How Urban Dictionary defines me is shockingly accurate

So, my friend Z informed me yesterday that this week is "Urban Dictionary" week on Facebook, or something*. Not surprisingly, I love Urban Dictionary and can remember spending hours in college sitting on my couch**, browsing through the "random" definitions, and laughing uncontrollably. I never thought, however, to search for my own name. Thank God Facebook was there to enlighten me, because otherwise I never would have known that all my ex-boyfriends had gone on Urban Dic and graciously provided them with the most accurate definitions of "Meghan" to date! Below are a few of my faves.

1. I can only assume my first ex wrote this one, because he was a horrid speller.

2. I may as well have written this one myself, not just because it's so fucking true, but because of the borderline-eerie use of language I could have created myself. This one was probs written by my third ex, who was madly in love with me and often used fake words. He also frequently said "gosh."

3. So. True. Remember my days of Hautey Toddy?? All I did was talk about my undying love for skinny jeans. It's just getting eerie now. My second ex wrote this one; we dated during the high tide of my skinny jeans wave.

4. My favorite by far: I am both a kidney bean and a diva.

5. Um, weird. But LBO, probs true, especially if the tub is filled with orange juice, chocolate milk or Chai tea.

Obviously, I now want you beautiful fucking people to search your names on Urban Dic and post your favorite definitions in the comments.


*I fucking loathe Facebook, so I don't really keep up with whatever is happening on that shit
**Futon

Caw, caw, caw: Strike a prose

I wrote this on the 6 train early one morning, on my way from home to work.

--

The thing I hate about winter is that there's no sounding rain. Lots of snow, plenty of snow, but I miss the pounding of the water against my panes. The sound of the rain is like the forward motion of time - it never stops, until it does, and then you have no choice but to accept the silence.

I've heard lots of sweet words from sweet boys in my life, but yours stole all kinds of pastries. "Your name hangs in my heart like a bell," you said. "Found myself a picture that would fit in the folds of my wallet, and it stayed pretty good," you said.

But your words were secondhand, usurped from past brilliants, on loan to me for a limited time only (LTO). A faulty loan at that, motherfucker, since the words weren't even yours to give. In retrospect, this angers me. How dare you? How dare you take those words from their creators, then haphazardly give them to me? Not even you could make me hate something so beautiful.

Not even you could make me hate you. Months and months passed, and all I wanted was to hate you. You launched more borrowed words at me, and with every blow I remained resilient. I couldn't hate you, I couldn't hate you, I couldn't hate you - though not for lack of trying. When the final blow came, finally a set of originals - I love someone else - the cannon shot echoed off the Southern hills. Then a deafening, ringing silence. The snow came. I crouched, and looked around, but you were already gone. (The only thing worse than a giver of borrowed words is someone who doesn't understand the impact of his own.) The fog remained, my wound still hemorrhaging, and I curled up in a little ball and licked it for hours. I found in my last traces of consciousness that I truly did not care if the bleeding stopped while I slept. I did not care, and then in the last glittering moment before sleep blinked me away, I did.

When I woke up, I had some of my strength back. I stood up in the melting snow, and saw the meat of the land poking through the dead grass. I gathered my things and was suddenly aware that, for the first time, I felt nothing. The love I had for you, the words I had said to you and saved for you - never borrowed, always my own - everything was gone. All I had wanted was to hate you, but this was better. Anything could happen to you, you could take your borrowed life and your borrowed words anywhere you wanted, and I would not care. The wind had taken them while I slept. They belonged to no one. They were finally free.

It was warmer now. There was still no sun, but at least it was warmer. I began to walk.

The snow turned to rain. This clearing was much bigger than I remembered. I made my way home, knowing I would never see you or hear you or feel you again. My long brown hair dripped - when had it gotten so long? - and I wondered if I had possiby made the whole thing up, like maybe I invented you from all the songs and poems and plays I had loved in a past life. Perhaps you were some new sort of phantom made of skin and bones and veins and teeth. How do we know what is real?

I stopped walking. Something inside me told me to stop. I sat down in the field, in the cold and the wet, waiting for the carrier of words. I'm still sitting here, though I move around sometimes so no one knows that, still, I wait. An army of love surrounds me at all times. And I know he will come because truth attracts honesty. So I will just keep waiting.

Overhead, a black bird cries, and the squishy tears roll down my cheeks as my dark hair, now drying out, blows in the wind. The bird tells me (secretly) he has never borrowed or loaned anything in his life, except for his breath, on loan from the gracious universe, to be returned at an unknown time. Just like the rest of us.

Someone else can have your borrowed words. I can subsist on creating my own, until he arrives, and we co-pilot as birds ourselves, never borrowing, only living.

Caw. Caw. Caw.

Guest Blog: The Boys I Have Dated

About 95% of the time, you read things that you will probably never remember. The remaining 5%, you will be lucky if you read things that you'll likely never forget. And when one of these things also involves (The Artist Formerly Known As) Prince, you know it's fucking over.

Lauren over at Hipstercrite wrote such a piece. Here it is. When you are finished reading, come back. It's OK. I'll wait. Tick tock. Tick tock.

See? Amazing, right? Basically offers a life-changing perspective, no? Never has an essay about Prince's bush been so insightful and hilarious. At least, I don't think such an essay exists; if it does, I will immediately marry said person, regardless of gender or species.* I'm serious. I'll do it, if he/she/it will have me.

Her ramblings on Prince are just one example of the hilarious insight Lauren has about the tumultuous goings-on of 20-something existence. Her story is also inspiring - she moved from upstate NY to Los Angeles in pursuit of her own form of happiness, and when she didn't find it, she uprooted again and moved to Austin, TX, knowing not a single soul. Going through one such move myself, I can speak for how hard it is, but I can't say with any certainty whether or not I would be able to do it twice. But this girl did, which is one reason I so look up to her and her work so much.

For all these reasons and more - Prince pubes aside - I was thrilled when Lauren agreed to guest-write a post for me, in which she reflects on the guys she's dated and how she learned to love herself, with all the honest and hilarious insight I've come to expect from the Texan transplant. Be sure to check out my piece on her blog, too, lest you make a whole gaggle of doves cry.

---

A few years back, I came across a Craigslist Best-Of post titled, "The Girls I Have Dated". In it, the author, who is on a four-year sabbatical from sex since his "psycho-bitch mother" passed away, reflects on all the women he has dated and/or slept with. Each woman is listed by name followed by a sentence or two about their physical features, their sexual abilities or lack there of, and the author's feelings towards them. The author does nothing to mask his disdain for most of these women, commenting again and again on his lack of respect for the female gender. It's easy to hate this man early in the post, but as the list gets longer, the descriptions get more raw, more tale-telling. By the end, you see an aged, lonely man who has pushed away everyone in his life.

Inspired by my dating experiences in Los Angeles, I created my own list and posted it on my blog titled, "The Boys I Have Dated". Though my list was nowhere near as long or hateful, it was often speckled with venomous attacks from a broken-hearted, emotionally immature young woman. At the time, writing the list was therapeutic for me. It enabled me to finally say all the things I wanted to say to these men that had hurt me.

