He Asks What I Write (Part Two): I Write Spaces

Writing

*

Part One:  I Write Short Stories

I’m writing spaces, these blank places where we become better than our possibilities.

If I told you the truth, if I said all the words, you would end the conversation.  It sounds like a thud, this faux love that we make, this fucking on IKEA beds.

The good parts are in your head. The words ruin what was possible, bog us down, and cement the atrocities.

When the bed creaks, we don’t hear it.  When the pillows sigh, we have stopped listening.  Ribs cage us.  I don’t have the heart to tell you.

You can find my body and his in all the spaces, these places where everything was always greater than its assessed value.  Even in the sorrow, even in the badness, the emptiness is what warms us.

We fell in love with our own rhythms: the beat of our heels; our thighs, the rub.  I found him in the place I wanted him to be, the place where I was a thing worth finding.  He was a magnet, a polar opposite.  I rubbed him like lotion until he disappeared.

He Asks What I Write: I Write Short Stories

Open Letter

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He asks what I write and I tell him, “short stories.”

But the stories are not short.

Not unless you want them to be.

Not unless I have a heart attack soon and die.

Not unless you just stop reading.

I have only ever had but one story to tell.

The periods are just for breathing.  Your ears, like cholesterol, inside my pounding heart.

You tell me it’s okay to relax, I laugh and say, “comma down.”

 

An Open Letter to All the Mr. [something big and important, probably married]s, Regarding Your Emails

Open Letter

Thanks for the email, but you don’t have to be embarassed by my sexuality.  I know you feel the need to save your praises for private because you’re a big shot/celebrity/lawyer/news anchor/executive something/father, or whatever other identifier raises your importance above mine, but there’s really no need to worry.

I am not a predator, try not to think yourself so persecuted.

I know I wrote a piece about sexuality and inequality and my broken disappointed heart and used words like pussy and dick (and maybe next time I won’t stop short of using anal), but those are not things to be ashamed of.  I am sorry you feel the need to read my words with the lights out.

Maybe you want to hide in the privacy because single girls have been known to wander (this is a warning from your mother) but I am not here to scandalize you.

You don’t have to be ashamed to spread my words (which are not my legs), or to be seen talking to me.  After all, your intentions are entirely innocent, no?

So while I appreciate the email, about how much you enjoyed my writing, you should have just ended it there.  It’s flattering to know that my appearance pleases you and how you think I’m going to find a great guy some day, but you should know that I have already found one.  Several actually.  And that my having of them probably won’t fit with your idea of how my life should be.  But that’s not my problem (and I’m not even entirely clear on why it’s yours).

I don’t want to get married.

I don’t want to find the one.

I want the many.

I want to hear a hundred stories.  I want to lay down with men who change the composition of my surroundings.  I want to know the world.  I am greedy but not selfish.  I want more than my hands can hold, and so I stand facing it all with open fingers.  I want to kiss and laugh and love and fuck and be my true self and rip my heart open and spill it on the floor for all to see.

I don’t want a gated community, a picket fence, a sofa to sink into.  It is already hard enough to stand up tall everyday, I don’t need more things hemming me in.

So, thanks for the email, but it’s not necessary.

You see, I don’t need you to save me.  And I know for sure that I cannot save you.

I know I posted that thing about the boy who reacted poorly to my large frame and the things about men who try to woo me with discussions of my body.  I know I got angry and frustrated and lost faith in humanity for a second but I’m only human.  I am an elastic woman and likely to bounce back.

So, I know you got to see the flaws and the heartache and the sadness, and maybe that stirred something in you but none of these things mean I need you to save me.  They are not about you.  You already chose your life and this private weirdness that you’re creating with your power and your secrecy is affecting my balance (so you should stop).

I’m standing up here, spine only partially made of jelly.  Mostly strong enough and not nearly as alone as you might think (and frankly, my friends and family all feel a little jilted that you’ve minimized their roles so emphatically in my life as to think that one singular man could replace them entirely).

So thanks for the email, but your secrecy has splinters.

