what can i say about this that has not already been said? i feel like a marathon runner who got accidentally shot by the guy with the starting pistol. like i have all the tools to participate, but some clumsy loser is trying to keep me off my feet. i know that this sounds weird, or dramatic, or something, but really, without going in to specifics, you would have to have seen my luck the past few weeks. it has been just sad. i feel more like a therapist or guidance counselor than anything. and a prude. hilarious.
what i am feeling is that i might not be reading deeply enough into the people i am going out with because i am trying to make split second decisions on chemistry the way i do in the real world. until just this moment i forgot to stop and realize that that never really worked for me either. i have also been making excuses for why i should tolerate behaviors that i really can't stand.
guys who do drugs.
guys who show up for a date with no money. a first date. i get that i can and will pay my own way, but i have never gone into anything expecting someone else to pay for me.
guys who smoke pot. different from drugs, as it is mostly harmless but i am so underwhelmed by the personality that comes with daily smokers.
guys who want to talk about their exes. on the first date. this tells me that you are not over her, because if you were, describing yourself would not have anything to do with your previous relationship. at least not at first.
guys who want sex. first date. you do not know me. you feeling all hot and heavy and probably drunk? well, i cannot help you, buddy. have enough respect for me to keep your hands to yourself.
guys who get wasted. i do not tend to be a big drinker but am all for social interactions and going with the flow. i do not want to be the girl who had nine whiskeys with the guy who had nine whiskeys any more than you do. trust me. this will not translate into an invitation to my bedroom.
do i sound harsh? well, i am not perfect, either. though i seem to know a lot about what i do not want, i do not really know what exactly i do want, which, i think is good. maybe now i can actually pay attention instead of just letting that guy with his waving pistol keep bringing me down.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
which one are you?
he lurches in, disrupting quiet that exists high above the moody ballads of fallen axe welders. he is drunk, half asleep and hungry. he is hostile and paranoid because he can see in your eyes that you do not want to even approach the stink of beer wafting toward you, safe behind your wall of judgement.
he shuffles in, holding up his pants as they sag madly toward his knees. he scowls in every direction with bloodshot eyes. he finds your armor and knows he is going to get whatever he came for.from you. you with the apron. it is the last time he will look directly at you. from now on he will stare everywhere over your shoulder, slouching halfway out of the booth.
he bounces in, usually with friends. they all bounce. they are a stunning array of neon and chunky highlights. they are boisterous and fun. and fucking annoying. shrieking for attention. drunk and unprepared for human interaction, they suck time like oxygen. unless you are fabulous, you will be forgotten when it comes time to get paid.
he lingers at the door, finishing a smoke. you do not know how he moves because, though he moves slowly, to the beat, he is quiet and moves straight to the bar. ink and leather or ink and some obscure band logo stretch across his upper body, always thin, sometimes toned, depending on his instrument. you deliberately catch his eye in the mirror. he gives you a cool, appraising look that will become an all out, bloodshot gaze by the time he makes his way to the bottom of that bottle of jack.
he saunters in, suit jacket unbuttoned to reveal an undone tie, he rakes his hand through his hair and scans the crowd, while simultaneously grabbing a newspaper from the stack. He takes a booth near the door and picks up the drink list. he smiles as you walk over, makes a polite joke about always being early and reads happily while sipping the beer you get to him at break-neck speed. your heart drops a little as a woman so clearly not in an apron kisses him hello and murmurs about his interesting choice in bars.
he shuffles in, holding up his pants as they sag madly toward his knees. he scowls in every direction with bloodshot eyes. he finds your armor and knows he is going to get whatever he came for.from you. you with the apron. it is the last time he will look directly at you. from now on he will stare everywhere over your shoulder, slouching halfway out of the booth.
he bounces in, usually with friends. they all bounce. they are a stunning array of neon and chunky highlights. they are boisterous and fun. and fucking annoying. shrieking for attention. drunk and unprepared for human interaction, they suck time like oxygen. unless you are fabulous, you will be forgotten when it comes time to get paid.
he lingers at the door, finishing a smoke. you do not know how he moves because, though he moves slowly, to the beat, he is quiet and moves straight to the bar. ink and leather or ink and some obscure band logo stretch across his upper body, always thin, sometimes toned, depending on his instrument. you deliberately catch his eye in the mirror. he gives you a cool, appraising look that will become an all out, bloodshot gaze by the time he makes his way to the bottom of that bottle of jack.
he saunters in, suit jacket unbuttoned to reveal an undone tie, he rakes his hand through his hair and scans the crowd, while simultaneously grabbing a newspaper from the stack. He takes a booth near the door and picks up the drink list. he smiles as you walk over, makes a polite joke about always being early and reads happily while sipping the beer you get to him at break-neck speed. your heart drops a little as a woman so clearly not in an apron kisses him hello and murmurs about his interesting choice in bars.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
the long slow screw
i put my hands on the counter, fingers brushing through spilt beer or whatever condensation was left behind by the filthy glasses held in the hands of the briefly my problem. the head throbs in some far off place that dissipates every time i remind myself to take an ibuprofen. so i never take an ibuprofen.
