I Really Like Your Post, But….

I’ve scrapped every single potential person contacting me and decided to regroup, however, these new posts coming in are still begging to be shared. I’m just gonna leave this here….

Oh, Dougie Pooh. You poor, poor misguided man. What was the desired outcome from this email? Enlighten me.

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Good Girl, Bad Girl

I’m tired of definitions. I’m tired of boxes. I’m too damn claustrophobic for boxes.

I’m good. I’m bad. I’m everything in between.

I’m easily swayed by emotions these days, but I’m as bad ass as they come.

I love pink and sparkly things and fairytales, but I will rock my thigh high black leather boots and this cleavage that the gods themselves are envious of.

I’ll be the most loyal girl you’ve ever come across, but I’ll light a bridge on fire to ensure I never cross it again.

I’m sweetness and warmth, but I’ll stand my ground and cut you down the moment you try to bring me to my knees.

I’m currently celibate, but I’ve got kinks to the moon and back. We could play, little boy, but I’d just break you.

I stand strong and dominate the world, but I’ll willingly submit to someone worthy enough for my trust. Until I decide I won’t…

I smile and laugh easily, but these teeth are sharp.

I have a strong moral compass, but I decide my own ethics.

I’m not a possession, but I’ve been known to temporarily loan myself out.

I’m flawed and messed up and often confused.

I’m in charge and in control and resolute, even when I’m making bad choices. ESPECIALLY when I’m making bad choices.

I’m impulsive and flighty.

I curse like a sailor with tourettes. And yes, I kiss my mother with this mouth.

I’m whatever the hell I want to be, whenever I want to be it. Because, quite frankly, this is my life, and life is far too short to be anything but true to oneself.

The Angry TMI Blog

Here it is. The blog where I lose some readers. That really sucks because I am almost to sixty now. I know that isn’t a lot in the world of blogging, but I love it.

I’m angry. I’ve been angry for three weeks. And it finally clicked why. Let me share the back story why, so maybe you’ll get it.

Back when Mr. Yesterday and I were seeing each other romantically and not simply as friends, we were legitimately working on our foundation. That’s a word we both used on a daily basis in our conversations. Everything we did was supposedly to build each other up and to connect and to do things the right way because this was it. It was real. It was the most real thing ever in the history of all real things. And part of that was our Pants Clause. We weren’t rushing into sex even though we really, really, reeeeeeaaaally wanted to. But! We could totally do anything we wanted so long as our pants remained on. It built up tensions and kept the energy sizzling.

Before we would break the Pants Clause, we A)Set the date that we had pushed ourselves far enough to prove we were into each other beyond just sexually, and B)We were never to have any barriers between us because that was legitimately the most amazing part of us. No secrets, no barriers, no boundaries, no falsities. I had just been through my yearly checkup which included being tested for any STD’s, and he went through it for me once we decided we wanted complete openness. I went in and got the depo shot so pregnancy wouldn’t be on the table. I hate birth control because it comes with heftier risks than it should. But for him and what we were building, I went that route.

And two days before we were to break the Pants Clause, it ended. I had it in my Google calendar. I got an alert in the form of an email, an alarm, and a text. Because yes, I totally love torturing myself and shoving a knife into my heart, thanks Google!!!

He went onto his ex. He got laid. He probably had amazing sex. And me? Well, I didn’t, obviously. I put myself into a refreshed celibate period. I’d almost broken it for him, but, you know, exes.

Now HERE’S why I’m so fucking angry. Depo has fucked my body up. I have spent three weeks in varying stages of my period. It shows up, I bleed for a couple days, it goes away for a couple days, it comes back like how it normally is on the last day of a period, then it goes away, then I wake up with it full force again the following day, etc. And just like regular periods that don’t go on indefinitely, I am feeling allllllll the emotions. I am craving junk food, I am breaking out in pimples, I am cramping like a mother effer. Why??? Because I believed someone wanted me forever, so I made a concession that I don’t normally make so we could have something we both supposedly wanted more than anything. And he moved on, and I moved into the land of all things uterus.

