Monthly Archives: September 2011

Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 4

Girl walks into a bar…

She leaves with the big question, “Was that guy drunk or just socially awkward?”

I occasionally will stop at a random Pub on my way home from an outing.  I don’t think this is strange, but apparently everyone else does.  Each time I decide to do this, I get roughly five minutes with myself and my beer, before some guy or guys decide to strike up a conversation by stating how unusual it is to see a girl at a bar by herself.  How am I supposed to respond to that?  “Oh, cool.”?

Caitlin Rule: Do not attempt to start a conversation with a line that is difficult to respond to.

The strangers that I really love talking to, are the ones that are slightly socially awkward, but not enough to where  you are unable to hold a conversation with him.  I can handle socially awkward men, but for some reason socially awkward women freak me out.  Anyway, I met one of these guys last week.

I had been moderately flirting with the bartender since I arrived.  She was giving me the eyes, and I wasn’t sure if it was genuine, or if it was just the, “bartender way.”  Bartender’s will flirt with her:

if it means getting a good tip.  I usually have pretty good “gaydar,” but the red lights didn’t flash when I saw her.  You never know in Los Angeles though.  As the night progressed, it became very clear that my gaydar was off, and she was into me.

This pale, skinny kid takes a seat next to me.  We exchanged MAYBE four sentences, and then he moves around in his seat and exclaims, “I’m so anxious right now.”

I just started laughing, I couldn’t help it.  Social awkwardness at its best.  I knew I was going to like him.  Obviously, I asked why, and he just said he didn’t know, followed by more fidgeting in his seat.  I made some joke, and he then, making fun of himself, yelled across the bar (way too loud of course) for a paper bag.  We kept talking and he kept sharing too much information, like socially awkward people do, and saying inappropriate things, which socially awkward people do.  I was loving it.  It’s refreshing when compared to typical, humdrum small talk.

It was my time to leave, and the bartender slipped me her card, which I didn’t even ask for… I must have been on my game.  This cute moment was quickly interrupted by socially awkward boy saying, “Wait, are you gay?”

Again, I just started laughing.  Who asks that after only a ten minute conversation?  I love this kid!  “You’re not allowed to ask that until at least conversation number two,” I said joking around.

He then began harassing her, asking if she was gay and making conclusions.  I was still laughing, but she was obviously annoyed.  He apparently is a regular there, so she has to deal with him all the time as a customer, and not as the entertaining kid I got to experience.  I ended up answering him honestly, responding with, “Occasionally.”

To top off his lack of interpersonal skills, he then pulled out his card, right in front of the bartender, and gave it to me.  Did I just get two numbers in four seconds that are now in competition with each other?  What made it all even more perfect, was that his card was a GUCCI card.  He’s a sales associate as GUCCI.  So brilliant.

I called the bartender and we got together a few nights later.  I may have Matthew, the socially awkward Gucci worker, to thank for my steamy (such a Cosmopolitan adjective) night with her, because asking her the question, “So was that kid drunk or just socially awkward,” was the ice breaker that really got the evening going.  I do hope to have Matthew as a drinking buddy again sometime soon though!

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Texting is Not Real Life

Text message I just received from a boy:  “So can we hang out sometime?”

I don’t know what this means.  I think you just asked me out on a date by way of texting, which could not make you look more like a pussy.  This is a major “Caitlin fowl.”  Boys, after receiving a girl’s number, please for the love of God, call her, do not text.  It’s sad to say, but nowadays, it is a huge turn-on when a boy has the balls to make the first attempt at communication (since the awkward phone number exchange) with a real life, real-time, heart-racing phone call.

Caitlin Rule:  Texting is not real life.

So close your eyes, concentrate, and find your inner teenager, back before texting was running rampant and you still had to ask out girls to their face or by calling their house.  Then embrace the butterflies, and make the call.  Congratulations!  You’re already one step closer to getting laid.

Texting is acceptable only AFTER the first hang out session.  The day after the “first date,” assuming it went well, I would recommend a simple text stating, “Thinking of you.”  This will definitely get you laid.  You’re welcome.

