Category Archives: Heedless Sinner

Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 17

I had a purge day.  A purge day according to me, is when I realize the absurdity of “dating” a handful of people, and decide to purge out all of the non-essentials from my life in a single 24 hour period.  It’s just like when you eat too much cake and ice cream.  At first, it’s delicious and even though you know it’s bad for you, you just don’t care.  Then you embrace it for a moment.  Then you get uncomfortably full, and you’re sighing and wondering how and why you put yourself through that.  Then, you feel the sudden need to barf it all out.  You know that the process of throwing up will suck, but once you get it all out of you, you will feel much better.  Now replace too much cake and ice cream with too many boys, and that’s where I was.  I have plenty of stories about purge days, but I’ll save those for another time.  The reason I brought this up, was to inform you, the reader, that I am no longer trying to balance a million boys in my life.  I got rid of the ones whose time and energy I was wasting.  So the boy that I’m about to discuss, is in the past.  I considered skipping over this one, but I think the conclusion of it is important, and something we should all consider.

I see more and more interracial dating and I think it’s fucking fantastic.  I’m a huge advocate for dating someone who is completely different from you whether it’s religion, culture or race.

A few weeks ago I had a dinner date with thug boy.  I call him thug boy because he absolutely looks like a drug dealer.  I most certainly inform him of this notion each time I see him.  It’s still up in the air as to if he actually is a drug dealer or not.  I met him at a dive bar where I was by myself, bumming a cigarette off of a bum (not kidding), drinking Budweiser bottles and whiskey and pounding out a five paragraph essay for my Muslim co-workers.  My thesis was that pigs in their natural state are not any more or less “unclean” than any other meat.  If you’d like more information on that topic, I’ll send you my essay!  I’m not sure why I was wasting my time on this because they can’t exactly read English.  I’m just addicted to useless knowledge.  Anyway, the thug walked right up to me and my brightly lit laptop and asked me if he could buy me a drink.  I had about eight ounces of whiskey still in my glass (this bar does not fuck around with pours), so I was definitely good on the drinks for at least another paragraph.

To be perfectly honest, in the first couple of seconds I did kind of blow him off.  I was in the writing zone and I was just not trying to talk to anyone that night.  I even wore my hat, which I do when I haven’t washed my hair in a week.  Also, I am convinced that my hair is the only reason why boys initially think that they like me, so my theory is that if it’s semi covered, they won’t try to hit on me.  A few seconds later though, and he had my mild attention.  Mostly because he took the rejection the way that men should.  I told him that I’m good on a drink for now, and that I’m just trying to get some work done.  He said that he hopes I have a successful night writing, and that if I would like to have another drink, it’s on him, and then he walked away to go finish up his pool game and smoke black & milds.

He was perfectly polite and didn’t say something fucking stupid like, “I’d like to see that beautiful smile more,” or “You sure, girl?  I could help you with your writing,” so I was intrigued.  Those are the lame lines I’m used to getting.  Still, I let him walk away and I finished up my essay and then just sipped the remainder of my whiskey and wondered why it’s Swiss guards that guard the Vatican.  That can be my next essay.  I packed up my backpack and was mentally committed to leaving, but thug boy was right at my twelve o’ clock, so I felt compelled to say hi/bye.  I walked over to him and of course it didn’t turn into a goodbye.  It turned into a fun twenty minute conversation where we laughed about how my wallet looks like it belongs to a Grandpa, and how Patron is for posers.

Then he asked me the inevitable question… “do you date black guys?”

I can depend on getting that question from just about every black guy who hits on me.  It’s not so much sad to me as it is just utterly baffling!  Maybe if we were living in backward town Mississippi, I would understand that question, but not here, in Tampa, Florida amongst young people!  Apparently though, plenty of girls do say that no, they don’t date black guys.  What the fuck.  What in the hell is wrong with everyone?  First of all, don’t you people know that mixed babies are the prettiest!  I take that as an evolutionary sign that races are intended to mix.  They take on the best genes of both races.  Shit, I would consider mixed people the elite!

When I ask the black boys that I date if they are offended when girls say no they don’t date black guys, they tell me that “No, it’s cool.”  What?!  No it’s not fucking cool and I’m not sure that I believe them that they’re not offended.  With that being said, I understand not being able to grow in a relationship due to cultural differences.  For example, the thug boy grew up in the projects, and I see how having a boyfriend who grew up so differently than me, would most likely leave us with difficulties being able to relate to one another.  It’s not because he’s black, it’s because it would be hard to understand each other in the long run.  Just as it would be difficult to relate to a white guy who grew up golfing and with a Senator for a father.  However, we should all still try!  This is the answer to world peace… understanding each other.  The same applies for any cultures.  I love dating people who are completely different from me, because you end up bonding over your differences instead of your similarities and that can be a very fun and ultimately mind-expanding experience.

On our first date, I was laughing when he was rolling his eyes because the only Drake song I know is that one from years ago called Take Care which features Rihanna.  He said, “Oh man, I’m going to have my hands full with how white you are.”  I punched his arm and stated, “I looked like such a fucking hipster with that stupid floppy beanie on the night we met!  You knew exactly what you were approaching!”  He laughed and agreed and then said something about “black culture” at the same time that he refused to let me open the restaurant door.  Not because I’m a lady, but because of germs, to which I shouted, “Now THAT is a black culture thing!  You guys are all germaphobes!”  He almost spit out his chocolate milk (which he made a special trip to a corner store for) laughing. I totally stand by that claim by the way.  Most black people I know are weird about germs.

About a week after that, he invited me over to watch documentaries and drink mango flavored vodka with him.  Which I of course found hilarious.  We ended up talking through the documentaries.  Naturally, sex got brought up, and it is important to note that at this point, him and I had not even held hands, let alone kiss or anything.  During our discussion, I think we both realized that we approach sex VERY differently, and we were both fascinated by the other’s perspective.  It became crystal clear that our sexual history is polarizing when he said somewhat out of nowhere,”So you don’t go down on guys?”

Me:  “Ummm yeah, sure I do.  Sometimes.”

Thug: “Oh, okay.  You just don’t seem like you would.”

I’m pretty good at reading people, and the way he said that, I immediately knew that he was absolutely not used to a girl coming over and not performing oral sex on him right away.  Of course, I just blatantly asked.

Me: “So most girls you hang out with, if they were in this exact same situation, they would just pull your pants down right now?”

Thug: “Ummm yeah.”

Now, here is where I think my lesson about getting to know people far different from you truly comes into play.  I could have easily taken offense and stormed out the door, disgusted with his overtly sexist expectations.  However, because I DO get to know all types of people, I understood that he wasn’t being rude, he was just being honest and equally as eager as myself to attempt to understand each other’s vastly different approaches toward romance and relationships.  I respected him and I could tell he respected me, and I knew that he KNEW I wasn’t going to go down on him.  This was the mutual, unspoken moment when we became just friends.

Me: “So even if you have never kissed a girl, she would do that.”

Thug: “Yeah.  I don’t really kiss.”  Pause.  I was baffled.  He continued, “You like make-out with people?”

Me: “Um, yeah!  And I think you need to recognize that you are absolutely the abnormal one in this situation.  I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say that most people round the bases in order.  You can’t just run to third base!”

He laughed.

Nothing happened that night.  Obviously.  We had an eye-opening conversation and I left.  The point I think I am trying to make is, although nothing romantic is going to come between him and I because we are too different, I think that we are both better off for getting to know each other.  We’ve actually hung out a couple of times since then as just friends and it was cool.  It’s so crucial to understand people who are different from you.  It makes you smarter, more well-rounded and ultimately a better person.  I took the time to get to know a guy who is very religious, he only listens to rap and hip hop and wears white jeans sometimes.  He also thinks kissing is foreign and he is probably a drug dealer.  He took the time to get to know a little white girl hipster and I think our eagerness to do that is saying something respectable about both of our characters’.  I just realized, after writing this whole thing, that THAT is what we have in common.  Ultimately, we had good conversation because of our differences, but we bonded because of our innate similarities, and I like to think that we are both better for it.

 

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 16

Of the eight boys that I’m semi dating right now, my favorite is my smooth boyfriend.  (Please see Vol. 14 if you’re wondering why and how I got myself into this mess.) I definitely spend the most time with him and he makes me laugh.  He gave his couch a name, he wears socks with pictures on them and he is also obsessed with salmon and has taken to texting me every single time he gets some.  “I’ve got some good news for you.  I just ate some salmon.” is the latest message I received from him.

