10 Month Break Up

And then all of a sudden, it was over. Just, one day I realized: I haven’t talked to him in a month and a half. I was struck with a sharp sense of emptiness, not in a bleak way, but like in those Hoarders TV shows where they show the before and after pictures from when the house was filled with trash and when it’s not. That kind of emptiness. Which is supposed to be positive and uplifting but it’s still emptiness.

I don’t deal with emptiness very well. I know this, and I know it even more so now because I’m grasping at my chest, gasping for air, clawing at nothingness. Fuck. I mean, I dragged that break up on for ten months. Or, we dragged it out for ten months. We. Which is another thing that I don’t want to think about: we. Us. The two of us, as we used to be, but now we’re just different people living different lives.

I spent so long unbuckling myself from years’ worth of chaos and sex and love and pain and revenge and the mundane things we used to do on a day to day basis back when we were inseparable. I spent so long wanting to be right here, right now, without him in the back of my mind or at the bottom of my incoming text messages or right in front of me. Now that he’s not here – now what?

I hate this feeling. Every time. This happens every time! Because, no, this was not our first break up. But, fingers crossed, it’s the last! I mean, I say that every time. I’ve started to wonder when it will be true. Will it ever be true? And what does it take for it to be true?

Someone recently said to me, “At least it’s over.” To which I responded, “Is it?” At which point I felt that heavy burden of loving someone and not knowing how to stop. Because, let me tell you, a month and a half of silence does not necessarily mean that the break up is final. We’ve gone a year before. And then, poof, like nothing, back at it again.

I’d like to think that this time was different for a myriad of reasons. First off, oof, the hatred with which he cut me off – that sure did reach a fever pitch. I don’t think there’s any bouncing back from all the awful things he said to me, or at least I hope there’s no bouncing back because I don’t even want to begin to think about how broken I’d have to be crawl back into bed with someone who treated me like that. Of course, we all already know: I would probably do it in a heart beat. But I’m trying to be optimistic! And I’m trying to reinforce my sense of self esteem and tell myself, no, that was the last time. That was the limit. That was the cut off. That’s it.

Unfortunately, I know my weaknesses, and one of my weaknesses is a foolish, childish, undying belief in the supremacy of love. Ah, it sounds so corny just seeing it there on the page, but it’s true. I’d like to think that my love is eternal, and that love overcomes, and all those other cheesy things that people say about love. I want to believe all those things. To a fault, apparently.

I cannot seem to kill my love. And, ooh, girl, I have tried. Apparently there’s no amount of fucking someone’s friends that can kill love. Or getting drunk and screaming the most horrible things in his face at the top of your lungs. Or wanton betrayal. Or slandering him on the Internet. Or even the slow, subtle death rattle of growing apart. Or sitting in my room on my hands waiting for time to heal all wounds. Or watching someone disintegrate emotionally over time.

So this means that I just get to walk around filled with some dead, unreciprocated, rotting love in my heart. And at any moment, that person could come back and fuck up my day by asking me to love him again. I’ve done my best to put up as many barriers to seeing or interacting with this person or risking any sort of crossing of paths. All I can do is hope: this is the last time. Because no matter how much I love him, I never want to do this again. Not with him. I want the part of me that loves him to diminish over time, to go quietly to the bottom of the pile, to almost disappear but no quite disappear. I want the part of me that loves him to atrophy, to fall away. I want the part of me that loves him to be eclipsed by other, better things inside me. I want the part of me that loves him to be safe inside me where it can do no harm, and I want the part of me that loves him to stop being the excuse that I use to hurt myself.

I want something better. In fact, if I’ve learned anything here, it’s, damn, I really enjoy loving other people. It’s very rewarding and uplifting, even if it does come with a whole mountain of pain most of the time. That’s not going to stop me from doing it. If anything, I have all this left over love from my last relationship that I’m not really using – might as well do something with it, right?

Watch out, world.

Selling Out Versus Doubling Down

People thought it was going to be a phase. I figured it was a phase, too, but I’m not a woman of half measures so I put everything I had into it, phase or not. If I’m gonna do it, might as well do it right. Yet, here we are, six and a half years later, and I have to admit: this might not be a phase. This might just be who I am. Permanently.

I know that’s disheartening for some people to hear. I was supposed to “grow out of it” and become a real adult, but – what exactly is a real adult? Sure, I kinda get what they mean – I was supposed to grow tired of doing this, and after that, I was going to blossom into a more socially acceptable version of myself. Sorry, doesn’t look like that’s on the docket. I mean, I get it. Sure, this lifestyle is a bit break neck, it’s fairly exhausting, and it can be pretty physically taxing, too. The idea of living like this for another fifty years seems unmanageable and also highly possibly fatal. I’m sure that people want to see me buckle into a lifestyle of health food and exercise and moderation. They want to see me renounce my evil ways, or at least shrink away. Instead, I’ve found a way to maintain over the years, even if in some ways I’ve started to slowly taper off.

