For-ev-er

So, because I am yuppie republican when it comes to my cash, I've opened up a special savings account type dealio for my next tattoo.

I want two more tattoos. I know the location on my body and kind of what they will be of, but when it comes to artwork specifics, I am kind of totally clueless since I can barely draw a stick figure.

But telling people you are saving money for a tattoo really only flies with one group of people - people who have tattoos.

Everyone else will wonder why this money is not going towards a hedge fund or something (honestly, I always think of a bush in front of some nice house in the suburbs when I hear that phrase.)


Most people pull the whole "that shit is PERMANENT! what is it going to look like when you are 80 years old?!"

First off. NOBODY besides Raquel Welch and maybe that bitch who talks shit about the red carpet will look "good" when they are 80 (and I use that term loosely.)

Getting old means getting wrinkles, gaining weight, and generally not being considered sexy. And unless you got tats on your forearms, nobody will probably see any body art since you don't see grandma's generally wearing booty shorts, belly shirts, and halter tops.

I mean, you could argue that getting old is not a choice, yet tattoos are a choice.

Ok, well then why does body art still have a social taboo while plastic surgery and botox do not ?

I mean, it's not 100% socially acceptable to get plastic surgery. I mean, we will make fun of you behind your back when you show up to work the next day with hooters the size of watermelons, but you will still get a job.
It's not like your potential boss will take one look at your chest at an interview and say "yeah, that's not natural. You can go apply at some local coffeehouse with those ginormous things."
In fact, he'll probably say "YOU'RE HIRED! And here, why don't you go get me some coffee and oh, I dropped my pen, could you pick that up for me too?"

It's an odd double standard.
Both procedures cost a fair amount of money, involve a good amount of pain, and in the end, you have altered your appearance.

Yet if you get a tattoo, you are "defacing" your body.
If you get your nose bone shaved, you are simply "enhancing" your body.


And while my mom likes to throw out the whole "What happens when you get married and your have to buy a dress and your tattoos show?"

That's like saying "what happens when it gets hot and you have to wear shorts and your upper thighs show?"

It's a part of who I am. I like it and I don't care. And besides, it's hot.

So I will continue to save money for tattoos which I think will be beautiful.

But I'll never spend a dime on plastic surgery or botox.


I'd rather the fat from my ass stay there and not move to a new location in my lips.

Screw It

It rained all weekend.

After a terrible week, I was not happy to see a rainy weekend. I was looking forward to breaking out, going out, and hopefully embracing singlehood.

Instead I found myself inside, watching Michael Phelps delivers the worst performance on SNL I've ever seen. I ate a whole pizza and a bag of chips.
Not good.

It finally stopped raining about the time I had finished off my gin (about an hour ago.)

And it was around this time that I realized that being alone = never knowing the next time you will have sex.

And that is scarier than knowing I ate an entire pizza (and a good reason to NEVER eat pizza again.)


I'm not exactly a slut but nor am I a prude.
Let's just say that in the past year, I have not gone without sex for more than one month and I've only had one serious relationship (and it only lasted three months.)
You do the math.

For a while, I was just trying to get as much experience as I could.
I thought "higher the number = better the lover."

Now, I'm nearing the mid-teens and am thinking "why not aim for 30?"

My 5 year plan does not consist of getting married, getting a promotion, and popping about a few kids.

My 5 year plan includes spending a few months in Europe, spending a year in Korea, sleeping with foreign men, and saving tons of money before coming back to the states. I want to see the world, meet tons of different people, and enjoy the friendships I have here.

It took a year, getting my heart broken twice, and a lot of wasted time to realize this.

But still, knowing that I don't want nor will have a serious relationship doesn't mean I don't want the next best thing.

No-strings attached sex.

But it's not that easy.
First, you have to find someone that is attractive and attracted to you.
Then you have to find out if they are good in bed or not (this usually takes at least two attempts and possibly a lot of alcohol.)
Then, you have to make sure that you don't like them in any other way or things will get fucked up and you will lose the sex.


The absolute worst is when you get a crush on a friend.
And you wonder what the sex would be like. But you can't tell them you like them for fear of losing a friend. As well as the fear that they would fucking suck in the sack.


So what does one do when one is single, in need of sex, and fresh out of fuck buddies?

One gets on a diet, starts working out, and plans for the glorious return to the bar scene.
One hopes that one's roommates will forgive her slutty ways.
One hopes that she can find a tall man with a moustache and blue eyes that knows his way around a woman's body (specifically mine.)


So until I have new stories to tell, I will have to start telling the old stories.
Of the man who cried "chinks."
Of the man who slapped, choked, and was the worst sex I've ever had.
Of the man with the curved...you know what.

But those are for another night.