Words that should be innocent enough off the tongue, show up dressed in your issues and your shame and your inadequacies.  Your email is a time bomb and frankly, sir, I don’t need your bullshit.

So unless you’re ready to stand up tall and stop acting like my sexuality is an affront to your marriage, your personhood, and your fucking existence…unless you’re ready to stop pretending that my comfort and expression is a threat to your way of being…unless you’re ready to stop imposing your danger onto me…

I would just as soon prefer that you kept your praises in your pockets and your heavy words out of my box.

Making Big Career Choices: Stripping vs. Writing

stripping

 

Things have been a little dark lately.  Ugh.  Girl you better turn it down on all them emotions and stuff!!  I completely agree.  So with that in mind, I’ve started to think a little about the life I’ve created for myself.  Yes, I did just get a Master’s degree but why should that limit my career choices?  The answer is that it shouldn’t.  It’s time I start broadening my horizons and considering other directions for myself.  For example, what about becoming a stripper?  Admittedly, I don’t currently have that 36-24-36 physique I know so many of you lovely gentlemen love.  But given how few men want to date me but definitely want to fuck me, I have to think that there are a lot more horribly awesome bros who dig this fatty (see what I did there?  you’re thinking is she talking about a huge sexy booty or a huge sexy body and you’ll never know!! – unless you’re internet-adept enough to find me on facebook and see for yourself [hint: it literally couldn’t be easier]).  Regardless, I hate the idea that I would make a career decision based on dudes so the following is a quick analysis of whether stripping (vs. writing) is write (you’re welcome for this witty wordplay) for me.

 

1.  Fitness

Stripper:  Paid cardio!!  I work well for cash incentives.  I’ve never lost more weight than the summer I decided to make losing weight my “job”.  So imagine if I could not only make losing weight my job but literally earn extra money doing it?  I’d be a size 12 (because let’s be realistic) in no time!

Writer:  Writing is mostly just a lot of crying, pacing, and self-doubt.  If you cry hard enough, it’s a workout.  Not to mention, if you’re already dead inside, you don’t need cardio (though I think this could probably apply to both being a writer and a stripper).

 

2.  Dating

Dating is not going well (I’m lucky if I can find a dude whose not trying to drive me up the mountain to murder me, long enough to have a discussion worthy of making me want him in my bedroom).  So, needless to say, all my best moves are going unused and unappreciated.

Stripper:  Who better to cherish my otherwise unused hump techniques than someone willing to slide some lucky loonies in this lady’s lingerie.  ♪♫ I’m your private dancer ♪♫ well…I mean…until the next guy asks for a private dance because this is a business bro, no hard feelings (except that cock poking into my thigh)

Writer:  Have you ever heard of a happy ending?  Do you know who made the story work out that way?  That’s right, it was the writer.  As a writer I could legitimately write myself a happy ending.  And that ain’t peanuts.

 

3.  STUDENT LOAN.  NUFF SAID.

(or wait, maybe I need to say more.  I have a huge student loan…was that clear enough?)

Stripper:  I have to pay my HUGE student loan (HOW BIG IS IT?!?!  IT’S SO BIG EVEN I WOULDN’T FUCK IT! – I’m sorry, I’m the worst)  and the money earned stripping would really come in handy (speaking of handy’s do strippers give those or just sex workers?)  Either way, I’m super good at handy’s, just thought I’d mention that (kind of the way someone who used to work with floppy disks would bring it up at a job interview for coding)…no one really cares about the thing that I do well, which no one really wants anymore, but I haven’t got a lot of skills and/or pride so I have to casually mention it anyway.

Writer:  Abject poverty sounds great when you have the freedom to leave the country and your credit report behind but turns out you can’t file bankruptcy on student loans.  This means I actually have to earn the money, and while some people are really great writers – writing brilliantly and publishing prolifically – I’m tolerable at best and may need to rethink my money making strategies.  Perhaps a future writing erotic novels for prisoners?  Or, maybe writing technical manuals for children (somebody has to tell those minions how to put my NIKEs together)?  Or, what about writing hack jokes on cardboard signs in metro stations (which seems a likely progression of my financial plan)?  Regardless, writing sounds like a gas.  I’m super excited.

