Virginia: I feel like I'm taking crazy pills

Ok guys, so this time its political.

Virginia is a fucking terrible place to be right now.

First of all, the transvaginal ultrasound thing. (That's going to be a part of a WAY bigger rant that's building up. Re: women's health, I feel like I'm taking fucking crazy pills. I don't know if its going to result in me doing political stand up, a Vlog, protesting, burning bras in front of the Capitol or all of these. That's for another post.)

This is in response to a friend getting a ticket in VA today. The speed limit was 70 and she was going 82. Like anyone who has driven on I-95 EVER has done.

She got a speeding ticket. And in the Uncommonwealth, this now means that it's a Wreckless Driving charge. The consequences of this is positively ludicrous. And I couldn't handle it.

So I wrote the Governor. And the VA dept of commerce.

That state isn't getting another dime of mine.

Here's what I sent. I only wish it could more eloquent, but I'm too fucking mad.

Also, trying to use reason assumes that the other party would be able to see reason, and in this case, that's clearly not true.

GAAAAAAH

Dear Governor,

I could no longer remain silent. Virginia is currently a terrifying and absurd place to live. My parents live there right now, and I wish that they would move to avoid Virginia's stringent, and dare I say cruel policies.

My two biggest issues are thus: Unreasonable speeding consequences and Transvaginal Ultrasound requirements.

Your state enjoys prime positioning on the Eastern seaboard. Not only are you a state that benefits from having many people travel through it to other locations, but many beautiful and historic destinations. You have sensibly posted speed limits at 70 MPH throughout the state. But then, you have draconian consequences for people traveling at 90 MPH. People could have their lives ruined with exorbitant fines, and a potential criminal record. I can't understand the motivation behind this decision other than money, and it sickens me. I intend to never visit your state, that of my birth because a state that could do this to anyone is not a place I can with good conscience give a dime to.

And then, you go a step further. I don't understand how you can, with a straight face, belong to a party that fights for a less invasive government, and then ACTUALLY. MANDATE. a forced entry into a woman's vagina with a 6" to 8" instrument. It sounds like a nightmare or a sketch from Saturday Night Live that ended up on the cutting room floor because it was too absurd to be believable.

The government of your state is beginning to resemble that of our enemies, and it frightens me. A place that could jail someone for acting within the realm of responsibility, and forcibly rape anyone at all is not somewhere I care to visit.

I'm afraid the only retributions I have are this letter and my checkbook.

Please come to see reason.

~Maggie

Crossroads

I'm sorry to keep harping on the same thing, but its kind of what keeps floating to the surface of my consciousness.

I feel bad that I treat this blog like a personal (ahem) diary, which means I'm only moved to write when I'm feeling sorry for myself.

I promise: more cheerful posts on Twilight, The Muppets, my love for comedy, the hilarious cat, my great friends etc. etc. ad nauseam to come in the future.

But now, I don't know what to do.

I'm at a crossroads.

I've been doing this whole "I'm just fine" thing for a while now, and I'm worried I can't do it anymore.

I'm not.

I'm not *fine*.

and I'm upset about it.

And I wish it wasn't. I'm sorry I have this desire, this urge. I DO want a husband and a family and all of that. I wish I didn't, but its how it is. And I feel like I'm supposed to hide that or apologize for it to any guy today who I may stand a chance with; so as not to scare anyone away. When did this happen? Women are the gatekeepers to the perpetuation of LIFE for chrissake. Why do we have to mask this miracle in spanks and budlights, false smiles and forced laughs?

I wish I didn't give a shit. I assure you, it would be easier.

But I do care.

and I have a choice- I can go one of two ways.

Give in to my despair. Let myself get angry about my situation. Feel sorry for myself. Have more nights in of crying and white wine in the bubble bath. Rant and rave and fight against my circumstances. Cut out the self-deprecating "crazy cat lady" jokes because they're suddenly too close to home. Rage.

Or

The one I'm even more afraid of. Accept. Consider the very real possibility that I will never find anyone. I have this niggling fear that this is the best path. Perhaps I'm built the way I am because I can survive on my own. I'm an only child, and I get a lot of satisfaction out of my friends and my cat and my comedy. My life is still a C+ without any romantic interest in it. Maybe I'm programmed this way because it is a survival skill I'll need.