Here are some snippets:

"Matthew"

"You stopped me at a Subway Restaurant in Koreatown. You said my smile made you need to talk to me. You gave me your card and SURPRISE! you were an actor. You were beautiful. 100% conventionally good looking. You weren’t my type but I didn’t mind the idea of having you as arm candy. Soon after I discovered how stupid you were. We went out on my birthday but I didn’t tell you it was my birthday. I didn’t want anyone to know. We had a good time in Downtown, but I was more interested in listening to the new Arcade Fire album that was playing on the loud speakers than talking to you. We fooled around that evening and my only thought was, “you have to be kidding me”. You made noises like a retarded monkey and I was slightly embarrassed for you. You were very sweet to me but I no longer trusted any man. Finally one day, right in the middle of fooling around, you accused me of faking it. Maybe I was, but that was no excuse to banish me to my own couch. That was it. The last thing you said to me as you walked out the door was, “What’s the difference between a PC and a Mac and can you get on the internet with a Mac?” I wasn’t too sad to see you go. I think you’re dating a teenager now which is good. Someone more on the same intellectual wavelength as you."

"Jake"

"...I finally heard the standard, “I don’t want a girlfriend right now” and we parted ways. I don’t really miss having to go to vegan restaurants with you. You also sucked in the sack (maybe you were self-conscious about having a small d--k). Look, it’s not a race. You had the sensuality of a goat. Maybe it’s from not getting enough meat.

"Thomas"

"...On the second date, as I was getting in my car to leave, you tackled me and we made out in the front seat, our feet dangling out, passersby wondering what the hell was going on. We saw each other for a month. You seemed really into me and I was indifferent. The sad thing is, I never really felt anything towards you. I looked at you lying next to me and my mind would go blank. You started to pull away like they all do and I was just so damn tired to fight anymore. You and your friends have a band and I’ve debated on texting you out of the blue to tell you that your music sucks ass."

"Mac"

"...What a sweet, dear man you were….and horribly desperate. I wasn’t ready to date anyone yet because of "Bill" but that didn’t matter, you freaked me out hardcore. You were kind and generous, but from Arkansas, Republican, and 35. After a week of knowing you, I heard through the grapevine you were calling me your girlfriend and “the one”. You’d get mad if I didn’t call you every day and I was doing everything to you that I hated about what men did to me. I think you were ready to settle down and I definitely wasn’t the one. You were also more effeminate than me. You loved your “mani’s and pedi’s!” Sometimes when I hear a stupid John Mayer song, you pop into my head (which is another reason why we wouldn’t have worked out)."

As you can see, I was one bitter little girl!

As my list got longer and more angry, I reflected on what it was telling me. I was putting all the blame on these men, but maybe I was making bad choices because I wasn't happy with myself.

So, after five years of living in Los Angeles, I decided it was time to move on. I packed my bags and drove to Austin, TX with no plan, no connections. I quickly built a life there, and I quickly noticed that I had no desire to continue the list. I started making better choices in who I dated. I went out with an older gentleman who treated me like a queen. He ultimately gave me a line about not wanting a girlfriend right now (dude, you're 38...really?), but we're great friends now. After that, I dated a lovable ADHD-riddled spaz who'd do anything for me, but only if he could play on his iPhone the entire time. We just broke up, but we talk every day. I have no interest in tearing them down. They are good men. Every single man I put on the list is now a dear friend, and I've had to constantly go back and edit the list. In fact, the list has been carefully put away, considering about 50% of my former flames may or may not occasionally read my blog. When before I wanted to shout from the mountain top every name of every man who has ever done me wrong, now I understand that having some secrets is not such a bad idea.

Sometimes I like to pull the old list out. Laugh at the girl who used to point fingers at everyone but herself. Lots of times I don't understand who she is - why she was so angry and making such dumb ass decisions.

All I know is that it took learning to love myself a little more to show me the path to finding a loving and healthy relationship.

I hope the Craiglist Best-Of author learned how to love himself too.

*If this esssay does exist, it was probably penned by Chuck Klosterman, who I have already openly professed my love for in a very embarrassing manner

One year, one love: New York

I moved to New York one year ago today. I brought with me two suitcases, a computer bag, a tote, some goals, some dreams and one undying love for the city that had called to me for years. Since that day, I have gained a lot, and lost just as much. I thought I knew who I was when I moved up, but I did not. I thought I had a true love in my life when I came, but I was mistaken about where that love resided. I was right that I had no idea what I was getting myself into by moving here, but I could not have known just how true that was. Here, a month-by-month recap of 2009, one of the hardest and most amazing years of my life, inside and out.

January
I lived with Z for a week and a half before I found my own place on Craigslist and moved in. C was in town for a week or so and we bummed around the city a lot. One night I heard a cat crying outside my Harlem window and went outside in the freezing cold to try to save it, but to no avail. I spent $500 at Bed, Bath & Beyond to stock up my apartment. I interviewed for a good number of jobs and internships. I went to DC to see my LDR boyfriend A and to go to Obama's inauguration. We got into a big fight - A and I, not Obama and I - in which he threatened me physically. I went back to NYC and broke up with him. I started a part-time unpaid internship at a website for a national women's magazine.

February
A came to NYC unannounced to profess his undying love for me. We got back together, and my friends were not happy about it or particularly supportive. I was still interning part-time and applying for jobs the rest of the time. I hunted for and finally found a chair to spruce up my apartment a bit. Z and I went to fashion week, which was mostly underwhelming. I was pretty depressed for a while because of the job market. I explored Harlem and started cooking myself real meals, and I got a gym membership.

March
I got snowed in with A in DC. We built a snowman and had snowball fights and made a few of the sweetest memories I have to date. I went back to NYC and started another unpaid blogging internship where I wrote about health and relationships and sex.  The Harlem Singing Man first showed up. I went home to the South for the first time since I had moved up, and visited Oxford while I was down there to find that everything and nothing had changed. I got offered and started my first paid full-time internship at a regional magazine company. I quit my other two internships. My friend E came to visit from Alabama.

April
I went to DC for the Cherry Blossom Festival and to see A. I was really in love with him at this point. Then he came to visit NYC and something felt off so I decided to take a week off from him, before breaking up with him for the second time. My internship was going really well and I finally felt like I was where I was supposed to be. We had our first picnic in Central Park to kick off summer early. Everything was blooming.

May
My internship chugged along and I was stressed at times but I liked all the people I worked with and I was getting to write so I was really happy. Z and I went to my first official magazine party of the summer, and as we were walking through Times Square afterward I dropped my phone and the screen cracked, and my heart along with it. I bought an amazing backless vintage swimsuit which I wore with leggings to another magazine party. I saw my first psychic on the street, who told me A was my soulmate, so then I got drunk* at happy hour one Saturday and hopped on the Chinatown bus to DC, with my friends' support in tow, to profess my undying love for him again. When I got back to the city, I was offered my first full-time-with-benefits position in New York at the same magazine company where I was interning. I was ecstatic in every sense of the word.