Needless to say, the, “so can we hang out sometime,” boy is still waiting for a response.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 3

I am the Queen of emotional cheating.  I’ve participated in such sins while I was the one in the relationship, and I’ve done it with people who were/are in a relationship.  I will use my friend Kyle as an example.  Him and I met our freshman year of college, and about two hours after being introduced, he asked me to marry him.  Of course, he was kidding, it was part of some lighthearted flirting.  I mentioned that I like hockey and some band, and he responded with, “Can we get married?”

The point is, we had an immediate connection.  At the time, I didn’t realize how precious that was.  When we’re young, and constantly meeting so many people, I think most of us believe that there will be many people with whom to share that connection with.  The older I get the more I believe it only truly happens a few times.  I digress.  Kyle had a girlfriend and they were doing the whole long distance relationship disaster thing.  We were in Savannah, Georgia where we went to art school, and she was in Connecticut.  Lighthearted flirting between Kyle and I led to serious flirting, which led to physical flirting, which led to… this situation fucking blows.

We were very open about our feelings for one another, and discussed our predicament frequently.  To make matters worse, we could not keep our hands off of each other.  While he never “technically” cheated on her because we did not kiss, we laid on the same bed together, he would occasionally spend the night, we watched movies together, we kissed each other’s foreheads, we played with each other’s hands, which I like to call “hand sex,” and we friggen talked about how badly we wanted one another.  This brings me to the question of, is emotional cheating worse than actual cheating, and where is the line drawn?

I believe that cheating is defined by anything that one would not do with a platonic friend.  I would not have hand sex and cuddle with a platonic friend, so in my mind, Kyle cheated on his girlfriend.  I don’t care if we didn’t kiss.  If I saw my boyfriend doing those same acts with another girl, I would absolutely accuse him of cheating.  I suppose Kyle does deserve credit for holding back and not jumping on me.  I was for sure not the one trying to stop it.  I would have slept with him in a heartbeat, and he knew it.  So in all fairness, that does say something about his character.

For hypothetical purposes, lets take-away all of the physical elements from the equation.  This leaves us with two people who are falling in love with each other while one of them is in a relationship.  This is emotional cheating, and I believe that in most cases, it is worse than physical cheating.  To be perfectly honest, if I were in a relationship with someone who was falling for someone else, even if they never touched, I would be much more heartbroken over that, than if my significant other got drunk one night and hooked up with a random person.

Three relationships and five years later, Kyle and I are still doing the same bullshit.  Since that first girlfriend, he has been in two other long-term relationships, including the one he is in presently.  There was a small, sliver of time when we were both single and both in the same city, so we were able to finally release some of that built-up sexual tension, which I will say, was one of the hottest nights of my life, but it was only one night and I won’t get into why it couldn’t last.  I live in Los Angeles now, and he lives in Connecticut, so there is no more physical cheating happening, but the emotional cheating is still running rampant.  We’ve had “down times” in the past five years, but this is not one of those times.  No matter how hard we try to keep the conversation appropriate, it almost always ends with confessions of how much we miss/want one another.  I know, I’m going to hell.

What do you consider cheating, and which is worse, emotional cheating or physical?

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To Whom it May Concern:

You are not cool because you took “the 5,” and not, “the 101.”   I have been in Los Angeles for about ten weeks now, and in a city full of pretentious behavior, the one that so far annoys me the most, is the insipid declarations of how well one knows their way around the city.  Apparently, it is considered “cool” to understand the inner workings of the LA freeway system.  I have been to many places, but only in LA do people attempt to one-up each other with knowledge and reasons as to why they took the route that they did, to get to the destination that we are now all at, only to be subjected to this oh so stimulating conversation.  Of course, it’s mostly women who engage in such embarrassing conduct, but the occasional man is guilty of this “Caitlin fowl.”  Like spilling beer is a party fowl, bragging about how you anticipated the 405’s jam-up, is a Caitlin fowl.