My friends always tell me "you WILL find someone," and I can't help but doubt them. No one can say that with certainty. See, I believe that every last person deserves a someone, but it just doesn't always happen. I'm so scared of being that statistical anomaly of the 65 year old single lady.

Not even an Aunt because I don't have any siblings.

And this thought gives me the cold sweats. This isn't some sort of pressure concern that I won't have someone's hand to hold at midnight on New Year's Eve. Not a petty complaint about lack of physical fulfillment. This is a bone-crushing, heart-breaking, gut-wrenching terror that when I'm old, I won't have anyone to call if I'm sick. I'm scared that I'll have to travel the world, and never have someone else to stand in pictures with me. I'll have to buy all of my own Christmas ornaments. No one will ever let me promise to take care of them.

And I don't know which is more scary: having or not having the strength to withstand; get by.

And perhaps this complacent wondering while I wait to decide which way to go is the worst part of all.

Because it's not hard enough

That's what she said.

SO.

I'm single.

I say that because it may not be as obvious to everyone out there in interwebs land as it is to me.
Because to me, its REALLY apparent. I believe the sage and gracious Dane Cook once said that not being in love is like walking along a street in the rain, and everyone is at a party, and you're not invited.

I'm there.
It's in my face. All. The. Time.
All 3 of my lovely roommates are in relationships with great guys.
I'm friends with lots of married people who have it great.
Other friends are one half of couples that seem to have a good thing going for them.

But not me.

I can't help but feel like its everywhere I look.

And my friends are so supportive. They try to bolster me up when it gets rough. The encourage me, give me advice, or just hug me when I get drunk and despondant.

None of it helps. There's just nothing any of them can say. And that's not their fault- they're all dears who just want the best for me.

The most helpful thing came from my dear friend who just said, "I'm mad about it for you. It just doesn't make any sense."

Now, everyone says "stop looking". Less than helpful.

"Focus on YOU!" gets old after a while.

And the "try losing a few pounds" people can choke on a McDouble- that is, if I leave any left for them.

ahem.

So you try. You try to focus on yourself. You try not to compare your life to those "taken" people around you. You try to have a good attitude because "Men don't like Women who need them." You fight off the cynicism. You resist despair.

But it gets hard.

Lately, I've been weak when resisting my "singlehood".

I've seen guys in my sphere who I thought were potential prospects act like utter morons. So it's not that you don't want to be shmoopy, its just not with ME. Gooooooooot it.

There are cracks in the veneer. There have been times that should have been perfect, but I can't help but notice that I still feel alone. My friends are amazing, and I fill my days with fun and exploration, but its not enough.

So I've been trying to be proactive. I firmly beleive in "stop bitching, start a revolution" so I've tried things to meet new people. I've taken up new hobbies that have exposed me to whole new universes of people. I've tried internet dating, just to see what it was all about.

And a few weeks ago, I signed up for speed dating.

It's really close to my house, and I figure "I can't whine about the problem if I'm not doing anything to fix it."

So I shelled out my $40. And shyly told a few friends. And picked out an outfit.

And the organization just emailed me to cancel it. No refunds. Oh- but I CAN reschedule for another speed dating event, and have a free voucher for a second one.

The reason: there weren't enough men.

Poetic.

I could have told you that.

Because its not hard enough as it is.

Gr8ful

So I usually vent on this blog, and it turns out pretty negatively (shocker.)

So I thought I'd take the opportunity to show the flip side of that coin, and express the things that make me happy.

Things have really been going my way lately, and I need to put some gratitude out into the universe.

THINGS I AM GRATEFUL FOR:

1) My friends. I have the best people in the world around me. My best friends from High School understand me in a way I'm only recently coming to appreciate as rare. Improv friends who entertain me and let me be silly in all the best ways. Work friends who make me laugh all day long and let me park my ass in their cubes for gossip and joking any time.

2) My cat. (had to be said.) He's my first real pet, and he's just a little sunspot in my day that makes me smile. SQUINKERS.

