sweaters & swears

The Thing (s) I can (could) never Tell You

This is exceptionally embarrassing because I am a 21 year old, strong, independent woman, and I hate to admit these things but there was a time where I just could not choke out those three words:

I like you

which is so stupid because I could tell anybody

but you

and now that kind of irony makes me laugh so hard beer floats out of my nose

and now when I like someone I tell them immediately to their face

and I tell them and I kiss them on their mouth

and hard because I don’t want them to leave me but with you I couldn’t do that.

I had to hold those words between my lips like that loud secret

a party popper about to burst.

So instead of telling you directly

I asked you in a

what I thought was a coy text message

which was

“What do you think of me?”

and I thought it was kind of sexy and playful and pretty perfect especially because I couldn’t stop (full stop) thinking about you (period).

You answered

right away

which I took to be a sign that you were infatuated with me

(which- I found out much later - you were)

and your response was the nicest text message I had ever gotten

and it STILL is the nice text message I have ever received.

I didn’t want to get rid of my phone

because it was saved there.

When I felt bad

and knew you stopped caring about me

I saw that message

and realized there was a time when someone

actually felt that way about me

and I gazed

in some kind of stupid fairytale glee

“how the fuck could that have been me, how could I have been that person? was I that happy?”

And then I got depressed so I got a new phone and tried to delete your number- but I saved your text in an e-mail address.

But I could never tell you

and I will never tell you

how much those words mean(t) to me.

I like when you forget to call me

I like when you forget to call me. I love when I wait by my phone and cancel my plans in hopes of hearing your voice. I love memorizing the buttons on my phone. I love starring at the screen, swearing that it lit up two seconds ago.

I love spending my time waiting. It’s better than sitting at traffic stops or standing in lines. I’d rather sit on my bed reading Camus, not really paying attention, anticipating your ring.

I like interrupting my schedule. I like blocking out three hours of my day for you. Not because I expect our conversation to last that long, but because I need to spend time before our call in preparation and I need some wind down time to digest your words and swirl them in my stomach.

I like patiently losing my phone and then periodically calling it, just so I’m sure I can receive your call. I love when my device gets wrapped up and tangled in blankets. I love that you’ll never get to untangle anything with me ever again.

I like forgetting how you tell me how pretty I am. I love not knowing what we have in common. I relish in the fact that I have no idea what you’re doing and what your goals are. I adore that I almost forget what you look like.

I like that we’ve stopped talking. So don’t even think about it. Even though I crave some comfort, don’t speak to me ever again. You’re making it so much more difficult for everyone.

So don’t promise me anything. Not a phone call. No personal materials to be returned. No potential music festivals. No visiting concerts. No potentially meeting up when we’re in the same city or state. Nothing. Please, continue to not contact me.

We’ll grow apart, but we’ll grow more happiness. Or, that’s what we’ll tell ourselves, anyways.

Why Dating A Guitarist is the Worst

I was sitting on his bed drinking a sort of horrible mixed drink. The kind of mixed drink that you only see in the hands of poor people who are desperate to get drunk. It was our first time alone in about a month.  This would be the first time in weeks we could talk to each other on a weekend without having to scream over the music as some too-crowded party.  I was obviously prepared for some kind of serious discussion about defining our relationships.

He got up on his bed and looked at me. He starred at me for ages. My heart leapt and I almost began to smile. But instead of launching into his feelings, he grabbed his guitar and started singing a Nickleback song about love.

I slammed my overly sweet beverage and puked on myself so I wouldn’t have to hear any more.

There were warning signs that it would happen, sure. Starting with his un-ironic tattoos. Slash decorated his bicep; a few meaningful Fenders were inked on his calves. He would carefully rub lotion on all of them to ensure their eternal glory. He cared more about his tattoos fading than he cared about our feelings fading.

He also had a tendency to sing really embarrassing songs in the middle of foreplay. He wouldn’t whisper my name or any hidden desires. He wouldn’t come up with any of his own words. He would just softly sing whatever new song he was trying to learn. The first time this happened it was romantic. I actually had a guy in my bed who was singing to me. The next time it got weird. Especially when I figured out he was singing, “Oh Sweet Child of Mine”.

When we were fighting he would turn to his stable guitar, turn the amp up as much as he could without getting yelled at by the neighbors and play as loud as he could. It was so I could hear the tension. Not simply feel it, but hear it through loud, poorly played chords.  

He wouldn’t play very many chords, just the four that he had memorized. The four chords that he didn’t need a tab to figure out where his fingers should go, because as much as he loved music, he certainly hated reading it, but apparently he didn’t hate reading as much as he hated talking about feelings.