In the rest of the country, we call these roads, “I (insert number here).”  I-95, I-10, I-75, etc.  Well my friends, this is an “LA fowl.”   Don’t you know it’s THE 10, THE 5, THE 405, you idiot?  How dare you say, “I” and not “the.”  Possibly being the last person in LA to not have a smart phone or a GPS,  I have no qualms with admitting to a crowd that I need directions.  When this happens, it looks like something from National Geographic.  Girls flock to me like mammals in heat, and take the opportunity to prove their worth by bantering back and forth about the appropriate route I should be taking to get home.  So I leave you again with this… you are not cool because you took “the 5,” and not, “the 101,” you just sound like a douche bag.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 2

Foot job?  Footjob?  Foot-job?  I’ll go with, “foot job.”

I have a friend, well, an old friend now, since the events I am about to confess took place.   For the sake of anonymity, I will call him TW.  TW has a foot fetish.  He is very candid about this fetish, and has no qualms with openly discussing it with strangers or at the dinner table.  Somehow, because of his charm and sense of humor I suppose, no one is disturbed by this fetish or his recounts of correlating events (musicians can get away with anything).  I even participated in the lighthearted discussions, and on the night of December 23, 2010, at a Christmas party, all in good faith, I asked him how in the hell a foot job is done.  This my friends, was the first mistake of a very long night.

I went to the party with a girl who we will call, H.  Most of the time I am straight, but occasionally I stray and H was one of these victims.  At the time, her and I had neither acted on, nor spoke of any feelings between us, but as much as she may dispute this, we knew what was on each others minds.

Like many eventful nights, this one started with alcohol.  A few drinks in, and I ask TW the question that should have been accompanied by loud thunder and a lightning strike to foreshadow my approaching onslaught.  Obviously excited by my curiosity, TW brings me into the bathroom to perform a demonstration.  We were accompanied by H, and TW’s girlfriend, a free-spirit who is clearly damaged, like most beautiful girls are, but more lovable than anything else.  As the two girls giggle off to the side, TW sits me onto the toilet, gets down on his knees and extends his forearm with his hand fisted.  Yes, his forearm was a simulation of a penis.  Before my brain had caught up to what the hell was going on, he had already flung my shoes off and started his demo.  While this probably sounds like odd behavior, TW and I have known each other since we were fifteen, and our entire circle of friends are very close and very… candid with one another.  So my feet being cupped around TW’s pretend dick, was not as unforeseen as one may imagine.

I always assumed that a foot job would be done with one foot, rubbing it against the man’s body.  Nope.  To my surprise, during a foot job you use both feet, and cup them around the penis, simulating the shape of a vagina… I guess.  Talk about a foot cramp.  It was an enlightening demonstration, slightly embarrassing because of my gross dancer’s feet, but I figured he, of all people, would embrace such characteristics, and we all headed out of the bathroom.  What started as a night of innocent holiday fun however, did not end as such.

Skipping ahead to now several drinks later, H and I are in the bathroom, (classy, I know) mauling each other for a second time that night.  First base led to second base which led to a fucking knock on the door and TW’s voice.  Of course.  A man to ruin the mood.  He guessed what was going on,  “Come on girls… let me in.”

We laughed, quickly assembled ourselves and opened the door.  What was said is very foggy, but I know we were all mostly laughing… joking… then left the bathroom.  TW and his girlfriend obviously thought that they could witness some girl on girl action, but H and I were not interested in including anyone else in our affairs.  A couple more drinks after that, and it was time to leave.  TW offered to drive H and I back to my house because I had no business getting behind the wheel.  Accepting his offer was my second big mistake of a very long night.

H and I are in the backseat, completely unaware of our route.  The car stops, we exit, only to find that we are not at all at my house.  We are at TW’s girlfriend’s house, who we will now call, Sibyl.  Being the drunk retards that we were, H and I entered the house despite our internal creepy meters flashing red.  We discover that Sibyl’s room is a mattress on a floor, and a record player.  That’s it.  It screams sex pad… but we went in.  Third big mistake.  Next thing I remember is being on top of H mauling again, and then realizing that TW and Sibyl were only a foot away from us in the same bed, acting out their mutual lust for each other.  I knew it was time for an inner pep talk,

“Concentrate.  Just think sober for a second, Caitlin.  Think sober.” I thought to myself.