It’s an interesting trend that I’ve seen in my friend group, too, especially as we all hit thirty. I’ve noticed that some of us just can’t take it anymore. It’s thinning out my friend group. Some of us are finding a way out. Going straight. Settling down. I thumb through old photos from the party days and wonder, “Whatever happened to her? We used to twerk on stage at warehouse parties while lit on xanax and Ancient Age.” Some of my old drug dealer friends have already gone to rehab at least once. My fellow thotties now have real relationships and talk about things like babies and marriage and a future. Everyone I know who used to somewhat dom just waxes nostalgic on Instagram and also once a year at Folsom. On the other hand, some of my old drug dealer friends are way strung out, and some of my fellow thotties went all out into sex work, and some of those somewhat doms are now full blown drug sniffing art stars.

Suffice it to say: none of seem to be in the same place we used to be. How could we – there’s a difference between being 23 and wild versus in your thirties and still doing kid shit. People give up on their dreams for something stable and tangible like a job. Others – well, some people never really had that option. For some people, this is fucking life. It’s not a phase, and it’s not a joke.

Witnessing the schism in my social circle has been bittersweet. It’s like high school all over again – we all found ourselves in the same place, doing the same crazy shit for that brief period in time, and now we’ve fallen apart into god knows where. (Oof, especially with the gentrification of Oakland – I’m not going to see a lot of these people ever again.) Those of us who stay in the insanity – well, it’s probably aged us in a way that is less glamorous than what I’d like to admit to. (Mostly: dealing with the daily risk of addiction is quite a balance act to maintain, and I think a lot of people who stayed in the lifestyle aren’t maintaining.) And those who left – their skin will look good in fifteen years but their stories will be less interesting.

I couldn’t really tell you which path will offer you more redemption. All I know is: doing the same thing over and over again, year after year – it gets a little boring. I guess that’s why people check out – they’ve tried enough, and they are satisfied. But I haven’t give up my pursuit of cheap thrills, I’ve just leveled it up a bit. I’d like to think that the wild shit I’ll be doing into my 30’s will at least be hella classy and there will be a lot of gold leaf around all my impending memories. I am a bit concerned that maybe this will age my body in ways that I can’t yet foresee, but luckily I don’t smoke cigarettes so I think I’ll be okay.

Sure, I know this is an impossible task I’ve set up for myself: don’t ever give up on being wild, but also don’t get strung out or go broke doing it or let your looks fade. I’ve made it through this half of my life just fine, I’m sure another 15 years of this shit will be manageable, too.

Power Words

Through the magic of the Internet, I found myself reading about conversational hypnosis. You know, the idea that you can put someone in a trance within a few bars of conversation and start steering the outcome to whatever you want. I’m in sales, so it’s a useful thing to know and understand. I have a list of certain “power words” in my phone, and I was reading them aloud to a friend as I tried to rap my brain around: how am I going to use these power words for, well, power. I looked over at my friend, who I could tell was a bit nonplussed by what was going on. By what I was talking about in general, really, but I couldn’t stop, even as she sat there, eyes glazed over.

I’ve found that’s been more of a problem lately – the incessant talking. I’m starting to feel really self conscious about it because I know it’s not an “attractive” quality and, damn, I really do try hard to be attractive. But it is a useful characteristic in other ways. Constant conversation is a pretty effective way to “assault the senses” as it were. It’s a way to create chaos and confusion because people are supposed to pay attention to the conversation, and in that effort you can trap them. Truly, the best conversationalists can talk for hours without saying anything at all but instead use it as a way to glean information about the other person’s emotional structures, defense mechanisms, inner life, insecurities and aspirations. I’m not quite there yet, but I try to practice. Mostly I practice on men because they’re such uncomplicated creatures. Tits, smile and a genuine interest accomplishes a lot in this world. Even with feminism in full effect.

But it’s not enough. Hence the list of power words I’m reading from my phone. While I’m aware that these pseudo-scientific techniques are mostly just trash psychology, I still find it fascinating that humans need to find a way to describe, explain and replicate other people’s natural talents, namely charisma and confidence. More specifically, I find it interesting that men have filmed all these hours long seminars on the topic, mostly as an overly complicated way to try to fuck women. Me? I’m always curious what men are up to, what’s going behind those beady little eyes of theirs. I’m amused when they try to outwit me. It entertains me.