I couldn’t have sex right now if I wanted to simply because of what depo has done to my body. I took a medication that altered my physical state for no fucking reason in the end. I am affected long term because of this choice. I am reminded that I had fallen deeply enough to do something that would lead to this catastrophe while another girl got to have the reward I was so close to having. No, scratch that, the reward was supposed to be the ability to be one hundred percent open without the slightest barrier between us ever in every single aspect of our lives, and she didn’t get that either. But she DID get to have an orgasm. And she DID get to have his full attention and his intimacy and to curl beside him afterward while they whispered all those oh so lovely words of amour to each other. I had spent that time directly prior to her resurgence building up the need inside him, and someone else reaped the benefits of that even if only for a short while. It’s irrelevant. Everything he and I were supposed to be was given over fully to another. She borrowed from my experience while I was over here trying to piece myself back together before my uterus decided to declare war on me.

And if I DO decide I want sex, I can’t have it. I simply can’t. That’s totally the wrong kind of wetness. Let’s not forget how I would rather stab myself in the eye with a spork than have the “No, you can’t put your penis inside my vagina because it’s already full of tampon” conversation.

Let’s also not mention how freaked out I’ve been over this turn of events and how many informative sites and message boards I’ve visited to figure out how normal this is. Causing three weeks of non-stop ovulating and purging can NOT be a healthy thing. I allowed myself to be fucked up mentally, emotionally, and obviously physically for someone who could walk away and give all the pretty words to someone else along with all the dicking. I did everything I was supposed to and everything I said I would do only to get shafted in the least fun way possible in the end.

So I’m pissed. And I want chocolate. And I want to smack a bitch. And I want to scream.

But mostly, I want to not acknowledge that there’s not a single part of me that wasn’t altered from that relationship. Not a Single. Fucking. Thing. And I didn’t have nearly the same effect on him, so it’s really rather a big ol’ steaming pile of bullshit which just makes me aggressively angry every time I go to pee. Which is a lot. I drink half my weight in water daily.

But I do have to acknowledge it, and I suppose a physical reminder helps me not forget the pitfalls of falling too soon or in believing and trusting too quickly. Perhaps that’s exactly why the universe is doing this to me…

The LeeAnnimal Goes Rawwwr!

I break it down in here…every last nuance about dating that makes me upset or slightly cynical or deliciously happy. I don’t think I ever break it down about me. Specifically me. What makes me tick. What makes me the girl who was driven from the chaste and pure pursuit of romantical bliss into the heathenism of serial dating. So, sit back, pour a glass of wine, and get ready for some of the lowdown on the LeeAnnimal. Yes, I absolutely DID just refer to myself in the third person. Deal with it.

*I’m ridiculously clumsy. It’s a well known fact and is often viewed as adorable. I am relatively certain falling on my ass isn’t really an adorable thing.

*I’m the mom in my group(s). I offer advice. I have attended a first gynecological appointment with a nervous grown-ass friend who should have gone years earlier. I bake cookies and threaten to beat boys’ asses. I sit up all night and come over at any hour simply because I’m needed.

*I’m stubborn

*No, really, I’m possibly the most stubborn girl you’ll ever meet. Ask anyone who knows me.

*I self sabotage. A LOT.

*I love fairytales re-imagined. I adore anything Wonderland. I read stories about magic and epic adventures and aliens and dystopian societies and unicorns because FUCK I still want a unicorn.

*I curse a lot. In a kind of girly voice with a slight Southern accent. The accent grows if I’ve been speaking to family members or if I’m drinking or angry. If I get angry, I call it “Going Southern.”

*I cry at movies. Or shows. Or commercials. Or because it’s slightly overcast out. Or because my beer went flat while I was running at the mouth.

*I’m exuberant, bouncy, talkative, and silly. I’m like a giant preschooler in a pair of kickass heels.

*I’m only 5’2″, so I tend to wear heels a lot.

*I’m not short. I’m vertically challenged.

*I seem jaded, but I really think it’s possible that true, unadulterated, pure, lasting love exists out there somewhere. I think it’s as unique as the magic in my favorite stories.

*I have no problem walking away. As deeply as I love (be it platonic, romantic, or something else entirely), I can reach the point where I grow cold and hard and walk away without a single glance back. I think it throws people off when it happens to them. I’m the kind of girl that would stand there with you forever if you didn’t go and fuck it up.

*I’ve only met one person I’ve been incapable of shaking off. In almost forty years of life, only one became embedded into me in a way I both love and hate.

*I sing in my car while driving. Loudly. With the windows down. And when someone sees me at a red light, I don’t stop. I turn to them and serenade them until the light turns green again.