i scan the room, looking out for empty glasses needing to be filled and jab at the screen of my phone. three jerk offs i just finished serving went to the bar for shots. for once i am glad. fuck them. one more interaction with anyone in this room tonight is going to drive me nuts.
instead of doing anything for anyone, i do something for me. i grab a smoke and head for the patio. the cold knocks my headache back to the forefront of my thoughts as i sit down, avoiding the eye of some guy who has fucked a few of my friends and thought, perhaps, he had a shot with me. he reeks of pot and desperation. he looks like mr potato head. i inhale and talk all around him.
my mind wanders to no one in particular. just a faintly guilty fantasy that i could go home tonight and that there would be someone waiting there, someone i could have hbo sex with. someone who would somehow make it so i would not have to get up in the morning and face a double shift, one of them being the last i will have here, at this bar.
i hate goodbyes. i guess that, and sheer exhaustion will propel me through the door without saying goodbye to anyone, once this shift is over.
i scan the room, looking out for empty glasses needing to be filled and jab at the screen of my phone. three jerk offs i just finished serving went to the bar for shots. for once i am glad. fuck them. one more interaction with anyone in this room tonight is going to drive me nuts.
instead of doing anything for anyone, i do something for me. i grab a smoke and head for the patio. the cold knocks my headache back to the forefront of my thoughts as i sit down, avoiding the eye of some guy who has fucked a few of my friends and thought, perhaps, he had a shot with me. he reeks of pot and desperation. he looks like mr potato head. i inhale and talk all around him.
my mind wanders to no one in particular. just a faintly guilty fantasy that i could go home tonight and that there would be someone waiting there, someone i could have hbo sex with. someone who would somehow make it so i would not have to get up in the morning and face a double shift, one of them being the last i will have here, at this bar.
i hate goodbyes. i guess that, and sheer exhaustion will propel me through the door without saying goodbye to anyone, once this shift is over.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
i miss you, cutie pie.
you loosely wrap your arms around me, kissing the side of my face, watching to see if the don't walk turns to why don't you go ahead. it does its thing and you grab my hand. we walk fast against traffic. against real life. our tattoos look stupid together. camouflage against an urban sub urban backdrop. uptown. i am going away from work, but into the building because with you, a date happens anytime, anywhere. i get excited for the lazy thursday afternoon drinking watered down booze and figuring out the crossword while those around us puzzle over rampant hand holding and molten gazing. we aren't solving anything and turn our attention to the cribbage board instead.
you get up to go to the bathroom. i admire the way your t shirt creeps above your waistband. i smile at you and blush. you catch me every time. i sit alone thinking of the salty perfection of that spot right next to your left eye. i love to kiss you there.
you come back, kiss me on the cheek. read my mind. i pluck at the beaded bracelet you bought me some other time. i do not have to pee, but i want to run a hand through my hair. squeal with a coworker about how great you are. feel you watching my butt as i walk away. i want to miss you, even for a few minutes.
so i hop off my stool, clumsy and awkward. sex and beauty giving way to tangled limbs and the drink i almost drop on your lap. you laugh and stroke my earlobe.
i back away, grinning. turning, clasping my hands behind my back, blocking the perfect curve of my ass. you love it, you sigh as i jan brady walk toward the bathroom.
i look in the mirror. i want one more sip, one more drink, one more hand. and then i want to go home. with you. i want to sit and talk and fall asleep with you playing with my hair, telling me a story about real life.
mostly though, i just wish you were fucking real.
you get up to go to the bathroom. i admire the way your t shirt creeps above your waistband. i smile at you and blush. you catch me every time. i sit alone thinking of the salty perfection of that spot right next to your left eye. i love to kiss you there.
you come back, kiss me on the cheek. read my mind. i pluck at the beaded bracelet you bought me some other time. i do not have to pee, but i want to run a hand through my hair. squeal with a coworker about how great you are. feel you watching my butt as i walk away. i want to miss you, even for a few minutes.
so i hop off my stool, clumsy and awkward. sex and beauty giving way to tangled limbs and the drink i almost drop on your lap. you laugh and stroke my earlobe.
i back away, grinning. turning, clasping my hands behind my back, blocking the perfect curve of my ass. you love it, you sigh as i jan brady walk toward the bathroom.
i look in the mirror. i want one more sip, one more drink, one more hand. and then i want to go home. with you. i want to sit and talk and fall asleep with you playing with my hair, telling me a story about real life.
mostly though, i just wish you were fucking real.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
you are the reason i am trying to leave
i work in a bar. duh.
