joke to me, it sounded like he was trying to say that he didn’t enjoy that about me. Which was an absolute shocker to me, honestly – I’m very physically affectionate, even when there is zero emotional attachment for me, and I thought he liked that and was the same way. Again, maybe I was just tired and cranky and took it the wrong way, but it was surprising in an unpleasant way to hear that.

It goes to show how, even after four months of fucking and hanging out with someone, you can really not know them AT ALL. I’m not even talking about past stuff, like the shit I’ve done in my life or had happen to me that if he knew about, he would undoubtedly immediately pity and despise me at the same time and probably never want to see me again. I’m talking purely knowledge of someone’s personality – like I said, he’s never seen me yell before. He still hasn’t ever seen me truly upset or irritated or angry. He hasn’t seen me cry or lose my temper. Those things don’t happen often – my husband’s provocations being an obvious exception – because I’m a generally happy person, and even when I’m not happy, I’m good at controlling my feelings and my reactions. But they do happen. We haven’t even had an actual argument where we didn’t come to a consensus very quickly.

How can you say you know someone when you’ve only seen a very small part of them? That’s why it really confuses me when people say things like “he’s not the same person he used to be” after dating someone for a few months or even a few years. Well, no, he IS actually the exact same person (usually, there are some cases where there is a drastic change I’ll admit), you just got to see only the nice parts of him in the beginning and now he’s gradually showing you the ugly parts too.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to say that J showing me his dislike of affection (once again, if that’s the case) was some absolute deal-breaker, I’m-never-going-to-see-him-again sort of shit. And I certainly hope he doesn’t feel that way about me yelling at my dogs. But I bet he was surprised in the same way I was, and I wonder if today he’s thinking the same thing I’ve been thinking – “I really don’t know that person at all.”

Drunken Ramblings

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Those feelings are hitting me again. Those fucking feelings, irritating wonderful feelings.

And I know they mean nothing. But so quick? Why does this happen so easily? And if I think about it, I don’t even know why this obsession has come over me again. Why him? He has no distinctive qualities. He’s not super interesting or funny or smart or rich. He’s not model material – good looking but not absolutely stunning. He doesn’t blow my mind in bed. But somehow I just want him. Desperately want him. Consumed by want of him. He’s gorgeous. He’s amazing. He’s wonderful. Why? I don’t know, he just is. My heart says so. Heartache and logic are mutually exclusive.

I want him to hold me forever. I want that moment in bed with him, where we’re sitting, laughing, and he leans over and kisses me and the look in his eyes is pure adoration. I want that moment where I can believe that I’m safe and protected and for once I can be honest because nothing I say will make that look go away. I want that moment where his secrets become mine too, where he feels just as comfortable with me as I do with him, where he lets me hold him and comfort him too.

I want that moment where I can admit to falling for him, and everything will be all right. He’ll tell me he feels the same, and we’ll talk about the possibility of something “more.” What that would entail, what conditions we’d each have to meet. And we’d promise that we’d do those things, and we’d kiss more passionately than ever before, and we’d fuck like never before, gently and roughly and like the world was ending. And afterward we’d hold each other tight, so tight, sweat mixing in the folds of our skins pressed together, our bodies hot as furnaces, and still we wouldn’t let go. Not for a long, long time. And when we finally do, we’d keep our fingers intertwined. We’d kiss again, just once, but a lingering one. Good night. I adore you. Those are the words we’d fall asleep to.

And in the morning he’d get up first like he always does, and take a few minutes to stare at me sleeping. I’d sense it and open my eyes slowly to his, and he’d smile and touch my cheek. The emotions. Purity. We’d say those words again and kiss and fuck and lay there more, in a bed made of happiness.

And that would be it.

That would be the end of the moment. Because once that part’s done, we’d have to get back to reality. There’s a life outside of bliss after all. And after that peak of perfection is reached, the only way we can go is down. Questions. Demands. Irritations. Frustrations. Tears. The only way to go when you’ve reached the highest point of happiness you can ever reach is down, and that moment was the highest point. After that it’s just poor imitations, getting worse and worse, until it’s all over.

And that part I don’t want. All I want is the one moment, where we say we want each other desperately and have a night and a morning where we act like we do. And then I just want things to go back to normal – I want to slide back down the way I came up, not try my luck with the other side. The words would never be mentioned again after that moment, and though we might see the desire for them in each other’s eyes once in a while, we would push it aside.

Friends. I’d rather just be real true friends forever. I want the absolution of my heartache, for the few moments that it will last, but I want a friend more.

Let’s put these emotions to good use. These silly, unpleasant, magical feelings. Give from the heart as much as I can, show my desire every day until it’s blatant, but never say a word. It’s easier that way.

Is this real? Am I making it up because I’m a masochist, because I like the feeling of pain, of heartache? Whatever the reason, it’ll fade soon enough. No point in ruining an amazing thing for a feeling that will disappear as soon as I find something better.

So Much Better

My husband was out of town for work for a while and he just got back home last night. It didn’t take long before we started pissing each other off and this afternoon we had a huge fight. It was about something completely unrelated to the following topic, but at one point he said, “And by the way, I did have a LOT of sex while I was gone, and it was so much better!”

Haha. I was upset about our actual fight so that wasn’t too amusing in the moment, but looking back that’s kind of funny. All I said was “Good, I’m happy for you.” I wish I had made it a little more clear just how happy I am, because the fact of the matter is I’m fucking ecstatic that he’s getting laid. Now I don’t have to be so secretive about where I’m going out at night while he’s here.

I mean I’m not going to announce to the world that tonight I’m going to meet some random guy in a bar who I’ll probably go home with. But when I put on my nice dress and my heels in a little bit, I can walk right past him, sexy perfume and all, and not feel the teensiest twinge of guilt.

Oh yes, I’m a slut. Oh yes, I’m a cunt. Oh yes, I’m a raging unfair bitch. But apparently I’m also the one who had the balls in our relationship, because as he very much enjoyed explaining to me today, his life is so much better without me. I’m lazy and haven’t done anything with my life for years and I got fat while we were dating and expected him to do everything. Haha. Okay man – well then shouldn’t you be thanking me for being the one with the courage to free you from the shit I was putting you through?

No no. Of course not. Thank goodness you’re free but fuck me for being the cunt that made that the case.

I’ll stop ranting now, I’m sure no one finds this remotely entertaining. Pretty excited for this date tonight, though mainly because the guy sent me a cock picture, teehee. Otherwise I feel like it’s going to be pulling teeth to have a conversation, but whatever, I’ve got golden fuck buddies right now. A one night stand works for me.