June
A came to NYC for Mississippi in the Park, where he finally met Z and J after months of not meeting them. It rained and we frolicked and laughed. I started my new job and was taking well to it. Michael Jackson died and I was really upset by it because he helped define a good chunk of my childhood. Z and I saw Beyoncé in concert. It was epic. My Lady Gaga obsession was just budding.


July
I went to DC for A's and my one-year anniversary the weekend of July 4th. We rode roller coasters and cried and watched fireworks, and then he dropped a bomb on me. And not the good kind. I came back to NYC and lost a couple nights' sleep before having a minor meltdown and deciding that I had finally, truly lost sight of who I was. He broke up with me.  I got a new, smaller bed for my room, but held out on buying an air conditioner. I discovered a big public pool near my apartment that changed my life. I danced in a fountain with Z. Started drinking a lot and living the young New York life I had always wanted. Went home to the South for a few days.

August
I got an air conditioner for my room after one especially terrible night of sweating. A and I still talked sometimes, and he told me he wanted to get back together. I said no because it didn't feel right. My Lady Gaga obsession grew into full-blown worship. I continued running around New York drunk and going out all the time. Z and I saw Britney in concert. I told A that I wanted to get back together, and he told me he didn't love me the way he used to anymore. I started blogging a lot more, honing what might loosely be referred to as my craft.

September
I went to the first Effable Arts show to support J and her amazing photograpy. Was inspired by all the young artists and fauxsted a Lady Gaga dance party at a gay bar in Hell's Kitchen. Danced on booths and tables in windows. Found one of three straight guys in the bar and kissed him on the steps of a hostel. He was British. Decided I wanted a Lady Gaga tattoo. Struck up an online friendship with one of A's close guy friends, who provided some enlightening insight. Z and I went to a bizarre launch party for Keith Lissner's new line. I got an amazing new dress that I wore to yet another magazine party. I started online dating and went to a quiet party for the first time by myself. I wrote my first guest blog post. A group of friends and I went on a Five Borough Pub Crawl that took an entire Sunday and was epic. I went to my first NYC doctor for a physical and everything was great. I felt invincible.

October
I started blogging, like, a lot. I went to DC for the National Equality March and did not contact A, which I considered a victory. I also stood ten feet away from Lady Gaga as she gave her speech, which I considered an even greater victory. I did my first blog swap. Z started filming video of our lives. My parents came to visit, their first trip to the city. A contacted me wanting to catch up, and I told him no. J had her first photo show in Brooklyn. I dropped my iPhone into the subway tracks and went down to get it, then I wrote a blog post about it, on which I then based a play. I went to my first real blogger convention. I learned that fall in New York is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I found out that Gaga would be performing in NYC on my birthday. HLLWN 2009 happened, and was a total shitshow.

November
I started to feel tired. I got switched to a different magazine at work and it was really busy and stressful. I worked on my play some more and sent in my final draft. I talked to A and he told me he was totally over me. He e-mailed me a couple weeks later announcing that he was removing all our photos from facebook. I did not respond. I went out one Saturday night and made some bad decisions and had the worst Sunday of my life the next day. I started to feel depressed and empty. I was happy to leave the city to go see C in Chicago for Thanksgiving. We went to museums and watched theater and comedy improv and listened to bad hip-hop music. In the Chicago airport, I wrote a list of the things I still knew about myself, because I was having trouble remembering. I celebrated the first birthday of my dear blog.

December
I got Blogger's Blog of Note award. I cried at my desk. It felt like the first really good thing that had happened in a while. Christmas exploded in the city. I discovered that it was the second-most beautiful time of the year. I still felt depressed and exhausted, like I was walking around in a cloud. New York and I were not getting along. I cried a lot when I was by myself. I convinced myself that I still loved A because I missed his smile and his eyes and the way he talked with his hands. I read my first Chuck Klosterman book, fell in love, and started reading my second. I went home for Christmas. I saw a ceremony for a fallen soldier that shook me to my already shaken core. While in town, I chose to see A for the first time in six months. We had coffee and caught up. I told him honestly that he was still the person I loved, and he told me honestly that I was no longer the person he loved. It felt like a bus hit me. I flew back to New York, after e-mailing him to tell him not to contact me anymore. It took nearly a year of heartache, but I finally let him go and am in the process of re-discovering my love for myself.

When my plane landed a year ago, I was still too young to have any concept of looking back. My eyes were planted firmly forward, and I knew in my heart that New York was what I wanted more than anything. I had fear, but I was not afraid. After about 10 months of deep periods of depression, exultation, loss, joy and loneliness, my heart grew weary, and I found myself too afraid to look forward. I looked forward and thought I saw nothing, which is the scariest feeling I've ever had, so I just decided to look back. I blamed myself for my unhappiness; I blamed putting myself and my dreams before others in my life, and I blamed the city. I looked at the city and saw a place that had stolen my innocence, my courage and, I thought, my heart.

When my plane landed this week, I felt the city come back to me. I now see it again like I saw it in 2008. That piece of my heart that's forever devoted to New York came back to life, and with it came all the other parts of my heart I thought were ruined or gone. I made some mistakes this year, and I hurt some people, but I never once did anything that was not a true expression of how I felt in my heart. I loved with my whole heart, I feared with my whole heart, I learned with my whole heart, and I acted with my whole heart.

This past month, I had actually come to convince myself that I must be unhappy because I was innately not sensitive enough to experience meaningful happiness. But in retrospect, 2009 showed me my favorite thing about myself: I live honestly. No one can ever say I am not genuine and upfront and fearlessly honest about how I think and feel. This honesty dissolved my relationship with someone I loved, because he could not offer me the same sort of honesty in return. But then it enriched my relationship with someone I know I love unconditionally: myself.


Now winter is returning, and I still go out in the freezing cold in my pajamas and boots when I hear cats cry, which they do a lot. I know I can't help them - because most of them won't let people anywhere near them - but still I go, because I think that maybe I will be able to help, just this one time. Because that's who I am. The love in my heart propels me forward, against all odds.

Even if it ain't all it seems, I got a pocket full of dreams,
Baby, I'm from New York...

 
*I have never consumed one drop of alcohol in my life

To my future husband, who may or may not or will be (at least modeled after) Chuck Klosterman

This may come as a shock to some of you, but I was not one of those little girls who dreamed about her wedding when I was young. Never one to succumb to a clichéd stereotype of what it meant to be a white girl growing up in the suburbs of the South, I limited the extent of my wedding fantasies to one day when I donned a white hand-me-down dress my aunt had given me for Christmas, pretended to be a princess and "walked down the aisle" in my parents' kitchen, toward a pretend/invisible prince who was waiting to marry me. (I'm an only child. I had to amuse myself.) That is my only active memory of imagining my wedding as child, and it's probably the reason my expectations for my future husband are so unbelievably high - since the only detail I deemed important enough to include in my fantasy was that I should, in fact, marry a prince.