I did truly care for this girl and I did not want anyone taking advantage of her, including myself, so I backed off and whispered in her ear, “Do you want to go?”

She replied with a yes, so I helped her up and we told TW we were leaving.

“Oh yeah?  How are you getting home?”

Fuck!  Being the drunk retards that we were, we forgot that he drove us!  This is when things got uncomfortable.  TW was my friend, so I was completely taken off guard by his shortness and blatant disregard for my feelings.  If I was some bimbo he picked up at a bar, his behavior would be more understandable, but we had history.  His passive aggressive refusal to drive us back pissed me off, but finding my inner “girl power” proved to be difficult because the kind of confrontation it would have required to call him out on being such a douche bag, was not something I was prepared for.  Like I said, he was an old friend of mine and creating tension between us was not something I took lightly.  So what did I do?  I held her hand and called my 911, my best friend, Lance to pick us up.

No answer.  We sat back down.  While I was absolutely drunk, H was much more.  TW and Sibyl crawled over to her and together, with the grace of friggen Vicomte de Valmont, they started to undress her.  H, being almost catatonic, could not defend herself, and I had no idea if she wanted to be saved, or if it was even my place to “save her.”  But I did.  Somehow I was able to successfully switch the attention over to Sibyl, (do not ask how I managed this) whose shirt was now off, and TW and H were rubbing her breasts as if they were petting a cute puppy or on ecstasy or something.  Sibyl giggled and put her hands over her face as I sat there feeling like I was watching The Garden of Earthly Delights come to life.  Clearly, TW and Sibyl were looking for some kind of foursome, but I had no interest in such activities and was not willing to further corrupt H.

One pee break later, where Sibyl and I shared a toilet seat (why?), and two more grope-fests after that, I witnessed the foot job.  H and I were on the bed with our foreheads practically sewn together because we wanted our body language to clearly display our unwillingness to participate in “group activities.”  I heard some suspicious sounds, and an odd shape out of the corner of my eye, but I did not want to look.  I then felt H’s leg moving…  Oh no.  I took a deep breath and looked.  TW was lied out with his erect penis for all to see, and propping himself up on his elbows as he watched topless Sibyl give him a foot job and as he used H’s foot as a “helper.”  Not until the next day did I realize the severity of what he had done.  It was not okay and one of the reasons he is no longer a friend of mine. I quickly pulled her leg away and scolded her for letting it happen.  She was in no state to reason, and I was in no state to problem-solve.

Back to the foot job. The top half of Sibyl’s body was hanging off of the mattress as she moaned and moved her cupped feet up and down.  My thoughts were on the extensive amount of muscular exertion it took for her to perform such an act.  There is no position to be in other than awkwardly facing each other from several feet away, her legs spread making a diamond shape, and using abdominal muscles, inner and outer thigh muscles and gluteal muscles in order to move both legs, the heaviest part of your body, up and down.  It looked like she was doing a pilates exercise.

H and I continued to smash our foreheads together, pretending like we weren’t waiting anxiously for his climactic moment so that we could get the hell out of there…  and finally.

They walk out of the room to clean-up I imagine, and this ordinary action ended up being the most hilarious part of the night.  Sibyl was walking on the outer-part of her feet, as one might do if walking bare-foot on hot pavement.  Witnessing this hysterical attempt at not tracking boy juice through the room almost made the traumatizing events leading up to it worth it.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 1

All I wanted to do that night was drink massive amounts of alcohol that would put even Bukowski to shame, and hook up with Luke Taylor.  Earlier that week I had fended off a roommate whom I had mistakenly went to first base with (but that’s another story), had been hit on by my boss (yes, another story to come) and quit a job I had not even started yet (one not so very interesting story).  Making bad decisions with Luke Taylor, the boy with the hot name, sounded like the perfect antidote to my vile week.

