I have, once or twice (or 10) times in my life, been accused of stringing people along. Whilst I mostly can say that I tend to talk a big talk and walk a snuggly walk - occasionally I am completely taken by surprise. Once such occasion happened in the early morning hours this past monday.
A morning full of promise. A morning in which after a night of unfulfilling sex I had come to a mental resolution that The Butcher phase of my life needed to come to an end. Having never entered the infatuation phase, he was merely a sexual stand-in. A reliable booty call that had absolutely no threat or potential of becoming more.
And then it happened.
In the wee hours of monday morning, in a haze of whiskey fumes and lids still heavy with sleep, he went and got weird on it. He dropped the L-bomb.
At first I thought I dreamt it. But, I know I didn’t… because I don’t have the capacity to dream up such an apocalyptic hookup WMD. It went a little like this…
Tries to kiss me. His breathe isn’t so great. I turn my head away. Keeps trying to kiss me. Keep turning my head. The roaming hands of sex initiation start. I just really want to sleep, which I was finally doing before the rank breath attack on my face. I tend towards insomnia and someone else in my bed doesn’t help. We’re both half asleep - My eyes are closed (too heavy) and my face is turned away and he mumbles in between some moans ”Meg… meg… I love you”. Aannnnndddd the room gets quieter than silent. I don’t say a word… mostly because the only thing I can think is WHAT THE FUCK. A beat passes and he continues “No, you know, I really do. I love you”… “I do love you”.
THREE TIMES. THREE TIMES. THREE FUCKING TIMES.
Now, the first one I could have shrugged off. It obviously just slipped out. A meaningless endearment that slithered through the teeth onto deaf ears in the muddy waters of morning boners and hangovers. Let it go man. We never have to talk about it again. Never. Promise.
But then, its like he thought about it and was like “ok, i’m gonna go with this great idea that just occurred to me” AND SAID IT TWO MORE TIMES.
I need a fucking bays worth of little “what the fuck” fish to sort this cannery of crazy out.
My powers of avoidance are strong in all walks - physical and mental. So the morning passed without injury (except for the irrevocable mental damage I incurred).
Booty call L-bomb. Our “relationship” is as follows. He is Alex’s (ex) coworker. I meet them out for drinks after work. One time when I was blackout he took me home. He shows up to my bar sometimes. I send him home at closing. I’ve bootycalled him (drunk) on 2 separate occasions. He helped me move when Alex bailed. He texts me randomly asking how my day was or “are you working?”. I pounded 5 whiskey shots and 3 beers Sunday night before I decided I could take him home.
I still wasn’t drunk enough to hear “I love you”.
BECAUSE WHAT THE FUCK.
Its time to start updating again. My life hasn’t gotten any less ridiculous in my few silent months, but I’ve been distracted.
And for my current dilemma:
I am more fickle than a mosquito to a strobe light. I fall in and out of love at least once a week. And without fail the person who is lucky enough to be on the receiving end of my infatuations falls under most, if not all, of the following distinctions:
- Resides in a different time zone (why even bother)
- Emotionally unavailable (two wrongs sometimes make a right… but this just makes an awkward)
- Attached (stop fucking flirting with me)
- Completely oblivious to my pining (naiveté is a plague amongst the horny)
Luckily for me, these “loves” don’t really ever last very long. A few shared moments that i’ll overanalyze for a week or two before I get bored of running the same scenarios over and over in my head. Or I find someone fresh to fill my day dream hours. I’ll never actually act on anything in fear that i’ve invented these “moments” with my vivid imagination and end up getting drunk and calling someone that currently we’ll call “The Butcher” but really he’s just a variation on a theme (Don’t like him, not good enough, undateable, but always available… and avvvaailllable, knowwhatimean). Now, I bet you’re thinking “thats not really love”.
Well, fuck you. Yes it is, because I say it is.
