Heart Like an IKEA Futon

IKEA Futon

 

 

 

If all the stories I write (at least the good ones, in so much as I am even willing to consider any of them good)…

If all the stories I write are really just my stories…

If all the stories that I write are based on what’s happening but absolutely nothing is happening…

How can I justify staying in this city and prolonging this summer?

If I’m not creating any stories (except for one about the kind of sobbing that should be reserved for death but is instead being appropriated for worthlessness and the lonely)…

If you can’t forgive yourself, how can you ever expect your student loan to forgive you?

If all the stories are mine…

If I’m the owner of nothing…

If I have more degrees than men who have ever loved me…

If I have the same amount of tears as number of men who want to fuck me but maybe not openly, not in public, not like I’m worth something, not like a human being, a piece of this earth, a part of our whole, not like I could make them laugh or think or be anything other than something not worth mentioning.

If I was ever more than just a whore on the internet…

This devolution, the spiral like a drill bit, these ants crawling around in my lungs and inside my calves.

How do you not let the disappointment crush you like a bread truck, or a freight train, or the compounding interest on your student loan?

This heart like an IKEA futon. 

If all the stories I write are really just my stories then leaving Montreal a month early won’t change that.  Whether I’m running away or being a financially responsible adult, the result will be the same.  Time will pass.  And somewhere in this lull I will find a way to pull it all back together (I have to find a way to pull it all back together).

The stories after all, if they’re mine, will come with me. (She whispers, “you have to come with me”).

 

Women Will Change this World: Malala Yousafzai

Texts from Dad

 

[dropcap]Malala Yousafzai[/dropcap]

A 16 year old girl from Pakistan, wants the same things I do, education for everyone.  On Friday July 12, 2013, she stood up in front of the UN and gave a rousing speech calling on the UN to provide “free” and “compulsory education” for all.

[Full text here]

Malala is an incredibly mature, bright, and eloquent young woman.  In 2009, when Malala was in the seventh grade, she began blogging for BBC Urdu online.  The blog, “Diary of a Pakastani Schoolgirl” was in response to the Taliban extremist regime’s banning of public education for girls and destruction of over 150 schools (currently near 600 schools).

The idea that anyone would want to keep their daughters from learning more is a thing I can barely comprehend.  Is there any other reason to have children than to give them the world?  Is not the point to love a being more than yourself, to do everything in your power to make sure that little babe feels the most loved, the most nurtured, the most supported, so that he or she can then go on and do all the things that this world needs to be a better place?

So, why then, are women being denied access to education?  Why is THIS our world?  There is no protection greater, no support more tightly knit, no chance for success more real and tangible, than being fully informed and equipped to deal with all that the world will throw your way.  Education is the answer, always.

——————————–

I grew up in British Columbia, in what I would consider an upper middle class household.  Education was not only something that I always had access to, but something that was assumed.  No one, but myself, ever seemed to doubt my potential for success.  In grade seven, my teacher caught me not paying attention in class.  He asked me what I was doing, to which I responded that I was writing a story for a competition.  Instead of reprimanding me for my lack of studiousness, he set up a table and chair in the hallway, for me to write until I was finished.  In highschool, I suffered a great deal with depression and often missed classes.  My marks never really suffered though because teachers would allow me to do the work on my own, chance having supplied me with a brain for which this was easily doable.  No one ever seemed to doubt my potential or abilities.  When it was time to apply for early admission to University, I simply did.  There was never even a thought in my brain that I wouldn’t get at least a Bachelor’s degree.  Now in 2013, I write this blog post in the summer between my 1st and 2nd year of a Master of Arts program, having already earned two separate Bachelor’s degrees (one in Psychology and one in English Literature).  The world is and has always been my oyster and it is for that reason that I believe so strongly in the education of women.  It breaks my heart to know that other women don’t have the encouragement, support, access, and freedom that I always did (and this is probably why I have the luxury and desire to dedicate my life to these ends).

——————————–

Now, back to Malala and the education of women.  This brave young girl has none of the advantages I have in life (except maybe a father who thinks she can change the world) and yet here she is, asking the UN to repair the cracks that women are falling through.  She was shot by a member of the taliban and survived (though her life still remains under threat).  She stood up in front of the world and asked for change.  I want to be a part of the change that answers her back.