3) My job. Is it my ideal job? No. Am I grateful to have one in our current economy? Especially one that pays fairly well? You bet. I work with great people who are passionate about their mission, even if its not my dream job. I have a sweet living situation, and all sorts of creature comforts. I try to take time to be grateful for the fireplace or ice maker or ford fiesta in my life, because I've been quite fortunate to live so comfortably.

4) My body. It's easy to overlook all of the work that our bag of bones can do for us, but its truly a gift. My body is a temple, and it lets me do anything I would want to. Except perhaps cirque du soleil contortions, but that's probably for the best. I can drink beer with it. It carries my brain around. It lets me make funny faces. It wears pretty dresses and balances on chunky heels. It's a good looking body, if a bit utilitarian, and I'm glad to have it. Toes and earlobes and small-ish nose and pretty cute toosh, if I may say so. I'm lucky to have it.

5) My brain. It's somewhere between a Tim Burton Nightmare Circus and a Lisa Frank technicolor trapper keeper. The soundtrack is always pitch perfect, and it only remembers the important bits. Works fairly quickly, and keeps me entertained when the outside world runs out of interesting stimulation.

Also, makes funnies. And houses my imagination. Even if no one else is laughing, I am endlessly amused. So there's that.

6) My perspective. An odd thing to define, but I'm glad I have a generally sunny disposition. I am more inclined to laugh at something than to get upset. I have my own set of memories and experiences that no one else will ever have, and I'm lucky that they're mine. I've done and seen some amazing things, and getting to play the footage reel again is pretty fun in my life.

7) Fun. I take having fun pretty seriously, and that is in abundance lately. People are always doing interesting things and I get to play along. I suppose this is connected to just being thankful for being alive. I feel like we were put on this earth to enjoy our lives, and not waste the short blip of time we're given. If I'm having fun, I feel like I'm taking advantage of the precious hours, minutes, and second we are given.

8) My voice. I can be a fairly decent writer when I actually put pen to paper. I'm going to try and appreciate this gift more and more. To squander anything in this life is really a pity.

So there you have it, I'm actually a fairly happy human being most of the time.

And you can tell me to stop whining for all of these reasons in the future :D

A nihilist's apology

Soooo, I have this self-awareness streak a mile wide.

And its painful.

And something I fear is far less common in others than previously thought.

And sounds trite even to myself, dear reader.

And for that I apologize. I am a person capable of fierce happiness, shining moments of joy and celebration. The smallest things can bring me intense cheer and faith in humanity.

But this volatility has a backswing.

These moments of brief hopelessness. And I try to resist them. I thought about deleting my last post, embarrassed not only that the words are committed to paper, but moreso that I am even capable of forming them.

Maggie is supposed to be the happy one. The friend always good for a laugh. And I don't always mind being that person, but sometimes, it takes a toll on me.

Life is always what you make of it, but the flipside of that coin is that life is only what you make of it.

So I'll let the feelings stand. Written. Thought. Spoken. Felt.

But I'll strive to write more of the happy ones.

And indeed, to feel them.

Everybody takes

This is a town full of takers.

We are an entitled generation full of the gimmies.

People who answer every call, important or no. We always want them to hold the elevator. We expect people to treat us with kid gloves, even though we would never do the same for them.

But maybe we're on to something.

See, the thing of it is, none of it matters. No one is ever going to care about us the way we care about ourselves. It is up to us to make ourselves happy, content, cherished.

So why not take, and make the best of it?

In 200 years, its not going to matter at all. Even the most memorable of us all will be forgotten like the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. The most charming and successful will be as roadkill on the 95 south in the middle of July.

We may as well make this brief time we have the most pleasant. Maybe life is supposed to just be this string of small comforts. Silly little ways to pass the time well enough.

Everyone has to schedule their own things just so, for maximum comfort.

Strategically inviting certain people to certain things for the most amusement.

Just to drown out the gaping, yawning hole before you that you can't bring yourself to name.

Best not to think like that, carry on.

Like giving a toddler your keys to play with. It doesn't really matter if they are reverse engineering the steering column or sticking the keys in their eyes, so long as they're quiet.

Perhaps that's why we have our silly little hobbies. The gossip and false romantic intrigue.