Maybe not the everlasting love of famous romances and shitty pop songs, but love nonetheless. Its certainly isn’t lust. Lust i’m good with. Lust, is my jam.
I was in love a few weeks ago. Its a long story. Its a herpes kinda love. You always have it, but sometimes you forget you do until you get bamboozled by an outbreak. (No, I can’t back up that analogy personally, and yes, I just compared my feelings for someone to an STD… I hope he never reads this). Sometimes its just a friendly kind of love. And then he takes his shirt off.
Which gets me to my inspiration for this post…
I feel in love last night. I was momentarily cock blocked by a previous hate/love recipient, but, luckily, he relented and I was able to jump into the deep end of the swimming pool without my swimmies on. Because swimmies are for suckas.
I was working, he was a patron. He overheard me talking to my regular, Josh, about completing a Tough Mudder. After Josh left, he asked me about the Mudder. And then for the rest of the night, with limited interruptions (for me to make drinks and small talk with other people) we talked. About everything. It felt like a first date.
(Side note, my roommate’s boyfriend won’t stop talking to me about James Cameron. Its been like 20 minutes. She went to bed. I’m not even looking at him. He will not stop talking. what the fuck.)
(And now were onto George Lucas and Star Wars. He’s “studied Japanese film extensively” and hes lecturing me about moments of silence in movies)
(Hes a really nice guy but he can’t take the hint that I just don’t care about his endless knowledge about bullshit right now)
(I hope my roommates never read this too)
AS I WAS SAYING.
Nah, i told him why people were awful on weekend nights and he told me why he hated his students (did i forget to mention he’s a Professor of Chemical Engineering?). We talked about career paths. Stuff we hated (him: lateness me: football commercials). Basically we connected.
And then FUCKING TOMMY, IRISH DRUNKTENDER DOUCHE EXTRAORDINAIRE reared his ugly head. He drinks too much Jameson, gets over familiar and obnoxious and always wants to stay past closing time.
He sat down right next to my potential soulmate.
So after 6 hours of wonderful conversation I awkwardly told my hot Bosnian Scientist that he had to finish his beer and go… because I had just told Tommy i wasn’t staying after hours. And on top of that, the porter came in early, so an after hours drink was completely out of the question. So my maybe-lover got up, went to the bathroom, and awkwardly booked it out the front door as I yelled after him “Goodnight! It was wonderful to talk to you! Safe travels!” And he left to go back to his hotel and sleep and fly back to Michigan in the morning (oh, did i forget to mention he’s a professor at the University of Michigan and was only in town to give a talk at Stanford?) never to be seen again.
But, before I closed him out I memorized his name on his credit card (riiigghht, also forgot to mention we never actually introduced ourselves) and came home to moon and google the shit out of him.
He’s on facebook. The University of Maryland lists his email address. I also looked at his ratemyprofessor page… they are scared shitless of him (so hot).
I am so tempted to reach out and I KNOW that that is nuts.
But i’m a lady in love.
I confuse myself a lot of the time. Things that I believe to be true can generally tend to run in direct opposition on how I actually live my life. I’ve joked that I have a sub-conscious desire to make my life as awkward as possible. Suggested reasons for this have included: Material for self-deprecation. Stories to tell to strangers at work to endear them to me. Relationship subterfuge. Future book topic. Peter pan syndrome. Emotional retardation. Self-indulgent dramatic toiling. A possibly personality disorder. And then what all the rest boil down to: Attention.
And I guess that is what everything boils down to. Because I’ve been in existential crisis for weeks questioning the value of every shitty decision I’ve made lately. Like, if I know and am willing to admit that something (or someone) was a stupid move does that make that move any less retarded or reflective of my current state of mind? Or like, in the moment If I know what I’m doing is wrong but I do it anyway, not because I want to but because I CAN… what exact moral ground can I ever claim to stand on? Can I bitch about some men being passively shitty when I am ACTIVELY shitty?
