Bagel, cream cheese, onion and #Lox and tomato mozarella bites with a homemade balsamic glaze. You wish you could #homemade #breakfast like me. #Sunday
- 12 months ago
- 1 year ago
#Guns and #Pizza. My Closet. (Taken with Instagram at Kings Landing: Seat of House Baratheon, Snow, and Tyrell)
With @dhaviator, @genrltweetpants, and @jjanders90 at #RedRabbit. “We were drinking Singapore Sling’s with Mescal on the side” - Hunter S. Thompson (Taken with Instagram at The Red Rabbit Kitchen and Bar)
- 2 years ago
Disclaimer: This is the fourth part of an ongoing series of blogs for me. If you want to start at the beginning for continuities sake then the other parts can be found below..
Here we go again! Can you believe it’s been almost an entire year since I really sat down and wrote one of these? A lot has changed. ALOT! I don’t even know where to start. If you read my last sad sack feelin’ sorry for myself blog, you probably have gathered that Ms. Perfect (That isn’t sarcasm, she kind of was) and I split up. It was rough, brutal. It brought out a lot of me that I’d never seen before. Good and bad. But what’s done is done. She was great though, so don’t hate.
That being said, I have a confession to make. I was straight crushing on that girl for months before we met. It was influencing just about everything I did. I was into it. I wrote a rap about her called “Facebook Crush” that was so horribly cheesy it will never see the light of day, although I will share the one verse that still tickles my fancy…
"She’s got freckles on her face and probably on her shoulders, I don’t really know though, cuz her pics don’t show those."
I always liked that one. Anyway! I wrote raps, made shit out of construction paper and cardboard, and …wrote vague checklistly girlfriendy blogs that were pretty much aimed at her. Gosh, there I said it. Almost feels like I committed plagiarism or something. Not that most of that stuff isn’t really what I want out of a girl, and a lot of it ALSO didn’t apply to her (She’s not Jewish, British, or French, and she promised she was going to make a point out of wearing a jean jacket, big native American earrings, and short hair because she knew I’d still think she was the bee’s knees) but some of it was a little Sansa-centric.(that was my nickname for her..ASOIF ya dig?) Which is why, post-relationship It’s taken me so long to conjure up another one of these. I had to re-evaluate the things I REALLY want. I also had to re-read those other blogs because I forgot what I had already mentioned…So with my broken relationship bidness you could give a fuck about still fresh in your mind, let’s start with…
#16. Must LOVE Crazy
I knew I was crazy before, but if my last relationship taught me anything, It’s that I might be Daniel Plainview level crazy. It should probably be some sort of Megan’s Law that the chorus of Iron Maiden’s Run To The Hills starts blaring from my cell phone if I get within 5 feet of a single lady. The problem with being a crazy dude, as opposed to a crazy chick is that dudes take it to another level. Donald Glover lays it out perfectly in his stand up routine.
To be fair, I think everyone is a little crazy. If there is a Kinsey scale about how hetero and homosexual we are (And we all are a little..I call this the “Fassbender Rule" NOM!) then there needs to be one that warns everyone about how likely you are to nail a cat to their door when you think they are looking at the mailman funny. Seriously, think about how much trouble would be avoided if instead of the bullshit "What sign are you?" (Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.) they could just ask what your Clark-Heisenberg (I created it, and that dudes a genius and needs something named after him) scale rating is? 1-6. Granted, there might be a little lying going on, but not anything you can’t sniff out. If a girl tells you she’s a 2 (which would be, fairly normal) and then she slaps your hand when you look at your cell phone to check the time on the first date (This has happened to me before) then she’s probably more likely to be a 5 and has a cat she puts top hats on and cuddles like Elmira from Tiny Toons. Ladies, if your date is asking if you want to fuck every guy that walks past, not only should you make like a tree and run for your mother fuckin’ life, but say yes. Just to fuck with him.
#17: I reiterate an earlier list item. TOO MANY DUDE FRIENDS!
This isn’t fair I know. I know it’s my hang up, and my problem (see #16 again, if you need to clarify.) but it still bothers the shit out of me. It’s still a deal breaker for me. Just about all your dude friends still want to fuck you. Because men are dogs, and dogs don’t like OTHER DOGS. Sure, two dogs will get a long and play and stuff. But put some tail (literally) between the two of them and watch what happens. Everything is all fun and games until your neighbors Chihuahua’s throat has been ripped out and your best friend is headed for death by lethal injection. And I quit talking about actual canines 3 sentences ago. It just sucks. I can’t deal with it. That’s my problem and I know that, but then again this is my checklist. Your dude friends want to fuck you, if they don’t then you’re ugly. End of fucking story. Sorry for being so harsh, but it’s the god damn truth. There are exception to every rule, but not with 10 guys. You can have one or two guy friends who are as close to you as can be who there is literally nothing sexual going on at all, but not 10 guys. If you have 10 best guy friends, just know that 6 of them are picturing you naked, 3 are picturing you DP’d, and 1 is picturing the other 9 dudes naked AND DP’d. Because he’s a total 5 but hides it well. On The Kinsey scale, not the Clark-Heisenberg one.