I actually met him at least a year and a half ago when Rory and I were playing pool at a local dive bar.  A handful of us started hanging out that night and naturally, the conversation immediately turned vulgar and hilarious, so smooth boy and I have had an unspoken bond since.  When the very first conversation you have with a stranger is about anal sex, it’s safe to say that you’re bonded for life.

After that, smooth boy and I would say what’s up if we saw each other in that bar, but I didn’t even know his name and he was usually busy playing pool (it’s pretty sexy how good he is at it) and I was usually busy flirting with whoever my flavor of the month was.  For the first time since the anal conversation a year and a half ago, we had a conversation that lasted more than ten syllables just a few weeks ago, but unfortunately I was wasted.  I was a hot fucking mess that night and woke up the following morning scared that I was kissing this OTHER dude with a red beard at the bar which would be so embarrassing and white trash of me.  I decided that I did make a fool of myself at the bar and I came to this conclusion not because I remembered or had solid evidence, but because of my rule.

Caitlin Rule: Always assume the worst when trying to remember the details about the drunken night before.

Before I may or may not have been kissing red beard, I was definitely chatting it up and laughing with smooth boy.  We had chemistry and though I don’t remember what in the hell we were talking about for so long, I do remember that for a moment, it felt like we were the only two in the bar.  It would have been worth trying to see him again, but I was not about to step foot in that bar though for at least a few months, and I was confident that there was a chance that he thought I was a giant hoe, so oh well.  I’ll see him around in a few months, I thought.  A few days later, I was walking up to a restaurant to get a late night bite to eat and I hear, “Don’t you go to Harbor Bar?”  Oh shit, who is this going to be? is what I was thinking as I turned around.  It was smooth boy.  Crap.  The one person that I was the most embarrassed to see because I had accepted the fact that I had been flirting with him that night, and then started making-out with someone else at the bar in front of him.

I sucked it up though and sat down and ate some food with the guy.  Fifteen minutes into the conversation, I got the courage to just flat out ask him.  “No!  You were totally fine that night,” he said.   “I didn’t even realize you were that drunk.”  What a relief!  Whoo!  I gave myself an inner congratulations.  I must have just thought about kissing red beard.  Or maybe I kissed him outside the bar.  Who the hell knows, I’ve avoided that guy since.

Now it’s a week later and I just went to the strip club with him.  Of course, because what could be more absurd than me, a white 29 year old girl in my faded band t-shirt and leather jacket, rolling into a strip club with these motherfuckers:

Smooth boy, who is black by the way, and wearing red shoes that corresponded with the red lettering on his Nike t-shirt and immediately started yelling with his wad of one’s, “We’re going to change the weather pattern in this bitch!”

Kid bartender.  He’s a white, 21 year old kid who wears a silver chain around his neck and says bro a lot.  That makes him sound lame, but it is important to note that he is very sexy and I would cougar the shit out of him.  Well, not now because he is smooth boys’ friend and I do have some morals.  But, I am willing to bet that Kid bartender could get laid every single night of the week by a different girl if he wanted to.  He’s sweet and I can relate to him because we both recognize the fact that the only reason why the opposite sex is attracted to us, is because of our hair.

Sweet M.  She’s a big black woman, probably in her 40’s, who wears a fake ponytail and big pink t-shirts.  She’s hilarious and has game!  If you could have seen her in that strip club, she was giving us all lessons on how to be a player.  She is a wonderful lady, gives the best hugs and I love being around her.

So that was our motley crew at the strip club.  Kid Bartender and Sweet M were getting lap dances in the back while Smooth boy and I were failing at getting a drink.  The bartender in that place seemed to be the only person who was drunk in that whole establishment.  Getting three beers was a fifteen minute ordeal due to her temporary inability to see, hear or have authority of her motor functions.

Each of them EASILY dropped $250 that night.  I just sat back and let everyone entertain me.  The crew that I was with was just as entertaining as the strippers were.  When a song came on that he liked, Smooth boy would yell at whoever was on stage, “Oooo girl, you better do something good with this song!”  Then he would literally run over to the stage, hold a wad of cash in front of the stripper like a launch vessel that he was teasing them with.  If they sucked, he had no issues with shouting advice at them.

One stripper had this fringe type, belly dancer thing around her waist.  It was pretty annoying because it made that obnoxious sound, so Smooth boy took it upon himself to let the manager who was walking by know.  “That Moroccan bitch has got to go.  Get this girl back on stage,” he said as he pointed to the stripper that Sweet M was whispering to who looked like they pulled her straight out of the Amazon.

Later, I heard that jingle jangling approaching and Smooth boy and I immediately made eye contact and said at the same time, “here comes the Moroccan bitch!”  When she walked by, he said, “Morocco!  What’s up?  Girl, we knew that was you coming.”  I don’t think she got it, but I thought it was hysterical, and him and I high-fived and were laughing our asses off.  One of the things that I do like about Smooth boy, is that he initiates high fives with me.  A lot of boys hate high-fiving their girlfriends or any girl who they may want in their bed at any time in their life for that matter.  I’m not exactly sure why, but it seems to be a thing.

I would like to note that we were all sober.

During all this, Kid Bartender was leaning back with his feet propped up, while the strippers came to him and he nonchalantly put a wad of dollars in their thong like a pro.

The night ended with me and Smooth boy on his couch that he has named, watching Family Guy and discussing the best ways to prepare salmon.  Perfect night.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 14

I am kind of dating eight different boys right now.  This wasn’t intentional.  It’s not as if I go out on hunts, it just happens when you’re subconsciously open to it.  My rule proved to be true.

Caitlin Rule: Tread softly with your words because once something is said out loud, it becomes real.

I received a really retarded text from a boy who kicked my ass recently, and it was kind of the last straw.  My friend Rachel was with me and in a burst of frustration I shouted, “I’m just going to go back to being a man-eater!”

Sure enough, that very night, suddenly two new boys whom I have zero possibility of a future with were in my life.  Two weeks later, and now my number is up to eight.  Yes, it is taking some bravery to write this entry because it will absolutely piss some people off, but I figure it’s a way to wean out the faint of heart.  Maybe one day I’ll find someone who understands the humor behind my exploits.  I tell all of these guys that I see other people, but most boys seem to have selective hearing, so if this comes as a shock… their bad.

Caitlin Rule: Never date a writer because they will write about you.

Right up until my outburst with Rachel, boys had kicked my ass over the past year or so.  I suppose I had it coming because for a good chunk of my twenties, I was mostly just using boys as a form of entertainment.  Of course there were some who I truly cared about, but looking back on the flings between the ages of 24-27, they mostly just provided immediate gratification and held little integrity.

There were times back then when I would be dating a handful of people at once.  To maintain some level of self-respect, I’m never sleeping with more than one person at a time.  Mostly these guys I was “dating” I would maybe see once a week and we’d go somewhere like a gallery opening or a comedy show, then have a couple of drinks.  Generally this would lead to a profound conversation and then making-out on their couch.  Then I’d smile sweetly and say, “I have to go,” and they wouldn’t hear from me again until next week… after I had done the same thing with the other four guys.

Obviously, that got tiring and meaningless.  It wasn’t a conscious decision, but somewhere along the way I did just start naturally looking for something with a little more stability.  Something to be respected.  Well, I found a few, and they just ended up kicking my ass!  I tend to not write about the ones that hurt the most, so all I’m going to say about the one who beat me up the worst (metaphorically speaking), is that I did truly try.  For the first time in a long time, and possibly only the second time in my life, I truly tried in that relationship.  He still left me though, so look where that got me.

After that, there was another guy I started seeing (again).  It wasn’t serious, but I began to believe that we could be great together if we gave it a real shot.  Now he’s a baby daddy.  Well, the chick is still pregnant, so he is a soon-to-be baby daddy, and that obviously brought on far too many complications for our mild “relationship” to stay afloat, let alone blossom.  What I’m getting at is, after all of those years of acting like an asshole and not getting emotionally invested, the second I give people some real respect, and the second I try to build relationships with solid ground, they fucking pummeled me.  So, inconsequential flings with some people who make me laugh and definitely don’t make me cry, sounds like a beautiful counteraction.  You may be thinking that “rebound” would be a more appropriate description to which I can see your point, but I don’t fully agree because rebounds insinuate that sex is taking place (which it is mostly not in my case) and rebounds also seem to be associated with a kind of darkness; an inner turmoil that one is trying to drown out with false love.  I am not in a dark place right now, I’m just having a lot of fun and not taking myself or anyone else too seriously.  I have completely eradicated hope from my life.  That may sound depressing, but I find it sincerely liberating and I’ll explain more about that some other time.