And as a feminist, it bothers me that this is what my 20’s has been entirely about. All the stupid shit I have done to and with men, and all the stupid shit that they have done back. All the relationships I’ve kamikazed and the few people I’ve let break my heart. And yet STILL none of it makes sense. I look at people’s pictures of their adorable babies and in my head go “cute outfit but, yuck”. Or their wedding pictures and go “ugh, lame.” The only thing that thoughts of marriage and babies brings me is a knot in the pit of my stomach and an overwhelming feeling of stress and dread. Its the same feeling I got when I was 16 and I had my first bout of morality-induced insomnia. So what I’m really saying is I have the same reaction to thinking about no longer existing as I do to thinking about “settling down”.
When I was a kid I would always tell my parents and my family that I never wanted have kids. For the very limited amount of years I actually played with dolls instead of beheading them or using them as grunge-inspired art pieces, they were used for two reasons: 1. My backup singers 2. As characters in my rudimentary barbie pornos. Most of my dolls I actually thought were staring at me and would kill my in my sleep (especially that deviant, Raggedy Ann) so I hide them away or turned them towards the wall every night before bed. They were never my babies and I never got particularly attached. They were things that might kill me in my sleep. But I hadn’t ever really thought about it. I just realized pretty early on that marriage and children were feminized concepts and I wanted nothing to do with them, because I didn’t want any more reason to feel “other” to my brothers. Asserting that I NEVER wanted to get married or have babies was a way to rebel against being the only girl in the same way that cutting off all my hair and dressing like a western-wear Punky Brewster was (I really liked patterned vests). My parents and grandparents telling me that “when you grow up, you’ll change your mind” just made me even more determined to never admit to wanting any form of domesticity. I didn’t want to have to feel or want ANYTHING just because I was a girl. I can understand (sort of) where my parents were coming from. When you have 3 rambunctious little boys all you want is your classic sugar and spice little girl. And that I certainly wasn’t.
Boys and girls alike are all told that one day when we grow up something in us is just going to change. That we’re going to meet someone and suddenly were going to want the white picket fence, the 9-5 and the 2.5 children. But what if you never get that? What if at 26 I still have that knee-jerk reaction of “no fucking way” like that petulant child is still inside me refusing to even entertain the notion. I thought I had that change, once upon a time. But then looking back it wasn’t real, it was more about wanting someone to want to marry me than wanting to marry that someone. And, man, what do I know… Maybe thats what its all about in the end anyway. I’m not sure if this is the time that I stand on the grounds against the late-twenties scramble to couple off or if thats just a defense mechanism in the fear that I’ll never meet anyone that I actually want to be good too. Or the fear that I’m just not good at being good.
Whilst mulling over our individual romantic lives yesterday with my friend Kate on our way to her semi-blind date in the Mission, I casually made a comment (that she finished) that has bugged me all day today. This is how it went:
Me: “When I think about it… just since I’ve moved to San Francisco I’ve slept with more people than most people-“
Kate: “-sleep with their whole lives!”
Its exactly what I was planning on saying, but a statement becomes more cemented in the world of fact when someone says it before you can. Like if I were trying to make a self-deprecating joke about being chubby and and then someone cut me off mid sentence to get to the punchline of “because you’re chubby not pregnant!” or something… I would definitely feel a lot fatter than if I had gotten to the punchline first. It feels like less of a joke and more like stating the obvious. Like listening to a crappy pop song and being able to guess the next line on your first listen. OF COURSE she rhymed love with above. DUH.
So back on track.
In the 8 1/2 months that I’ve lived in San Francisco, I have had sex with more people than most do their entire lives.