Luckily I didn’t put up with any of it that night. As soon as I cleaned myself up I dashed to my apartment and blasted anything but the bro rock that seemed to be the soundtrack to our relationship.

Why I hung up so fast

When you called me tonight I said “Hello stranger. So this is what it feels like to meet a ghost.”

You asked why and I hung up.

Because it’s something you always hope will happen, something you’ve heard rumors of, but never anything that has been planted in nonfiction. While everyone might fantasize about it, the reality is actually terrifying.

We will never get to say our famous last words.

A Slide Back - The Revival of First Flings

So before I had this tumblr I had a blog on old school Blogger (don’t make fun of me).

My main purpose with the blog was to explore college dating. The goal was to have 50 dates by the time I graduated.

I was on track to get all 50 dates in, then I got into a relationship.

The night I met him was the night I stopped publishing my thoughts about the men I was seeing.

(I was supposed to write about a guy I had been flirting with over text for 4 months and our first face to face meeting, but I realized something happened that night that was kind of greater than that)

Anyways, I went out on my date this weekend and I wrote about it.

It is not as funny as it was before.

However I added a lot of social commentary in with the purpose of my project, female authors, and dating in general.

It’s not like it was before, but honestly, I’m a completely different person.

Okay enough personal shit.

Here’s the link

I wish I could fall in love with you or whatever (and I feel bad that you’re taking me out on a date tomorrow night although i forget your name)

I wish I could fall in love with you or whatever.

And we would go get coffee and talk about Sartre. But you would never know what the hell I am talking about so we would talk about television instead.

Then I would be less pretentious and more likable.

The world would love me more, probably.

The birds would sing happier or something.

We could buy a dog and walk it around the park and play frisbee with it.

Buy bottles of wine I know nothing about and eat funny sounding cheeses.

I’ll let you pay for every single date because you said you would.

I’ll cook dinner for you every night.

I’ll wear the apron my grandma made for me that isn’t stained enough to show any use right now and when we wake up the next morning I’ll make you organic chocolate chip pancakes that will blow your mind.

But we couldn’t talk about books.

Mostly because you never read.

Or you say you read, but you just watch the movie then act like you’ve read the book.

The we really couldn’t talk about philosophy or psychology or any of my interests.

We’ll go to a lot of music concerts.

We’ll start a dorky funny kind of ironic band together.

We’ll play a few shows at that bar we like.

And our friends will say they’re great together even though they’ll murmur that I am more attractive.

But I can’t like, fall in love with you. Because it just isn’t right, you know?

When a man approaches me in a bar or when I have a sexual encounter with a body

When I meet a man all I think of is “god, you’re going to be fun to write about”. Because really that’s all he has to offer me. Rarely does he have the potential to be an actual partner. Rarely does he have the chance to match my intellect. He can never keep up with me. So I take him at his face value. I have him take me out to dinner. I have him buy me a drink. I might hook up with him. I might just get his number. But most of the time, I’ll just write about him. It’s way more entertaining than actually interacting with him.

Honestly?

I like it when men spend money on me. It makes me feel good in the shallowest sense. Like I am worth more than time and poorly constructed words. Like I am worth something tangible; something that could realistically be exchanged because the guy admires me so much he would do anything just to spend more seconds with me.

Prolonged moments over wilted lettuce.

Long stares over cold soups.

Bright smiles over empty plates

              dripped with crumbs.

Because they want to understand every ounce of me because they realize that I am worth more than time, money, and empty compliments but really I am worth an incredible effort.

But no guy wants to make the effort to get to know me. Understand my ins and outs. Memorize my favorite drink and what I eat when I am feeling lonely and what I listen to when I wake up.

The truth is, no one gives a fuck

     except for the fuck they hope

     I’ll give to them in the crudest sense

     so they’ll measure my worth with inches of

     cock they slam down my throat.

I’m not lime-bitter but bitter-sweet and it is too much weight to deal with because when they try to understand and feel each ounce it takes too much time to dis-cipher  those complicated pounds that saw through their brains

(because I know I am on their minds in a desired form and in under-breath wishes

sighing

I wish she wasn’t so difficult).

Wishes made while being drunk and alone

I wish you would call me up on the phone just to hear my voice. Not for any particular reason but because you miss the sound of how I speak. You want to remember that I am an actual person. You want to confirm that our old conversations actually happened.

I want you to call me and ask me what I’m up to. You want to know what I’ve been doing without you. You want to make sure I’m okay, but ensure that I’m not with anyone else, either. You want me to be happy, but you want to figure out if I miss you.

I want you to ask me if we still have a connection. Even though we haven’t talked two months. Even though we haven’t even contacted one another for one month. Even though you haven’t been keeping tabs on me with social networks or mutual friends. I want to know if it was all in my head or if it was real. I want you to think that too.