Since I have been attempting to juggle eight different boys, my personal life has been like an episode of Gossip Girl on steroids.  A few days ago, I decided to get organized.  I sat down at my desk to get to work.  I had just received my schedule for the week, so it was time to begin adjusting these boys’ lives to mine.  I began texting them, all at the same time which was a terrible idea, and quite literally had to pencil them into my calendar.  Okay, I used a pen, but still, I actually had to bust out my calendar at my desk to write in for Saturday: “Lunch with boring boy, dinner with thug boy and late drinks with baseball boy.”  Wednesday looked something like, “Coffee with boxing boy, show with skater boy? or possibly baby daddy?”  The fact that the baby daddy is still in my life is ridiculous, I know, but he’s only like 3% (a minority that doesn’t even count) in my life and I’m sure I’ll explain that story soon enough.

With this type of schedule, of course I have to prepare for the unexpected.  I mean, what if dinner with thug boyfriend (I call him this because he looks like a straight up drug dealer) goes way better than anticipated and I want to continue having him as company?  Well, that means I would have to cancel on baseball boy.  Here is why it is slightly okay… I don’t lie.  In the off-chance that thug boyfriend holds my attention for more than a couple of hours, then I will text baseball boy and tell him, “I’m so sorry, I can’t make it tonight for drinks!  I got held up at dinner.”

If baseball boy straight up asked me, “is that because you are with someone else?” I would absolutely say, yes.  But they never straight up ask.  And neither do I.  That’s not my business nor my style.  As long as things are light, I honestly could not fucking care less if I was also penciled into a guy’s calendar.  One very important thing that I learned from the boy with the white hair is that it’s crucial to understand what your role is in someone’s life.  I understand that my role in most of these guys lives are just like what their role is in mine.  They’re using me as much as I am using them and I find nothing wrong with that.  We enjoy the time and then continue.

I just got off of the phone with Cody (who is a great old friend of mine that I talk about in This Is Now), and he suspected for a moment that I was meeting these guys online.  He knows better, so I don’t think that he actually thought that, he just has a terrible case of not being able to stop his mouth from moving.  Quite literally, I don’t think he can refrain from words coming from his mouth at all times.  So he says shit that he doesn’t even mean or believe.  It’s almost like having Tourettes but with whole sentences.  I love him for it though.  Anyway, the point being that I would like to make it perfectly fucking clear that I am in no way online dating.

The point of all of this is to kind of bring you, the reader, up to speed because I think I will start chronicling this absolutely absurd dating life.  This is the first part, and I’m sure that it won’t last long because these kinds of romances never do.  For example, I thought that I’ve already crossed one guy off of the list because I accidentally sent him the wrong text, which was absolutely bound to happen.

Like I said, I have at least a little bit of self-respect, so I am only sleeping with one of these boys.  I meant to send him the text that said, “Did you throw me up against a wall or something last night?  The center of my back has a bruise on it.”  Well, I sent that text to boring boy instead.  I realized it immediately and just started laughing out loud.  I mean, what else can you do in that situation?  Then I texted it to the right guy, to which he responded, “Unfortunately we weren’t in a place to be doing that.”  Which was true… we were very much around other people for the whole night, but there was a couple of times that we stole a passionate kiss, so I thought that maybe one of those times he banged me up against a wall and I just didn’t notice because whiskey and hormones were involved.

I was busy daydreaming about him throwing me against a wall when I got the text from boring boy that said, “wrong text.”  Yeah, thanks, champ.  “Sorry about that” is all I could say back.  The truly amazing part is that I still heard from the boring boy two days later.  It’s stunning how much people are willing to put up with during the chase.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Valentine Edition 2 of 2

…continued from Edition 1

After having really good friend chem and vibing well again with Hunter at this festival he says to me, “Let’s go into the middle and get weird.”  How would you take that?  I assumed that he meant let’s go deep into the crowd and cause a ruckus. We’ll be obnoxious and dance and laugh and all of that goofy shit.  Cool, I’m down.  So he grabs my hand and leads me into the very center of the crowd. He then places me in front of him and pushes against me and I can feel his penis on my back. Ew.

I’m WAY to passive, and instead of leaving right then, I just kind of stepped forward so that I was no longer in contact with him, and was silently trying to figure out a way to dip out without making it awkward. Approximately two seconds later, before I could properly asses my predicament, he took my hand and pulled it behind my back, and put it around his dick. I swear to fucking God that this guy took his whole dick out in the middle of a crowd of people while this show was taking place. I could not believe that this was happening. I didn’t know what to do or say, so I just quickly reclaimed my hand and ran away.  I say “ran,” I couldn’t make a very quick exit because there were so many damn people in the way, so I did hear him shout to me, “did I offend you?” To which I didn’t even waste my time with, and kept walking then exited the festival wishing that The Trojan was with me.

Did you offend me? I think on the grand spectrum of the offensive scale, you offended me on every level, yes. Not going to waste anymore time discussing that. It makes me sick.

Like I said, I was sober, but having a cocktail alone at a bar to take a moment to wrap my mind around what just happened seemed appealing. I took a seat at a bar stool and called Fat Face. He knew that something had transpired, he knows me well and knows my vocal tones, so I think he knew that he needed to come to my rescue. I downed two whiskeys by the time he got there, and he took a seat next to me, told me that I, “look really pretty tonight,” (which I thought was super sweet because we don’t often talk like that too each other. Usually he’d say something more like, ‘oooo girl, you are lookin’ damn fine tonight!’ and laugh) and ordered a Yuengling. I told him what happened, and he was appalled. He said that I am absolutely too passive and should have squeezed Hunter’s dick off. We went on to have a relatively deep conversation that made me feel a little bit better. Well, kind of. Fat Face’s presence always makes me feel better, but the conversation concluded that there is something wrong with me.  There is something I must unintentionally do to attract that type of male degradation.  According to Fat Face, shit like this doesn’t happen to other people as much as it does me.  He then invited me to go to some other bar with him where he was meeting up with some of his work friends that I don’t know.

My initial response was something like, no I should leave you alone… I might cock block you tonight if I’m with you, considering it’s Valentine’s Day and all. He put his arm around me and said, “Cait, shut the fuck up.” So I shut the fuck up and followed him to a nearby bar. I was a good girl and made small talk with his friends who I liked and Fat Face and I did our typical thing… I spit in his drink, he did some bell hops, we argued over music, made fun of other bar patrons and harassed each other until closing time. Typical.

When we were leaving, I spotted a man who could not walk heading toward his truck. I don’t know that I have ever seen anyone as drunk as this guy was. He somehow got in his truck, which made me nervous, turned on the ignition, but then just passed out cold. Cool. He’s not driving. Normally I don’t get involved with shit like that, but it was definitely my moral duty to my fellow citizens to not let this guy on the road. I was being chill, and figured that I’d knock on his window and tell him that I’m calling him a cab. Problem solved.

Of course Fat Face gets all involved though and thinks that it’s a good idea to go inform the bartenders inside. Fat Face doesn’t give a shit about anything, I could call him telling him that my house is burning down and he’d be like, “I’m taking a nap.”  For some reason though, of all the things that he could get invested in, he decides to get all up in arms about this and try to man the fuck out of this situation. I just rolled my eyes and let him think that he was doing the right thing after he failed to agree when I made the point that the bartenders will do zero things to help this. However, Fat Face tells them anyway, and next thing you know, there are two schmucks that look like the type who failed out of Police Academy had overheard Fat Face talking to the bartenders, and who are now over there also trying to man the situation and get involved in the action. For some dumbass reason they wake the dude up and tell him that he should go. What the fuck? I was pissed. Fat Face and I watched in horror as the guy started driving.
“Watch him run into the building,” Fat Face says jokingly. Two seconds later, “Oh my God he’s really going to run into the building.”  The guy doesn’t even pretend to turn out of the parking space, and instead slowly rolls forward, smashing into the glass window facade of a brand new gym that is one door down from the bar. Tight.

Fat Face is now getting all frantic saying, “Cait. Call 911. Cait! Cait! Call 911!” Jesus Christ Fatty, shut the fuck up, I’m on it. So I call 911 and have a nice chat with them as a fight starts breaking out. What a douchebag bar scene. That’s when I told the dispatcher that I was peacing out of there. Once someone got knocked out cold, and was laying in the middle of the street unconscious for a scary amount of time, I informed dispatch that I couldn’t wait for the cops because things were getting sketchy, and she told me the fire department was on their way. As we were pulling out, the fire trucks were pulling in and Fat Face giggled with delight and said, “I kind of feel like I caused this.” Yes you absolutely did, you twat.