*I love chocolate, coffee, wine, spiced rum, books, blankets, pajamas, bubbles in my bath, and the colors red and pink.

*The decal over my break light in my rear window says, “You’ve Just Been Passed By A Girl”

*The interior of my car is all Hello Kitty

*The more upset I am, the bigger my smile gets. I don’t fake it in bed (I mean, that’s like rewarding a puppy for peeing on the carpet. He’ll just keep doing it), but I totally fake it till I make it when it comes to emotions. It’s something I’m working on now that a friend pointed out I need to try being Human for a little while. Being a Human is tricky shit.

*If I was sorted at Hogwarts, I would totally be in Gryffindor. No doubts.

*I’m really pissed that my owl got lost.

*When I let my imagination wander, I dream extraordinary dreams.

*I keep a dream journal.

*I have my tarot read at least once a year.

*I still fear the monsters under the bed, so I removed my bed frame.

*My spirit animal is Betty White.

*The best compliment I ever received was given to me five minutes ago: “You have very flavorful mental diarrhea.”

*I want someone to top that compliment. So get to it!

*And maybe most importantly:

No matter what, at the end of the day, I’m happy with myself. And I’m reeeeaaaally happy with the ones who dig the vibe I’m throwing down.

Screw you, eHarmony!!!!

I’ve begun to think perhaps I’m doing or saying something wrong in my serial dating experiment because too many misinterpret what I’m trying to accomplish. So I went in search of All Things Serial Dating on the big ol’ web, and what I came across really just pissed me off. Let’s take, for example, what eHarmony has to say about serial daters, shall we?

“Hooking up routinely with Mr. and Ms. Right Now, knowing fully that they are not the marrying kind is a recipe for disaster. Serial daters take up with “fillers” until something better comes along, but nothing does. So there they stand, afraid to be alone but mortified by the idea of being spending the rest of their lives with the person they’re with.”

First of all, does anyone else notice the grammatical error here? For shame, for shame, writers-of-bullshit at one of the largest online dating sites.

So here’s the actual truth, son. Listen up, you old fogies at eHarmony!

Fact. Serial dating does not equate to hooking up. Dating is dating, taking the penis in various ways is hooking up. The two are not synonymous.

Fact. It’s only a recipe for disaster to serial date when people are too damn stupid to grasp the concept of serial dating. IE: I am not just dating you, I am dating others, too. I am not committing to you, we just met. I am merely wanting to go on adventures with people of varying personalities and enjoy my life.

Fact. None of the men I choose to spend time with are “fillers”. I have specifically chosen the only one who has passed the muster because he fits my needs very well. He’s not a filler, I’m actually really excited to have him in my life right now. He’s fun as hell.

Fact. I am not afraid to be alone. I do it very well. I can pay my bills, entertain myself, and make myself explogasm whenever I want to relieve some needs. That doesn’t REQUIRE another person. The fact I want to spend time with other people is because I’m social and like going to movies with another person or out to eat or to sit and talk about the most random of things because that’s FUN.

Fact. If someone rises above the pack, I’d be a moron to not take notice. This is not escapism. This is not fear. This is not filling my time. I wouldn’t run away from something substantial because that’s another adventure worth having. I just don’t put much stock in that happening. So instead of waiting for something cinematic, I’m creating my own adventures.

Look, I read a book once that said women should serial date indefinitely until a man makes her take notice. That women are the gentler species, we become attached too easily, we are too quick to commit. It stated that men should EARN the heart of a woman, and we should make them do that. Plus, it’s highly beneficial to have plenty of experiences that teach us about ourselves and what we can and cannot tolerate in a partner. How will you know for sure if you shackle yourself to the first guy who may or may not want to stick around longterm? I mean, if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that men will tell you anything you want to hear in the moment. And they’ll always be highly complimentary to those they are pursuing at the present time. But those words are just words until proven. A woman would be (and has been more than once) a completely naive moron to start falling for a guy before he’s proven he’s everything he says he is.

Them’s the facts, son.

So no matter what eHarmony has to say about it, I say serial dating is quite effective. Currently, it’s only effective at weeding out the losers before I get too far, but hey! Isn’t that the whole point? Well, that and finding a way to enjoy myself without becoming too jaded. The task just keeps getting harder.