The red dot had other plans for me, however.  Remember those disgusting tampon commercials about seven years ago that represented a woman’s period with a fat red dot on a white screen?

A lovely girl, strolling along the beach with her curly locks blowing in the breeze, giggling as she sips on a fruity drink and gazes on at the dolphins playing in the waves, then…

BAM!  Red dot, white screen.  Her period.

I used to laugh and roll my eyes at those obnoxious commercials.  Now, I feel for that curly-haired girl because my period came and fucked up my whole day too.  Only hours before I was to hang out with Luke Taylor, my red dot came.  All I wanted to do that night was drink massive amounts of alcohol and hook up with the boy with the hot name.  In an effort to not come across like I objectify men, I will digress and say, he is the only person I have met so far in Los Angeles who is, 1. Normal.  2. Not an actor (you can’t trust those).  3. Did not attempt to name drop at the first available opportunity and 4. Made me laugh.

Despite my vagina bleeding, I still shaved my legs and made attempts at looking attractive.  Now, I will fast-forward through the flirty parts, and bring us to later that night, after large quantities of alcohol had been consumed by both parties.  I was too drunk to drive home, and Luke Taylor, being a nice young man, offered to let me stay over.  Don’t roll your eyes, I know he was probably more concerned with his penis than he was my safety, but he is sweet and disguised that well.  Luke and I met on a film set where we did the whole, flirt all day, make cute eye-contact and then exchange numbers awkwardly at the end of the night thing.  This was the first time we had hung out since that day.  I was not expecting to be spending the night out anywhere, so I did not bring an extra tampon.  Luckily, my period is always very light, so the fear of leaking through has never been a concern of mine.

A good twenty minutes into a hot make-out session, it came to the point where we were either going to bring things below the belt, or not.  Though I have had my period for eleven years now (don’t bother guessing, I’m twenty-five), I still am sufficiently grossed out by the thought of clumpy blood mixed with vaginal discharge flowing out of the female body.  I absolutely do not participate in any type of below-the-belt act while I am on my period.  I know I am speaking of it freely here, but I do find periods to be embarrassing and avoid telling a boy that I am on mine at all costs.  As Luke Taylor’s hands reached for my belt buckle, my hand’s intercepted. A short look, then from my lips,

“So…. I uh-”

“Are you about to ask me if I have a STD?” he said.

That’s when I knew I liked this guy.  I laughed and said no, though it’s mildly disturbing that this was not even a little bit on my mind.  Quickly, he came back with,

“You’re on your period.”

I forced out some kind of sound that resembled a yes, and then we continued with our intense making-out which included straddling him, shirts coming off, dry humping and all of the other embarrassing foreplay activities.

The next morning, we did all of the necessary post-hook-up duties… cuddling, complimenting and caressing which took up about fifteen minutes… then I left.  Not until I got home did I realize I had fucking bled through.  Of course.  The icing.  No, the period itself was the icing.  This was those little bullshit flowers on top of the cake that are inedible.  I spent the next two days freaking out that I had possibly perioded on Luke Taylor’s bed sheets.  Figuring out at what time during the night the leaking took place was vital, but I was drunk, and mental backtracking through pee breaks I had taken was not jarring any memories.  I went to the physical evidence… the pants.  I examined the blood stain and let out a sigh of relief when I concluded that there was not enough to have dripped through the denim and onto the sheets.

Then, the flashback of myself straddling Luke Taylor came flooding in, drowning me.  What if I had perioded on him?  My crotch was absolutely rubbing up against his and all I could see was him getting up in the morning after I had left, to the fat red dot on his white boxers.  Ew.  So what did I do?  I called my 911, my best friend, Lance.  Lance is fucking annoying when it comes to periods because he is not grossed-out by them at all.  I suppose it’s safe to say that he and I are on total opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to vaginal bleeding.  I wanted him to tell me that if in fact I had bled on, or around Luke Taylor, that this boy with the hot name would simply never call me again.  That sounded fair.  A girl periods on your bed on the first date, and you never contact her again.  I was cool with that.  Unfortunately, Lance informed me that if it had happened to him, he would have probably just ignored it, washed the sheets/boxers and still called the girl again, assuming he had a good time with her.  This is not what I wanted to hear because then how could I ever be sure if it had actually happened or if I was just being paranoid?