However, this brings up a question I often struggle with.  When it comes to the tangible aspect of changing the world, the How, the What, the Who, I find myself overwhelmed.  How do I know if a charity is trustworthy?  How do I make the biggest impact?  In a world of billions struggling, where do I start?

My Dad recently sent me an email After you graduate we can go somewhere and help build a habitat for humanity and it got me thinking.  What are the most imminent threats to female education?  Extremism?  Access to clean water?  Housing?  Birth Control?  Feminine Hygiene products?  Literal access to education (you can’t go to school if there is no school to go to)?

I don’t yet have any answers.  But I hope too.  Soon.  Until then, think about Malala, think about the education of women, think about how we’re going to change this world…for the better (and feel free to share those thoughts with me 😉

 

[colored_box color=”blue”]Are you a woman changing this world for the better?  Do you know a woman who should be celebrated for her great work?  Do you know a woman who will change this world?  We’re looking to spotlight the amazing goals and accomplishments of women around the world – big or small, greatness comes in all packages.  Email us with your tip or story:  SomethingSheSaidOnce [at] gmail.com [/colored_box]

 

A Day in the Life: Grad Student

 

A Day in the Life:  Grad Student 

10am  Alarm goes off.  Snooze.

11am  Alarm goes off.  Snooze.

12pm  Alarm goes off.  Snooze.

12:30pm  Alarm goes off.  Snooze.

1pm  Wake up.  Boil water for instant coffee before anything else as coffee is the lifeblood of my day.

1:15  Make coffee.  Drink coffee.  Make second cup of coffee.  Consider eating breakfast.  Eat a protein bar.  Get ready for school.

2pm  Go to class feeling self-congratulatory for finishing the book that was required for this week’s class.  Feel elated.  Start to think maybe I really do belong in Grad School.

2:30  Spend the first hour of class trying to look smart and engaged.  Spend the second hour of class working up the courage to say the smart thing I thought of.  Never actually say it.  Change mind about the certainty of belonging in Grad School.

5pm  After class is over say the smart thing to a few other students.  Say it loud enough for the Professor to overhear thus maybe witness I’m smart even though I was too shy to speak up during class.  Promise myself that I’ll do better next time.  Promise to start acting like a grad student.  Promise to start feeling like I belong here.

5:30  Think about going to Starbucks to get coffee.  Remember that I can’t afford Starbucks (as my parents just had to lend me money for rent, my student loan having already run out).  Make instant coffee instead.  Use the instant coffee that I keep in my office (my office being really just a cubicle in a room of 6 other cubicles with no window but I fucking love my cubicle).  I NEED MY CUBICLE.  My cubicle makes me feel like a grown up with a purpose and an office.  No man is a cubicle but this cubicle is me, man.

5:45  Realize I don’t have any milk for my coffee.  Sit at my desk in my cubicle and drink it anyway, stare at the stacks of library books and berate myself for not doing more research, for not being further along in your final research paper (thesis).  Wonder if my desk serves more as a place to put books than a place to do work.  Decide it does.  Decide I don’t care.  Realize that it doesn’t matter that my desk is small and my cubicle is in a shared space because I know the combination to this locked dungeon of cubicles that is specifically marked for grad students.  Feel proud.  I am a fucking grad student.  I earned this grad student space.  Realize it’s all I have.  Without this space I am nothing.  Go to the class I TA for.

6:00  Early British Literature.

6:01  Try to stay awake during this 1st year English class, which is most certainly on material I already know.  Listen as the Professor dissects Beowulf (which I haven’t studied in a decade, since I was busy not paying attention in 1st year English).  Realize it all seems like brand new information.  Feel like a sham.  Feel like a failure.  Doubt everything I’ve ever accomplished.  Wonder how the fuck I got into grad school.  Jump to the assumption that I’m an idiot and what the fuck am I going to do with my life.  Take a deep breath.  Realize that this just isn’t my area of expertise and that there is too much literature for me to know everything.  Tell myself it’s okay.

6:50  MUST.  NOT.  FALL.  ASLEEP.