Thirsty Thursday

I am truly beginning to feel like a broken record. I’m not a hookup chick, you may not wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am with me, and I’m not coming to your house. I don’t care what excuses you try to use, you’re not swaying me. Oh! And if you call me a bitch when you don’t get your way and tell me to lose your number once you finally realize I’m not offering up an all you can eat vaginal buffet: Thank you. I am highly relieved that you eliminated yourself without any exertion on my part.

Thursday night is typically the night I allot as Date Night. I’ve finished my classes for the week, I can take a night off to fully enjoy myself, and it tends to be ladies night in a lot of establishments which saves me money if I’m paying (cha-ching!), and I always presume I’m paying even though I’ve yet to. Knock on wood.

Thursday night also happens to be Thirsty Thursday. In case you’re wondering where this blog is heading, let me clear it up for you. Thirsty Thursdays generally signify a boozefest. I, on the other hand, am using it to signify all those thirsty men out there. You know, too eager, too desperate, trying in vain to get into my pants simply because they can’t desire anything else….dinner and drinks and conversation should all be leading to me naked in their bed by midnight. So I turn on my highly tuned anti-thirst ninja skills and deflect until they get it…or until I have to cut them loose and move on.

Some of my favorite quotes recently are making it into my top five list of All Things Thirsty. I can’t help but wonder how long this list will eventually grow.

*Baby, I just don’t feel like being in a crowd tonight. Why don’t you just come over? We can chill and watch a movie on the couch. This is nothing more than an attempt to have me in close proximity away from other people ready to use whatever couch, bed, table, floor, or sex-swing-contraption in your basement. I know this. You know this. You didn’t get me to agree to a nightcap on the first date, so instead of risking another night ending in you, a bottle of lube, and Redtube, you have decided to up your odds and have me at your residence to begin with so no convincing is needed on your part. And it isn’t happening.

*Text messages that continually swing back to sexually charged comments and refusing to have actual conversations shows exactly where your mindset is. If I ask you how your day is going, and your response is, “It’s okay, but it would be so much better with the two of us naked in a vat of jello,” I will A)know that you are only considering me for sex and nothing beyond that considering I haven’t even told you my last name yet, and B)I have suddenly lost all desire to eat jello ever again.

*If I ask what you want to do for our first date, and you say, “Have you sit on my face,” please don’t be surprised that I’ve added you to my spam folder, and there will never be a first date. It’s happened, and I have no problem with refusing to even respond. I don’t have the time or the energy to explain to you what you just did wrong. NEXT!

*I get out of class. My text messages alert me to 42 new messages in an hour and a half. I open them in a panic thinking my kids tried to make pancakes and burned the house down. Instead, I find a bunch of nonsense from an overeager little boy. Text one: Good morning, sexy 😉 Text Ten: Hey, why aren’t you answering me? Text 20: I’m so confused right now. I thought you liked me! Text thirty: Don’t ever text me again! I don’t have time for your games! You act like a woman who has her shit together, then you ignore a perfectly good man just trying to show you some attention. Text forty: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any of that. I’m sorry I said I hate girls with freckles anyway. I love freckles. I want to play connect the dot with yours with my tongue. Texts forty-one and forty-two: Hello??? Fine, fuck you, you stupid whore!

*We’re out, and I know my limit on drinks. I stick with water at that limit, and when I tell the server that, you dictate that I simply MUST have some more.You tell the server with a smug little smile to bring me another. My resistance is met with your insistence. You refuse to let me stop drinking. I tell you I’m not okay to drive if I have another; the three I’ve had will be fully out of my system if I stop now. You then tell me you will gladly take me home and help me retrieve my car the next day. You obviously are playing me on multiple levels. First, you’re trying to intentionally get me drunk against my wishes. You know I am not capable of having more, and you are disregarding that. And you are hoping my anticipated intoxicated state will get me into your vehicle. Plus, you aren’t listening to me. Your desires are ranked higher than my needs, and I’m nowhere near okay with that. Check please.

I was supposed to go on a date tonight, and my really bad habit of vocalizing my thoughts and denial of being strong-armed into bending to the will of others ended with being called a bitch within three minutes of being told, “There’s nothing about you that doesn’t turn me on. You’re perfection.” Although, he spelled ‘you’re’ incorrectly (your), so I should have known I was dealing with a troglodyte to begin with.

Guys, if you’re thirsty, I’ll buy you a beer. But I’m totally not falling for your tired, overused games. I’m just too old a cat to be screwed by kittens. So there.