Do Whatcha Gotta Do

Maybe it’s the hormones, or it’s the fact I’ve run a fever for a full week now, or perhaps it’s because I am lethargic and have a constant ringing in my ears and can’t remember the last time I was this sick…but today, I deleted my ex’s name from my phone’s dictionary.

His name popped up as soon as I opened a chat…right there…a recommended word…as if I had used it too much. Often, my autocorrect would change the chosen word I wanted for his name for no reason at all but to screw with me, I think. ¬†And even though I was okay with the fact he threw me to the side again because someone came along, and I only matter when there isn’t someone there who matters more..I would see his name and roll my eyes a little at most. But today, ugh, today…I saw his name, and it pissed me off because my phone is like a Jewish mother telling me I need to go get that last train before it rolls away for good because I’m almost forty.

So I deleted his name from my phone completely like any rational woman would.

In other news, I am super sick and super over it. I missed school the past two days because I am too dizzy to stay upright for long. There’s so much congestion that my ears are completely stuffed, and I can barely swallow because there’s nowhere for the pressure of air to go. I literally gag myself by trying to swallow my own spit. As my kindred spirit Jinx said, “I know you must be dying because you’re an apple polisher. If you miss school, I need to buy a black suit for your upcoming funeral.”

He also told me I’m absolutely gorgeous…even with vomit spewing from my mouth.

That’s why I like him more than you.

I’m gonna go die a petty death now which is what petty girls who very pettily delete their ex’s name from existence do when they get sick. Much love…

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When Nerdy Girls Dream

I know, I know, I don’t post often enough anymore. Midterms and activities with my kidlettes and kicking ass at life in general kinda distracts me.

But I’m down with the flu and stuck to my laptop tonight. You’re welcome.

Seriously, though, I couldn’t let another night go by without sharing some of my mental diarrhea. My dreams are like an acid trip while feverish. I mean, I’ve never dropped acid, so I’m simply presuming. Seems legit to me, though.

I’m dizzy again, so I’m keeping this short. I pinky promise to try and pop in more frequently. Even if the post sucks because I don’t really have anything of substance to share.I suppose fluff is okay at times, too. At least that’s what I tell myself when critically examining my thighs. XOXOX

But In The Meantime…

I’m determined to find him…that mythological god of yumminess that captures me hook, line, and sinker. He’ll have dimples if I’m lucky. He’ll laugh easily and turn me into a big puddle of mush every time he looks at me.

But in the meantime…

I hate men. All of you. Sorry, I’m a little miffed at the moment You’re assholes who make life so fucking difficult. I can’t just be a girl. I can’t just say no. I can’t just BE without you being a complete and utter douche canoe who won’t accept what I’m throwing down.

No, I don’t want to get your number, and NO, I don’t wanna give you mine…

And for those who are missing the subtlety, let me break it on down for you. He has been trying to get my number from me on more than one occasion in the past week and a half that I’ve been on POF. Today he decided to step it up a notch, and I quit responding when we got to the last message because THIS is what he did wrong.

Like many before him, he feels I am moving too slowly. He feels I am not giving indication that I am into him. He feels that I am being coy because he has no idea what it is like for a woman to feel like it takes more than a few bland, perfunctory messages on a dating site to feel like she’s connecting to someone. His last message was like the ones before him who felt that if I’m not diving in head first, then I am a game playing chick who can’t make up my mind. No, he didn’t say that, per say. He did, however, point out that he has no idea how many men I’m talking to, but he always lets women know if he’s interested.

Fucking fuckhead fucktard, I am talking to you. I am giving you a chance to get to know me. I am not ignoring you, I am responding. So, duh, why do you think I am NOT into you? I wouldn’t respond to you at allllllll if I were not at least giving you a chance to wow me.

Like this guy…

It took him a hot minute, but he finally got it.

It’s so icky…all of it. But how else will a single mom who works and goes to school full time and doesn’t go out every night of the week ever hope to find someone to mesh with if I’m not throwing out my fishing line and seeing what I can reel in?

I don’t HAVE to have someone. Obviously, I am still breathing and functioning without a partner. But I want to know if it’s out there. I want to have someone in my life who accentuates my daily living…someone to tell all my funny stories to at the end of the day and to snuggle with after a nightmare and to capture the spiders that get into my house or dispose of the dead creatures my cat brings to me. I want someone to look at me like I am everything right in the world. I want someone to vent to when I can’t solve a math equation and to laugh with while watching a stupid movie and to dry the dishes when I wash them and to tell me my ass looks great in those new jeans I just spent too much for. I want to hold hands and stand too close and have all the flutteryflies that make me know I’m alive.

What I don’t want is someone to try to change me or how I react or how slowly I move. I want someone who gets that I need reassurances and to feel safe before I take that next leap. I need someone to be there to catch me because I’m getting all bruised up making these jumps all alone.

I don’t know if it exists. I don’t know if I’m meant to be someone’s everything. I don’t know if I’m gonna wow him indefinitely…I do at first, but then they get close enough and realize I’m NOT what they want…they had it all wrong.

Then some of them stalk the fuck out of me, and that’s only romantic if you’re a poorly written character in a book that portrays BDSM like a Lifetime movie of the week…not to name names…I’m looking at you, Christian Grey *cough cough*.

So fishing it is…and I’m throwing most of them back…and yet, I still keep trying. I’m either really dedicated and determined, or I’ve lost my ever lovin’ mind. You decide.

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…