i work in a dive bar. uh huh.
i work in a dive bar full of regulars. sure. great. get to the point.
for the most part, this is great. it is nice to walk into work and see a bunch of familiar faces. or to be super busy and to look up and notice that your next table is not only someone you love to wait on, but someone who will love you back, monetarily.
and then, there is you.
we call you and your boyfriend that 'couple of stupid fuckers' because that is what you are to us.
you, with your stuck up pig face that we only have the privilege of studying from afar as you will not ever bother to actually look at us when you order us around, will eat your weight in cheese and drink your weight in beer and bore neat little holes in the back of my skull with your beady little pig eyes if you have to sit for even a minute without something to shove in your face.
and your dumbass boyfriend is no better. i guess i would be pissed, too if my girlfriend looked like a barn animal, but does that mean he has to yell his order? am i deaf? is he deaf? and why does it take him so long to choose a beer? our selection hasn't changed since bush inauguration number one. how hard is it to choose between a bottle or tap of rocky mountain piss water?
so, when they finally order,i slam over to the well to pick up their drinks. the bartender laughs, knowing that is my turn to wait on them, the them, one of the many thems that frequent every bar since the beginning of bar time.
eventually they leave, taking with them a sliver of my patience, while the fish hook to a different place tugs at me with a little more insistence than usual.
why do i let this get to me? because i am really good at my job. i am a great server slinging two for ones and grease at people who wish i was either ugly or naked, if they do not know me well enough to know me at all. i won't miss my regulars because they will still be here when i get done with work, instead of being here with me,and being my work.
and the thems? the stupid fuckers? well, while i am still here, i will be dedicating a bit of my time to finding out where they work so i can repay them for the shitty attitude and paltry tip. you may not know who you are now, but soon enough, you will.
i work in a dive bar. uh huh.
i work in a dive bar full of regulars. sure. great. get to the point.
for the most part, this is great. it is nice to walk into work and see a bunch of familiar faces. or to be super busy and to look up and notice that your next table is not only someone you love to wait on, but someone who will love you back, monetarily.
and then, there is you.
we call you and your boyfriend that 'couple of stupid fuckers' because that is what you are to us.
you, with your stuck up pig face that we only have the privilege of studying from afar as you will not ever bother to actually look at us when you order us around, will eat your weight in cheese and drink your weight in beer and bore neat little holes in the back of my skull with your beady little pig eyes if you have to sit for even a minute without something to shove in your face.
and your dumbass boyfriend is no better. i guess i would be pissed, too if my girlfriend looked like a barn animal, but does that mean he has to yell his order? am i deaf? is he deaf? and why does it take him so long to choose a beer? our selection hasn't changed since bush inauguration number one. how hard is it to choose between a bottle or tap of rocky mountain piss water?
so, when they finally order,i slam over to the well to pick up their drinks. the bartender laughs, knowing that is my turn to wait on them, the them, one of the many thems that frequent every bar since the beginning of bar time.
eventually they leave, taking with them a sliver of my patience, while the fish hook to a different place tugs at me with a little more insistence than usual.
why do i let this get to me? because i am really good at my job. i am a great server slinging two for ones and grease at people who wish i was either ugly or naked, if they do not know me well enough to know me at all. i won't miss my regulars because they will still be here when i get done with work, instead of being here with me,and being my work.
and the thems? the stupid fuckers? well, while i am still here, i will be dedicating a bit of my time to finding out where they work so i can repay them for the shitty attitude and paltry tip. you may not know who you are now, but soon enough, you will.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Fiction, For Now
i had a dream once, about a million years ago that i was sleeping beneath a tree, leaned up against some nameless faceless who warmed me while lazily reading from some obscure sci fi action thriller. no wonder i nodded off.
when i came to, i realized that i was covered in daisy chains that he had constructed after abandoning his book to the grass.
i looked out into water that magically appeared in front of us and asked him what he was doing.
he said, my fallen angel, i am tying you to the earth.
with dreams like these, who can ever count on reality to be as good, as frothy, as dripping with liquid gold? How can i daydream lightly about swirling around on a dance floor to the song 33 on my wedding day and shrug nonchalantly any time anyone ever asks me about love?
i have 5 tattoos. all reminders of the greatest love stories that i have ever been told. not one of them is my own.
i am not writing this because i am frustrated. more because i am tired of caring about seeming cooler than all of the other girls because i am just one of the guys.
i am not just one of the guys. i wear makeup and skirts and have swishy hair. but i am not afraid to get dirty or eat a chili dog or try to learn how to hang glide. i do not think these characteristics particularly make me manly, they just make me, me.
the lights are bright for now. by the time i step into the vehicle, the light will have faded into nervously lit embers and the magic of another chance to say more than a bunch of words.
when i came to, i realized that i was covered in daisy chains that he had constructed after abandoning his book to the grass.