So I’m not shame spiraling here I promise, I am a major supporter and proponent of both casual and non-casual sexual encounters. The fact that many people can count their sexual partners on two hands or less is as amazing to me as the fact that I can’t count mine at all (nor would I like to). In so much as, outside of being in one or a few long term relationship, religious beliefs, severe unattractiveness or lack of desire - HOW is it possible that most people in their mid to late twenties HAVEN’T fucked more people than they care to remember. I could hypothetically have had two month long “relationships” that were each consummated, over the span of 8 months, and had thus slept with four people. The CDC says that men between the ages of 25 and 44 reported having sex with a median of six people, and women in the same bracket said that they had slept with a median of four… TOTAL. IN LIFE. I’m talking 8 fucking months here, with my hypothetical completely impractical number of FOUR. In reality i’ve blown those statistics out of the water. I’m the type of person they don’t want to poll, because I fuck up all the averages. Last year I was seeing a 40 year old man, never married, who had actually only slept with 6 people! Which, is all well and good… to each their own sort of thing… but that was an awkward conversation.
The “what’s your number?” game is pretty much my least favorite game ever anyway. It’s absolutely horrible for a smattering of reasons. 1. There is never a winner. 2. Its usually the first lie in the relationship. 3. Its super uncomfortable. 4. Its basically someone asking permission to slut-shame you. 5. It makes sex seem like a crude competition, or actual notches on a bedpost and a million reasons more I’m sure. I just don’t see the point of playing it, but it always inevitably gets brought up in relationships.
The only difference it makes between whether I’ve slept with 4 or 40 people is you actually knowing.
I used to answer as honestly as I could muster, probably dropping off a few. But with age comes wisdom and the retort, “more than 7 less than 100”. And with the acceptance of that as my answer comes the freedom of not actually knowing anymore. I also don’t want to hear anyone else i’m dating’s number. Because as much as I’d rather not be judged on how many people I’ve done the nasty with, I will judge THE SHIT out of you. Like some serious, harsh, real judgement. Deal breaking, extreme neurosis, judgmental throw down. I will smile at you sweetly, but the little asshole in my brain with be punching and screaming on the walls, overflowing with all sorts of mean, fucked up shit. So DON’T DO IT.
But it is fact, that I have slept with more people since moving to San Francisco than most people have in their whole lives. And at first that statement gave me pause. But I think my real problem with it is that most of the sex that I’ve had in the past 8 1/2 has been complete shit. I’m dating, i’m getting laid with waxing and waning consistency, I haven’t hit any bad dry spells - which is all well and good for my mental well being. But I don’t look back fondly. I just wish for a little more quality over quantity. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’d rather not have slept with anyone in exchange for some good sex - but I’d definitely give back the ones I would have never slept with sober. Like If we could just scrub off the mental memory of those encounters and the shameful feeling of “ew I did… him?” and replace it with repeats of the good ones… I TOTALLY would. And then i’d go back to not caring about silly things like how many people I’ve slept with. Sadly I can’t do that, so the next thing to do is to trick my brain into forgetting through my actions.
Pretend like it never happened, give lots of high-fives, have sex with someone else.
The thing about Match.com is that not only does it suck, it knows it sucks.
Not only is the site so unconfident in its own efficacy that unless you specifically cancel your account it will automatically resubscribe you but getting a refund is easier than ordering a pizza. Its literally the easiest automated process i’ve ever partaken in. You can get a refund without reason or explanation by simply hitting a couple buttons on a phone keypad. No operator, no customer service rep, no dissatisfaction survey. An educated guess tells me that so many customers were unsatisfied with the service, that they had to STREAMLINE THE REFUND PROCESS. Think about that one, big boy.