Something to pass the time. It doesn't ultimately matter if you were tall or skinny or chubby or funny. If you had a lasting, tempestuous love or more one night stands than an Ikea sale (zing). Teacher, musician, starlet, Costco parking attendant, cable guy, crazy cat lady, sea captain, monkey shit shoveler, or friggin astronaut.

It doesn't end up mattering.

We want to be comfortable, pampered, and CHERISHED, damn it! We want to be treated quite pleasantly without any fuss at all, and for free, thankyouverymuch. None of this "giving" shenanigans.

Don't you know what we're going through?

So plaster on that smile, and make another coffee date. One more day down.

Go to that new class at the gym- wasn't that fun? Almost made you forget for a while.

Let's check the fridge one more time. Still no snacks? Back to the couch then. Ooh! The commercials are over.

Did you hear what she said about him? I KNOW- the NERVE of it all! Juicy news, indeed.

And while you're at it, take one more minute for yourself to get across the street.

THEY can wait.

After all, what does it matter?

This is YOU we're talking about.

A glimpse behind the veil

A conversation between @monkeyskunk *my bff* and I:

Monkeyskunk: The last one we saw was where the guy got stabbed in the heart with a joustinstick
whateverthefuck those are called

me: joustinstick = new angterm
fuck
new WANGterm
also: lance.

Monkeyskunk: I knew what you meant
oh yea
like scoopies

me: WANNNNNNNGJOKE
like scoopies
this would be utter jibberish to anyone but us
LIFIESH

Monkeyskunk: LIFIESH!

Also, (seemingly unrelated,) Game of Thrones is Awesome, Amirite?

Pirates of the Carribbean 4 *thud*

ok, so I get to go to an early screening.
Tonight.

And I'm losing my shit. See, every Pirates movie has come out on my birthday weekend, Memorial Day weekend, (the ONLY positive of a memdayweekend birthday,) and we all go in a group and see it. Usually with dinner. And home made tshirts. And probably a hat or two.

But this year, it snuck up on me and I'm FREAKING OUT.

I need more time!

And don't get me wrong, I was jealous as a eunuch at a chippendale's show that a friend of mine has ALREADY seen the film, (bitch.)

And yet, I feel like I didn't get to geek out about it enough! Sure, I followed Jerry Bruckheimer and the promotional account on Twitter. Yes, I watched all of the materials I could get my hands on ahead of time. Of course I talked myself out of getting gold caps on my teeth so I could be more like The Johnny.

But its too soon. This is in all likelihood the LAST new pirates movie! And I've fallen for it before! After "At World's End" I grieved like I needed to. Sure, I've carried the pain with me since, but damn it, I was functional.

And now, this?

Another taste? This is giving Black Tar Heroine to a recovering alcoholic.

I know I'm going to spiral.

I'll be tempted to stop showering.
And wear boots, even when its hot out.
Don't get me STARTED on my casual vocabulary.

I think the worst part of all will be the new daydreams. My mind hasn't left this universe that's part historical, part beach-bar, and part myth and lore. And now, this fourth installment will only add more fuel to the fire.

You know what, that's fine Capt Jack Sparrow.
Take me.
Take all of me.
Your longing for adventure and hapless ability to pull anything off, especially when you don't deserve it has me charmed.
And you're hooks-down the sexiest character in fiction.

I'm enlisting.
Leftenant Dempsey, of the Black Pearl, reporting for duty.

Weigh Anchor, lads, we're off.

An Open Letter

To "Him"*,

I've been looking for you for a while, so I thought I'd let you know what I'm thinking- a hint I'll put out into the universe. I'm too embarrassed to tell you, unless I'm shitfaced, then I tell too much.

I like you. I do. I'm attracted to you physically, but I also really want to spend time with you. We enjoy the time we do spend together, I just think adding some sex and some quality time would make it even better. We are already friends, so its not a stretch to see us lay on the next layer. A Parfait of awesome, if you will. We have the crunchy granola crap, and the sweetness of the fruity times, now we just need to fill in the space with something a little more, open affection ought to do the trick.