Which made me realize: is that what my future is? Am I going to be bussing around Middle America talking to lonely hearts clubs filled with Walmart feminists on how to use these tricks to their advantage, too? I can’t decide if that’s a grim fate or if, given the current state of the world, I’ll be coming out on top. Only time will tell.

Hey, You

I’m getting lurked again! This is so exciting for me. It’s been so long since I’ve been lurked, and I thought that with this new blog the net lurking would decrease drastically. I’ll admit I kinda miss the notoriety that came from the last blog – it was a pretty good calling card back in the day. Which is why I started this new blog – even though it comes with a bit of a tone shift, I just can’t fucking help myself. If I don’t write on a daily basis I go crazy – there’s so much shit swirling around inside my brain, it has to come out somewhere. And it comes out here. And you read it! Oh, I’m so happy for you.

Now that I know who you are, I hope you’ll enjoy all the little nuggets of encoded secret messages I’ll be leaving for you. Just like the old days. It will be our little way of growing closer every day, with every blog post. I am going unzip my skin and invite you cohabitate with me here in my body and my brain. I think you’ll like it here. It’s quite cozy. The only thing that I ask in return is: please give me the permission to continue not giving a fuck about you and who you are. I would like to invite you into my humble abode so that you can sit there quietly and go unnoticed in my life. I’m quite enjoying this quiet status quo that we have established of you lurking me and me not giving a shit. Let’s not change a thing.

The Hottest Guy in the Room

“Mostly I just always try to fuck the hottest girl in the room.”

This is something I’ve heard from many men over the course of my life. I guess it’s like a pride thing – do you have enough game to pull the hottest chick in the room? As someone who likes to think that she has plenty of game, I wondered: I am capable of the female equivalent? Do I pull the hottest guy in the room?

That got me wondering. Now, for all my male friends, pulling the hottest girl in the room is, for the most part, a matter of taste. We women put a lot of effort into our appearance – we contour our make up, wear five inch heels and mini skirts, we wear waist trainers to the gym, we post alluring selfies on the Internet to increase our pull. Basically, we work hard to try to be the hottest girl in the room. That way, when a guy walks into the room, he has like three to seven hot chicks to pick from. If the first one doesn’t click, there are other women he can talk to without it being an admission of defeat.

Women, however, do not always have that option. Sometimes there isn’t a hot guy in the room – there’s just men wearing their sneakers and their t-shirts and their hoodies looking like they didn’t sleep enough or hit the gym. I find this to be very frustrating. Do you know how much time and money and effort I put into looking fuckable on a daily basis? Yet half the places I go to I can find a man who looks like he thought twice about what he was wearing that day. And I live in the Bay Area, so like half the men I see every day are gay! What happened to living up to the stereotype?

And that’s the problem with hot guys: they’re so relatively few and far between when it comes to the ratio of hot guys to hot girls. As soon as there’s one hot guy, every woman who feels like she’s earned a man who is equally attractive to her flocks to him, and then there’s that whole competition thing that we feminists eschew nowadays.

I know men are putting a lot of effort into convincing women that looks aren’t everything. People rage at the friend zone, meninists talk about their biological drive for sex on a fundamental level. Fairy tales like Beauty & The Beast¬†tell us that we should look beyond skin deep. (Although, mostly we look beyond skin deep and into wallets, but, hey, I just live in a capitalist society, I didn’t build it.)

I get it – women have been culturally trained to care about their appearances, and men have been trained to care about their income. But as feminism changes that dynamic, I’d like to think that not only can women care about their income but men can also care about their appearances, with neither of those changes being a threat to the standard gender dynamic.

Because, let’s be honest, feminism has women at a point where we can both look amazing and rake in money. Men – when are you going to catch up? Honestly, it’s not that hard. You just gotta go to the gym two or three times a week, do some cardio, some crunches, lift a few weights. Wear pants that fit and anything other than a t-shirt and a hoodie with the name of the start up your best friend works at. Look at some style blogs, go to a nice store and ask some questions. Make an appointment at a hair salon and ask the hair stylists for some tips. Stop biting your fingernails. Buy some good face wash and spend some money on a scent other than Axe body spray. Get a hobby that can be talked about casually at a bar. Sure, I know, there’s a lot to be learned when it comes to grooming yourself, but, theoretically isn’t the trade off worth it?

All I’m saying is – how all these dudes on Seeking Arrangements gonna claim they have all this money but not even look it? Sure, making tons of money probably means you’re intelligent in some way, but if you have no social intelligence, how much is the rest of that intelligence really worth?