8:00  Try to run the discussion group for the class.  Get more uncomfortable with each deafening silence to my prodding questions.  Feel like there isn’t enough time to accomplish anything meaningful.  Remember the comments of a student from last term on my evaluation who said “she seems rushed and kind of nervous”.  Hate that kid.  Hate the fact that he/she was right.  I am rushed, I am nervous.  Wish I could tell that kid that there is absolutely no training for being a TA except your undergrad and intelligence, none of which prepare you to teach.  Feel like a sham.  Feel like a failure.  Ask more questions.  Hear more silence.  Wonder if the students even read the text.  Wonder if the students are even awake.  Wonder what the fuck is the point of any of this.  Use my backup material and turn this into a tutorial on essay writing, which they desperately need.  Watch as their eyes glaze over.  Sweat.  Get frustrated.  Get exasperated.  Sweat.  Hate life.

8:50  Hand back the mid-term essays.  Watch them read their grades in confusion.  Most of them think they deserve A’s and B’s.  Most of them deserve F’s.  Give most of them C+s because I’m part of a continent wide broken educational system.  Try to remember what my work was like when I was a first year student.  Pretty sure I was drunk for most of first year.  Remind them about my office hours tomorrow.  Encourage them to come see me, to come talk about their grades, to come talk about their work, so that I can help them.  Know that no one will show up and I’ll sit for an hour by myself, in an office I share with all the other grad students.  Try not to become disillusioned with the whole system of education.

9:00  Walk home.  Realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast.  Stop at the grocery store on the way home and make impulse purchases that go well beyond my means, calorically and financially.  Use my credit card to pay.

9:30  Eat.  Worry.  Eat.  Worry.  Watch old episodes of Newsroom on my computer (I can’t afford cable, or a TV, or even to get my own wifi so I have to use the free wifi that comes with my apartment but blocks all the good websites like torrent downloading, youtube, and porn.  Eat.  Worry.  Eat.  Worry.  Make some coffee (I have a ton of work to do).

12:00am  Remember I have to read a 347 page book and a 44 page article for my class on thursday.  Start reading.

12:15  Calculate how many hours I have before my next class.  Figure out how many pages I can read in 20 minutes.  Multiply 20 by 3 to get how many pages I can read in an hour.  Calculate how many hours it will take to read 347 pages of a novel and 44 pages of an article.  Worry.  Fidget.  Worry.  Wonder if I should’ve gone into mathematics.

12:30  (stress) Masturbate.  Drink more coffee.

1:00am  Read more

2:00  I’m reading 18th century literature.  My eyelids are no longer my friends.  Drink more coffee, I  still have so much work to do.  Keep reading.

4:00am  Take a break to eat.  Watch another episode of Newsroom.  Eat.  Worry.  Eat.  Worry.  Eat.  Worry.  Coffee.

5:00  Read.  Read.  Read.

7:00am  Realize I see the sunrise too often.  Hate it.  Consider taking up yoga.  Consider becoming one of those breezy people who don’t worry and don’t get stressed.  Promise I’ll start fresh tomorrow.  Tomorrow, I will finish all my readings on time.  Tomorrow, I won’t go to class unprepared, I won’t skate by.  Tomorrow, I will wake up at a decent time and I will exercise and be at one with myself and the world.  Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

7:30  Try to sleep (hate myself for having to drink so much coffee to get through the day)

8:00  Try to sleep (hate myself for being a student when my friends have $$$ jobs)

8:30  Try to sleep (wish I exercised more, studied more, was a better person)

9:00  Try to sleep (FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WHY CAN’T I FUCKING SLEEP!!!!)

9:30am  Smoke some weed and fall asleep.

 

 

Loving You Left Me Bankrupt

Originally written for Thought Catalog:  Loving You Left Me Bankrupt

 

This love, I carry it in a coin purse.

We met over coffee; borrowed a pen from the teller and wrote love poems with laughter, opened a new account to deposit our smiles. We sat and drank cupfuls of possibility, like you were the seed of a good person and I was full of all the potential to draw you out. Like my interest was exponential and your arms around my waist would form a tax free loophole.