You're taller than me, so you'd pass the "I could feel small in your arms" test. Superficial, perhaps, but something I really like about you. And your energy, I relate to it. My only true requirement is that "he" can keep up, and baby, you've got it- no small feat. And I feel like we could have a rhythm, you know? A way to go out with a group of our friends and have an awesome time, or lay in my bed listening to standards for a whole Sunday, even if its nice out. Because we both love to do these things and the range in between them. And I think they would be even nicer to do together.

So I'm here. I know I'm in your friend zone right now. I'm safe, and a little bit crass, but I won't be here forever. Take courage. Ask me. I know what I've got going on over here, and I can tell you, I'm worth it.

Love,

~Maggie

*note- "Him" could be any one of several guys at this interval. 5 to be specific. I'm just putting a little nudge out into the world to encourage them. Fingers crossed it works for one of them.

Is it?

Is it you?

Am I just supposed to look at you and know?

Or is it an obvious truth that will just slowly seep into my surroundings, so smoothly that I don't even see the change.

a ship drifting in from the horizon that's to the shore before you even notice it.

Is it you? Do I just have to bide my time? Or you over here, are you even interested? I wish I could ask.

Are you even aware I'm alive in the plaid shirt? No? I thought not.

Moving on.

Now... could it be you?

hmmmm....

Damn I hope I'm not too dense or mistrusting to see you when you're right in front of me.

*squinting*

Grating Expectations

So which is it.

Is the universe designed for cynicism, or optimism?

Both messages are shoved down our throats; opposites.

We are, all of us, alone.

All you need is love.

No one else can make you happy.

Love is the answer.

Depend only on yourself for happiness.

Have faith in your dreams, and someday your rainbow will come shining through.

bullshit.

Which is it?

This talking out of both sides of your mouth shit is getting tiring.

If I’m supposed to stop hoping, that’s just fine.

Just tell me now so I can cut my expectations to a minimum.

Expectations management.

There’s a romantic concept.

Become self-reliant, self-contained, self-tanned.

Don’t need anyone else.

Become an island.

Everyman is an island.

Everywoman is bottle floating around in the ocean, hoping to wash up on some lucky island’s deserted beach.

a desperate bottle full of a message no one will read the way it was written.

Do it for YOU, girlfriend. Screw guys.

Just join that gym for yourself.

Take some time.

Get to know yourself.

Focus on you.

They’re all assholes anyways.

All you need is love.

Whatever you put out into the universe is what you’ll get back.

Show your smile every chance you get, you never know who could be falling in love with it.

You’ll only know what it means to be complete when you have a family.

It’ll happen when you’re not looking.

Just stop looking.

It’ll happen when you least expect it.

read: don’t expect it.

So we have to choose the path of pessimism.

We have to pretend we DON’T want it.

It’s really the most masochistic mutation of the virgin/madonna complex.

Just wait patiently.

Wait prettily.

Wait enticingly.

But not knowingly.

Be the unwilling chum next to your own sharkdiving cage.

Dress up for yourself and your girlfriends, but keep that bikini line waxed because you never know when your Prince Harming will stumble into your life, wanting a sandwich, and realize you always keep white bread and light mayo in stock.

Just like he always dreamed of.

No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing, the dream that you wish will come true.

The truth of the matter is that this is a lie. No one gets a fairytale. Not even everyone gets the decency of some fucking woodland creatures to braid her hair.

If you pick at the varnish, the fairy godmother starts to sound a bit like your mother who has a few ideas about what you’re doing wrong.

The mice get stuck on the trap-paper before they turn into steeds.

and the final bell in the clock-tower chimes, and all it means is that you’ve overslept your alarm.

Dream’s up.

heh

http://www.barnorama.com/many-faces-of-johnny-depp/

My favorite?
Emo Wolverine.

*sigh*

I love the Depp.

Caving.

Alright guys, I'm doing it.
I'm caving.

Well, again.

Tonight, Mo and I are going to drink champagne, and sign up for okcupid.com.

the dreaded dating scene.... via the interwebs.

This is kind of an extension of our singlehood, adventurous natures, and our unfortunate willingness to do anything for the sake of a good story.

I'll be cataloguing these adventures over at http://okstupidokcupid.blogspot.com/

Feel free to mock us. Or support us.

Or hell, ask us out.