Now before I make wild accusations about how everyone and everything sucks, which I inevitably will, let me say first that in general, it takes a certain suspension of… something in order to even give online dating a try. Being that my father’s profession for my most of my pre and teen years was to converse with older men in chat rooms under the guise of being an underage girl or boy, I have been heavily inundated with a fear of casual anonymous internet interactions. As I got older, one would figure that this fear would slowly fade… but no. At 14 my girlfriends and I thought it was HILARIOUS to have sexy AIM chats with strangers just to see who could imagine the most absurd and debasing sexual situation, but that was in jest. Now I’m 26 and every time someone emailed me on Match I figured there was something horribly wrong with them, or that they wanted to like, pee on me or something (not that there’s anything innately wrong with peeing on peeps for kicks, just ain’t my bag). The craigslist killer basically validated every irrational thought I had about buying secondhand bookshelves, and I didn’t join match.com until they started screening for sex offenders. So basically the fact that I went on 4 dates in 3 months is pretty amazing. I can’t be the only person with hang-ups… and to top it off, I don’t care WHO your are or WHAT your Dad does for a living… you know whats really fucking awkward? Chatting with complete strangers via e-mail who probably live within 5 miles of where you sleep with a joint purpose of trying to figure out whether or not you’d be into having a normal face to face conversation, which only serves the purpose of figuring out whether or not you’d like to STOP talking… naked. You spend sometimes weeks trying to force conversation VIA E-MAIL based on a set of confined interests that match.com asks you to lay out in order to show the world the ”real you”. And in most cases the “real you” is the person you WISH you were, because you conveniently forget the part where YOU HAVE TO ACTUALLY MEET OTHER PEOPLE. This isn’t second life motherfucker… I know you’re not really 5’10. And then you meet someone in person and its like, do I know you? Are we strangers? Should I reference your profile? Does the bartender know were obviously on a match date? I DON’T KNOW I DON’T KNOW I DON’T KNOW.
So having said all this why did I even try?
Because at some point I have to stop being that bartender that sleeps with all the customers. First off, It can be bad for business - since i’m more often than not accidentally a jerk via the misperception of social awkwardness. They stop coming in. Second of all - not always grade A meat. Turkey burgers will get you through your day… eh? So being that I’m always IN bars (usually sober), If I do go OUT to a bar its like a Tuesday, and the majority of people I go out with are male (inevitable cliterference)… Its hard to meet anyone new. Years of bartending have also made me naturally unresponsive to male attention, so even if they shrug off my natural cold shoulder, if I am getting hit on I have no idea. I honestly think everyone wants to be my buddy. I have no idea if someone is into me until their penis is in my vagina, and even then i’m not sure. I’m not even sure if I CARE. So yeah, I moved to a new city, my booty call pool was inexistent… creepy internet dating seemed like a viable possibility. Also I figured that since you have to PAY for match, it would weed out the creepers, rapists, sexual deviants and serial killers that would probably go on plenty of fish or ok cupid. (note: WRONG) (note on the note: WRONG only about creepers).
So, In the spirit of fairness… I was on the site so I am, technically, one of the the “them” of which I speak. Fine, cool. I am a little creepy, and some would call me a sexual deviant. No big deal. But I think its different for ladies. Most of the emails I got (that weren’t just blatantly disgusting or in some internet language of typos I’ll never be ok with) were explicitly sent to me were because of what I WASN’T. Because I WASN’T a Marina girl (NYers… think Nassau County meets the Upper East Side… pearls meets fake tans and eyelashes), or because I wasn’t a crunchy who talked about a love of nature and gypsy skirts. The emails that I received that were BECAUSE of who they thought I was (hate to say it but, hot geek girl) were from uber-nerd super genius PHDs from Palo Alto who were basically building Skynet and probably hadn’t seen sunshine since undergrad. I basically set myself up for failure by trying to be myself. WHICH MAKES NO SENSE AT ALL.
But its true, because the 1st thing we judge and are judged on, are our pictures. Then we read the “about me” sections. So we already have some sort of notion of this person. If at the beginning of every novel the author put a picture of each their characters, wouldn’t you think that a lot of books would be perceived drastically differently - or read drastically differently… even read at all in some instances? I do. So now we’re gonna take these pictures (you only get 25 to show, but you don’t wanna be that guy, so lets say 14 or 15 carefully culled snapshots) and add to whatever preconceived notion the little machine in our noggin has already drudged up. Does this person have lots of pictures of themselves in front of mountains? Well traveled, adventurous, athletic, rich? Does this person have lots of pictures of themselves partying? Wild child, party-animal, young, alcoholic? Does this person have only pictures taken through their computer’s camera? No friends, self-absorbed, prima donna, hiding something? You catch my drift. Then we read whatever pretentious drivel they decided was a good description of themselves to sell to the world. It usually all looks the same as everyone else’s, but matched with they’re carefully collated pictures, WHAM… you got yourself a yes, or a no.