And that was my Valentine’s Day of 2015. A perfect exchange with a cute boy, a terrible onslaught by a gross man and a Cait and Fat Face adventure.

To be perfectly honest, after that rollercoaster of a night, I was glad, and felt it was oddly appropriate that I ended up with Fat Face on Valentine’s night because after all of my adventures and confessions… and no matter who I am fucking or loving or currently dating, Fat Face is always my favorite person to end up with at the end of the day.  True friendship is the most romantic thing of all.

I stayed the night over his place because it seemed like the responsible thing to do. He lives close to the bar and at this point, I had been drinking and knew it was not a good idea to drive all the way home. I would like to take this moment to let all of you know that Fat Face not only has one zebra printed bed comforter, but two. He also has a Chik-fil-a calendar hanging on his wall and for some absurd reason, about 15 boxes of Milano cookies sitting next to his bed. Again, Fat Face is hot and single and I will provide his contact information to any eligible women.

Update!  The following fucking day, I saw Michael.  Jesus Christ, talk about 36 hours of testosterone overload.  Someone pour me a drink.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Valentine Edition 1 of 2

As much as I don’t participate in Valentine’s Day, something in relation to my love life always seems to transpire on this day of the year. Due to my love life just being so absurd that I sometimes literally laugh out loud at it, the circumstances that now seem to be a pattern in my Valentine chronicles are generally unfortunate.

Last year was, Confessions Vol. 13, and of course, I saw that boy the day before Valentine’s day this year. How disgustingly full circle. I was so caught off guard by seeing him (it was a very unsuspecting place that we ran into each other) that I accidentally said out loud like a total asshole, “Of course you’d be here,” with a sigh. I immediately felt a little bit bad for my utter disregard for politeness, but continued to be very unsmooth and made the situation even more awkward. Whatever, I don’t think I’m his favorite person anyway, so I’m sure he wasn’t expecting anything less.  He did look really cute though… but from there, things continued to go down hill. Little did I know, the following day I would break up with a boy that I had only known for an hour, get an unwarranted dick in my hand and have to call 911.

I was at a music festival, but a cool one. Not a filthy sweaty music festival that takes place in some nondescript field with twenty-year-olds who are half-naked, tripping balls and playing hacky sack. I have a problem with American music festivals because they have turned into being way more about getting fucked up than about the music. A show is just about the only time you’ll catch me not drinking. Well, I’ll have a couple of drinks but I am definitely not going to be drunk if it’s a show that I sought out and actually care about seeing. I want to “be there” wholly and let the music take me over rather than alcohol. Excuse the rant… back to the chronicles of what took place.

I walked into one of the venues that was hosting the festival, and there should have been someone playing, as the schedule read that a “Johnny C” started playing at 6:00 and it was 6:15 but there was no one on stage. Then, this kid drops his guitar stand in front of me. Instinctively, because I’m part of the crew when I’m on the road, I helped him pick up his gear. Of course, the part that fell in front of me was the tiniest part, that he clearly could have retrieved without my help, so I started laughing and said, “this is all I can contribute.” I hadn’t even looked at him yet, so then when I did, it was a bonus that he was cute.

I then put it together that he was walking around with a guitar stand, so duh, he must be one of the performers. “Who are you?” I asked, because I’m so polite.
“I’m Johnny C.” He was the guy who was supposed to be playing.
“So you’re late.”
“I’m not late! They’re late getting off stage,” he said and pointed to the idiots who were still packing up their gear.
“You guys are messing up my schedule, I have to go watch Polyenso who start in twenty-five minutes.”
“I’ll make it worth it if you stay.”
“Okay, but you better be good. I’m going to get a drink. Would you like one? I feel bad that I insulted you immediately upon meeting you.”
“I like your sarcasm.”
“So would you like a drink?”
“Not yet, let me prove myself to you first, and then you can buy me a drink later if you think I’m worthy.”
“Deal.”

That’s literally all that was said between us, but it was instant chemistry and I get my drink and go to the back and wait as he takes my whole life to set up. I was missing Polyenso, but I figured I had to stick around because by flirting with this guy, I partially committed to watching his set. Right before he began, he spotted me and smiled. I smiled back and threw him a peace sign which made him smile even bigger and then point at me. It was a very cute moment. I then remembered that it was Valentine’s Day, and how beautifully suitable it was that this random romance between me and an unsuspecting stranger just manifested.

He began, and he was good. I wasn’t in love with the type of music that he was playing, but he could definitely play guitar and I was enjoying it just fine. There was a problem though, he was drinking Bud Light. After a few songs, I really did have to dip out because my friend’s band was playing on another stage, and I had already missed 15 minutes of that, so I really did need to leave. I bought a shot of Jack Daniels, wrote a little note on a cocktail napkin which read, “Stop drinking Bud Light and have a shot of whiskey.” I put the shot with the note in front of Johnny when he was in the middle of a song and walked out.

I came back about an hour later, and he was smoking a cigarette outside with his friend. We started chatting and the conversation flowed really well. We were laughing a lot and obviously smitten by one another. It was like a scene from a movie. Further into our conversation, he said, “You’re really beautif…..” and trailed out and put his mouth on the fucking Bud Light bottle.

“What was that?” I asked, semi laughing. I knew exactly what he said but I thought it was funny that he was having issues with saying it out loud. He started laughing a little also and said, “I know, I just made that so awkward. After I started saying it I realized that there was no way for me to say it without sounding weird.” I thought that was cute.

He went on stage to do another set, and we had another adorable moment where he looked down at me during one of the songs and smiled. A real, genuine smile. That doesn’t sound like anything, but a musician making eye contact with you while he is on stage is actually a pretty rare occurrence. If you notice, they usually either keep their eyes closed or looking down. Mark my words, you will very rarely see a musician look upon an audience member and blatantly acknowledge them like that. Right then, after he smiled so sweetly at me, I knew that meant that I should go. If I stayed, what would end up happening? We’d exchange numbers, maybe we’d see each other again… maybe we’d have another good time, maybe we’d kiss, and maybe I’d like it, but at the end of it all, there would be an end, so why go through all of the bullshit when what we just experienced was perfect. We had already peaked. I know, it sounds nuts.  I can hear the boy with the white hair in my mind telling me now, “You are fucking crazy.”

So while Johnny was in the middle of a song, I bought him another shot of Jack Daniels, wrote another note on a cocktail napkin and left it on stage for him and walked out. The note read, “Let’s never see each other again because it will never be as perfect. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Maybe I should have stuck around because after that, the night took an unfortunate turn. The festival is a lot of local acts, so I knew a few of the musicians. One of them, who I will call Hunter, I would only describe as an acquaintance. I had only had one real conversation with him before and it was at a hippie wedding that we both had attended. We vibed really well that day, but we didn’t try to keep in touch or anything. I like his music though, so I catch his set every now and again when I’m in town and I’ll just wave from afar because I don’t usually try to talk to musicians when they’ve played because they’re typically caught in a social whirlwind that I don’t want to add to. However, right before I was about to leave, I saw Hunter talking with other musicians, not fans, so I figured now would be a good time to quickly say hey and have a quick vibe session with him.

He was sucking on a heart-shaped lollipop, so I walked up, and because we know how much I hate small talk, I just took the lollipop from him and started eating it myself. We quickly took the conversation to an inappropriate level that you only get when speaking with musicians… and I speak their language. To my not surprise, we were having a lot of fun just standing around for ten minutes laughing, chatting and drawing pictures of dicks on the cover of his album in sharpie. The headliner band then came on stage so he said, “Let’s go into the middle and get weird.”  How would you take that?

To be continued…
Edition 2 of 2

 

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 13

The curse of the ex.  Why are we drawn to them?  There are reasons why it didn’t work, yet for some deep-seated cause, we all find ourselves in the arms of an ex at 3:00 in the morning with Portishead playing off of an iPod and a fat fan clicking in the background.  Is it just me?  Or do all boys have a portable fan in their room that they keep on high which clicks like a clock… a symbol of the relationship’s impending doom.  My first love called his fan “fat fan” and the name stuck.  Anyway, even when every fiber of our being knows that agreeing to “catch up” with an ex is a bad idea, we do it anyway.  Are we all plagued with masochistic tendencies or is it the need for acceptance?  I think it’s both.  We want to feel wanted, even if it means hurting ourselves.  Or it means that multiple cocktails were involved.