We *probably* won't mock you mercilessly.

probably.

GLEEK

OH HOLY CRAP.

I friggin love Glee.

I'm a total Gleek.

Glee is the best thing to happen to tv.

I have goose bumps.

Ok, first off- Emma, (who I friggin LOVE and totally want to dress like,) was wearing a sweater that I own. LIke my favorite sweater. Which I am definitely wearing to work tomorrow. (And that was awesome. Like, lots of screaming and running upstairs to procure said sweater.)

THE LIKE A VIRGIN NUMBER?!?!?

HOLY BALLS.

Like, I now hate my real life High School experience because none of these hawt guys sang to me (even though HS was really rad. And Adam Lambert did sing to me, but that was in the context of a play.) So. Hot. I mean, I know that it shouldn't be?! But so hot. It was fodder for my imagination like whoa. Because I would love to hook up with any one of those 3 guys, ( I know that the one guy is gay.) THE O FACES, come on. Or sing like any of those girls. And have choreographed foreplay. Actually, maybe that one the most. That, and I've been a bit randy as of late. weird. Should I not write that? Would it be awkward to have that out in the realm of public knowledge? Shmeh.

The last scene with the choir? Goosebumps.

So awesome.

I friggin love this show.

Sue? Brittany? Schuster's O-Face? Emma wearing my sweater? Kurt and Mercedes getting some love?

choreographed foreplay.

As soon as I finish squee-ing, Imma pass out from exhaustion.

GLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK

This is what the inside of my head looks like.

Watch this.

I DARE you to not laugh.

and ye be warned- you will get this shit stuck in your head.

http://trololololololololololo.com/

enjoy.

skirts

I squint past the muddied snow drift blocking my home's walkway, an ugly stepcousin to the fleecy blankets of weeks before.

I curse swiftly at the hidden puddle that drenches my shoes through, my socklessness suddenly revealed to be the folly it is.

One gust of wind comes up and whips the fridgid air into my eyes and ears, rudely ruffling my hair and lifting up the hem of my jacket, a brisk frisk.

Then comes the rain, and with it the final straw.
One drop at a time, smearing mascara and weakening my resolve.
My tears fall with the water from the sky, and they are tears for summer.

I close my eyes to shut out the darkness and travel to another sunnier time.

I can feel the warmth of the sun beaming down at me. That welcomed stifling feeling from warm air and blinding light. Feel the crinkle of my toasted nose from a day in the sand, my tank top and flipflop straps holding on my clothing for modesty alone, not warmth. The concept of a jacket and scarf foreign and forgotten- sunglasses and bathing suits are easier to wear, and don't hang as heavy on your heart.

I smell that intoxicating cocktail of sunscreen, bug spray, and light beer- the only liquid essentials for a summer excursion. Our Lady, the sun, stays out to play all day long. Only taking brief respite in the shade of thunderstorms, welcomed to break the heat. The fireflies come out to show off, and we admire their displays. Every night ends a bit later with the tinge of satisfaction from fun well-had.

There is an ephemeral excitement, as if anything is possible and will come to be. In summertime, you can go anywhere, do anything, and there is much more weight in the meaning of "Friday." Our weekends are each vacations in miniature.
Cameras come out, stories and anecdotes are all shared on Monday around the breakroom microwave, each of us pining for another glorious window of possibility that will come after a few days of "work."

Smiles and jokes pass easier. There is a sense of light and shine in the world. Enthusiasm and exhaustion take turns, making the days and weeks and moments fly by, the thrilling speed adding to the magic.

I just have to remember that these days of winter will somehow pass, although maybe never fly, and there will be that first day I don't have to wear a jacket. I will buy a new sundress and get that first tan line. I will see the beach with its seagulls and seashells again.

and I will see the sun again.

She just likes to make an entrance.

Being a Grown-Up BLOWS.

I mean, come on.

I feel like all of my friends are just having an AWESOME time.

My bestie just called me from Disneyland, where it's HOT, (don't even get me started on the f$#%$ing weather. It's like 4 outside. Where are we, Wisconsin? No.) And she's going to go drink Boddington's and eat yummy desserts later with another friend. This is AFTER the weekend where she made magic and squishing noises with her MF unicorn- the high school crush all other guys will have to measure up to.

