Tinder Date #1

Eiw. Tinder. I’m back on here. The last time I went on a Tinder date was January 2018 (right after my abortion), and before that was January 2015 (with a handsome young gigolo). And before that one time I invited a Tinder date to a Japanther show at Sugar Mountain and had sex (perhaps with my Tinder date, perhaps with someone else? Don’t remember.) in the bathroom. Now, here I am, back on Tinder, and I’m actually trying this time as opposed to just broadening my sluttery. Weird.

I was driving over to the bar after work when it suddenly occurred to me: am I nervous? Should I be nervous? No, I’m not nervous, I don’t get nervous. I’m not that type of person. But I’m feeling…something. Am I scared? Yes, I’m definitely scared. What if this person roofies me and I get in my car and crash it? What if this goes horribly awry? Am I on game? I’m always on game, but what if I was a horrible judge of character on Tinder and something awful and violent happens? No, I’m not that bad of a judge of character. Not the best, but not the worst. In all honesty, worst case scenario is that this guy says something maga-esque and I have a temper tantrum. No, worst case scenario: I like this guy, we date, and he tries to beat me and then I have to kill him. Oh, god. What if he’s ugly? What if I get cat fished? That’s going to bother me. But, okay, here I am, parking my car, walking to the bar, doing it regardless because I try to remind myself that who knows! Maybe this is the next love of my life! I’ll also settle for fun hook up. I’m open to a wide range of options here.

We settle into conversation. Okay, not a magat. Not homophobic. Not whorephobic. He checks those boxes. I can tell that I’m being too effusive, that I’m talking too much. I’m dominating the conversation. I talk about the history of Emeryville for some stupid reason, probably because I love talking about all the old school casinos and Ken Bukowski, the gay mayor who used to own a black night club and then brought Bay Street to Emeryville while also possibly being a meth addict. Ugh, I’m talking too much. I always talk too much. I do that when I’m nervous, or I’m excited. I make eye contact. No! Too much eye contact! That was weird! I sip on my drink, but I remind myself: slowly, girl. Slowly. Don’t come off as a lush. That’s weird.

I inhale and let him talk about a few things. I do a quick analysis. Could I fuck this guy? Sure. Tonight? No, because I drove here and I have a two drink maximum for getting behind the wheel, so this is just a meet and greet. I can already feel out what some of his character flaws might be, although it occurs to me that I’m using my ex as the measuring stick for character flaws, which might be a horrible measuring stick. This guy is definitely not a narcissist. I can tell because he’s not shoving his personality down my throat and actually listening to my rambling in an attentive manner. So why is there some part of me that is waving the red flag? Why is not being a narcissist a problem? Oh, jeez. My ex got me, didn’t he? I’m now categorically attracted to narcissists because there’s something about unbounded and unrealistic confidence that I have acclimated my attraction to. Fuck. But, wait, maybe I shouldn’t be seeking out a narcissist because didn’t I just break up with a narcissist because that wasn’t any good for me? Why am I comparing this person I just met to the last person I broke up with? Am I looking for someone to replace my ex? If I wanted to do that, I could just pick up the phone and call him and beg him to take me back. Sure, it’d be a bit of a gamble, but if I really, really believed that was what I wanted, I would do it. But I haven’t done that. I haven’t texted him or called him or tried to run into him. Because I don’t want that. I want something different. Which is why I’m here.

This is new. This is different. This could work. I could make it work. Oh, no, why am I jumping fifteen steps ahead. I think I’m still in relationship mode, which is chill if I decide I want to jump immediately into a new relationship, but, Jesus, chill the fuck out. This is two drinks and nothing else. One step at a time. Perhaps I should pat myself on the back for having found someone who isn’t an overt meninist because after what my friends told me I was a bit wary that that might be the case.

Okay, I’m cool. I’m back in the dating world. I drive home, feeling weird about the whole situation. Is this how people do relationships nowadays? Are we supposed to…I mean, what comes after this? Do we fall in love? Fuck around? Stay in each others’ lives for the next five to ten years? Ghost each other? Become friends? Or fuck buddies? Let it peter out into nothingness? God. Starting a new human relationship is so fucking complicated and difficult. I should probably be sending pitches to agents. But I’m not. I’m doing this instead.

Wish me luck.

Modern Romance

Swipe, swipe, swipe, swipe. It’s happening. It’s really Fucking happening. I am online dating. Or at least trying. God, it’s like wading into a faceless sea of terrifying dicks again. I used to love doing this. I was so good at this five years ago. I guess the slow grind of pseudo-relationships had really made me feel complacent about finding someone with whom I could actually have a future.
This is terrifying. I talk to my [few remaining single] friends, and, oof, they are not reassuring me. They regale me with stories of loneliness and peril, bad sex and bad men. I used to love hearing these stories from the comfort of a sexually active, consistently affectionate and very adequate relationship. But now. I’m one of them. Out here to have my time, money and emotions wasted in one of the scariest ways possible. Online dating.
In the wake of a break up, I’ve found that I’m drawn to trite aphorisms more so now than ever before. I feel incredibly cheesy admitting this, but, hey, it’s a coping mechanism. As I was swiping through Tinder, I came across a profile that said, “The most difficult decision you’ll ever make is deciding whether to stay and make it work or leaving and doing something new.” Ouch. Jesus. I really didn’t come here to be filled with regret. I didn’t come here so I could sit and ponder whether or not giving up on my last relationship was the right decision or should I have tried harder.
I made the right decision. Even as I sit here and miss the little things about him. Waking up next to him. Listening to music as we drove around together. Wandering around Target. I tell myself that all those things can be replaced by someone who treats me better in the big picture. But as I listen to my friends’ horror stories, I wonder: did I give up something that was good enough? Should I have been content with that status quo?
Or should I want more in life.
I want more.