You stood in a corner and looked down at my face, asked if I knew how beautiful I was and then paid for my muffin in cash. You wore a sweater that smelled like coffee and asked my shoulders if their bareness was overwhelming. Put your arm across my back and asked me if I wanted to come home with you.

It started the first time I let you touch me.

In a split second, before I could stand up straight, you were a split personality and we split the bill and my value dropped threefold. My kisses couldn’t even shop in the half price bin. My love was going fast andslashing prices and everything must go go go. Like I was the free bin at the garage sale and I hardly had time calculate a tip; my head spinning like a top.

You looked me in the eyes and acted like my pleasure wasn’t worth your time; held my hands to keep me from reaching for a second helping. Moved your lips to form the words that spelled misogyny and silenced the sound of my cumming with your demands as you held up your hands and said stopand only if I’m the one to give it to you.

You texted bullshit about maybe stopping by like my time was only worth $0.74 on the dollar, which is funny given that the last time you were here, you seemed totally fine to take just two bites out of the three different apples in my fridge. Like I hadn’t spent my whole paycheque making sure you’d get fed. Every time you put your hand on my back I got mugged.

You’re a criminal math problem, an economic black hole, a pick pocket in a coal mine waiting for Christmas and I’m pretty sure that last Saturday night when I let you cum on my chest, the balance in my savings account dropped to zero. You’re a dent in my credit score; a reason I have to buy this blanket on lay away.

Your mom called me last week trying to tell me that she had raised a beam of light and I have to wonder if she had the wrong phone number. She wanted to cut me a cheque for time served but I told her the bill was already in the mail. She cried a bit and promised to write the wrongs, in a letter, an apologetic poem, a soliloquy to be performed at Thanksgiving dinner when she’ll look at you and her list of your charms will shrink and cringe, burn up at the edges of fiery cheeks. And while she’ll be thinking of me, you’ll just be asking for another slice of pie. You’ll the rip the crispy skin off the turkey and shove marshmallows and yams into your face and she’ll look at your dad and they’ll wonder if I even have enough money to buy Kraft Dinner.

I’ll complain to the internet, I’ll lament the sorrow, write the words down on scraps of paper and place them into the cracks of brick walls around the city. They’ll commiserate with me; the internet, and the bricks; cold and hard and ruddy red and you’ll throw bullshit birdseed in my direction every couple of weeks just to keep me from starving to death. Be careful, you say as your tongue drips with maple syrup and flies, I heard you’re not from here. It gets cold in Montreal.

But I’ve got enough blubber to keep me warm, the layers have built up over the years, and I’m starting to believe it doesn’t get that cold anyway; cold is a luxury for the rich. I’ll press the snow against my hot cheeks to melt and wash it all away and then my eyes will open up like rosebuds or corner stores on Saturday mornings, slow and patient and eventual. I’ll roll my pennies and stockpile my dimes and when Christmas comes I won’t be a pauper wrapped in rags. I’ll fly home to Vancouver and I’ll tell tales of the time I moved to a city where I only met men who stole my money and heart attacks felt more like a literal command.

Until, on a Wednesday in November, I met an accountant who knew the value of good books. Who padded his way across my chest in degrees, like an eclipse or a quarterly statement, four sharp turns from a Bachelor to a Master. So I smile through the telephone and write jocularity in the steam of my bathroom mirror, a sweet message for a man who might one day get a chance to read it, assuming he has enough to pay the toll; just a few coins for my purse, the late fee on my love.

New Move, New Site, New Boys, New Life

Montreal

New boys, new life

 

NEW MOVE

Some of you have been reading from the beginning.  The way back when.  The precipitating moments to some of the biggest changes about to occur in my life.  You were there.  I was there.  And now we’re here.  But where is here exactly?

Here is…moving to Montreal for graduate school (Concordia University).  3 years in the making and it’s finally here.

I’m thrilled.  I’m stressed.  I’m excited.  I have trepidation.  It’s going to be amazing.  I’m absolutely fucking terrified.

I don’t know anyone there.  Not one single person.  I don’t speak french (unless you include the 5 years of high school french I took which you probably shouldn’t given the fact that the only knowledge I retained is je suis fatigue [I am tired].)