My other best friend just got to take MOTHER FRIGGING TRAPEZE lessons- that is, in between her Beatles' rockband sessions and hours of surfing.

Other friends are travelling, getting engaged, starting school, moving, going out, having babies, throwing parties, etc. etc. etc. ad nauseum.

Wanna know what's going on with me?

I made pork chops last night.

and it was kind of a big deal.


...
...
...


are you shitting me.

Now, the problem is- I'm TOTALLY excited for everyone participating in the proceedings of AWESOME.

however- past the happiness, there is a twinge of jealousy.
and it makes my cubicle feel even more prison-like than usual.

You guys had better watch out, because I may SERIOUSLY go base jumping or join the circus or drop out of life and move to New Zealand to tend bar to catch up on all of the excitement.

Then again, I got to have leftover pork chops- and they were downright tasty.

Brain Rot.

And now, let's get into some of the head-shrinking BEHIND my jaded outlook on the dating scene.

It's actually pretty simple really- it's all a question of expectations management.
and I have failed SPECTACULARLY at this.

I have... the brainrot. In olden times it was thought women would get brainrot from reading too many novels. They would get ideas and hurt their poor little brains if they read romantic fiction.

I'm there.

The space between my ears is completely occupied with romantic and happy fluff.
(If you've met me- you know this. If you haven't- I'm slightly concerned that you would still be able to guess this about me from just seeing me from across the street.)

I could most likely recite every Disney princess movie- sing you every romantic ballad from a showtune in the 20th or 21st century, show you the poetry I wrote about my crushes from high school (mortifying.) I watch The Holiday and Enchanted on a seriously regular basis. I read romance novels for pete's sake. One of the final nails in the coffin? Twilight.

The countdown to New Moon's midnight release has begun.
I'm re-reading the books and drooling over the Vanity Fair pix of RPattz.
My tshirt is on order.

I gotta tell ya, even if it gives me the brainrot and therefore higher standards, I'm having too much fun to care.

The current dating scene is a sign of the apocalypse.

But seriously, if I ever have a chance of dating you- don't read this.

How long until I just retitle the blog that?
Interesting.

But I'm serious. The way that the genders are currently interacting has lead me to believe that our race could SERIOUSLY be at risk for extinction within a few generations.

think about it.

I feel like couples are waiting until later and later to get together, if they ever do, meaning that there are fewer reproductive years available for the women, that is if they go within normal windows, but women who have children older can be at higher risks for the health of the babies.

It is more common than ever before to have couples that just prefer to not have babies.

It is more common to have people that choose to just never be in a life-long committed relationship, married or otherwise.

doomed.

So now, let's move on to the TYPE of guys who are getting into the few relationships left that are generatin offspring to continue the friggin' genome.

DARWINISM NO LONGER APPLIES! To continue the species, the females usually look for the strongest, most virile speciman available. Typically the biggest, most able to provide.

NOT US- SCREW YOU, NATURE, WE'RE MODERN SOCIETY!

Look at the heart-throbs of today. Most of them are these diminuitive intellectuals who would look more at home in front of an X-BOX 360 with the casing off and a phillips head screwdriver in their hand than changing the oil in a soft-top, red, rugged Jeep. There is something to be said to be attracted to men with brains, because that is more important to survive in our world today, but these men don't necessarily look like wiry einsteins. And they are meant to be the shining examples of modern desires. Don't get me wrong, I love brains, but that's not the guy we're talking about. And for the love of God don't get me started on hipsters, indie rockers, and the fact that the male "skinny jean" even exists. **shudder**

Let's look at the everyman. Look at 'im. Go to any bar during a sporting event. They are barely evolved, stringy versions of our knuckle-dragging ancestors. There is a pecking order amongst their ranks based on levels of hygiene. Coordinating team jerseys for ease of recognizing other member's of one's tribe. Dribble down the shirt from imbibing too much beer. Glazed over look as the eyes slip out of focus trying to decide which big screen to focus on during commercials. And when their fellow warriors are on the path to victory? I dare you to distinguish the sound from that of a storming horde of gorillas. Roaring. Yelling. Maybe some more swearing. Charming.