When people ask me if I’m seeing anyone, I am generally vague, because I’m just generally vague about everything.  I relate to writer’s (I feel cheated by the universe that I was not living at a time and place when I could have been best friends with Graham Greene) and with that being said, I think that writer’s like writing because they don’t like talking.  I enjoy blogging about my insignificant life because I don’t exactly like talking about it, nor do I expect anyone to care about any story that I have to tell.  If I write it down, the reader can opt out without feeling rude.  A listener, cannot do that quite as easily.  Audible conversation is riddled with obligations and forced politeness.  If my reader’s don’t care about what I am saying, they can close this tab and google “how to survive a bear attack” instead, (a search I recently did because I was in Canada for a tour and felt that I should be prepared) and not feel like they’re being rude.  I digress.  So, when people ask me if I am seeing anyone, my go-to response is, “there are usually boys but it’s not usually serious.”  I appreciate conciseness and brevity in conversation, and that is the most concise and brief way to describe my typical love life.

However, not too too long ago, I did find myself in what I suppose would be called a relationship.  I hadn’t tried that out in a while and so I guess it just seemed like a fun experiment.  I should have known it would end in disaster because I am not stable enough for one of those, nor mature enough to be performing social experiments.

One of the things that first excited me about this boy, who we will call the boy with the white hair, was that I found myself physically attracted to him.  I wanted him.  This was a feeling I am unfamiliar with since losing my battle to uncomfortable numbness a couple of years back.  Before that, I used to love everyone.  Every boy I ever met I would find something attractive about him.  This was a blessing and a curse.  A blessing because I was so loving.  I truly did care for all of these people and I would have done anything for them.  I have known some beautiful human beings and I am so fortunate and appreciative of the souls that have crossed my fucked up path.  It was a curse for the same reasons.  I loved everyone.  I was incapable of having a healthy relationship because I was having a love affair with the world.  I spread myself out too thin.  My tragic flaw was the romance in all that I saw.

Around the age of 25 I did a complete 180 and I don’t know why or when this exactly happened.  I know that part of it at least was because I let Los Angeles get the best of me.  When you move so far away from home, to a city like that, where you know NO ONE, it is easy to lose yourself.  Somewhere out there, probably buried under the construction on the 405, is my soul.  One of my first jobs in LA was as an  assistant to this Persian fucker who needed help with tutoring his kids and keeping his desk organized.  A nanny basically.  During my first week, he hit on me.  I don’t want to go into details, but I remember feeling like such a little girl. A victim.  Like a child who had been violated, but I was 25 years old.  Yes, that is young, but it is not “little girl” young.  I remember I called my 911, which is my best friend Lance, and I said out loud to him, “I don’t understand why men think it’s okay to touch you when you don’t want them to.”

I felt like Jem from To Kill a Mockingbird, when he discovers the evils of the world and realizes why Boo Radley stays shut up in that old house.  That is the last time I can remember feeling that way.  Since then, I feel almost nothing for anyone.  I feel like an adult now, not a little girl.  I meet boys.  I meet a lot of wonderful, beautiful boys… but they don’t usually cause me feel.  I will be into someone, and enjoy their company, but then when it comes to the point where I feel like a kiss would be appropriate, I’m indifferent about it.  Indifferent about them. I missed that feeling of dying to kiss someone.

The boy with the white hair was the first boy in a very long time that I really wanted to kiss.  We were seeing each other for a couple of months (which in Caitlin world, is a long time), and it was getting to the point where I thought I might fall in love with him… or him me.  That’s the direction we were going.  Literally over night however, I realized that I wasn’t going to.  I wasn’t going to fall in love with him.  Which, I don’t know why the fuck not.  He is intriguing, he is nice in all of the right ways, he has his shit together, he is hot and he has good taste in music.

It was the day after Valentine’s day.  We had just spent the prior evening together with his friends at a music festival and something was just not right.  I have no doubt in my mind that this “feeling of not being right” was 100% my fault, but regardless, the feeling was there.  Him and I stayed in a hotel room that night because we were a little bit of a drive away from home and had been drinking, so a hotel seemed like a good idea.  The festival that we had attended I was actually working for.  Not anything serious, I was just acting as a runner for them.  So in the morning, I left while the boy with the white hair was still in bed, to go run a quick errand for the festival, (it was a two-day festival) knowing that I would be back before he got out of bed.

I don’t know what the fuck came over me, but as I was driving over the Bayshore Bridge with the morning sun blinding me and Band of Horses playing over the radio, I just knew that him and I weren’t going to last.  Or that I couldn’t last. If you had asked me two days prior to that, I would have told you that we were going in the direction of a serious relationship and would have been happy about that.

I fucking blow chunks at break-ups.  I accept this and in the past have suffered through months of lying and denial to avoid breaking up with a boyfriend.  I don’t want to be like that anymore.  I have learned from my mistakes and am now on more of a tell the truth even if it hurts, kick.  I am trying to be unapologetically honest.  So I got back to the hotel and had a moment of courage that I felt I should take advantage of.  It was the worst idea I’ve ever had.  I proceeded to wake up the boy with the white hair to break up with him.  Who the fuck does that?  I woke him up so that I could break up with him in a hotel room with our garments sprawled all over the goddamn place like a bad Lifetime movie.

I didn’t want to waste any more of his time.  He was so good and he deserved someone who was going to do it with him, be there with him, wholly.  I was just not capable of being that person, so I quickly decided that each passing second that I remained with him, was unfair to him.

I first hugged him, then sobbed, telling him that I, “couldn’t do this,” like a typical girl that you want to punch.  He is very much a “man’s man” and tries camouflaging all feelings,  so he pretty much just said, “okay.”  I appreciated the brevity.

Here is where the part comes in that I seriously did not think it through.  We weren’t packed!  So we had to pack up all of our stuff in awkward silence and then take that uncomfortable elevator ride to the lobby in more silence together with the smooth jazz version of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” playing over the elevator speakers.  Thank God we did not drive together or else I probably would have tried to order a shotgun from room service so that I could blow my brains out.

That was one awful morning.

And here I am.  Another morning.  I’m waking up after a night of, “let’s catch up,” to him still asleep while I scavenge the area in the grey, dawn light, searching for my bra that I seriously don’t want to leave behind because I rarely wear bras so it’s my only one.  I was planning on a quick escape but I am too much of a hot mess to pull that off.  I was missing a shoe.  What am I?  A fucking teen soap opera?!  He woke up, laughed at me and walked me to his bar (he owns a bar which is in walking distance to his apartment) at 7:00am while I was giggling at the entire situation and embracing this very unique walk of shame.  We found my shoe literally underneath the bar.  Jesus Christ.

I know this morning all too well of ex boyfriend’s, blood-shot eyes, disheveled hair and Diane Rehms of NPR telling me over my car radio as I drive home that, “Iraqi Kurdish fighters begin crossing from Turkey into Syria to fight against ISIS in Kobani,” to help remind myself that the Kurd’s have way more problems than I do.

Why are we drawn to ex’s?  All I have to show for it is a lost bra, a 7-11 coffee and a screenplay that I should be working on because my old professor is nagging me to finish it, but instead I am sitting here thinking about the boy with the white hair and how I might want to see him tomorrow night too.

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Next Time, I’ll Just Sleep with Him

I don’t know if the city of Los Angeles is a disaster, or if I am the disaster and that town just brings out the worst in me.  There I was though, back in the city of demons, having yet another head on collision with Hollywood after only being back there for twelve hours. Let me begin this tale by letting you all know that the whole reason that I was going back to the city that murdered my soul, was to spend two days with a guy that I had only known for two days because clearly, that sounded like an excellent decision.

It was at the end of the last tour that I was on and it was just me and the Tour Manager left on the bus, as the rest of the crew and band had already left.  We started the trek westward from Indianapolis, which for some stupid reason is on Eastern time and for some stupid reason it bothers me when states that are not in fact located on the East coast, are on Eastern Standard Time.  Also, in my educated opinion, I think that we should just get rid of Mountain time because there is only like nineteen people in that time zone anyway, and that’s where all of the irrelevant states are except for New Mexico which I exclude from the list of my “irrelevant” states because it has exceptional beef jerky.