I’ll save you from the suspense.  It has been a few weeks since the incident, and I am still not positive if I did in fact period on, or around Luke Taylor.  I have hung out with him a few times since, and I am 95% sure that I did not, and here is why.  Lance is my age, 25, but Luke Taylor is only 22.  In a lot of ways, this means nothing, but in a few ways, it means enough.  When I was 22, boys my age were equally as repulsed by periods as I am.  Now at 25, I’ve noticed that the boys simply don’t care anymore.  They claim that they’ll just put a towel down and go to work.

The difference between 25 and 22 also becomes apparent during/after a blow-job.  I have found that the 22-year-old’s are still very apprehensive about their own cum.  They warn you about its approach which, I guess I appreciated when I was 18 because I participated in that awkward pull away thing where you finished him by jacking him off, or even worse, he finished himself with the last few strokes, because the thought of semen in your mouth was terrifying… but we grow out of that.  Once the semen is in fact in my mouth, I spit.  A 22-year-old will not want to kiss you again until the next day, even if you do brush your teeth.  A 25-year-old does not give a shit anymore, and will kiss you as long as you don’t have cum dripping down your chin.  So that was my clue that I did not period on Luke Taylor.

I went down on him about two weeks after the possible “incident,” and he absolutely played the role of the 22-year-old, warning me, and then even going as far as throwing away the glass cup I spit into instead of just washing it.  This leads me to the conclusion that he would have also played the role of the 22-year-old in the period situation, being disgusted by it and never speaking to me again.  So my friends, I am happy to have reached the verdict that I was simply being paranoid, and did not period on, or around Luke Taylor, the boy with the hot name.

However, one never knows for sure, and I have many more tales to tell.

Please feel free to share any embarrassing period stories you may have.

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Some of My Rules to Live By

  • Always carry a toolbox in your trunk.
  • Don’t sleep with someone you might not be talking to in a month.
  • Own a great stereo system.
  • Listen to full albums, not just songs.
  • Don’t boo.  Not even at the ref.
  • Meet your neighbors.
  • In disagreements, don’t dredge up the past.
  • Get over being a germaphobe.
  • Let your kids believe in magic.
  • Pretend to be brave, even when you’re not.
  • Spend your money on experiences, not things.
  • Buy the orange properties in Monopoly.
  • Eat mostly what comes from the ground.
  • Defend people you care about.  It’s the most powerful expression of love and respect.
  • Remember names when being introduced.
  • Go see live music and support your local music scene.
  • Never question someone’s tattoo.
  • Chew with your mouth shut.
  • Put 10% of every paycheck into your savings account.  Just do it.
  • Listen, instead of always waiting for your turn to speak.
  • Learn how to learn.
  • Keep secrets.
  • Take the stairs.  Elevators are for suckers.
  • Begin each day with a happy song.
  • Acknowledge the person you’re walking past on the street, even if it’s just with a head nod.
  • Don’t be a slave to your phone.  Learn cell phone etiquette.  The person in front of you should always be the first priority.
  • Give.
  • Never underestimate the sex appeal of jeans and a plain t-shirt.
  • Remember the people from your past, but forgive yourself, and each other for growing up.
  • Immerse yourself in art.
  • Never sign for certified mail.  Nine times out of ten it will get you in trouble.
  • Put your cart away at the grocery store.
  • Never use the word fagg_ _.  It’s the most offensive word in the English language and it was only funny in The Hangover.
  • Play in the rain.
  • Remember that you’re only as happy as you try to be.
  • Pay the toll for the car behind you.  Unless you’re in New Jersey where there’s a toll booth every fifteen feet and they’re $6 each.
  • Embrace your vices, it’s fun.  Just do it in a non self-destructive way.
  • Girls, don’t be afraid of getting your hair wet at the beach/pool.
  • Love wholly.  Having “your guard” up is lame.
  • Don’t judge what you don’t understand.
  • Never lie to your doctor.
  • Treat the garbage man the same way you would the Queen of England.
  • Don’t be afraid to do things alone.
  • Respect the person you’re kissing.  Put your hand on their chest and feel his/her heartbeat.
  • Listen to NPR.
  • A handshake beats an autograph.
  • Get out of your car and knock on the door instead of calling to tell someone that you’re there.
  • Don’t litter, you prick.
  • Refrain from annihilating the English language.
  • Remember that a healthy relationship is wanting the person you’re with, not needing them.
  • Return all things you’ve borrowed.
  • Always have at least one plant to take care of.
  • Brain sex is the best form of foreplay.
  • Stop buying stuff you don’t need.
  • Give people chances.
  • Give everyone the time of day.
  • Just be nice.
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Never Date a Writer