i looked out into water that magically appeared in front of us and asked him what he was doing.
he said, my fallen angel, i am tying you to the earth.
with dreams like these, who can ever count on reality to be as good, as frothy, as dripping with liquid gold? How can i daydream lightly about swirling around on a dance floor to the song 33 on my wedding day and shrug nonchalantly any time anyone ever asks me about love?
i have 5 tattoos. all reminders of the greatest love stories that i have ever been told. not one of them is my own.
i am not writing this because i am frustrated. more because i am tired of caring about seeming cooler than all of the other girls because i am just one of the guys.
i am not just one of the guys. i wear makeup and skirts and have swishy hair. but i am not afraid to get dirty or eat a chili dog or try to learn how to hang glide. i do not think these characteristics particularly make me manly, they just make me, me.
the lights are bright for now. by the time i step into the vehicle, the light will have faded into nervously lit embers and the magic of another chance to say more than a bunch of words.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
and now we play the dating game. yay. phase 1
i very recently lifted my head from my books for long enough to realize that it would be kind of fun to meet someone. i have been casually and sort of listlessly dating around the neighborhood for the last two years or so, having fun and not quite needing for anything to really stick. in popping my head up, i realized that uptown is tiny and i keep seeing the same faces, day in and day out, which is fine as they are nice faces, just not the ones i want to be waking up to, if you know what i mean.
so, i did it. i took the plunge and put a profile out on a dating site and was not disappointed by the amount of attention a girl can get who is in her twenties, sans divorce or dripping with the need to trot down the aisle and then straight to the delivery room anytime in the near future. that coupled with the fact that i do not have any stalky exes or a sinful past makes me a good candidate for just about anyone. Being creative and not too hard on the eyes is icing on the cake, i guess.
so, i was excited. wow, i was about to chat with and possibly meet a whole bunch of new people! I was going to be able to check them out and see what they were sort of like and establish that they could maybe like me to. it sounded like a breeze to me and i only wondered why more people were not doing the same.
oh holy hell, was i wrong.
after posting my profile and cruising my match selection and 'favoriting' the ones i wanted to message when i got a free minute, i shut my computer off and promptly forgot all about it for about a week because as luck would have it, i met someone to date in person,briefly anyway.
when that guy, well will call smismathew, turned out to have a girlfriend, i literally said fuck this and pulled up my account, thinking maybe there would be a few nice messages for me.
and there were, if by a few you mean 87 and you add it to the other 62 gross ones. in three days my profile had been viewed over three hundred times!
i was in shock. i was overwhelmed, and i was excited.
first, because yes, i feel that you MUST be attracted to someone before you can date them, i nixed all of the messages from people who were not really my type and then went through and scanned the messages of those who were left, deleting all of the ones that said stupid shit like 'hey gurl, what up?' or 'dam r u sexy' and then i looked at photos of those remaining and weeded out anyone with a picture of themselves topless in the mirror.
i ended up with 18 possible matches.
that night, by the time i had read those 18 exhaustive profiles, i was too tired to write anyone about anything.
and that was phase one of my experience in online dating.
so, i did it. i took the plunge and put a profile out on a dating site and was not disappointed by the amount of attention a girl can get who is in her twenties, sans divorce or dripping with the need to trot down the aisle and then straight to the delivery room anytime in the near future. that coupled with the fact that i do not have any stalky exes or a sinful past makes me a good candidate for just about anyone. Being creative and not too hard on the eyes is icing on the cake, i guess.
so, i was excited. wow, i was about to chat with and possibly meet a whole bunch of new people! I was going to be able to check them out and see what they were sort of like and establish that they could maybe like me to. it sounded like a breeze to me and i only wondered why more people were not doing the same.
oh holy hell, was i wrong.
after posting my profile and cruising my match selection and 'favoriting' the ones i wanted to message when i got a free minute, i shut my computer off and promptly forgot all about it for about a week because as luck would have it, i met someone to date in person,briefly anyway.
when that guy, well will call smismathew, turned out to have a girlfriend, i literally said fuck this and pulled up my account, thinking maybe there would be a few nice messages for me.
and there were, if by a few you mean 87 and you add it to the other 62 gross ones. in three days my profile had been viewed over three hundred times!
i was in shock. i was overwhelmed, and i was excited.
first, because yes, i feel that you MUST be attracted to someone before you can date them, i nixed all of the messages from people who were not really my type and then went through and scanned the messages of those who were left, deleting all of the ones that said stupid shit like 'hey gurl, what up?' or 'dam r u sexy' and then i looked at photos of those remaining and weeded out anyone with a picture of themselves topless in the mirror.
i ended up with 18 possible matches.
that night, by the time i had read those 18 exhaustive profiles, i was too tired to write anyone about anything.
and that was phase one of my experience in online dating.
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