We drove non-stop for 36 hours, from Indiana to Los Angeles and it was excruciating because we were heading West, so the days were getting longer.  We had two drivers, Gary and Lady Gary.  Lady Gary was our driver’s girlfriend who came onto the tour later, as an “assistant driver” (which is very unusual but I won’t bore you with the reasons why that happened), so we never learned her name and instead, took to calling her “Lady Gary” to her face because we’re assholes.  Because we had two driver’s who alternated, we literally only stopped for gas and so that I could buy $35 worth of beef jerky.  At one point during this agonizing ride, which I am surprised that we all survived considering that we had no drugs and no alcohol, (I don’t even do drugs, but if someone would have handed me a mystery pill that had a smiley face on it, or even a skull and cross-bones on it, I would have gladly accepted it and chased it with an overdose of Robitussin  just to cure the boredom), I began running up and down the length of the bus, attempting to sing rap music (which is always a bad idea in my case because the only rap that I’ve ever been exposed to is one Eminem song that came out in 1997), and stopping every few laps to breakdown into something that resembled jazzercise.  Rhett just stared at me with his mouth open because he was now used to my ridiculous behavior that he had been dealing with for the past couple of weeks, which I chronicle in Adventures of Touring Part 13. The moral of this part of the story is NEVER take highway 40 across the country because none of the truck stops sell alcohol.  They seem to think that Native American snow-globes are an adequate substitution.

Once we finally got to LA, it was 1:30am and we then moved all of the gear from the bus trailer to another trailer.  Don’t ask.  This ended up being a fairly painless, fast and efficient process because Mexicans were involved.  We then drove all of this gear through the Hollywood Hills as one of the Mexican’s was speeding us down Mulholland Drive like he had a death wish, but at this point, I didn’t care.  We arrive at M’s house which is the size of my hometown, unload all of the gear again, and into his garage.  It’s now like 4:00am, but Rhett and I decide to do about 15 shots with M’s roommate, anyway because we felt so deprived from our road trip and because it was the irresponsible choice to make.

The next morning is when I am supposed to meet up with Dan, the boy who I was staying with for the next two days, and the whole reason I suffered through the last 40 hours.  Being in Beverly Hills, staying at M’s house with a zip code that is literally 90210, you would think that some of these motherfuckers would petition for cell phone towers… or at least buy their own.  I’m sure that the owner of Verizon actually lives in that neighborhood.  Regardless, I couldn’t get any service, and all I knew was that my destination is somewhere in Silverlake, which is on the clear other end of town.  Remember that line from Clueless, “I expect you home in twenty minutes!  Everywhere in LA takes twenty minutes!”  This could not be further from the truth.  It takes twenty minutes just to back out of your driveway in Los Angeles.  I estimated that it would take 50 minutes to get to Dan’s house.  If he was someone who I had known for longer than two days, I probably would have made him pick me up, but since I was determined to come across as self-sufficient, and because I hadn’t yet decided if I was going to sleep with him, I thought it best to rely on my independence that boys so much loathe.

A straight cab ride would have been too expensive, and I don’t like Uber because I am like a drug dealer and only deal with cash.  My plan was to take a cab ride to the nearest metro station, then take the metro to the stop closest to Dan, which was then, just another quick cab ride to his house.  Of course, this is not what transpired. M’s roommate had even offered to drive me part of the way, but because I am a masochist, I thought it would be a better alternative to purposely inflict a painful day upon myself. More importantly, I just didn’t want to put anybody out.

Like I said, I had zero cell service where I was, but I welcome these first world complications, I see them as a challenge and a way to practice my anti-technology problem solving skills so that I’ll be the one everyone is following when the Apocalypse occurs.  Rhett was going to the airport, so he used his Uber app to get picked up.  I figured that I’d hitch a ride out of the neighborhood, into downtown West Hollywood where I would at least get cell service and a coffee, and be able to asses my current situation with more mental clarity.  I asked the Uber driver who came to get us, to please just drop me off at a coffee shop or something that was on the way to the airport so as to not inconvenience Rhett.

Apparently the Uber guy’s sweat that was dribbling down his bald head had drowned his brain because he was fucking retarded.  He immediately gave me anxiety when he pulled the car over after we had only gone a half of a mile down the road, and started screeching, “Do you see me?!  Do you see me?!” over and over again while Rhett frantically fingered his Uber app.  This guy was on more cocaine than Andy Dick at a drag queen show.  I choose to ignore the world of technology, mostly because of situations like this. I barely understand what apps are, so I was able to just play dumb in the backseat.  The driver was having a meltdown because something in the app wasn’t working (due to the lack of reception) so he thought it would be best to stay parked in one spot and repeat the same obnoxious outcry 508 times while I stared out of the window wondering if this guy was going to a.) have an aneurysm, or b.) kidnap us and sell our organs in exchange for the $1.50 he MIGHT miss out on due to Uber malfunctions in the 90210 area.  I told him that Rhett would give him a hand-job on the way to the airport if he would just continue driving the damn car.  I suppose it was cruel of me to volunteer Rhett, but I was in the backseat, so it just didn’t make sense for me to be the one to perform the sexual favors for the driver.

Ten minutes and a few miles later, and it’s not fucking funny anymore, this dude is seriously freaking me out.  I have no idea where we are, but I ask him to pull the car over and let me out.  Both guys looked at me perplexed, but I didn’t have the mental power to explain myself, I just needed to get out of that car.  So they dump me off on the sidewalk with my two suitcases and a giant backpack.  I put my over-sized sunglasses on (because in LA, even if you look like a sweaty homeless girl who is carrying everything she owns down Sunset Boulevard, if you add over-sized sunglasses, it makes it chic) and began walking through the glamorous part of West Hollywood where you would find the type of celebrities whom have purse dogs and are getting brunch and sporting their over-sized sunglasses.  Basically, I looked like a fucking idiot.  At least now I had cell phone reception.

I called Dan and decided not to tell him about my current predicament, and instead, tell him that all was just swell and that I’d be there in an hour.  I then heave my 200 pounds of luggage up the steps of “Urth Cafe,” a place that I already hated because misspelling words for the sake of marketing annoys me.  Thank you Dunkin’ Donuts, now the entire world thinks that you spell doughnuts, d-o-n-u-t-s.  This bougie cafe had at least 150 people in it, all wearing over-sized sunglasses, but all lacking 200 pounds of luggage.  At this point I am literally laughing out loud at myself as I am trying to find a place to park my suitcase so that I can order a damn green tea before these people think that I am a bum looking for air conditioning.  Actually, that is exactly what I was at the moment, but I was frantically trying to solve that problem.  So I grab a business card with the address to fucking “Urth” cafe, and call a cab.

The cab driver shows up in a timely manner, and he is a chubby, friendly, little Armenian man with a lot of arm hair who I was so grateful for because anyone was better than the coke-head, organ stealing Uber driver I just experienced.  The chubby Armenian informs me that I can smoke in the cab, but I explain to him that I don’t smoke.  For some reason this blew his mind.  Really dude?  Of all of the things that I am sure you have seen as a cab driver in Hollywood, me not smoking is really the most surprising?!  No one in LA smokes by the way.  They all even do that pretentious thing where if you’re smoking outside, even during a goddamn wind storm, they’ll still fake cough and wave their hand in front of their nose and give you and your cigarette a dirty look as they walk by.  That type of behavior actually makes me want to take up smoking.

Chubby then asked me if I’ve ever smoked an Armenian cigarette.  When I said no, he seemed even more shocked at this notion, because clearly, it’s alarming that someone who doesn’t smoke in the first fucking place, has never smoked an Armenian cigarette.  After turning down multiple offers to try one, I finally accepted the cigarette just to shut him the fuck up.

I drink coffee like it’s my job, so I consider myself immune to coffee caffeine, but for some reason, a single caffeinated tea feels like I just injected cocaine straight into my bloodstream.  So, I was already shaking from the tea I just had at the cafe that doesn’t know how to spell Earth, and jittery from the series of events which had just transpired, and now I’m adding this damn cigarette to the mix which is only heightening my anxiety.  The way Chubby was selling this thing, I was expecting it to have magical powers, or at least be laced with some hardcore narcotics that made me see Unicorns.  Nope.

So Chubby drops me off at the Metro Station, and I get onto the train with relative ease.  There is a nice looking black man a few seats from me who smiles sweetly and I consider for a moment asking him if he’d like to stop whatever productive task that he is in the middle of, and get a drink with me because I definitely need one.  I refrain however when I realize that a.) it is only 11:30am and b.) I am currently on my way to seeing another boy whom I have already forgotten about because of this disaster of a day.  I closed my eyes and pictured Dan’s cute smile and told myself that everything would be okay once I got to his house.  I then opened my eyes, only to witness a schizophrenic playing with fire.  One of the crazy’s on the train took out a crack lighter and was just keeping it continuously lit for absolutely no apparent reason.  At first, I thought he would just flick it on and off the way that people do when they’re fidgeting.  When that didn’t happen, I decided that he was going to light a bomb, so I came up with a ninja-like exit strategy in my mind, which included me and the hot black guy next to me busting out some tae-kwon-do and escaping just in the nick of time.  When the bomb had still not detonated after the schizophrenic kept the hand lighter lit for a straight five minutes, I thought it best to not test my luck, and got off at the next stop even though my stop wasn’t for another few miles.