It wasn't until this year that I started thinking about what details I might want at my wedding, and although I now have a precious few things clear in my mind, for the most part I still have no idea. In fact, I would say that until the latter part of this year, if you had asked me whether or not I even wanted to get married, I would have provided a very confident, "I really have no fucking clue." Then came a serious relationship, followed by an intense break-up, followed by an even more intense loneliness, then the realization that I do want to share my life with someone. And then - quite serendipitously I think - along came Chuck Klosterman.

My friend J told me about him a few months ago, when she was reading Killing Yourself To Live* and was quite obsessed with it. She gushed about how, if Chuck were cuter and younger and perhaps even not married himself, she would set a goal to marry him. She said he was the funniest, wittiest, most amazing writer she had come across in recent memory, and for some reason all her words passed in my right ear and out my left, without so much as a pee break in between. I don't know why I didn't run out and buy his books right then and there, but for some reason I did not. She finally let me borrow his KYTL a few weeks ago, and I have no reservations about saying that it changed. my. life.

She was right. He is the funniest, wittiest, snarkiest, most sarcastic, and yet most poignant writer of our young generation. As my eyes hopped over his words like an adorable bunny over the hills of Appalachia or something, I had the very surreal experience that I had met my penmate. That's like a soulmate, but with words. Chuck is the first author I have read in years - or possibly in my life ever - that made me think, "I want to do this. I want to be this. I want to be the next Chuck Klosterman, and I think I can do it." Reading his book was like reading the book I want to write in five or ten years. Except that now he's written it already - goddamnit - and I'll have to go with a different angle. But it's totally fine. I've already got some ideas brewing.

Beyond being introduced to my potential future self, I also realized that Chuck Klosterman is my ideal future husband. I am now aware that if I ever meet a man as funny as Chuck whilst also being as talented a writer, it'll all be over and done with. It literally does not matter what he looks like, how he dresses, if he has some fucked up accent from upstate New York or the Midwest, or, nay, even if he's a nice person - if he can write like Chuck and make me laugh (and, yes, cry) like Chuck, that will be it for me. Done and done. It doesn't hurt that Chuck seems to have a good heart and a sweet sentiment in his writing - but, again, this is strictly optional.

Inspired by my new writing muse, I have penned a letter to my future husband. The Internet is weird because my future husband will probably actually read this one day, even if he doesn't know at that point that he is my future husband. Like, he might read it after our third date or something, after I've told him that I have a blog and he goes home and fearfully googles my name, and then stays up til 5 a.m. reading all my entries before promptly realizing he is already in love with me, and then calling me to ask me to meet him on the Brooklyn Bridge or in Grand Central or something, which I will do, and then he will take me in his arms and profess that he thinks I am the one, and I will not think it's weird because I will have been thinking the same crazy shit. As such, I have chosen my words carefully.

Dear future hubs,

Thank you for that haiku you left on my pillow this morning, and also for promising to leave me many such pillowkus for the rest of our blissfully wedded lives. The only thing I'd rather wake up next to is you - but provided that you are not available, your hilarious puns and witty aphorisms will more than suffice. Oh, and don't start to get all big-headed about it. I mean, don't for a second think that you are a better writer than I am. Granted, you probably are, because I tend to prefer to date (and therefore, logically, marry) up as opposed to down; but just because you are a better writer than me does not mean you deserve the pleasure of thinking or perhaps even knowing that you are, in fact, a better writer than me. There's a reason I count Beyoncé's "Upgrade U" amongst the songs that define my very existence - and I know what you're thinking, but no, it's not because I harbor a secret fetish for grasping large pieces of jewelry between my teeth, although this is also true. It's because I like to think I'm the HBIC in most situations, even when I am not. If you married me, you already know this. So, keep on writing me poems, and keep on being a cunning linguist, but don't let me forget that I am just as cunning. Almost.

I'll see you at our regularly scheduled pun-off, tomorrow, 7 p.m., in our huge antique clawed bathtub. You bring the wine and I'll bring the Moleskin and plenty of cheese. (The kind you write, not the kind you eat.) Just try not to be distracted by my lounging nude body, impossibly relaxed as I pour forth pun after pun after pun from my wine-stained lips. You will fail. I will dominate. And you will not be emasculated by your loss, because you will have already written me a pillowku for the following morning, ready and tucked in your coat pocket, that contains the greatest pun I have ever heard or read in my entire life. And this is why I love you. 'Cuz you got that foresight.

Love,
Meg

*The first time I wrote this I accidentally typed "Love" instead of "Live." Either applies, really.

New York is sort of annoying me

New York can be a big pain in the ass sometimes. I don't know if it's just because it's winter, and I've been feeling like I want everything to slow down to approximately the pace of maple syrup pouring over the edge of a huge stack of buttermilk pancakes, but lately everything is just bugging me. I want stillness, and quiet, and I want to be able to walk around without (gasp) seeing any people. I guess this means I want the South. This might actually be a little bit of playful teasing on the part of the universe, because I'm going home for like ten days in just over a week, and I am so fucking excited about it.

Things that have been annoying me recently.

1. I bought these new earbuds for my iPhone and for some reason the buds pop out of my ears more easily than the ones Apple makes. And for whatever reason, they also are constantly getting caught on things around me. Other people's bags, buttons on their coats, corners of books, whatever. Anything protruding from other people's bodies - it's likely my earbuds will get caught on it. So when the cords pull the buds out of my ears, I'm left grappling awkwardly to catch them so my whole iPhone doesn't tumble out of my pocket/bag. We've already seen the trauma such events can cause. Solution: Kick out half-to-most of the people in Manhattan.

2. It rained a lot yesterday morning and Manhattan turned into one huge slip-and-slide, except instead of being the funnest fucking thing ever like when you were a kid, you're just hopping over huge puddles and hoping you don't slip and fall in the concrete subway stations and avoiding people's nasty dripping umbrellas on the train and hoping the leaking bus window doesn't burst open under the weight of just a few too many raindrops. Solution: Make a lot of money and take cabs everywhere.

3. People walk too slowly. If you are old or handicapped or something, OK, that's fine. If you are healthy and of a reasonable age, please walk at a normal to absurdly fast pace, like the rest of us. And stopping in the middle of the sidewalk is just unacceptable. Solution: See solution number one.

4. People are fucking inconsiderate. In the South, we are taught to consider other people; and actually, "taught" seems like too strong a word, because it's more deeply ingrained than that - it's just the way people live. If someone is coming through a door behind you, you hold the door open for them. If someone is walking toward a door that you are blocking, you move out of the way, so they may walk through. If someone does something for you - whether they are required to or not - you say "thank you." You make every effort to smile at people you interact with, whether it's your boss or the girl behind the cash register at the drug store, because you just never know what other people are going through. In New York, I still do these things, because I am Southern and that's just what I have always done and will always do; but it is a sadly rare occasion when I see others doing these things for me. Solution: Start raising your kids right, New Yorkers.