I want you to tell me what is going on. You will tell me about how you’re trying to find yourself. How you’re in a much better place than the last time you talked to me. You are mostly happy now, but still occasionally confused. But only in that state of confusion will you call me.

I want us to walk one another through our own mini crises of identity. I want us to compare notes on our own tiny disasters.  I want us to see how our lives seem to mirror one another and that we’re some how attached in some incredibly strange way.  Like how we think similarly about our strange situations. How the massive changes seem to happen at identical times.

Will you please call me? I just want to know what you’re doing. Please. You should call me.

Why dating a DJ is the worst

I’ve dated a decent number of people.  They all fall into the same categories (because I’m a boring  cliché  mostly). 80% of them played guitar. 75% of them were tattooed.  Most looked nicely scruffy also known as my preferred type: homeless-preppy. And those who didn’t fit into those categories ended up being DJs.

I’m not talking about the people who have great playlists. I’m not talking about the cool kids who have a radio show. I’m talking about the kids who failed at every musical instrument imaginable (including the tambourine) and took up mixing and mashing up different technological beats in order to get laid (or to prevent themselves from being too absorbed by their own beats).

They are people who delude themselves into thinking they are some fantastic yet undiscovered musical prodigy. They believe that they have a magical ear, despite the fact that they’ve never taken a music theory course and don’t know the difference between a chord and a fermata. The only extended knowledge they have about the art of music is by listening to whatever Pandora scrounges up. However, they want to contribute to the musical world. And they believe that they can change the sound of music itself by adding in as much overt dubbing as possible.

The problem with these people is that their delusions extend into their everyday existence. They believe that they are talented, brilliant, and interesting. They don’t benefit from the education it takes to get to the point of genius. But they still believe themselves to be the primary authority on pretty much anything. They are the most boring people to talk to.

This is because the art of the mash-up is found in their conversations. They merely re-site and reuse each reference they read (not information they sought themselves, but things that popped up or bits that other people mentioned). They rehash the major opinion, with a few of their whining sighs popping a rhythm in their tired tirade.  They don’t bother to form their own opinion. They just dress-up old topics and attempt to make them seem fresh.

As they lack in conversational skills, they always expect their partner to be a beacon of banter. They pressure their mate into speaking incessantly, yet make attempts to divert the conversation towards them at all possible times as they think they are the most interesting thing in existence.

Of all of them people I’ve dated, the DJ has always been the worst. And it’s not just because I was forced to listen to their Ace of Base copycat nonsense.

Honesty II

Usually with my writing I like to have some sort of theme. A thesis. A direction. These honesty bits are not going to be like that. Also they’re probably going to be written when I am upset. So here it goes.

I hooked up with you once (or three times). I am so incredibly not interested. If I wanted you, you would know it. I would text you everyday. I would think about you all the time. I would be waiting at my phone hoping for the moment when you message me.

Honestly?

That isn’t happening.

It’s because I don’t often “like” men. I might think that they are interesting. That is pretty much the limits of it.

If I liked you all of my friends would know about you. They’d hear about you constantly. They’d know the color of your eyes, your major, your career path, etc. etc.

But here’s the truth:

I don’t even know those random facts.

That is how little I care about you.

But when I try to put in a little effort. A slender attempt to get to know you as a person and not as a penis. But when I make the mistake of texting you, you are a dick to me. (clever!)

If you aren’t interested in me- that is perfectly fine, just be nice about it. I could care less. I have pretty great self-esteem. My views of myself are hardly contingent upon what you think about me. But you don’t need to be rude, mean or in any other ways dickish. That’s not cool.

And you know what else?

I have been 100% open about my non-feelings. I have been open about why I feel so negative towards men. I have admitted to being difficult. I have told you my problems, not because I need another therapist (although mine is dumping me tomorrow and I’m freaked out), but because I thought that you had a right to know. Because even though we’ve only been together one(or three) nights, we’ve still had a relationship. It was a brief 24 (or 36, or more realistically 6 and 18) hour affair, but it was still something. And when you enter a relationship with anyone you need to give them the common courtesy of being honest. And also the common courtesy of common courtesy.

So next time I decide to text you- probably because I’m bored, I need entertainment, or I need inspiration, don’t be a complete jerk! It is completely uncalled for.

*

Fin

*

On Being A Beard

You will call him to tell  him to stop talking to you. It will be because he has been calling you frequently. It will be because you still have feelings for him and you cannot talk to him without feeling sad afterwards.  You will muster all of the courage you have and dial his number. He will not pick up. You will leave a message and he will call you promptly after class the following day.