I’m trynna live my best Instagram life – are you?

 

Seeking

Kelsey convinced me to make a Seeking Arrangements profile, which is kinda lol because I’m pretty sure I’m getting too old to do this kind of shit, and, also, damn, there I go again sticking my toe into the ocean of sex work and then realizing, fuck, sex work is real work! And I hate working, so I might be too lazy to follow through on any of this. However, I hit the one month mark of “not talking to my ex,” which is a god damn miracle, so might as well see what’s out there, right? Wrong. I thought Seeking Arrangements was going to basically just be like Kelsey’s blog¬†– that thing is teeming with hot, old, rich dick! Unfortunately, Seeking Arrangements is just like the rest of the world, except with “more money.” Namely, a bunch of lames that I have to wade through before I start to fucking drown. Although, even the “more money” part is questionable – I’ve come across too many profiles for supposed sugar daddies whose net worth is less than $100k and whose annual income is less than $100k. Bitch, I didn’t come here to talk to people who make less money than me. Get your shit together. Anyways, after scrolling through page after page after page of wantonly uninteresting men, I had to ask myself, why is this not easier? I have to try?!?!?! My least favorite thing. There has got to be a better way to go about getting white men’s money. And, indeed, there is (girl, have you tried a lawsuit before? They’re amazing!), and seeing as I just did it (yup, settled that #MeToo suit for more money than any of these sugar daddies off the Internet would probably ever give me), I’m feeling a little jaded about the whole thing. But, whatever, I’m pretty single and Tinder has just become an echo chamber of pity and regret, so, might as well try Seeking Arrangements, which is basically just Tinder but with more money. Wish me luck.

Love in the Time of Fascism

Woke up to the news today, and apparently there were a bunch of attempted bombings. Bombings!

Ugh, this sick feeling, yet again. Terrorism – it’s back in vogue in this country, and all of a sudden I find it hard to leave the house. Even though I should get going to work, so I pop another lexapro and try to set foot out the door. But I can already hear it, the senseless din that will be echoing through my head as we march closer to an election that is feeling more like a death sentence. We’ll talk about voter suppression, we’ll hear reports from the right that this is fake news meant drum up sympathy, we’ll hear about how the president’s rhetoric contributed to this mess, we’ll hear about racism and transphobia and the role of terrorism in our lives.

Man, fuck all this shit. It’s getting hard to differentiate between the headlines I see every morning when I wake up and the movies I watch at night before I go to bed. It’s blurring together, and I’m not sure if taking my anti anxiety medication is dulling me to the pain or if it’s exactly what I need to get through one day at a fucking time.

I realize that I miss being young. Or at least care free, in the sense that global cataclysms could occur, but with youth I still had the idealism of making the world a better place tomorrow, when I get my chance. However, now I’m old enough to live in a world that is in some ways of my own making (or my own unmaking), and, ooh, it does not feel good.

It’s hard to remember what the plan is here, but I’m trying with all my might to avoid the hysteria into which I usually slip myself. I wasn’t prepared for war, or, at least, I wasn’t prepared for this war. I’ll admit: I did not see this coming. I did not plan accordingly. Which is probably why I’m reassessing my plan, trying to figure out, am I doing the right thing to survive this fucking hellscape? It feels like a question that is more than any of us should have to ask. Because who is truly up to the task of answering that question?

I simply don’t have time to answer that question because despite the fact that the world is on fire, I still have to go to work and pay rent. I thought that working and paying rent were enough of a burden – having to do it in a burgeoning fascist regime feels even more pointless and defeating. I live in the most expensive place in the entire country – how am I supposed to find time to fight a fascist regime after a ten hour work day? This shit’s a fucking trap. I feel like my hands are tied by the same demon that is now pulling a plastic bag over my head. How am I supposed to fight.

Or should I just run away? Talk about a wonderful fantasy. It’s a bit self indulgent because, well, what would I do, watch from afar on a beach by some sea while everything and everyone I have ever known falls into fascist oblivion? I honestly don’t think I could stomach that.

This is not what I want to be thinking about as I head out the door to work. This is not my dream.

Also, this is a horrible time to be going through a break up, or, as is my case, finally done going through a break up and feeling good about it. This is not a good time for dating. This era is incredibly unsexy.

And I always find myself wondering: how did we get here? Aren’t we the #OccupyOakland and #BlackLivesMatter generation? Didn’t all that shit start here? Aren’t we the chosen ones? Damn, we were not prepared for this. How is this city so fucking complacent. When are we going to fight back.