I was about to call a cab to take me to Dan’s once and for all, but decided that it was not a good idea to let him see me in my current state.  After this fucking catastrophe I was definitely suffering from PTSD and determined that I needed to get a margarita, or six, to calm down and get my life together before seeing the boy whom I currently had a crush on.  I knew of a nearby Mexican joint, and impressed with my memory of the LA streets, found myself walking with 200 pounds of luggage down the sidewalks of Los Angeles yet again, but this time content because I had margaritas in my near future.

I sat down and ordered a 20 ounce margarita which I drank in 17 seconds, then called a cab.  The new cab picked me up and safely brought me to Dan’s house, and that is the last time that I will ever think it’s a good idea to act like an independent woman.  Next time, I’ll just sleep with him so that I don’t feel bad when I need to ask for a ride.

 

 

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Part 2 of 2: Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 12

…to be continued…

So I drive the child home and I was not planning on exiting my vehicle, but somehow this gem must have convinced me. I don’t remember the details. He tried to get me to go up to his apartment, but that was not happening. So we were walking around his apartment complex, which seemed like a good idea because it was giving me time to sober up before driving home. Of course this led to the kiss because why not?  I’m willing to exploit myself in the name of a good story. We were kissing for a couple of seconds when he stopped and said, “by the way, my name is….”

My first thought as he’s saying this sentence was, I don’t give a fuck what your name is! But then we get to the end of the sentence and he says, Fat Face. Obviously, that’s not a direct quote, but he has the same goddamn name as my Fat Face. The whole reason I was in this mess was because I was pissed at Fat Face, and now the child had the same name as him. I couldn’t do it anymore and I literally starting laughing in this poor kid’s face. He didn’t get it, so I just said, “Of course your name is______.” He still didn’t get it, so when in doubt, smile and nod. Which he did. Good boy.

Then he attempted for the third time to get me up to his apartment, which I will admit, I now considered because this whole situation was just becoming more and more entertaining, but I do have some level of self-respect. I ended it there, I think I gave him a friend pat on the shoulder and said goodbye.

Little did I know, Fat Face was on the other side of town, basically doing the same exact thing as I was.

The next day Fat Face called me, and I thought it was going to be to apologize. Of course not!  He was calling to ask if I knew any remedies to get rid of hickeys.  Fist of all, no.  I have never had a hickey in my life because I think they’re incredibly tacky and disrespectful and I don’t put up with that kind of behavior.  Second of all, I’m still mad at you!  Thirdly, who the fuck are you letting give you a hickey you schmuck?  She better be flippin’ hot! Fat Face doesn’t take things too seriously, so normally he wouldn’t give a shit about a couple of hickeys on his neck, but it was the day of his high school reunion. I took pleasure in this.

He begins to tell me of the events leading up to getting his neck mauled, and I find out that he too went out after our war of words, he too somehow got to talking to someone who he was not into and she too was a child. Just like my child, Fat Face’s child tried to seduce him, but was turned-down. To Fat Face’s honor, for a guy, he is capable of showing amazing restraint even when he’s intoxicated. I wasn’t planning on telling him about my previous night’s escapade, but when he told me about his, it was all too much of a coincidence and I had to let him in on it.

To top it all off, while my two boys have the same name, my name also came up in his night out too! In his half-assed attempt at stopping their make-out session, he tried the excuse, “I have a girlfriend.” She wasn’t buying it.

“No you don’t.”

“Yeah I do…”

“What’s her name?”

“Caitlin.”

Of course, my name was the first one that he thought of.  Not thirty seconds after claiming to have a girlfriend named Caitlin, he receives a text message from me which she sees. Brilliant. I couldn’t have planned the parallels of this night if I tried. My text came immediately after I left the child, and it was my drunk way of trying to be mysterious and take a stab at Fat Face. It just read, “I hope you’re entertained.” God I was being dramatic.  Fat Face probably just rolled his eyes at my text and then continued his make-out session.

He never thinks that the situations him and I consistently get ourselves into are as hilarious as I do, and this time was no different. He laughs, but then he’s just like, “Yeah, cool Cait.”

Later that night, to get even with him, I would crash his reunion. They were at the “after party” at some dive bar on the beach. Before I got pissed at him, I was encouraging and hoping that he’d “re-meet” someone. After his asshole statement from the night prior though, I was now prepared to sabotage. I love Fat Face no matter what, so had he sounded like he was actually having a good time and asked me not to come, I would have respected that regardless of my current disdain for him. When he called me however, I could tell that he needed his partner in crime to spice things up.

When I arrived, I immediately began Mission Embarrass Fat Face. I was yelling through the bar lies like Fat Face had herpes… he was recently incarcerated for having sex with a minor… that he had three nipples, anything that came to mind. I was also pointing out his hickeys to everyone. I was being so obnoxious.

Fat Face is always a good sport though, and he didn’t give a fuck, so he was just laughing and joining in. It basically turned into a Cait and Fat Face performance, and people just started staring awkwardly the way you do when you’re watching two apes fondle each other at the zoo. We were shouting obscenities and literally gleeking whiskey onto each other’s faces.

I went to the same high school and was the class just under him, so I knew a lot of the people there.  A few of them I of course have mild history with, so that made things even more interesting. When a couple of people asked if Fat Face and I were now dating, I told them that we did for a little while, but then shit got weird when we found out that my mom’s great uncle’s nephew is Fat Face’s dad, so it just didn’t work out. I couldn’t tell if these people actually believed me or not, I was just impressed with my improv skills.

Once it became clear that we had officially scared everyone away from us, we went down onto the dance floor that had ZERO people on it, a fucking ugly cheap disco light thing, god awful music playing and a random hoola hoop on the ground. Of course we went on to make utter fools of ourselves by white people dancing together and attempting to hoola hoop, then integrating the hoola hoop with our god awful dancing.

After sufficiently embarrassing ourselves enough to call it a night, we left and decided to walk on the beach for a while to sober up before driving home. In true Fat Face and Caitlin style, we stripped down to our underwear and jumped into the Gulf. I can’t believe we did this because it was dark, so we obviously couldn’t see into the water and that’s always terrifying, but he always brings out the adventurous side of me.

Once we both made it home, it must have been around 3:00am, and I texted him saying that he is now obligated to come to my reunion next year. He said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” I told him no, there’s no option, to which he responds with,

“Don’t care. Passing out.”

God I love him.

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Part 1 of 2: Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 12

I hate anonymity, but I’ve been participating in it recently, occasionally giving the boys that I write about pseudonyms so that their ex’s or girl that they flirted with one night over a pitcher of beer and a soccer game, don’t get offended.  I guess me giving them bullshit names, is my way of not cock-blocking my friends.  But come on girls, stop getting pissed at guys just because they have a story that doesn’t include you.  It’s embarrassing.  So because I’m annoyed right now that I have to practice restraint, I am going to give my friend the pseudonym “fat face” for this entry.  Generally, I would call him “My Love,” a name we’ve been calling each other since 2003, but he pissed me off, so he’s not getting the nice nickname today.

I’d like to note that Fat Face is not at all fat.  He’s actually quite good-looking and I like picking out ties for him because he has a good fashion sense and when he’s feeling especially sweet, he’ll even let me pick out his outfit.

Him and I always have a lot of fun together.  Whether I’m making him play Monopoly with me, or we’re hoping fences and jumping into high school pools at 3:00 in the morning, we always have a great time.  We have been hanging out a lot because at the moment we’re both single(ish), we live in the same city, have a self-destructive personal life and put up with each other’s obnoxious tendencies, so I’d say he’s my partner in crime.  He’s also one of my best friends.

When we were teenagers, we had a whole group of friends who would rally together and participate in these slightly illegal, yet harmless activities such as spray painting city light bulbs, climbing on roofs and planning underground Beta fish fight clubs.  The rest of the “crew” have gone on to have fully functioning adult lives, and Fat Face and I are the two who still blow bubbles and giggle at the word vagina.  I’m sure our inability to settle down is due to our deep inner discontent, but this is something we choose to ignore for the most part when we’re together.  We just have too much damn fun to bother with gross discussions of the true reasons of why we push everyone away.