 

4.  Friends

Stripper:  In the scenario I’ve dreamed up, given that I’m in the upper eschalon of stripping, it’s probably pretty glamorous.  Old men wanting me to touch but not really touch their balls.  Women in boas crying into my boobs because they’re getting married tomorrow.  It’s basically a trip to the playboy mansion (which I can only assume is super fun given the pools of vag swimming around and old dudes galore).  But here’s the thing, it might be hard to make meaningful connections with people, the more that I see what the world is really made of (hint: it’s not cake batter).

Writer:  Writers don’t have friends, we have readers (jk, we often have neither, apparently someone has caught on to the fact that we’re total assholes).  But seriously, know that if you’re friends with a writer at some point they’ll probably say things like “workshopping” and “has your work earned this cliche?” and “can you lend me money I’m starving to death”, and you’ll have to stick by them because you’re friends – that’s just a part of the burden.  Learn to bear it.  Also, make sure you own a poncho because sometimes the constant crying will seem more like a torrential downpour.

 

5.  Family

Stripper:  People always say things like how disappointed their parents would be if they took their clothes off for money, and how sad and shame-filled it would be to make money off of your body.  But you know who does that?:  athletes, models, manual laborers, and I’m sure some other people too.  Sure, they mostly (see: models) do it with their clothes on but aren’t clothes really just the religious patriarchy trying to control women (as they have for centuries)?  You’re goddamn right it is.  That being said, you want to know what’s really shameful? (hint:  I’m going to bring up my student loan debt again).  Nothing says, “Vicki you’re a huge fucking disappointment” quite like imagining the only world in which you ever pay off your debt is the one in which your parents die and your inheritance goes straight to the government.  Oh thank god, finally a reprieve I can look forward to!

Writer:  Have you ever had a family member who was a writer?  If you can’t remember right away, ask yourself if you know anyone who has lived with their parents longer than normal?  Have they at any point in their life published a ‘zine?  Gross.  They’re a writer.  Back away before they can smell your high paying job.  The only loophole to this is the possibility that they are one of the few writers that can actually make a living doing this thing with the words and the page and the whatnot.  And then, honestly, still you should back away.  Best case scenario they end up super rich and invite you over for parties and have all the family gatherings at their Cali mansion, catered by some gourmet vegan celebrity chef.  But even then you should know that everything you say and do will always be up for grabs.  They will scrutinize, and judge, write down your conversations and then make them better (or worse, depending on whether or not they like you).  Every mistake you make could be fodder for their next big work.  But hey, have you tried the vegan cheesecake? maybe a little critique ain’t so bad.

 

6. Donuts

Donuts are an important part of everyone’s life.  No distinction should be made between strippers and writers when it comes to donuts.  Donuts are the great equalizer.  Never say no to donuts, I know I certainly don’ut.

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”).

 

Something She Dated: A Goodbye in 3 Parts

UPDATE:  This post went up on my SomethingSheDated.com website in October 2012, when I was busy with grad school, sad about the state of men and dating, and just generally burnt out.  You’re now reading this, obviously, on my new site SomethingSheSaid.com – where the writing covers many more subjects than just sex and dating (thus helping to eliminate burn out) but I wanted to keep this post up regardless because it helps to show how I was feeling back then 🙂

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PART ONE:  BREAKING UP

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I’m tired.  Is that what you want to hear me say?  You beat me, you won.

Those are the words in my head.  They look even sadder typing them out than they sound bouncing back and forth between my ears.  I want to pull the toque over my eyes.  I want to put on ear muffs.  I want winter to get here so I can forget all about the disappointment.

It’s been two and a half years since I started writing this blog; since it was just a way to avoid repeating the same stories to my friends.  I had had such high hopes.  Not for the blog, but for dating.  And now it all just seems so sad, so fraught with failures, so lethargic with let downs, so many damn dating disappointments.

I haz sad.  I haz dating sad.