5. People walk too quickly. Yeah, you heard me. If you live in Manhattan, you are either walking too slowly or too quickly. Slow the fuck down. I promise, wherever you're going, it's just not that big a deal. Solution: Everyone, everywhere in the city, just stop. Stand perfectly still. And listen.

6.  My apartment is too small and I really miss having a couch and my windows are too big and it makes it hard to hang my Christmas lights, which keep falling down because I can't use the proper hanging utensils because I can't reach because my windows are too big. Solution: See solution number two part one. Spend some of that money to rent a bigger apartment and buy some real furniture and stuff. Also, become an adult.

7. It's loud. All the time. Honking, screeching, yelling, talking, braking, clinging, clanging, halting. Normally, I find all these sounds beautiful. But recently, I just want to yell at everyone to shut the fuck up, which would of course be counterproductive. Solution: Hushhhhhhhhhh.

I just want to get into a car and drive.
I want to see the road in front of me for miles on end.
And while I'm driving, I want to listen to only albums I've never listened to before and would normally never listen to.
Where I would go, I have no idea.
For no apparent reason today I keep recalling the past, very specifically and at random times.
I keep remembering my drive from Birmingham to Oxford, in bizarre flashes.
The bridges I crossed.
The exits I took.
The particular gas station I always stopped at on the way.
I keep remembering the music I would listen to on the drive, back in the day when I actually had a CD changer and CDs to change.
I keep remembering restaurants in Oxford where I used to eat regularly, which was basically all of them.
I keep remembering you, and that's when I want everyone on the streets of New York to disappear.
Because when I think of you I get this huge lump in my throat and I can't breathe and my eyeballs can only contain so much liquid until I suffocate and this goddamn walk home is so long and why is that guy looking at me and please please please everyone just go away.


It's not like the movies
They fed us all little white lies

Meglist: The Experiment*

As you may recall, back in October I wrote a Megslist ad for my perfect manpartner, as I envisioned him in a (sigh, non-existent) perfect world. Recently the idea struck me to post that ad in the actual New York Craigslist personals, just to see what sorts of responses I would get. I culled through the 20+ e-mails I received in the few hours my ad was live before it was, tragically and inexplicably, flagged for removal - maybe someone was offended by my hyperbolic use of the word "perfect," or perhaps someone just didn't appreciate the photo I attached of myself - and picked the cream of the crop. Here they are, in all their g(l)ory.

Some of them were astoundingly lazy and noncommittal, for someone taking time out of his busy day to respond to a Craigslist ad from a stranger.

Subject:
I wish I had the time to give a post like yours a decent response...
Body:
...unfortunately, Im recording at the studio now and just wasting some time between sessions... you sound like the type of chick I wouldn't hate (ha)



Some of them were very, um, forward. One person wrote this in response to my demand for a man who knows how to deal with a strong woman.

Subject:
Repsonse: Oh so perfect
Body:
I guess you are asking me to put it in your hiney? Will do.

Some of them preferred the sneak attack method of propositioning me.

Subject:
Re: Great Post
Body:
Great post -- yes, 15% of one's brain power on any subject is too much. I'm fairly sure that I won't meet all of the qualities you seek -- but, possibly enough.

5'10"

160 lbs

48 yr old

white male

lean, muscular body

better bod than most 20 yr olds

shiny salt & pepper hair

been called handsome

urbane

well read

well educated

sense of humor

strong, strong sex drive

dominant in bedroom

love to please

married

discreet, you be too

Some of them had a sense of humor, though, sadly, no understanding of the English language.

Subject:
Perfect man wanted - 23 (East Harlem)
Body:

you live in perfect plays hahahahaha East Harlem

And lastly, one guy expressed his sincere - albeit very wordy and somewhat obtuse - desire to be my sugar daddy.

You appear to be a woman suited for Pluto. I’m not sure if I’m referring to the planet or the Disney character. There is no such thing as the “perfect man” and quite possible you’re referring to what’s perfect for you. Prozac might be a first choice because you seem to need no stimulants and you are a hand full and I don’t even know you yet. On the other side of the ledger, you appear quite funny and simulating without even trying.

I’m an Alfa male who’s smart, successful and even quite good looking but I’m not sure I could handle someone with all you’re pent up energy and wild imagination. Your like an untamed colt and it would be great fun to feed off your energy and help you to experience and delight in all the things your not familiar with. I haven’t offered my genie like self in a long time to someone as playful and acidic as you seem to be. I love mentoring someone like yourself because you’re probably hard to handle at first, then the first kiss makes you all starry eyed and you’d fluster with delight. How refreshing you are not to be spoiled by society and the restrictive mores and taboos they impose upon us.

I too am a free spirit who can do and say almost anything I want because of past success and some intellect. I need a challenge and think you not only would be one but more fun then a barrel of monkeys (even though monkeys smell and I don’t know what makes them fun in a barrel) LOL If your interested in someone beyond the norm who is smart, kind and highly unusual (in a good way) , write back and I promise to make you smile (and even laugh a lot) as long as your not too serious and promise not to fall in love with a stranger who may be beyond your expectation and desires.

PS Can you drive a six speed and do you like to kiss (beyond almost anything else? LOL

Well, sir, yes to the kissing, no to the six speed. I realize that might be a dealbreaker. Luckily this colt doesn't need a car to transport herself, if you know what I mean.

*I apologize for the poor formatting of this post. No matter what I did Blogger would not resize my fonts appropriately. Blogfail.

New/old Beyoncé

I discovered this Beyoncé song recently. It's always weird to find old music that you've never heard by an artist you love. I think this was released as an extra song on B'Day or something. I love it because it seems incredibly appropriate at this point in my life, and it's hilarious.



I really wish there were an official video for this song, because I'm sure it would be lolz. However, since there isn't, a fan-made mash-up will have to suffice. Oh, Bey, you're so ridonk, and I'm so glad you're in my life.

It could be worse

I was doing some research for work recently and came across this portrait. You know, I may make a lot of snarky comments about men, relationships and dating on this blog, but it could be worse, ladies. Our men could dress like this king of England or whatever. (I confess I saved the image from the Internet without actually taking a mental note of who it is.)























I'm pretty sure I have those shoes.

New York Meglist > Partners > Perfect Man Wanted

I've been thinking a lot about what I want in a manpartner recently. And by a lot I mean I spend probably like 15% of my brain power thinking about it, which is still too much. As a result, I have come up with a list of the qualities I want* in a romantic interest/relationship partner. The list follows. I have dubbed it Megslist. I know, so painfully obvious.

• Be at least 5'10". I mean this is an absolute minimum. There are too many fucking shorties in this city and I'm over it.
  
• A college degree is definitely required.
• Be extroverted, but not too extroverted. I'm kind of over dating the shy type, and I want someone who is going to entertain me for once.
• Be funny. Like fucking slap your mama hilarious.
• For the love of god, don't be pretentious. There are few things I hate more than pretense. Well, aside from when Kant tries to write in iambic pentameter. Yaaaaaawn.
• On that note, hipsters need not apply.
  