This screenshot perfectly sums up our friendship:

IMG_0130That is a very brief explanation of our most recent history, maybe I’ll get into our more advanced history some other time, but for now, we’re talking about what he did to piss me off, and the sinful events that took place after.  While on the phone with him the other night, he said something that was probably true, but I was not trying to hear it right then.  It was something along the lines of me always getting myself into ridiculous situations because I “welcome” them.  He went on to just dig himself into a hole, including statements such as, “I’m entertained by them though!”  I basically took it to mean that he doesn’t take me, or my life seriously.

“Fat Face.  Fat Face.  Stop talking.  I’m hanging up on you.”

“No!  No!  Don’t hang up.  Please!”

“Yes, I’m going.  You’re making me mad.”

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“Whatever.  Bye.”

Of course, we were kind of laughing, even as we were yelling at each other.  He knows me well enough to know that I just needed a night to settle down and that by tomorrow I’d only be 60% mad at him, so he let me go.  I was planning on a low-key night, it was 10:00pm and I was sitting at a Starbucks instead of a bar.  After Fat Face ambushed me with that however, I felt I deserved a cocktail to unwind from the mental uneasiness he so graciously offered.  I brought my book to a nearby bar, sat in my spot and ordered a Beefeater martini with two olives.

20 pages and 20 ounces of gin later, and I was humoring this guy next to me, pretending to listen as he discussed something relating to baseball I think, and something relating to his dog, which I definitely didn’t give a shit about.  This went on for about a half hour, but once he busted out the iPhone to show me pictures of his damn dog that I didn’t ask about, I gave myself a Caitlin pep talk.  It went something like this:

Why the fuck are you talking to this guy?  You know you’re just humoring him because you’re bored and pissed at Fat Face.

After my pep talk, I decided to actually look at the guy whose time I was currently wasting.  He was a child.  This kid must have been freshly 21.  Okay, now things were getting interesting, I thought.  Fat Face is always getting himself involved with little girls who still take bathroom mirror selfies, and the kid I was talking to was their male counterpart.

Once I discovered the irony, I was eating it up.  I began to actually make eye-contact, asked him what his dumb dog’s name is and even went as far as to inquire about what it feels like to have been born in the ’90s.  In hindsight, it was obviously my way of lashing out at Fat Face’s statement.  You think I “welcome” my ridiculous situations?  Well watch this!

Just call me Ms. Maturity.

The child and I got up to go outside, and he was carrying a fucking duffel bag.  Immediately after that hilarious discovery, which I of course called him out on, I found out that he doesn’t have a car.  Even better.  Here I am, a 27-year-old professional, (sort of) about to make a bad decision with a kid who carries around a duffel bag, has no car and wears pink button up shirts.  “So does that mean I’m taking you home?” I asked.

“Yes.”  Oh God.

To be continued…

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Love, Drugs and Infidelity – Chapter 3 of 3

…to be continued…

I honestly don’t remember how or why the dealing got so out of hand. Had I known the extent of what was going on, I probably would have spoken up.  I sometimes wonder if things would have turned out differently had I said something to him.  Of course I know that the tragedy to follow, was not my fault, but I just wonder… would he had stopped dealing if I had asked nicely?  If I had genuinely intervened, and request that he stop, I think there is a small chance that he would have.  I never wanted to be a nagging girlfriend though, so for the most part I just kept my mouth shut and turned a blind eye.  I also felt it wasn’t my place, because I was the one declaring that I wasn’t a “girlfriend.”  And so it goes.  I kept my head turned and he kept dealing, but he never got me involved in the least.

I’m not sure if I appreciated this at the time, but in hindsight, he must have gone through at least some lengths to keep me out of that whole mess.  A lot of people got arrested on that one awful morning.  A lot of their girlfriends got arrested too, because maybe one time she drove them to a dealer’s house, or one time she passed over a bag to someone because her boyfriend was at El Cheapo buying a case of Red Bull for exams week.  I vaguely remember there being times when I easily could have done something simple like that.

My blind eye was also due to naivety (or maybe the other way around), so I know that there were times when I had no idea that going over to Bob’s house to hang out, drink Heineken and watch bad television, also meant doing a drug deal.  Or letting a friend borrow my cell phone, actually meant them making a call to arrange buying five “paintbrushes” (they had codes).  I would have never knowingly done anything criminal, but I never did unknowingly either because Chewonki never allowed this.  Despite how convenient my involvement would have been for him, it was just a non-option in his mind, which brings true romance to our unconventional love story.  It was almost as if his gift to me was maintaining my ignorance.

If I remember correctly, just before he was arrested, things were pretty shitty between us for a while and it slightly effected our friend circle because we couldn’t be in the same room together without making everyone else feel vastly uncomfortable.  So I think this is the point where Marie really stepped in and did that she thing does.  Marie is my great friend who always acted as a mediator/counselor to my fucked up personal life in college.  She was doing her part in trying to get us to become amiable again and  I guess it worked.  Civility led to friendliness which led to talking and laughing together again, which led to falling for him, all over again.

I had decided that I wasn’t going to act on this, however.  It would not have been fair to him.  He always knew what he wanted, I was the one who changed my mind every fourteen seconds, so I wanted to at least spare him of another episode of Penny Hell.  I wanted to save him from me.

It was now February of 2008.  On some normal night, we were doing some normal thing, and he was just being so damn cute.  I couldn’t stand it anymore.  He probably called me, “his little quarter minus twenty-four cents” again.  Like I said, I went by Penny then, so Chewonki would sometimes call me that, and I was such a sucker for it.  It was so ridiculous, but it made me laugh every time.  Anyway, after keeping it platonic for a while, I had to kiss him.  And I did.  And thank fucking God I did.  It was beautiful.  We spent that evening together, and I remember talking to myself, telling myself, you’re so happy right now.  You can do this with him.  Just stay in this.  And that was the last time I’d be with him.  Hours later, just as the sun was rising, the cops would bang on the door of his house.

There was an eight month investigation that had apparently been going on, and Chewonki (and others) got narced on.  There was a total of 25 SCAD students that got arrested.  Granted, a couple of the people arrested were relatively high up in the chain, but most of them were like Chewonki.  Not that I’m condoning his behavior, but he was just some pion.  And the worst drug dealer ever I might add, because they never had any money!

The saddest part may be that after their arrest, I found out that they were planning on quitting; getting out of the dealing.  From what I understand, they were in the process of doing this, which is why during the search of Chewonki’s bedroom, as he sat on his mattress handcuffed and hopeless, the cops found nothing.  No drugs.  Just mirrors and razors I believe.  They thought that they had just busted a huge drug ring.  They were expecting to find friggen bricks of cocaine in closets.  Really they just got some rich college kids who were selling $11 worth of shit blow out of their living rooms that had Grateful Dead posters on the walls and always smelled like Ramen Noodles, so that they could keep putting cocaine down their face without their parents inquiring about spending habits.  There was serious crime going on in all of the government projects in the area, and the Savannah PD just didn’t want to deal with it because shit, I wouldn’t either!  With their embarrassing salary, why go risk your lives in the projects, when you can hassle some artsy college kids?  Excuse the rant.  With that being said however, I don’t pardon what they did and maybe it was a blessing in disguise.  Who knows how out of hand his drug use could have become had he not been arrested.

When it all went down  I was obviously heartbroken.  That was a pretty traumatic time for all of us.  Marie had it the worst, but that’s a whole other tragic tale.  College would never be the same again.  Memories of college post-arrests, have a completely different tone and spirit than all of the ones pre-arrests because our whole group of friends was split up.  A lot were arrested… people had to drop out of school… do jail time, rehab, probation blah blah blah and Chewonki was in the thick of it.  That was the last time I saw him.

A few days after his arrest, while he was still in jail, unable to get bailed out yet, his mom called me to update me, and she said, “He wants me to tell you that he’s sorry and that he loves you.”  I cried my eyes out for weeks.

He was obviously expelled from school, and once he finally got bailed out, he had to move back up to New Jersey, and soon after, was forced to go to rehab in California.  We kept in touch over the phone fairly well during all of this, but then came the day when he had to do real jail time.  I forget how long he was in for.  Six months I think?  After that, it just became harder and harder to keep in touch.  I lived in either Georgia, Florida or California, and he lived in New Jersey and time just moves all things.  I’m sure both of us didn’t try as hard as we could have, but we had to move on.  I had moved on.  Until two weeks ago, I didn’t see Chewonki for six years.

Due to recent work, I have been traveling a lot, so I was able to see him.  We only had a short amount of time together, but it was like choreography.  There we were, Matt and Penny, talking and laughing, just like always.

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