But the truth is I don’t know how to write the crisis of this story.  I don’t know what the problem, with me, is.

I used to be so hopeful.  I used to think boys had such potential, such spirit, such masculine beauty, were so full of life and happiness and sheer unadulterated joy.  I used to think they were amazing, all of them, in their own special way.  But as the disappointments just kept hitting like bricks that stick, I just feel heavy, and I’m sinking to the bottom.

The irony is that I was never expecting one man to be everything.  In fact, it was like I was hoping that all men could just be one thing, if they could just be one thing…

Be funny.
Be smart.
Be passionate.
Be interesting.
Be lusty.
But I guess the implied caveat was the hardest part of the application to fill.

AND….Be interested in me.

Instead of finding this, I found a series of guys who I gave an inch and they took a mile.  Or threw the inch back in my face.  Or disappeared with the inch never to be seen again.  And honestly, a girl only has so many inches.

And while I still think I’m lovely…I have to wonder…why can’t anybody see it?  Why aren’t there any boys who think I’m funny, and pretty, and smart and interesting and who they themselves are funny, and smart and interesting?

Do I really only get one heart pounding relationship in life?  Is that it?  Is that all I get?  Is this why people get married…because you’re lucky to even just find one single person who can see that you’re amazing, let alone several?

And in all honesty, along the way, and probably particularly because of France and The Comic, I’ve become distanced from the very notion that there are men out there who want me to experience pleasure, who give a shit about whether or not I get off, who want to see me sweat and smile and cum and smile again, who care about more than just getting their dick sucked and cumming on my tits.  And while it seems dramatic (and problematic) to allow a few boys to taint my view of an entire gender, the feelings are there, the seeds are planted and I’m starting to think that my only choices are to become a sexual camel or to start researching the treatments for carpal tunnel.

 

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PART TWO:  IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S ME 

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But…it’s not just the dating.

It’s hard.  Putting it all out there, ya know.  And getting almost nothing in return.  Almost nobody comments anymore.  Sure, I get a few Twitter mentions and a Facebook like or two and yes from the stats I can easily see that readership is up…but still.  Can you imagine a comic performing for a completely silent audience, night after night?  Would you be able to bear your open breast for all to see, share some of the most intimate details of your life with complete strangers and be unphased by their near silence?

And I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy it while it lasted.  My goodness, did I.  But when the chips are down and it feels too bothersome, too cumbersome, too…something…and you’re doing it just for you, it’s easy to say…I think it’s time to pack it in.  And so that’s what I’m doing.  Packing it in.

Now don’t get me wrong.  This isn’t the end of me, I’m not dying or anything.  I plan to continue writing (and that’s another big part of why I’m stopping, because I want the time to take my writing in another direction).  This isn’t the last you’ll hear of me.  And don’t think I haven’t appreciated you all along the way, hell I even brag about you sometimes like you’re my children, like your presence is a photo in my wallet that I take out at family gatherings and work functions to show off, my sweetheart, look at her, isn’t she beautiful.

And this is really the worst description of why I’m ceasing the blogging ever…because honestly it’s a hundred other reasons too.

It’s school
It’s life
It’s wanting something different
It’s wanting to continue growing and developing
It’s writing funding proposals
It’s finishing my first fictional short story for publication
It’s work (TAing classes and running tutorials)
It’s the fact that I’m turning 31 in just a few days*
It’s too many things to list
It’s too many things even to think about
And then it’s 100 things more beyond that.

And it’s terrifying.  Because it all feels so final.  Because it all feels so for sure.  Like I’ve just crumpled up the piece of paper that had my identity written all over it and threw it in the trash.  And now I’m staring at a blank page.

 

*I actually turned 31 a few weeks ago, this just took me a really long time to post

 

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 PART THREE:  CATHARSIS

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What do you do when you let go of the most interesting part of yourself?

My preferred method is to cry.  Like a grown up.

 ~

You told me to eat peaches and to try not to cry.  Said, “Sit down,” and pulled out a chair while I seasoned my bowl with the drips from my face.  Said, “This is going to be hard,” and rested your hand on my shoulder.