So here was my profile (100% for real no edit):
Most people call me Mega.
I’m a recent (september) transplant from NYC.
I’m a film graduate. I’m a bartender. I like to write. I want to go back to school.
I’m really terrible at writing these things because there’s a fine line between hubris and self-promotion - and self-promotion and honest description of yourself. I’d rather write about things like narwhals and smelly people.
So just know this… I am probably the coolest, most bad ass human being you will ever meet. and you will probably meet hundreds of thousands of people in this lifetime, so just think of the amazingness i must behold. but its ok, because i’m totally cool and humble about it.
Here is why I rule:
I am a blackbelt in karate.
By karate. I mean high 5’s.
I am pretty smart (yes, both.)
I have seen the full series of the new(er) Battlestar Gallactica all the way through at least 4 times.
I can juggle AT LEAST 1 ball at a time.
It takes negative 5 seconds for a thought to form and then travel from my brain and come out of my mouth.
I am extremely independent, and rarely need help. Unless the subject matter includes wiring. or swatches.
I don’t care for lying. Unless i say “lol”. generally, that statement is false.
All my teeth are real, and presently accounted for.
I do not knit. I probably never will.
My hair recently has become more brunette. So I’ve already unintentionally misled you.
There is probably more, but I don’t wish to scare anyone off… which hopefully you aren’t. Hopefully you also don’t mind sarcasm, irrational anger for the purpose of humor and a ladyfriend who keeps really weird hours. And hopefully you have a healthy sense of humor, a thick skin, and a general curiosity in life. I can be goofy but I also have a serious side… and an intensely awkward and clumsy side.
So as for who or what i’m looking for? I don’t know, I don’t think its wise to “look for” anything. I’m looking for some new people to hang with, share a few laughs, and have an expectation-free good time and see whether things can grow, or not, from there.
I’m also looking for some autobots to smash.
I got a lot of these: “best profile i’ve seen on match!” “best profile ever!” “u r orgnal”. To which I always responded “Thanks!” (if they were hot)… and then that was that. Where do you go from there?
I got a lot of cartoon talk - mind you I opened myself up to this by having Megatron as part of my username… but that doesn’t mean i’m fluent in Sealab 2021… i’m really only mildly familiar with 2 or 3 seasons but SO MUCH PRESSURE.
I got lots of movie talk. Also the error I made in film school. Everyone likes movies, but there is a big different when your favorite movies are 8 1/2 and Shadows versus Encino Man and the Cutting Edge. Guess which ones are mine?!
I got a lot of crap. Basically. But I couldn’t expect more than crap, because the only thing harder than responding to generic bullshit is ACTUALLY WRITING IT. The one or two times I took the time to write an actual response (seriously 2 paragraphs would take me like an hour) It was radio silence from then on. Which, is not good for the ego. Shut me down in person, but shut me down because of my match.com email RESPONSE to a conversation YOU prompted. Shit, son.
But, like I said, I did actually go on 4 dates. So some emails did actually go well. And I shall recount them, in all their awful glory… in another post. Because I didn’t mean to be so verbose. I started a diet today and calorie restriction means I’m even more easily worked the fuck up. Watch. Out.
More rants to come.
Last night, my dear friend Katy and I got treated to the delicious late-90s sweet jams courtesy of the Counting Crows at the Fox Theater in Oakland. Make fun if you will, but after decades of touring and making records, the CCs put on a very enjoyable show.
