Hard-boiled

Apparently when i’m reeeeeaaaallllly tired, I stay up and write crazy lady posts. And then because I’m stupid I just save them as drafts or in my documents and they never make it on here. I’m the worst.

There was this time ummm december 2010 i think. maybe. maybe november. i should really remember things better.

and i was bad about some frufru dumb coffee date he went on that just went less-good than he expected. and so i was ninnying and bickering and pouting and he was sitting on my bed checking his texts or the weather or something.

and i stopped pouting and went to sit on the bed, but slipped, mostly falling on him.

so he held his hand to my forehead and said ‘aw, be careful baby’

and i distinctly remember not being able to say anything and my head went blank and i remembered that baby is something that people call each other, although in my extensive dating history I had never encountered or acquired the common endearment.

and i spent those 20 or so seconds very much in love, and very content, and very overjoyed in the exact serenity that only relationships can provide.

anyway. years later, whenever he calls me baby, i still blush a bunch, which is something i dont ever do. its cute.

Some girl has been trying to steal J away from me. And that’s not going to happen. I want to punch her.

And right after I do that, I want to hug her close.

(paraphrased from memory)

When I was an underaged teen, I had a wild text and email based affair with a man 5 years older than me. It went on for probably 4 or 5 years, before culminating in the most unromantic, backwoods, depression-fueled, thanksgiving break tryst that a branson campground had ever seen.

At some point in probably the middle of the relationship, this dude’s girlfriend (later fiancee, and laterthen ex-fiancee) found out about me from a friend of a friend of a friend, and wrote the sparse bit of words above. I found it, like she knew I would, because we were unintentionally part of the same blogroll (which was a thing then but not anymore. google it.)

And it hit me so hard, and so good. The idea that she had a depth and kindness that I couldn’t yet relate to, as a sad and terrible 16 year old girl.

I was hurting her and she loved me anyway.

*****

You’re hurting someone I care about, but I’m going to love you anyway. Because I believe in you, in a weird Narnia-esque way. I’m not going to send out screenshots of your blog and call you bad, mean, ugly names.

I just wanted to let the world know that i’m really getting into makeup. I bought a fucking red lipstick today.

watching an episode of say yes to the dress. bride that survived stage 4 breast cancer. picks out beautiful dress. think ‘that dress is awesome, i wonder who designed it?’ find out bride died when her cancer returned while pregnant. cry because the world is worst place to be and i wish i were a senseless amoeba.

what if she was a better person than me? and i’m here being dumb and she’s not here.

i think i like the idea of this show more than i like it. because i think i actually hate it. because its like a hodge podge of a dozen one-liners and a million cameos.

It’s not that i think it sucks, because it doesn’t. and it’s not that it isn’t entertaining, because it is. but the shit that people just reeeeeeeeead into it. things that even Lena Dunham has countered with ‘that’s a stupid assumption.’

Like, i shouldn’t have to listen to somebody’s aunt tell me about how much that show ‘has to say’ while theyre jamming egg rolls into their face.

So i dont like watching this show because I’ll sit there thinking ‘oh yeah, this show is saying something’ and like. It’s fucking not.

Hate that i can’t watch that okayish show. Thanks aunty aunts of the world.