• For Christ's sake, I need a man who knows how to handle a strong woman. Let me be dramatic, then tell me when I'm being a huge bitch. Don't be jealous; let me be independent. If I tell you I'm attracted to someone else - maybe even (GASP) a woman - grow a pair and fucking deal with it. Then give me a reason not to care about my attraction to other people, if you know what I'm sayin'.
  
• On that same note, know how to put it down. Put. It. Down. The importance of this cannot be overstated.
  
• Be kind. Don't treat me like a child, but doing sweet things every so often will certainly be appreciated.
• Be honest. Don't lie to me, and don't hide things from me.
• Be ridiculously smart and interested in art and culture. Take me to museums and shows and stuff because you really want to go and not just because you know I want to.
• Have some sort of creative pursuit.
  
• Be a good writer.
• Delicately straddle that line between asshole and sweetheart: Be cocky, but don't be a douche. Be sweet, but don't be a pussy. It's true - no matter what girls say, they do want a guy who is sort of an asshole. Not one with a totally black heart, but a dark streak is a plus.
  
• Eat meat and cheese and stuff. Vegan schmegan. Ha that looks sort of like my name.
• Try to dance. Even if you can't, your attempts/humor about it will take you very, very far.
• Know how to dress and have a sense of style.
  
• Tattoos are welcomed.
• However, those with tribal tattoos need not apply.
• Must like cats and dogs and babies and children. Not because I have any of these things right now, but because - one day - I do want them.
  

Compensation is extremely generous. Namely, you get to spend time with me. Interested parties should contact me at 555-1234. Yeah, I have the same number as all those people in the movies! So awesome, right?

Also, you will notice that there is no mention of "good-looking" or even "ridiculously good-looking" on this list. I mean, I'm not shallow.


*hope for, in an imaginary world where perfect men exist

I've been in this relationship for like three years

I have a confession, dear readers. I've been in a secret relationship for several years now. It's kind of unconventional, and you might find it a little bizarre. But I don't care, because I'm totally in love and devoted to it. And next week, it all comes to a thrilling, beautiful, tear-jerking head. I challenge you to watch this without tearing up. You cannot do it.



It's a little bittersweet for me, because it makes me think of some memories I would rather push out of my head, but, ultimately, it will be a very happy day for me. I've loved Jim and Pam from the start, through all the hills and dips, and through two relationships of my own. The moral of their story: true love doesn't die. No matter how many other relationships (ahem, Karen and Roy) you beat it down with, over long periods of time and distance, true love lives on and wins out.

Maybe it makes me naive and childlike, but I still believe it. And I don't plan on ever stopping.

JAM 4EVER!!!1

The pen is mightier than the ... word?

I wrote this as a guest post for the lovely Jessie Rosen and her blog 20Nothings. You can see it here.

I'm not gonna lie: I'm quite the virgin when it comes to this whole "being single in the big city" thing. I've spent most of my (admittedly young) adult life in some form of committed relationship - running the modest gamut from being hardcore in love with my high school boyfriend to having an exclusive relationship based mostly on sex - and as such I've never been big into the bar/singles scene. I've met plenty of people in bars, but never gone home with anyone. In fact, I'd never even been to a bar by myself. Until last week.

I was trying to figure out my evening plans last week when I learned that all my friends already had other commitments. Left to my own devices, I normally just spend my evenings working out, making myself dinner (or ordering Chinese food, LBO) and watching TV online. (My Netflix account is tragically neglected.) But this particular day, I was feeling adventurous and empowered - it's the fucking dress, I swear to God - so I started Googling free stuff to do in New York. I stumbled onto Time Out New York's site, and at the top was a headline that read "5 Things To Do Today." Naturally, I clicked.

Second down on the list was a listing for something called a Quiet Party. Very intrigued, I read on and discovered that it's basically an event at a bar where people are not allowed to speak. You pay a minimal cover charge to get in, and you communicate with other people via writing notes. That's right - absolutely no talking allowed. Just like high school during the PSATs. Obvs I had to go. After work I stopped by the store to get some Jolly Ranchers to fold into the notes* of people I liked - on a ballsy tip from my host blogstress - then I headed uptown.

I felt amazingly confident as I made the trek to the bar. My high-heeled feet pounded the pavement, and I feared no one - not man nor woman nor empty bar. But as I crossed Sullivan and Thompson Street - ahhh only one block away now - a knot took hold in my stomach. Fuck, what am I doing? Who do I think I am? Going to a bar full of strangers by myself? What if no one "talks" to me? What if they're all fat/ugly/creepy? Or - GASP - old?!?

I took a deep breath, opened the front door and scaled the stairs into the room that had been reserved for the party. It was very - sigh, OK, obviously - quiet. I approached the bartender, whispered my drink order and took a seat. I sipped nervously as I watched people around me passing notes. The crowd was fairly attractive, but mostly older; probably late 20s and early 30s . People were snickering and giggling as sexy piano music tinkled out of the bar speakers. The wallpaper and lights were quite red, and the artwork on the walls complimented the music - think nudity, and lots of it.

The oldest guy in the bar - ugh, of course - approached me and handed me a note: This is sort of awkward isn't it?

Yeah, I wrote back. It's really... quiet. Hahaha. A truly brillz moment, self.

After this first note exchange - which stopped there - I no longer felt timid or nervous. Everyone was passing notes with everyone else - men with women, women with men, women with women - and everyone was smiling and laughing and seemed to be having a good, mostly innocent time. I jumped right in, walking across the room to deliver a note to the one guy I thought was remotely young and cute. He was sitting on a couch with another girl, and - figuring I may as well stick with the high school motif - I wrote, directly, Hi. Are y'all "together" together? He wrote back that they were not, and that I was welcome to join. I did, and minutes later the girl left to join another group of girls. Now it's just me and this strange dude on a couch, passing notes. OK, let's do this.

We exchanged - ha! literally! - pleasantries just like you would in a real bar. Only this time there was no yelling and I didn't have to pretend like I could hear him when really I couldn't. It was actually quite relaxing to be in a bar with minimal noise, almost like a yoga class or something. But better, because there's wine. Here's what I gathered from our wordless convo, annotated with a completely arbitrary points system.

Cute, nice eyes +15
Bald(ish) -3
Too short (the fucking story of my single life) -5
Smells good +8
Good handwriting +4
Nice and inquisitive +8
Slow handwriting, because he "hasn't written in a long time" -6
Tries to be funny... +5
... And fails -8
Composes hip-hop music... +15
... But only likes Jay-Z "OK" -10
Lives in Brooklyn... 0
... "Close" to his mom -10
Total: +13

After passing notes for a while, the novelty wore off and I was bored, hungry and freezing because the bar was so cold that all my creative juices had turned to glaciers. My brain was exhausted from trying to be charming, and I just felt like I was chatting on OKStupid with all these people, except in real life. I felt like there was an additional first step, and I wanted to use Ockham's razor (oh I went there) to cut out that unnecessary step and just talk to people with my actual voice. Because isn't that why we 20somethings gather in mass quantities in large, loud bars? So we can have amazing conversations and meet amazing, intelligent people, right? We ended up staying for about another hour after our stint on the couch, bouncing around the bar and passing notes with various randos, including a guy who asked me to write him a short story. When I did, he took my note and disappeared. Astorophobic, are we? Baffling.