Tonight I google pics of attractive men and try to sleep and get back to work.
5 more days until I'm ready to hit the market and get ready to shop.
I only hope that someone with a good fit is out there for me to buy.

Follow the Path

My parents got married young.
My mom was 21 and my dad was mere weeks away from 21. He literally could not legally drink at his wedding.
Four years later, I was born.
My parents both did not go to college.
They worked at the type of job you need to support a family. The type of job that you can stay at for years. The type of job that was created in the 50's. Where job security and retirement benefits were not a bonus but actually a requirement.


Two decades later, things are very different.
While I do have a job that offers benefits and optional retirement savings, I don't have a family to support. I don't have job security.
At 23, I am single, living with roommates, and working 45 hours or more a week to simply pay off debt and try to save so that one day I can travel.

I was recently dumped via an email. I just tell myself at least it was more informative than a post-it note.
I had only been dating the dude for about 3 months but in that short time span I had already met his parents and he had met mine. Guess it's just a midwestern thing (especially when the dude lives with his parents, oy!)

From talking to other people as well as watching various forms or media, most people are dumped or have their "heart broken" when they are in middle school or high school.
In those selfish, formative years, it's ok to spend a week moping about and feeling sorry for yourself.

But what happens when you first experience this "heartache" when you are in your early to mid twenties?

In middle school, I didn't date. I knew I was too young.
In high school, I dated two dudes. Both lasted two months. No more than kissing went on. And I was the one to break it off.
In college, I dated two boys, both lasting two months, and me breaking it off.
Then came the infamous EX which lasted one and a half years, and whom I had lived with for most of that time.
Still, I broke it off.

Then came the post-college, post-year long relationship year where I finally "sowed my wild oats."

At the end of this period of fucking around and not caring, I fell for a guy.
I fell hard.
I thought he was gorgeous and that he really liked me.
But after two months, he stopped returning my calls and breaking off dates.
Even though we never officially dated, HE decided to leave ME.

At 22, I had NO IDEA how to take it.
I got mad.
I got sad.
I did a lot of stupid texting and have a couple memories I would rather not have of myself acting very girly as well as rather desperate.
But at 22, no one expects someone to be feeling so called "heartbreak" for the first time. They expect you to know how to get over it and move on. I didn't know how.

Months went by before I got over it.
And I found a new object of affection.
I successfully made it back to his apartment.
Where after two hours of drinking and talking, I was kicked out.
He never contacted me again, and to this day I blame myself for my dismissal. I thought I could just jump back into the casual thing. I thought "no way I could get turned down twice in a row." I thought wrong.

Then I met someone who reminded me of the boys in high school.
A boy I normally would not have approached.
A boy who showered me with affection and in turn made me like him by the sure fact that he liked me.
Even when I had doubts, I trudged on thinking "well at least he likes me."
Then he left me.
He was selfish and I was not selfish enough.

But in the end, I'm happy.
Being single is the greatest thing in the world.
Minus the no sex part.

I forgot how nice it is to have my entire future laid bare in front of me.
Every weekend is mine for the taking.
No calling to see if "we" are doing anything.
All I have to worry about is myself and my cat (who can now sleep with me since no one is in my bed who is allergic to cats.)

I don't have to get a job, get married, have babies, and live in a house in the burbs with a hybrid car.
I don't have to follow my parents footsteps.

So fuck getting into relationships that don't leave me beyond excited and thrilled for life.
Fuck getting involved with someone who makes me limit my freedom and my future plans.

While I know from experience how hard it is to simply have sex without feelings (from myself or mostly, from the guy), I'll try my hardest to keep things casual.
Because as they say, you gotta look out for number one.
And I've never been as excited as I am right now to make over myself and keep myself happy.

Being in a relationship involves letting go of bits and pieces of yourself so that you can allow yourself to be a part of a couple.
I'd rather let my bits and pieces shine.

I usually think "wow, I'm ALREADY 23. What have I got to show for it?"

But I'm not my parents. I'm not already married.

I have to think, "I'm ONLY 23. I have so much more to accomplish."

And while money is an issue, I'm sure that by the time I'm 26, I'll have a little saved up.
And hopefully I'll finally be in Europe.
Meeting cute European boys who will be used for casual sex and little else.

That's the path I want to take.
And now nothing is standing in my way of my plans.

Same Old Shit

My roommate and I were talking as I was cooking for the week and simultaneously washing dishes.

As I set up four tupperware bowls and four matching lids and continued to portion out equal amounts of rice, followed by equal amounts of veggies, I commented on how I do this every fucking week.

My roommate then went on to explain how we have a primal brain, that exists apparently near the brain stem (he's a bit of an au natural vitamin taking hippie as well as one of those people who thinks all government is a conspiracy), and this primal brain was all we had when we were barely walking apes.