At some point I found it hilarious that Adam Duritz so obviously takes himself very seriously. Like, I could imagine him touching up his roots in his bathroom mirror, burning a patchouli-scented candle, sipping on some cabernet, practicing ways to casually slip a Flaubert quote into his personal manifesto as an artist for television appearances or picking up young crunchies…
but I digress.
Adam Duritz isn’t the only victim of the taking shit too seriously disease… you know who else is? Bitches. I’m about to get mean here: When I say bitches, I mean specifically: the group of overweight, badly styled, mid-thirties, fuck faces who decided to dedicate the entire end of the concert into being assholes to myself and Katy because we had the GALL to stand NEXT to them halfway through the show. Not in front of them. Not on top of them. NEXT to them. So to them, and every other chick who turns into a complete cunt the second someone moves at a concert I say this: CHILL THE FUCK OUT.
1. Its a concert, people move around. Expect to be jostled. Especially if you’re close to the front. Because IT IS WHERE EVERYONE ELSE IDEALLY WANTS TO BE. Every sign of weakness is an opportunity; every hole or gap in your crew is an invitation. You don’t want people up in your shit? Don’t stand up in the front. Or I don’t know… don’t go to concerts?
2. GENERAL ADMISSION MEANS WE ALL PAID THE SAME PRICE. Which means I have the same right to try to stand up front as you do. Don’t give me the wonky eye for taking longer than you to worm my way up.
3. What are you going to remember about this concert? ME. Because rather than expending the energy to enjoy the last songs of the show, you focused entirely on being an asshole to me. Stop staring at me. Stare at the stage. Watch the band that you paid top dollar to see. Because when you look back at the time you saw the Crows in Oakland instead of going, “that was a great show” your going to say, “remember that bitch”. Not because I was that terrible (the gall! standing next to you! how dare I?!) but because you created a situation in your puny little brain where I got to play the villain. And instead of being a grown up and shrugging off your perceived injustice, you reverted to the playground bullying of middle school girls… which leads me to
4. Making fun of my dancing. Staring me down. Purposefully slamming into me. Flipping me off. Making fun of my outfit. Calling me an ugly bitch. Really dawg? Its one of the situations where I think you were looking to get in a fight. Because the punishment didn’t exactly meet the crime. Such a STRONG reaction. I haven’t been taunted like that legitimately, since high school… and you are grown ass women. We are ADULTS and we are at a COUNTING CROWS CONCERT. Get a fucking grip and get your threatening middle phalange out my face. Passive aggressive violence is lame. Shoulder bump me again and I’ll give you a love tap right in the face.
I tried my hardest to ignore the extreme aggression directed at me from my right side at the behest of Katy, but it wasn’t the easiest of tasks. I did want to punch someone. I flipped them off for the entire last song. I felt silly, but, it was all I could do without starting a brawl. I just wanted to have a good time man! And I mostly did.
Life did come right back around slap me a little on the way home. I think its possible that IF I hadn’t fed into the catty passive aggressiveness by returning my extended middle finger to their jabs I wouldn’t have gotten on BART going in the wrong direction ending up in San Leondro. And then I missed my transfer after switching trains and accidentally went to Berkeley. And then I had to get picked up in the Mission in the middle of the night by Baby Lawyer (aka Avocado) who had sweetly waited for almost an hour in his car as I fucked up getting on the right trains.
Or its quite possible I still would have. I did get on the wrong bus on Saturday and ended up on the other side of town. And I didn’t get in any fights or see any late 90’s alternative rock bands that day.
The stunning achievement of my 26th year is that a month prior I purchased a brand new computer. Thus, the blog I started FIVE MONTHS AGO, will now be more frequently updated. I also have to do that thing where I give other people the link… I guess.