#18 - Freckles
Have I talked about freckles before? I don’t give a shit. I love freckles. They’re F’ing adorable. A freckled friend of mine pointed out the other day on facebook that freckles are in style now. So if that makes me a freckles hipster, buy me some Tortoiseshell frames, put on some Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros, and sign me the fuck up.
Remember that checklist item about girls wearing too much makeup. I figured out why this bothers me so much the other day. I know this really cute redhead. Like adorable. Hot even, but in a cute way. She wears lots of makeup usually, which isn’t bad because she’s still hot, but as you know isn’t my thing. I saw her the other day with only the lightest make up, and low and behold. Freckled. My heart melted. She went from being hot, to “I want to go to there.” So ladies if you have freckles, don’t hide them. We love them. Or at least I love them. But then again a girl told me on the street the other night I looked like a serial killer. So maybe you want to consider other options. But seriously.
#19 - I’m not super turned on by how bi you are..because you really aren’t.
There are girls that are bi, who HONESTLY admire other females for the assets that the other (insert male population chart here + lesbians, because gay guys totally get it about hot chicks too) adore, and then there are girls who are pretty much the lady equivalent of gay for pay. If pay meant attention, which to a lot of women it does. If you’re that girl making out in a club while 10 guys (with enough hair product and tanning oil on them to cause a bonfire that can be seen from space) are standing around cheering, you’re not bi. You’re a lady douche bag, and I hope you trip and fall after too many yaeger bombs and get shards of your oversized aviators in your eye. I hate this. I hate it. It’s not hot to watch you make out with chicks. Why is this hot? I’ll admit I thought it was hot when I was 13 and wore out the videotape of that Selma Blair/Sarah Michelle Gellar part in Cruel Intentions, and I would still get very excited about a threesome, but that’s because there is sex for me involved. Don’t make out with that girl and then make out with me, that’s just another factor I have to worry about when I wake up and realize I need to get tested. Because you’re gross, and that other girl was probably just as gross. Thanks, now I need a Bicillin shot.
I love books. BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS. I can’t get enough. And the last girl couldn’t either. I actually didn’t realize how hot this was until her. Mountains of books. Shelves and Shelves. Being smart is so hot to me, but being well read is even hotter. I’ve yet to meet a girl who can quote Frank McCourt, or tell me what exactly happened to the spaceship “Tsien” on the surface of Europa, but I have hope. And no, Snookie’s biography, or dare I say it “Twilight” (ugh!) don’t count. Those aren’t books, they’re kindling with words on it.
So that’s it for this post. That enough for ya? A little rough this time, still as misogynistic as ever, and straight from the heart.
Sigh, I’m going to be single FOREVER.
- 2 years ago
- 2 years ago
I came here with full intent on writing another lighthearted “Girlfriend Checklist”. I even have a page of notes sitting in front of me I’ve been compiling. But then I (being stupid and self destructive) peeked at something not meant for me, and it…it just was. I don’t even know what to say. I guess I can say that I’ve had a little bit of a relationship set back tonight. Correction, I don’t have a relationship anymore to have a set back. What I saw was finality. There is nothing more final than a heart having moved on. It’s always been the ultimate end of things for me. It takes the person I was with to openly express interest in someone else for me to be able to completely close that door. Even then it takes time. But it at least gives me clarity, and despite what I’m sure will be arguments to the contrary, a little satisfaction. I knew first. Something awful will probably be said of that, like I created the situation, and perhaps I did. But I doubt it. It’s fine. It wasn’t that long, but it was fun while it lasted. It got bad. It dragged out poorly. Things happened. I lost a lot of face, and will for awhile yet reflect back on things I’ve said and done with a sense of shame. But it fades. I don’t believe in fate, but I do believe in myself. Something fruitful in time will come along. I’m not looking, but I’m not not looking. I’m just not expecting. It had been a solid 2 years for my heart and head to attach to a person like that again. I hope another 2 doesn’t pass before I feel that way again, but it was for such a brief time such a GREAT, FULFILLING feeling that I’ll patiently wait it out for 100 years if I must. It may never come again. I’m not trying to be a sad sack with that, I know I’ll be happy and with someone again, but I honestly felt like I did when I was 16, with the French-Portland girl I’ve mentioned a handful of times on here. In that sense, it was even longer than 2 years. It was a different kind of passion. But it’s fine.
It’s not even heartbreak, or heartache. It feels more like a heart hardening. Or of recapturing. Not to be dramatic, but maybe re-imprisoning (I’m making up words now.) That’s probably the closet way to explaining how I feel. I keep thinking of Edmond Dantès, in his cold little cell at Château d’If. Just waiting for a better day. It doesn’t fit, I know. I’m not plotting some masterful revenge. But I just feel locked away now. A part of me goes away when I lose this. A part of me becomes very Patrick Bateman. That’s probably not making the case for me not being nuts, but I don’t mean killing prostitutes with chainsaws Patrick Bateman. I mean the weirdly philosophical Bateman, the cold, reserved, and what I always felt was a sad and lonley Patrick Bateman. This Patrick Bateman…
“There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable… I simply am not there”
Even that might be a little too dramatic. I don’t know. This all feels dramatic. I just needed to vent. It feels good to write. Blog, how I missed you. I haven’t written in you since all this started months ago. I’ll be back, I promise.
- 2 years ago