I stuck my chubby fingers into the bowl and squeezed at a slice but the slimy flesh swam away like a goldfish.  I bet it’s forgotten me already.  I couldn’t hear half of what you said because my ears were filled with water.  I was swimming in a puddle.  I was holding my breath.  I was hiding in the weeds till you reached down and yanked me back up.

“This is going to be hard,” you said, and then you took my identity away.  For three years I had known who I was based on the story that I told.  I was a dater.  I was a blogger.  I was a writer.  I had found myself huddled in the mess.  I had written my way out in spaghetti noodles.  I had dropped pretzels to become an adult.  I was covering my map in trail mix.  And then one day I wasn’t hungry anymore.

And now I’m standing out here in the middle of a forest, or sinking in a bubbling aquarium, or melting into the bottom of a chocolate milkshake.  The metaphor is not the point.  The analogy is not the destination.  I am lost in the middle of my life.  I don’t know who I am without this tagline.  I don’t know if my jokes will be funny anymore.  I am now a girl without context.  I am no longer a sex and dating blogger.  I don’t know what I’m going to say at parties when people ask me what do you do?

I put the peaches down and go into the bathroom.  I look in the mirror; I seem smaller.  I wonder if my laugh will be quieter.  I feel naked.  My cheeks are slick and smooth, today my teeth don’t shine.  I stare into my own eyes and you ask, “What do you see here?”

My tongue has muscle memory.  It rises up and shouts something loud.  It looks like a fist.  I want to eat something.  I want to eat everything.  I want to eat my own hands if only to stop my tongue from wagging.  I want to consume.  I want to run my tongue over every idea I’ve ever had about sex and dating so that they’re mine.  Just in case, just in case, just in case this was a mistake.  But if we’re being honest, they’re not that brilliant to begin with.  This isn’t nuclear fission.  I was just telling my story.

“What have I done?” I ask out loud, “what have I done?”

You tell me to go back into the living room, to sit down and eat some peaches and to try not to cry.  Say, “This is going to be hard.”  I expect it to sound harsh.  I expect you to be annoyed with having to repeat yourself but the words are like feathers, or bunnies, or white Wonderbread.  You reach your hand into the bowl and grab a slice of peach; hold it up.  Juice drips from the bottom, it shines like my cheeks.  You run your other hand along my chin until I open my mouth and then slip half the peach inside, lay it across my teeth, say “bite” and then “chew” after I do.

The peach is soft and squishy.  I can chew this peach.  I can handle this peach.  I can conquer this peach.  You tell me to try not to cry.  You say “hush,” and then, “swallow” and I want to.  My throat is our enemy.  My heart has beaten its way across town.  It moves in rook and pawn.  I watch the clock tick and tock.  I hear my heart thunder.  I swallow.

You told me to eat peaches and to try not to cry.  Said, “This is going to be hard,” and then waited.  You made decisions like a grown up and asked me to live with the consequences.  Said, “This is going to be hard” and then changed my life completely.  You told me to eat peaches and to try not to cry and then asked me to trust you.  Said, “This is going to be hard,” and then rested your hand on my shoulder.

I tried not to think about the next party when I would fumble to find interesting words and come up short with I’m a Grad Student and then I would shrug to fill the empty space.  I tried not to think about the emails I would have to send to my supporters, to say goodbye, to say it’s over.  I tried not to think about anything except swimming goldfish and their 3 second memories.  I ate the rest of the peaches and went to sleep.  I’m going to be fine, I thought.  After all, I had seen this day coming.

 

“This is going to be hard,” I said.