I then suggested that +13 and I leave to get some food. I knew I wasn't that into him, but he seemed like a legitimately nice guy, and I've definitely split meals with worse, so I just decided to go for it. We talked over burritos a couple blocks from the bar, and it was actually one of the most pleasant "dates" - if you can really call it that - I've had thus far in this city. He was nice, he had good manners, and he could carry on a conversation without using terms such as "rad" and "get with it." We exchanged phone numbers and he called me a few days later - on a Friday night, is that kosher? - and left a very sweet voicemail that I have yet to return.

Bottom line: A quiet party is just like a regular night out at the bar, minus a few sweaty bodies and a lot of excess noise. It's novel and relaxing at first, then it just becomes boring and exhausting. As far as dating goes, if you're into someone, you just know it. Whether they are talking, yelling or saying nothing at all, if it's there, it's there - and if it's not, it's just not. So one's "success" rate at any party - quiet or raging - depends entirely on who else is there, no?

Now, what's the rule on returning the voicemails of someone you're not that into?


*The notes turned out to be miniature index cards, so I couldn't fold them, damn it!

A lesson in nobility, 2k9

Straight up: I don't have very many straight male friends, and I never really have. Throughout my life, I've probably had three *really good straight guy friends, and of those three, I've secretly had a crush on like two of them. Now, concerning the psychology behind this life pattern of mine, I don't really care/want to take the time to dissect what it says about my relationships with men. At least not on this blog, which includes posts about candlies, chairs and Gmail fails. (My life is so hard.)

Suffice it to say that, usually, I end up with crushes on the straight men I know, or vise versa. With the hope of objectively learning the inner workings of the straight male brain, I recently struck up an online friendship with a straight guy. We talk about dating, sex and relationships, with the strict goal of enlightening one another. Prior to this relationship, we only knew of each other through other people, and had never spoken. What follows is an actual conversation we had, enhanced with italicized commentary/inner monologue from yours truly.








Boy: Liked the falafel dating post
Me: hahaha
Thanks?
Boy: yeah it was pretty funny/heinous of that dude to act like that
Boy: This is about to get real ironical.
Me: oh it was hilarious
Boy: I paid $150 for a first date for a girl I hadn't even slept with
Boy: Aren't I a saint?
Boy: I miss dating
Boy: Siiiigh. Aren't I sweet?
Me: Awww, that's sweet.
Me: Go on a date!
Boy: Too busy though
Me: ah
Boy: Gotta focus on my shit
Me: I like dating, it's fun
Because even if it's a bad date and the guy's an idiot, I can blog about it and make it into something funny
So it's just material for me. hahaha
Me: I totally consider this fair warning.
Boy: I wish I had that outlook on dating
I just feel like its a waste of time unless I'm super interested
Boy: In other news, I'm bipolar.
Boy: I guess I don't want to pay for sex
Boy: Because it's illegal.
Boy: I could probably get that without having to buy more than a few drinks
I know that sounds cynical, but I just can't really wrap my head around it anymore
Me: wow
Me: SJKERHKWJH5KJK!!!03393939WKKKK?????
Boy: I feel like I have an extreme view of either wanting to force a connection or simply lie back and wait on it to happen. I don't want to explore connections and hope one works out
Boy: I'm lazy.
Boy: I can make friends pretty easily and I have too many friends as it is
Boy: Sigh. I don't want to work to fit new people into my busy sausage fest schedule, you know what I mean?
Boy: Sorry that sounded super arrogant. I mean more that I hate disappointing people and I feel like I'm constantly doing that by trying to meet all the demands in my life
Boy: MY LIFE IS SO HARD JUST LIKE HOLDEN CAULFIELD'S.
Me: It didn't sound arrogant, but it sounded really crude
I mean not the part about friends, the part about paying for sex
Me: Let me be frank.
Me: As if a girl going on a date with a guy and letting him pay is akin to prostitution
Boy: Not like that. I just mean that on my end (not the girl's, I'm talking about my motivation) if I'm not seeing much could come of any relationship I could probably see myself sleeping with her but obviously that would be somewhat crude and I don't want to be that person. Thus, I don't date much.
Boy: Sort of like Pavlov's Dogs, you know? I hear "date" and I get an uncontrollable erection... shit. Fuck.
Boy: B/c in a sense I would be paying for dinner in the hopes that she would sleep with me
Boy: FUCK.
Boy: But not be my friend or girlfriend or lover
Boy: OK, whew. It's gone now.
Boy: I think of it as an absurdist's nobility
Me: Let me be frank.
Me: I have no idea what any of that means
Boy: Shit. Unless I can really see all the trouble of dating being worth it (some form of relationship) then I go for it. If I did go on dates with women I was not that into (no form of relationship desired) then I would only be hoping to sleep with them. Thus I would feel like I was paying for sex.
Boy: Again, like SO totally illegal, right? Except for that rando place in Nevada or something?
Me: So dating is dead?
Like going on a date with someone you don't really know, just to get to know them and pursue any potential connection, is totally pointless?
Instead we have replaced it with getting drunk at a bar and going home and sleeping together
Like going on a date is no longer step one
It's only something you do if you *already feel a connection of some sort
Otherwise, you're only interested in fucking
Is that right?
Me: Pig.
Boy: That makes me sound like a huge pig. But I'm just saying, in my own personal world, I can get to know people without the social structure of a "date" (defined: special outing of two attracted parties). In the context of a date I assume something more romantic. If I want to get to know someone I talk to them wherever we are: supermarket, bookstore, outside of class.
Boy: So, unless you are a girl standing in my immediate vicinity... you know, shmeh.
Me: Well that's how you do things, and that is your choice, and I'm sure you will find a girl who is the same way and doesn't expect to be dated
Me: They're all in Williamsburg right now. Drunk.
Boy: I think going on a date is step 2. If that's what you're asking
sorry if that all sounded like bullshit
Me: I mean I guess it's just a difference of opinion
I'm not sure old-fashioned or anything like that
Me: I'm so upset right now I don't even know how to speak English.
Me: But I have to be honest and say that I hope there are still guys out there who think differently about it than what you just outlined
Because it's pretty depressing for me to think that a guy only wants to take me out on a date if he knows me already or he's hoping to get laid
Boy has signed off.
Me: Typical.