Now for what should seperate us from the animals: romance.

**snort.**

Let's start with the premise of any of these neanderthals actually PURSUING a mate. Can you even picture it? yeah, me neither.

In times past, men actually WANTED women. It was considered a desirable thing to have a lady in your life, on your arm, and **gasp** even in your bed. And they worked to impress them, woo them, win them. Men held doors, gave flattering compliments, hell, paid for a beer. And this wasn't that long ago!

Go even further back. Musicians sang serenades. Gentlemen composed sonnets. Men gave flowers, trinkets, candies. Some fought wars, killed lovers in a jealous rage, cut off their own ears, (although I realize that's a slightly unreasonable expectation.)

We're sliding back into the primordial soup. This level of chase just doesn't exist anymore.

Let's go back to our gameday bar scene. Enter the female. She is coy. Also wearing the tribe's colors to camoflage into the tribe and catch the appropriate type of mate off-guard. She wears her jersey, but also her mascara; her warpaint. She is on the hunt.

No longer is her strategy that of an exotic hothouse flower. Before, women were to be approached, marveled at, and entertained if a man was given the pleasure of her company. Now, she must dirty her hands. She sheds her skirts for workpants and wades into the trenches. She must be beautiful, but also cunning. Flirtatious and deadly. Aloof, and yet utterly attainable. A lady on the street, but a freak in the bed, as it were.

In days of yore, an elaborate mating ritual of heavy-lidded eyes exchanging hot glances and stolen handclasps with whispered sighs is cast aside for the modern exchange. The stunning female must place herself within direct proximity of her target, lest he be required to leave his pod of companions to approach her across the playing field. She utterly ignored him for a solid hour, staring at his back when he's not looking, glancing away as he turns.
There may be a few meager exchanges of laughs or cheers if the team is winning, commiseration or beer swigging if they are doing poorly.
And then it happens- at the end of the game, and only at the end- the moment of truth.
Finally, there is direct eye contact. Our lioness offers a smile she hopes is inviting, but not-too-eager, just as she had practiced it.

Good sir, most kind gentleman, our modern romeo, Casanova a la 2009, receives her message.
He gives the most minute head-flip and gestures with his not-holding-a-beer-arm towards the exit.

They leave, and the rest is history.

Until the next morning.
She scrabbles into her clothes, furious with herself, pretending not to be.
He calls her a cab, which he mysteriously has on speed-dial.
She gives him that perfectly rehearsed smile, but this time it has a tremulous air to it that displeases him.
He says a few minor pleasantries, there is an exchange of information he has no intention of using, and she is whisked away by a yellow car in the rain as he looks for his professional team's jersey because now it's Sunday and the bar is almost open.

and this is on a successful venture.

Friggin poetry.

It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.

Baggage

Baggage - Friday, Aug 14 2009

So I’m in Puerto Rico for my friend Luis’s wedding. And I’m so excited!

Right now, I’m lounging on the cushy bed with the balcony doors thrown open to let in the heavenly sunshine and the sound of the crashing shore, with the occasional squawk of some brightly colored bird.

In the same clothes I was in 27 hours ago.

Yes. They lost my luggage.

But somehow, that has made it more of an adventure. Sure, I can’t wear these white linen lounge pants and old navy tshirt to the wedding, so I may have to dash to PLAZAS AMERICANAS- the largest mall in the Caribbean to procure another dress to wear, but so be it.

I’m here. Not at work. And there are good people. And sand. And sunshine. and rum.

I feel like its much more piratical this way. When you were stranded on a deserted island after your crew mutinied against you, they didn’t toss you a suitcase to keep you well stocked. You had the clothes on your back and your guts to survive. And maybe a pistol with a single shot or a sword, (alas, I couldn’t carry these on. commies.)

Basically, I feel like a badass pirate because I’m surviving on the hotel’s free sample shampoos and the $7 resort deodorant I impulse bought.

wait.

that was just the bellman calling.

my suitcase is here.

THANK YOU DAVY JONES, FOR SENDING ME BACK MY THINGS FROM THE DEPTHS OF YOUR LOCKER.

xoxox,

Cap’n Mags