This part of the brain only thinks about hunger, sex, and apparently routine (please remember, this is not cited by Wikipedia, this is sourced from my roommate who only will drink distilled water from bottles.)

But maybe he's absolutely right.
About human's thriving on routine, not about how free masons rule this country (but who knows maybe he's on to something.)

I rely on my routine. I wouldn't wake up at 6am every morning if it wasn't for my routine.
My job is COMPLETELY routine.
When a phone call at work goes over 5 minutes, I get anxious. Because I can't get back to the routine typing that is the rest of my job.

Some of my routines are good.
Working out every day after work is a heart healthy routine.
Going to the grocery store weekly instead of eating out is a money saving routine.


But some of my routines are bad
Having one or three gin and tonics with dinner is a liver damaging routine.
Chewing and ripping on the skin around my fingers is a dirty and unattractive routine.

Recognizing this, I've decided to try to stop these routines.

I'm going to drink tea instead of booze. Sugared tea of course.
I'm going to start wearing lotion and doing all that I can to not pick or chew at my fingers.


I'm a week into the finger experiment and already, I've caught myself with my hand in my mouth and I didn't even realize it until I'm taking it out.
The routine was so ingrained in me, since childhood, that I was doing it and my brain didn't even actively realize it. Like blinking or breathing. It was a completely involuntary movement.

I'm not sure what I can do to replace this movement. Especially since it helps my anxiety.
I've tried chewing gum but that gets old quickly (literally.)

I've read about wearing gloves (silly and hot, and I would like like Michael Jackson at work), wearing bandaids on each finger (hard to wash my hands and did I mention looking like a freak), as well as dipping my fingers in hot sauce or cayenne pepper (yeah because I never rub my eyes.)

For now, I can only help that will power can turn around this routine.

In the meantime, I'll enjoy my tupperware lunch at work and hope that rice and veggies are all I will be putting into my mouth.

Laboring

There comes a point in everyone's life where they realize that all the choices they make are made because of outside forces guiding them towards each decision, not because of personal motives.

For example.
I was perfectly fine with my current sheets and bedspread.
Yes, the sheets were a see-through pale pink and the comforter was a dark black that picked up everything from cat hair to cum, but they weren't ripped or stained beyond repair.

Then, my cat decided to poo on the the comforter.
So I washed it.
He did it again.
I washed it again.

After the third time of coming home to cat turds on my bed, I said FUCK IT and threw it out.

Three nights of using my robe as a blanket later, I decided to invest the $20 into a new shitty comforter from Target.
I then decided, why not spent the additional $15 on a brand new sheet set.
Hot pink sheets and a teal comforter.
Not only did this brighten up my room, but it got me excited enough to finally put up my Ikea mirrors, after over a year and two apartments of them never being removed from their original packaging.

Of course, other choices are much bigger and much more life changing.

After seeing a few clips on Jezebel.com of that A&E show, Intervention, I youtubed it and found episode upon episode, commercial-free, for my late night enjoyment.

If you haven't seen this show (because your television is like mine and only picks up 3 channels with fuzz), someone with an addiction (such as speedballing) or a disease (such as anorexia), is "tricked" into thinking they are being filmed for a documentary about said problem. Little do they know, their family is really just setting them up to have a huge intervention where they are basically told that if they don't get help THAT DAY, that they will be cut off and instead forced to hit rock bottom and fix it themselves or die and disappoint all the people in that room who love them (or something as equally dramatic as that.)

I spent 3 hours watching the stories of the speedballing bulemic with an equally bulemic mother, the anorexic who was date raped by multiple men in college, and the computer duster huffing daughter of the father who left her after she had been molested as a child.

Serious problems.
Most of these people did NOT want help. They would cry, yell, and in the case of the huffer, kick and scream until the police had to handcuff her and take her to the hospital.

In the end, all of these people went to treatment centers. They made this choice because of others influence and pushing. And they all turned out better for it.

When we are children, we fight against being forced to do something. We lay on the ground and scream and cry and refuse to do it, even it's something as simple as wearing socks (I still am not a huge fan of socks). Yet we always succumb and years later we see our parents were right and we thank them for it.
The addicts and alcoholics of Intervention are like children, forced into simple mindsets because of their diseases and drug addictions. They fight just the same but once they give in and get the help they need, they see how the persuasion of their friends and loved ones made them make a choice that they didn't know they needed.

So I thank my cat for shitting on my comforter.
I now find my room much more comfortable and it even got me to clean it a bit more (not all the way, I still have a life.)

I also thank the bartender at the wedding I attended this weekend for over-serving me so incredibly much that the entire next day I could only puke, sleep, and curse the sunlight.

Her choice to liquor me up so well, has made me choose to stop drinking as much and seriously consider pouring out what is left of my gin.

But until my cat shits on that too, I will probably not pour it out.
At least I'm not addicted.
Yet.