My old school costs more than your new school

I like to think of myself as a forward-thinking girl, progressive in most respects and generally left-leaning. I call myself a feminist, and I am now well on my way to being a completely independent woman. (I'm not gonna lie, my dad still pays my cell phone bill, but he worked for AT&T so he gets a discount that I wouldn't get on my own, OK?!!1) I pay for most everything else in my life; I work a full-time job and never expect anyone else to spot me when I go out. I cover my own shit, nomesayin? Unless, that is, I'm going on a date.

Yes, dear readers, I am slowly making my way back into the dating world. Shudder. Thus far my experiences have tended to fall on either end of the "should I pay or should I go" spectrum: guys either willingly pay for everything, or they pay for nothing. Maybe it's because I'm from the South, or just because I have an inflated sense of self, but it's just my base expectation that the guy will pay for me on the first date. (Editor's note: Lolz.) When I'm in a relationship, I have absolutely no problem going Dutch in most situations; when you do a lot of activities with one other person, it makes practical sense to split the cost most of the time. Right? I mean, we're all struggling artsy types in our 20s, right?

Well, some more than others, apparently. I kid you not, because you cannot make this shit up: a guy took me out last night** - to a falafel place - and he didn't offer to pay. Glancing over the menu quickly, I gathered that the most expensive item was a splurge at $5. Initially, because it was so cheap, I assumed he would pay; but it quickly became clear that he had no intentions of doing so. He made some recommendations about what was good on the menu - "You've never had this run-of-the-mill late-night street food?!! You haven't liiiiiiived." - and stepped up to the counter to order his food. I waited, very curious as to whether or not he would turn around to ask me what I wanted. He did not. I bought my own $4 dinner, which turned out to be overcooked falafel doused in way too much hummus and wrapped in a dry pita.





















I guess you get what you pay for, in food and in life. After a dinner worth a combined $8, we parted ways, and as I was exiting the train on my way home, I got a text from him - yes ladies, a text - that read, "What do you think? Want to go for round two?" Wait, I'm sorry. Are we boxing? I sent him a reply - polite as I could be - gently letting him know that there would be no round two. He never responded.

Here is my dilemma. Does this make me old school, and does this kid represent the new school? Does it make me a - GASP - non-feminist to expect a guy to pay for me on date one? And, most importantly, should I let go of the past and just accept that most guys in their 20s are either not willing or not able to splurge on my falafel? On some level, I feel like I just can't help myself - I like when guys pay. I like to feel like I'm doing them a favor by meeting with them at all - which, LBO - and that maybe they just owe me one. It's one thing if we're going out to an expensive restaurant, in which case I am more than happy to help fit the bill. But come on man. It's a fucking falafel.

Sigh. As Webbie once said, "You insane boy, you betta get some gotdamn change." And next time, I expect a freelafel.

**Said dinner took place after he showed up 30 minutes late because he was meditating. Yes, this is true. No, he did not apologize.

Breakthrough (Swear to God, last break-up post for a while)

I have spent my afternoon reading my new favorite blog, The Sassy Curmudgeon, and listening to Madonna's Like A Prayer on repeat.

Things you can take away from this: it's a slow afternoon at work, yes, but more importantly, I have had a breakthrough. I have let Andrew go.

I did this via a combination of learning from older mentors (aforementioned blog not excluded), the force of my own sheer will, and clever new break-up tactics such as writing a draft e-mail titled "(More than) 10 things I hate about you." The place in my heart I had reserved for missing him, longing for the past, hoping for things to work out between us - I took that place, emptied it out, and filled it with myself. And when I did, I found myself again. Just like that, I found the Meghan I lost when I entered into our relationship over a year ago. I saw my future, blurry still, but bright: me, laughing, writing, living my life in New York, my best friends, and the future (still mystery) man I will fall in love with completely and insanely, who will love every single crazy beautiful fucked-up part of me, who would rather die than live without me. I have no doubt that he exists, somewhere, and when I meet him I will probs just know it. Maybe not at first, because I am far too analytical for that bullshit, but, you know, eventually.

Until then, as of right now, I can honestly say: I live in my dream city, work my age-23 dream job, I have the best friends in the world, and I love my (newly rediscovered) self. This is not me trying to reassure myself that my life is good *enough without a boyfriend; this is me just simply stating that my life is amazing, period. And I'm so thankful.

Also, I challenge you to listen to "Like A Prayer" without bouncing around like someone who forgot she is in public. It is impossible.



PS, On a not-entirely-unrelated note, Britney was epic last night.

Your girl is lovely, Hubbell

Dear Meghan,

You know I loved you, right? I really loved you. When it was good between us, it was really (pause for emphasis) good. We had something really special, and there were times when I thought you were perfect for me. But it just got way too hard. I just think that when you meet the person you're supposed to end up with, it's not that hard. Things were so hard between us... we've done this breakup thing one too many times, and I just can't do it anymore. I've met someone who's interested in me, and I'm interested in her. We're not "dating." We went on one date, and we'll probably go on another date. But this isn't about her... it's about you and me, and the difficulties we encountered in our relationship. I just don't think I can love you the way I did anymore. I loved you so much, and those memories we shared will always be special to me, and I'll never doubt how much I loved you. But I don't love you, not like that, anymore.

But I don't love you like that anymore
But I don't love you like that
But I don't love you like
But I don't love you
But I don't love
But I don't
But I
But

Love,

J
D
Andrew

This is your brain on breakup

What have you done? Maybe you're a fucking idiot. A is the perfect man. Short of being gay, he really is the perfect man, which makes him even more perfect because he also happens to like vadge. He's kind, he's thoughtful, he's funny, he's cute, he's in shape. He has a good job, good friends, a good life. He loves his family, really respects women, he's romantic. Remember that time he got you the best gift you ever got from a guy? Valentine's Day? He knows how to take care of himself, a rare quality in men. He is well-groomed. He made mistakes but they were all pretty honest. What are you doing?

Are you making a mistake? Why couldn't it have worked out? What if we had lived in the same city? Maybe you're just scared because he is *too perfect for you, too close to the ideal. Or maybe he's just good on paper guy and you are making the right decision. Why don't you know what you want? Why are you so fucking fickle? BLAHHHHH.

Time will tell. Time will tell. Just be patient and let him go and see what happens after some time passes. It will get better. You will be fine. Calm down. Ugh why do you suck so much? Why are you even focusing on this? Your life in New York is awesome, and you are doing exactly what you moved to this city to do. You have a great job, great friends, a great apartment, supportive family. You have everything you could ever want at age 23. So shut the fuck up and focus on something else. Write. Blog. Focus on your job.

That's it, maybe you're just completely focused on the wrong things. Who cares about boys and being in love and relationships? It's not like you went to school for 16 years so you could start a career in being a good girlfriend. Why do people even want to be in relationships? What's the point? You should just be pouring all your energy into making the life for yourself that you always wanted. Make yourself a writer, editor. Read some good books. Meet a lot of new people. Yeah, you'll be fine. You don't need anyone. Nothing is missing.

But his crooked smile. His eyes. The way he talked with his hands. His voice. His laugh.

Ugh, fucker.