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

Legitimate Fictional Character or Sunshine French Toast Love

Hearts
Friend:   “You’re legitimately a Carrie Bradshaw”
Me:  “I like that I’m now legitimately a fictional character”

“It’s like wanting to be a rapper or a basketball star,” I say, to Mega Love over breakfast, his fork holding french toast meant for my mouth.  “Naw!” He says, “It’s not like that at all” his head shaking and the sweet carbs tease my tongue.  I laugh.  It’s because he loves me.  And that’s what I tell him.  He’s barely ever read my writing.  My choice not his.  I’m bizarrely protective of my words (or my heart, you could say) with those closest to me though I share them like air here on this blog.  “Nope” he says, “It’s because you’re talented” and I can see this thing in his eye.  Like the image he holds there, the one he knows in his heart and feels in his bones, his image of me, stretches hope like a river of endless possibilities.  Stands side by side with my Father who believes I could get into Harvard if I really tried, holding hands with my Mother who asks about Pullitzers in a way that makes space for me to win one.  “You’re amazing” he says and I have to take a sip of coffee, this lump in my throat threatening to make a scene with wet eyes.  Our knees touch under the table.  He won’t let me share my food.  Feeds me like a cub from his plate again.  Kiss in public.  A love that can’t be explained when they ask why we’re not together.  Can’t be explained when they ask how we can continue to eat this love, over breakfasts, on weekends spent away from my dating and his Seattle.  Can’t be explained in any other way except in that image.  Of me in his eyes, his eyes on me, eating French Toast like it was made of sunshine in a world where I could become a writer.

And then somehow, when I wasn’t looking, he kind of became right.  And I kind of became a writer.

[Note:  the rest of this post is deleted because I write for all new things but I didn’t want to delete the post altogether because I like how it sums up the day with Mega Love <3]

 

 

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

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

Catching You Up, or Girls Do It Better

Hearts
[dropcap]It seems [/dropcap]to always be like this.  After having not written for awhile.  I get stumped.  And not because I have nothing to say.  But the complete opposite, in fact.  I have too much to say.  Months of stuff to say.  Because though I’ve written a post or two since then.  I still have stuff to tell you.  From December, and January, and Febraury, and March, and April.  Things like…

how I went on a date once. Something like 8 years in the making.  And it was amazing.  There was laughter.  And tears.  Princess crowns and sex chatter.  See the thing is.  I’d been waiting to meet this chick.  For ages.  We’d been in contact since before there was a Mega Love.  Since before there was Facebook and Twitter, way back before there was MySpace and Fotki, way back in the days of Blackplanet.  And so over Christmas break, I went to visit her.  Drove hours and hours for a date.  And it was amazing.  Because afterall, girls do it better.

I thought I might need a pass to her heart.  Turns out I just needed one to get onto the base.  Are you Hispanic, the desk clerk asked.  Like that was somehow relevant.  Are you allowed to ask me that, is that even legal?  Shit like that doesn’t happen in Canada I said.  No I’m not, I told her.  And I thought dating was bad, I stood there in judgment, of a country that holds borders like desperation.

But alas, they let me in.  McChord Airforce Base.  Turns out I’m not quite the criminal/trouble maker I like to think myself.  So off we went on our date.  Met the kids.  Met the hubs.  And that’s when it happened.  I knew it was meant to be.  Real true love shit.  Perfect first date magic.  Signifying of soul mate connection.  She asked if I wanted something to drink.  And then offered me a Diet Coke.  That she had bought.  A whole pack.  Extra special.  Just for me.  In preparation of my arrival.  Because she had listened.  To all those dates before.  All those before.  All those “somethings” before.  And she knew what I wanted.  A crisp.  Sparkly.  Diet Coke.  Weather Girl hit it out of the park.  😉  And then suddenly our date was a threesome.  And the hilarity continued.  Dinner and cupcakes.  Boy chatter and reminiscing.  Babies and kidlets.  Love.  Love.  Love.  And that’s why girls do it better.  Because after I left.  I knew.  Exactly where I stood with everybody. And they with me.  Weather Girl.  Jenny Hustle.  Together something like awesome.  On a girl-date something like a lasting friendship.

And for those on Facebook.  Well MY facebook I mean.  The best part are the pictures.  Me in my princess crown.  EVERYBODY doing my signature pose.  And then of course the tagline.  Wondering if there would be any trouble getting me on the base.  Weather Girl asked the hubs.  And his answer.  I don’t know…I’ve never smuggled a foreigner on post before. Awesome.

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