 

https://twitter.com/SSDated/status/210254050535546880

 

Though I’ve been lucky enough to travel quite a bit, I’ve never actually lived anywhere outside of the lower mainland so to me this move is a huge fucking deal.  For you guys, it probably won’t make much of a difference.  Admittedly, I think I’ll have to say goodbye to my tagline of Something She Dated:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place One “Something” at a Time but otherwise then that you probably won’t notice much of a difference.

Or…well…maybe there will be some changes.  Good ones.  In my opinion.  And hopefully in yours.  But changes nonetheless.

 

NEW SITE

AUGUST 2013 UPDATE:  It was SomethingSheDated.com but now that I’m writing about various topics I’ve got the new (and permanent…no more changes I swear) site here SomethingSheSaid.com (which technically you should already know, since you’re here, reading it)

First off, there’s the new site design.  Like everything new, it’ll probably be irritating at first, you’re used to seeing this button here and that thing over there.  But like when you get a new iPhone, you hate it for 30 minutes, you adapt and it basically becomes your new boyfriend.  No?  Just me then?  That’s cool.

Rather than bore you with a run down of everything on the site, I’ll let you explore and see for yourself…or don’t.  To be honest, if you’re a long time reader the layout likely won’t matter to you.  Just know this, you MAY (read: probably will) have to RE-subscribe to the RSS feed (and if so, just click the feed button…it’s on the top right under the scroll bar and you’ll be good to go).  And, because who doesn’t like a contingency plan)…when in doubt…and you just want to read the most recent posts and you can’t figure out where to look but you know you want to read them in order…look to the right…middle of the screen and you’ll find the heading “recent posts” and you’ll be all set.

 

NEW BOYS

So that’s the next thing that might hopefully could maybe will be different.  Boys.  Hopefully there will be more.  Lots more.  Both here and when I move.  I expect a few more stories than usual because I have about 4 weeks left here and why not go balls to the wall right?!?!  And then of course not only is Montreal a completely new city that I haven’t yet dated my way through but let’s be honest, I think they’re a bit more my key demographic if you know what I mean.

Additionally, I’ll finally be able to answer (in an informed way) the truth about the theory that Vancouver Men Suck.  And I won’t just be doing online research, I’ll be getting out there, talking to people on the street, in cafes, in class, in the halls, around campus, on my bed…wherever 😉  Needless to say, online dating won’t be my only avenue of contact, I’ll be getting down in those dating trenches and loving at least 50% of the minutes of it every minute of it and then reporting it back to you.

 

NEW LIFE

Another change is that you may see a few more life related posts mixed in the…mix.  The truth is as amazing as this move will be, I expect it to be equally stressful and when stressed, I turn to writing and what better way to keep you all up to date then with posting about it all here.  Some of it may be boring.  Some of it may be hilarious and exhilarating.  I’ll be doing my best to keep it to the latter.  Read.  Don’t read.  I’ll still love you either way.

And that’s pretty much it guys.  All the new news in my life.  The loosely drawn map of the adventures to come.  It’s going to be great.  And feel free to leave me comments about things you like or don’t like about the site (and things that aren’t working or any troubles you’re having….unless of course the trouble is with the commenting system or something…and then…ermmm…email or find me on social media).

 

All my love, till the next juicy boy update….

XOXOX

SSDated

Vancouver Dating Blog: You Can Always Come Home To Me

How to Write a Dating Profile

It’s been a long time coming.

I’ve been meaning to write it for ages.

But somehow I just kept putting it off.

Because it’s not really a dating post, or a humor post, or a sex post, or a poetry post even, it’s a post about me.  Little old me, and what I’ve been up to and what (not who) I’ve been doing.  Because admittedly, in this last year, it might have gotten a little confusing.  So I’ll try to keep it as short and sweet as possible and if there’s any questions at the end…well…that’s what the comment section is for, right?

In September I started back at UBC.