Never date a writer.  She’ll tell you tales of intrigue and heartache, filled with clever parallels and euphemisms, but somehow by the end of it, she will feel further away.  She’ll creep into your soul and tell you she loves you, a love will last “‘til Kingdom come,” she’ll whisper.  She might even compare the two of you to one of the greats, like Catherine and Heathcliff, “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same,”  but somehow she’ll say all of this in monotone and without ever meeting your eyes.  Don’t worry though my friend, you won’t notice it at the time.

Never date a writer because she’ll always say what she knows you want to hear.  She may even say it in iambic pentameter, or throw in a subtle rhyme.  Then when your head is easy with her words of serenity, she’ll be saying the same thing to the boy down the street with the scar over his eye.  Or the boy with the Vonnegut quote tattooed on his arm.  Or maybe even that mysterious boy from Liechtenstein.

Never date a writer because she will always know more than you.  During your intimate moments of idea exchanges and song meaning theories, if you look closely, she’ll be biting her tongue while you’re declaring your impressive theories.  Don’t you know?  She has already thought of that one, you fool.  But do not worry, she’ll disguise her patronizing with a warm smile and a sweet sigh.

Never date a writer because she will write about you.  She’ll write about the time you built her the canopy for her bed that she never got to have as a kid, and the time you wrote her a song.  She’ll even write about the time you had a fight out on the balcony when her make-up was only half done and one of the Christmas lights was burnt out.  She’ll call that irony of course.  Somehow your broken heart will lead to another’s favorite lyrical.  And she’ll definitely write about the time you forgot to pick her up from the airport.

What she won’t write about is how you didn’t forget.  How everyday you couldn’t wait for her to get home.  How you left the porch light on each night in case she decided to surprise you and come back early.  She won’t write about how that day your car broke down on the way to pick her up, but you had no money for a cab because you spent your last dime on an engagement ring for her.  Of course you didn’t tell her any of this once she started speaking to you again, because you were embarrassed.  She won’t write about how in a hurry to scramble together enough money for a taxi, you pawned that watch your Dad gave you when he finally declared you “a man.”  And she definitely won’t write about how when you finally got to the airport and found her not there, you cried, as a man, for the first time.

She won’t write about how she was the only person you couldn’t wait to talk to everyday.  Not even the times you kissed her forehead while she was sleeping or kept smiling after she turned away.  She won’t write about how you planned to propose to her one night under that canopy you made for her.  Five times you hid the ring under the pillow and opened the windows in that bedroom because you knew she’d appreciate the gentle whispering of the wind, maybe she’d even write about it, you thought.  But she won’t.  She won’t because all five times she felt far away.  Her voice was monotone and her eyes never met yours.  She kept biting her tongue and breathing a sweet sigh, so you never proposed to her any of those long nights.

Never date a writer because you’ll never be Heathcliff.  You’ll never be Rochester or Romeo or Mr. Darcy or even the man from that story by O. Henry, who sells his watch to buy his wife those combs.  Maybe, if you could remember his name, she’d love you all the way.  So never fall in love with a writer, because she’ll never fall in love with you the same way.

Also see, Never Date a Musician.

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