Last Word

I write things here so he can read them eventually, knowing full well neither of us will bother to pick up the phone and say hello but he can’t help himself. I smile to myself as I say whatever poetic, destructive things come to my mind, knowing full well that my blog has been and always will be my favorite instrument for gas lighting people. They say that winners write the history books, but that’s not true. Writers write the history books, and nothing can stop me from writing.

Loving and Letting Go

He hates me. Or he loves me. I don’t know. I don’t get to know. All I know is he left me for another woman, the same woman he leaves every woman for. Which is fine. I knew that was coming eventually. It was inevitable, just like old age and global warming. He will always get back with her, but before he got back with her, he was with me. But all of that’s over now. It’s time to move on. Which I am doing, quite well, I might add. Although there’s still that nagging part of me that wonders why he wants me to think that he hates me. Was it that bad? No, it wasn’t that bad. We were friends, we were lovers. We were never serious about our relationship or building a future together. Things fell apart, as things tend to do, and now he hates me. For what? For not wanting him enough? For not begging him to stay with me and never go back to his ex? Of course he hates me. Or, he has to think he hates me. In order to justify the way he treated me. In order to excuse all those mean things he said to me. In order to make it okay for him to abandon me for the love of his life. My greatest sin was a sin of apathy. I kept it too simple. Too casual. Which isn’t a loathsome thing to do, but I guess it is enraging. Part of me wonders: do we feel the same way about each other? Frustrated that we were madly in love but neither of us wanted to be more than just simple. We couldn’t be simple forever. No one’s capable of that. Not like this. Sure, I could have put more work into the relationship. I could have forced it to work. But that’s not me. That’s not what I do. I don’t patch holes in sinking ships. I don’t command the course on a boat that goes nowhere. I jump in the water and back stroke back to shore, even though I’ve never been there before and I don’t speak the language and I have no money. He’s a pirate at heart, but I like adventures on land. I am the light house on foggy days, and he is the boat lost at sea. Together we are a wreck on the crags in the water, so why would I be mad if he sails in a different direction?

All About That Asshole

“He’s an asshole.”

I look at my friend as I’m saying, and I catch myself. Asshole, loser, piece of shit, waste of space – I’m spewing out whatever typical insult one uses when talking about her ex. My friend validates this, but as I’m saying it, I realize: didn’t I love this person? (Maybe I still do.) Wasn’t this person my knight in shining armor? Wasn’t he “the one” to me? The love of my life? My one true love?

As I’m spewing out all this vitriol, I think back to those moments where I thought so highly of him. Here I am, right now, in this moment of brokenness, but I hadn’t I lived inside of hope and dreams and foreverness with him just a few weeks ago?

This is so cliche. Sure, I can say all sorts of slanderous, acerbic things about him. But part of me wonders: what’s the point in that? Yeah, he’s an asshole. He’s a piece of shit. He knows it. I know it. In fact, I always knew. Even when I loved him the most, I knew he was an asshole piece of shit. But I loved him anyway. It didn’t stop me then, and I didn’t stop loving him because he was an asshole piece of shit. If anything, I liked that about him. Or, at least I liked it when his assholeishness and his shitiness were directed at the rest of the world. When it got directed at me – I didn’t like it too much.

Sure, he was an asshole. But he was my asshole. And we were assholes together. Now I’m just an asshole without him, and maybe that’s what’s driving me crazy. The mask goes back on. I pretend to be nice again. I go on dates with men who seem like the type of person I should be attracted to, and I lie about who I am. When really all I want is someone with whom I can be my assholeish self. Someone who validates my smug and unwarranted sense of superiority. Someone who always wants more. Someone who looks down on other people.

Yeah, he was an asshole. A piece of shit. And so am I. All I need to do now is find myself a new asshole piece of shit, and then I’ll be just fine.

A Decade of Writing

I’ve published nearly 2000 entries on my personal diary. Here’s a piece cobbled together from 3 different entries I made in 2010.

slip in silent and blinking lights. if only i could sleep. and not dream, because maybe i am asleep, or maybe i’m not, but i can’t tell the difference anyways, between me and sleep. if i believed in souls, i would believe that mine is trying to claw its way out of my stomach and into yours.

again, and nauseous. so i sweat, and i sweat, and i sweat and every minute is a hospital, and i am rushing in and dying every single second. and you are hours away from being here, where i need you.

i think the blood in my body is trying to rip itself out of my arms in nicely razor inflected lines – which isn’t a conscious fault of my own, it’s more like destiny knocking on the door of my feeble mortality. get numb, girl friend, there’s nothing left to do. until then, inebriated intoxicated irrelevant insouciant in every inch of this existence, gutter fuck and all that shit.