I was approached by a dating website who wanted to buy (like with real money) my writing, both past and future.  I thought long and hard about it and though I hated the idea of parting with my writing (not a first rights kind of deal, a complete selling of ownership type deal) I figured I’d always have more material and beggars can’t be choosers and a number of other considerations that had me agreeing.  And so that’s what I did (which is why, you may or may not have noticed, many of my old blog posts disappeared).  For the next 6 months or so things were peachy.  I mean school was insane and my own blog pretty much fell to the way-side but I simply directed all my readers over to the dating website I had been working for to read my posts.  And then sometime around the end of January-ish something happened.  I had to sever ties with the site.  Unfortunately, the owner and I had some very different ideas about the ethics of editing (much like the differing laws in Canada and the States) and that was that.  He owned my words and I asked for my name to be removed from all content.  Ties severed.

However, very close to the same time I was approached by an Editor at The Province who asked if I would like to blog for them.  Ecstatic, I, of course, agreed.  And that was that, I’ve been happily blogging for the Province ever since.  But, I mean, there’s only so much writing about sex and dating a girl can do, especially when I was still in school at the time.  So for the time being, I publish on The Province and shortly after the article goes up on my own blog, this one right here.  Now of course, there’ll probably be exceptions (like say with this post, this one has no need to go on The Province’s site, and posts that contain poetry will always only go up here).

Additionally, I’ve started blogging as a #SWEXPERT for a UK dating site called Singles Warehouse, along with numerous other bloggers.  And while I’m not certain how or where the relationship will progress too, like my work for The Province, it will eventually end up on my own site (this one, in case that wasn’t clear lol).

Now, here I am in early May and I’ve graduated from UBC with my 2nd BA.  I have been accepted to Georgia State University, North Carolina State University, University of Massachusetts (Boston), and University of Saskatchewan, and I’m still waiting to hear back from Concordia and George Washington University.

What any of this means for the future I don’t know.  Will I be moving from Vancouver in September?  Can I really afford to take on the debt of an American University?  What would it be like to live in Saskatoon, a place I’ve heard I would eat the boys alive, and what if there were no boys at all who wanted to be eaten?  Will I take a year off, work and save as much as possible, and then reapply to schools next year (because at least now I know that getting in is a likely possibility; to be honest, I had been bracing myself for an across the board rejection)?  Could I continue to write about “Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One Something at a Time” or write for The Province, if I neither lived in Vancouver, nor the province of BC?  Will I spend the summer writing a book?

Who knows.  I have no real answers.  Yet.  But I’m happy.  And the future is bright.  And when in doubt over where to find my writing, know that it will always come home here at Something She Dated, ready and waiting for your loving eyes with its open arms.

xoxo
~SSDated

The End of An Era. The Beginning of Another.

 

Studying for the GRE

[dropcap]The truth is[/dropcap] I don’t really know what happened.  What has happened.  What is happening.  But it’s not fun like it used to be.  There was a time that dating felt like an adventure and boys felt like prizes.  But now.  They feel like punishments.  They feel like anger.  And frustration.  They feel like sharp objects.  Digging into me.  Dividing me.  Tearing away at all the good bits I’ve built up.  Every disappointment (and they seem to be endless) feels like claws tearing at the cotton candy I had so happily swaddled myself in.  They feel like a waste of time.  And I can’t bear to be in this place.  To live in a place where I despise an entire gender.  (Okay well not everyone in the gender).  But seriously.  Rage.  Tears.  Rage.  Tears.  Hope.  Disappointment.  Rage.  Tears.  Rage.  Tears.

And I need a change.  Now before you all get concerned I’ve gone off the deep end or something I assure you I haven’t.  The truth is I expect that a great deal of additional pressure is placed upon the disappointments of boys….by the fact that not only am I pissed with the disappointment…but there’s self-focused anger.  I should’ve been studying.  I should’ve been working.  I should’ve been exercising.  I should’ve been writing a book.  I shoulda shoulda shoulda been doing anything other than wasting time on boys.  So never fear.  I won’t be spending all my future time moping around doing nothing.  I’ll be reading those books.  Yeah those ones in the picture.  Up There.   Yes all of them.  Yes right away.  Yes studying for the GRE and the GRE subject test.  Yes getting a summer job.  Yes working my ass off and losing even more Biggest Loser weight.  Yes getting into Grad School.