When you talk it will be a really pleasant conversation. You will forget that you wanted to tell him to stop talking to you. He will move to end the conversation and then you realize you have to tell him now, or you’ll go crazy. When you tell him that you have something to say, he will cut you off and discuss his own journey. After many heavy breaths and sighs, he will say that he is scared to tell you, but he is pretty sure that he is gay.

As soon as you hear these words, you will feel calm. It will feel like diving into a warm pool of carbonation. You will feel partly deaf and mostly at peace. You will know that there is no chance that you two will ever be together. You are no longer attracted to him at this moment.  It will be like you were a still bubbling pot of water that was immediately doused in chills of cold tap water. You will feel relieved. You will realize that you did absolutely nothing wrong in the relationship.

You will continue to talk to him for another hour. Your phone will start to die because you’ve talked for so long. He will end the conversation because he has to go. Also because he doesn’t want to talk about these previously unexpressed feelings anymore.

You will spend the next six hours in your bed in shock. You will feel incredibly happy at first, but then you will feel upset. You had previously thought that the two of you would be able to get back together after he figured himself out. Now all of those dreams are dashed. You will feel relieved that this hope is gone, but you will also feel incredibly sad. You will wonder how this information will alter your friendship.You will realize that he must have really liked you because he trusted you enough to tell you first. This feeling will go away after three drinks.

You will forget to eat dinner. You will not feel hungry. You are too busy absorbing this new information. You thought that you knew this person incredibly well, now you realize you don’t. You will think of the comment you made earlier in the week, where you ironically wished he was gay so you could get over him.You will hate yourself because of that comment.

You will get a call from a friend asking you to drink with them. You will say that you just got a call from him and that you’ll be there in a bit. You will come to their small apartment two hours later, just when they’re about to leave.  You will go into your friend’s room and try to talk to her about it. You are on the verge of tears at this moment. When you tell her, and finally cry for the first time in the night, she will laugh at you. She will say that she doesn’t believe you. She will say that she can’t believe  what a soap opera your life is.  You will not know how to respond to this, other than with more tears.

You will get ready to go out, except your makeup has dripped off by this point and you don’t really feel like attempting to hit on men, which is the solution your friends are offering.

You will have made a drink that is far too strong. It will be perfect for the night. You will go into the party and refuse to take your coat off. A man will see that you’ve been crying and will try to hit on you. He is just trying to take advantage of a drunken girl. He will give you his number and insist that you call him. You will not want to call him. You think that he is not as attractive as your previous man and you will think that there is no way he will understand what you’re going through.

You will get smashed and cry.

You will go home alone and cry some more.

You will wonder if any of your relationship was true. You will wonder if you disgusted him. You will feel sickened by this. You will wonder if he was genuine at all during your relationship. You will ask yourself if he was lying to you. You will wonder if he liked you at all. You will pick apart these questions and try to analyze. You will be too drunk to do this properly.

You will question your value as a woman. You had been taught that women are often only valued for their sexuality. You will question what you did  that he decided not to value you as a woman. You will question your abilities and lose all of your confidence. You will feel like shit.

When he finally calls you again, and tells you that he fucked a stranger, a woman, you will yell at him. He will not know why you are yelling at him. You want to tell him why can he fuck a stranger but not be with you? But you don’t . You try to be supportive.

You will begin to think that all men are using you. You will hate yourself for this. You will try to trust people again. You will do this through the use of alcohol and honesty. You will drink way too much.

You will think about this revelation far more than he will. You will not trust any man. You will ask each new man you end in bed with if he is gay. Each man will look at you in a weird way and tell you no. You will still wonder if they are lying.

You will hate yourself, but you will begin to dislike gay people, even though you, yourself, really aren’t completely straight. You will feel this for a nanosecond and then you will realize that you hate society more because society has forced these people to stay in the closet. You will feel horrible for thinking like this, especially because you are a loud supporter of gay rights. But still, you will hate gay plot lines in your favorite television shows for the next month. Even more, you will hate the plot lines about closeted gay people. You will feel horrible for not being supportive, but you won’t know what to do.

You will seek advice from anywhere and anyone. No one will know what to say. You will not know what to do. You will become afraid to listen to yourself because you realize that you’ve only hurt yourself with your naive self-trust.

You will want to stop talking to him. You will feel guilty for wanting to be selfish and for not being supportive. You will continue to talk to him. You will hate yourself even more for this. You will wonder how he can have the advantages of seeking emotional comfort in you without being attracted to you. You will be confused. You will hate him for this.

Eventually you will stop thinking about it. You will stop dwelling on it. You will move on. But the paranoia that you feel around men now will remain.

You will hate yourself for this.