And YES writing a book.  It might not happen right now.  Right away.  But I’m young.  And I have a lifetime of writing ahead of me.  And when I do.  Of course I’ll alert you all immediately, if not sooner.  And maybe one day I’ll even come back here.  To this blog.  To this blog that I love.  With all my heart.  My heart that will eventually bounce back to its cotton-candy-boy-lovin’-happiness.  I’m certain of it.  But for now.  For this   breath.  For.  This.  Very.  Moment.  I have to call it a day.  I have to walk away.  I have to let it be.  Until I become that girl again.  The one with a love of boys.  The one that wrote posts like these…and meant it.

Boys of Summer(fix links)
I’m Retarded for You
Army Fun or Being All the Single I Can Be
And for those looking for a bit of a saucier-racier-more-grown-uppy-more-swoony-more-SLUTmazing send off.  Here are a few choice posts.
And finally.  A few bits of housekeeping.  For now. I’m going to keep my Twitter:  SSDated.  I may continue to be as active as ever.  I may not.  Of that I’m not sure.  Also.  A little while ago I wanted to do some writing.  About Twitter.  About life.  About whatever.  So I created another blog.  And you may see some writing on there from time to time.
Update:  It’s this blog you’re now reading

So until we see each other again.  I want you all to know how much I’ve loved your presence…reading your comments…heeding or counter-arguing your advice…always eager for your presence again.  I am forever in your debt.  Always Love.  Always Yours.  For This.  Very.  Moment.  And all that come after it.  It’s been a slice.  Deuces.

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Dear Boys, I Want to Lick Your Brain

Dating


Brain

Dear Boys,

I want to lick your brain.  I mean not literally.  Not in like a vampiric-tales from the crypt-serial killer kind of way.  But seriously.  In a metaphorical sense.

Recent conversation goes like this:

Me:  He has a Ph.D…from Harvard
Friend:  Wow! (impressed tone)
Me:  I know right?!?! A Ph.D…from Harvard…seriously…a Ph.D…in English Literature…from motherfucking Harvard
Friend:  Wow! (still impressed tone)
Me:   Seriously.  I would definitely have an affair with him.  And not just for an A. 
Friend:  (laughs) Is he good looking?
Me:  hmm…not really…I mean he’s kind of balding a bit (though covering it up well)…and he’s not really in shape…but he is tall…and probably only about 5 years or so older than me…but I mean….HARVARD…PH.D!
Friend:  (laughs) Yeah you said that




So boys, let me be clear.  I know in the past I’ve talked a lot about Brawn.  And I’m not saying brawn is bad.  By all means.  Brawn is great.  And I’m always taking brawn over no brawn that’s for sure.  But if it’s brawn vs. brains.  No question.  Hands down.  I want to fondle your frontal lobes.  I want to get complex with your cortex.  I want you to quiz me.  I want your brain.  I mean first and foremost I want you to have one.  And then after that I want you to share it with me.  And while I’m wishing.  While I’m dreaming.  While I’m just putting it out there the thing I’d really really love.  Boys, I want you to be smarter than me.  And I don’t mean in a demeaning way or a qualifying way.  You being smarter won’t make you better.  And if you’re not, it doesn’t make me better.  It’s just that I dream of it.  I yearn for it.  Finding a “something” who is leagues smarter than me.  And while knowledge can help, it isn’t everything.  I want you to excite me and challenge me.  Prove me wrong and show me how.  Show me things I’d never considered.  I want you to be curious and eager.  Take us on an adventure.  Boys, I’m looking for one of you, that has a brain so full and voluptuous, that I want to lick it.  Run my metaphorical tongue all over it.  But don’t worry.  I won’t bite.  And I won’t eat it.  Because afterall, I’m no man-eater.  But just sayin’.  Hit the books boys, step your game up.


Yours Truly,


Judgey Wudgey


aka Something She Dated
aka Motivating the masses to higher education
aka Dating University campuses better one smarty pants at a time
aka That girl in the library two study desks over
aka Your coffee shop crush

 

Vancouver Dating Blog: Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Love Is: My House On Faculty Row

Hearts

[dropcap]People[/dropcap] have been asking me a lot lately.  If Mega Love proposed.  Right now.  Would I say yes?  And the answer is no.  Not a chance.  No hesitation.  Uh-uh.  Nope.  Nope.  *head shake*   No.  Because the thing is.  I don’t want a boyfriend.  I definitely don’t want a husband.  Right now.  I just want fun.  Breezy.  Fun.

Dating is fun right now.  Exciting and nerve-racking.  Like sour candy.  Caught in your cheeks.  Delicious.  Torture.  Bliss.  It’s up.  It’s down.  It’s novel and I’m learning.  Learning about myself.  About boys.  About other people and their lives.  By comparison to mine.  From their vantage point looking in.  From my vantage point looking out.  It’s kind of like shopping.  Can I help you, Miss?  No thanks, I’m just browsing.  And right now.  This very moment.  I wouldn’t trade it for the world.  Because honestly.  I’m having the time of my life.  I’m being honest.  And selfish.  And I’m totally okay with that.

Being selfish I mean.  Because I don’t want to think about anyone else.  Have to look after anyone else.  Have to worry about anyone else.  Because for the first time in 16 years.  I feel good.  I mean really really good.  Like I’m finally not broken anymore.  Like after 16 years of a sadness that shakes you.  Takes your breath away.  Taints everything.  Poisons everything.  Is everywhere and in everything.  Suck.  Suck.  Sucking every last drop of hope and joy out of you.  It finally ends.  And now.  I get to be happy.  I mean really happy.

So you can understand can’t you?  How I wouldn’t want to risk it.  Risk this happiness.  On something.  On someone.  I mean sure.  In the future.  Possibly.  But not right now.  Not when it’s all still so fresh.  So new.  Still such totally uncharted waters.  And I’m not hiding from love or anything.  I’ve got tons of love surrounding me right now.  An amazing family.  Wonderful friends.  Life is beautiful.  And one day.  One day.  I’ll consider it.  Consider a future of team effort.

But right now I think.  I feel.  Like it’s quite likely I won’t ever want to get married.  Won’t ever want to have babies.  Sure.  The idea of baking up some little minions that are part me and part someone I love.  That sounds amazing.  Creating a life.  Growing something inside my belly.  Sure that’d be cool.  Really cool though.  Would be raising them.  Raising them how I want.  Teaching them things.  Giving them room to learn how to learn.  Showing them the world.  Watching them grow their dreams.  Loving them.  Helping them.  Growing old with them.  But that’s a lot of responsbility.  And I don’t even like the idea of having a pet.

Because in the life I picture for myself.  I live in some fancy professor housing.  On a university campus.  Of which I’m sure only exists in movies I watched as a child.  But nonetheless.  I’m living there.  And my life is gorgeous with Academia.  And writing.  Travel and friends.  Love.  Love.  Love.  I do what I want.  When I want.  And then I play with other people’s kids.  And get to go home when I’m done.  Quirky Auntie SSD.  She always tells the best stories.  And has the best snacks.  Took me for the morning after pill when I couldn’t tell my mom.  Listened when my dad and I were fighting.  Told me how he was just looking out for me.  Talks about equality and kindness.  Talks about doing the right thing and figuring out what that is for myself.  She believes me when I say I’m going to change the world.  Says she’ll help me.  Says she’ll always be there for me.  She makes me feel loved.  And safe.  Like the world will be okay for me.  Because she’s out there.  Waiting for me.

But even then.  I think about love.  And how one day.  That might be something I really crave.  Really desire.  Because I can imagine it feels good.  For someone to know you.  To really know someone.

Their favorite constellation.
The salad dressing they use on Sundays
The way your head feels resting in their hands
The shape of their ice cubes
The shape of their ice cubes
One day.  I’ll want to know someone.  So well.  That I know the shape of his ice cubes.

But not today.  Because today.  There are 3 weeks left till school starts back up.  And I know what my dreams are.  And falling in love.  And knowing someone.  Aren’t on that list.  Studying.  Learning.  Taking care of myself.  Getting good grades.  Like really good grades.  Higher than ever before.  Slaying the GRE.  Getting into Grad School.  Those are my dreams.  Those are my cake.  And the rest.  The rest is just icing.