So for the last 5 days I’ve been 26, bitches. The majority of my extended family completely ignored my birthday, as did a couple of my closest friends… for probably the first time ever. Which quickly prompted me to launch into an existential homesick meltdown. I’m slightly embarrassed by it now, but at the end of the day its always good to have a good cry at the realization that you may be always thinking of you, but not many others are.
So how much has changed in the 5 months since I last decided to blow air up my own ass and think that my life’s uncertainty or my willy-nilly move across the country would be interesting to anyone?
I’m single. I live in a converted living room. I’m tending bar for drunken yupsters (baby yuppies, who still haven’t given up on trying to be “hip”). I can hear mice in my walls and my neighbors having sex. Sometimes I drink too much. Sometimes I purposefully do the wrong thing. And I’m still just trying to have a great time.
But things are on the up and up I think… 26 might be the year where I actually start to feel older than 12… I’ve applied to some volunteer programs, I’ve started studying for grad school admission tests, I’m a member of a gym and I actually ATTEND, and I’m in a nasty divorce with Jameson. The dick.
So here’s my snapshot:
I’ve just ignored a phone call from a cute little Irish man, who texted me about 5 hours ago to hang out. I knew the text was coming since my coworker told me he was in the bar. He drinks, then he texts. Mostly without fail. I replied to the text, “I got some plans! Can’t! Have fun tho”. The call is a new twist… and I’m not even sure I could understand him on the phone. I’m not even sure I understand him in person… but communication isn’t really the goal. I’ve had a little wine tonight, which I could easily parlay into a lot of wine tonight, so I might have answered the phone. But I didn’t. I was far more interested in sorting my sock and underwear drawer. Literally. And watching the Ringer. And drinking Barefoot Pino Grigio (aka baby juice). It barely makes sense to me, because in my face was dangled free drinks and casual sex with a good looking Irish man who actually has a decent sized penis and can get a hard on when he’s drunk (UNICORN!).
But herein lies the problem; occurring for the first time in my 26th year… he’s not the person I had wanted to have my way with tonight. The person I had wanted to see has a paper due in the morning. He texted me all day about the mundane things we were both doing, but didn’t respond to my subtle (or not so subtle) hints at being available for a nighttime boogie. And I was holding out on the slim chance that my law student would finish his paper at a reasonable hour and give the green light. Shoot me that booty call text. And I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking, which is, “YOU, ask HIM… you’re Mega, you don’t wait for the phone to ring”. Which I would, if the last time I suggested a hang out on a specific day he didn’t say “we’ll see, we have plenty of time”. WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN? So I guess we’ll just keep talking about our respective days. Fully clothed. Via text…
I’ve got a potato. And I’ve got an avocado. They are both quite creamy, but entirely different in texture. And neither is satisfying unless accompanied by some motherfucking protein.
And they are the least of my worries. Or at least they should be…
I made some homemade veggie soup. I did my laundry. I sorted my underthings. And maybe tomorrow will make more sense.
Welp…Mega, Over and Out.
Ps. I love analogies.
Pps. And postscript.
Perhaps i reek of fresh meat. That my unfamiliar face busting down Polk Street inspires the enamor and attention of every… homeless, foreign, or 40+ man on lower Polk. But, really? Come on.
At least in New York I knew what I was dealing with… well most of the time. Not that it was the easiest train to hop on, but at least the familiarity of the blurry world of - hooking up/dating/together until something better comes along - was comforting.
But, so far as it would seem, San Francisco is a whole other ball game, pun intended. NY may have been an undefined mess in which I found myself in serious relationships I thought were casual, and actual serious relationships that bordered on mental… but at the lowest denominator, at least dudes could take a hint.
No, man in the burger place - I don’t care that you allegedly “know” the members of Testament. Nor that you met James Hetfield at a party. Why don’t I care? To start, you’re clearly middle aged with cuts all across your forehead and the start of nice shiner under your eyebrow-less right eye. That coupled with your Affliction v-neck t-shirt, gelled hair, and generally short stature can only lead me to believe one of two scenarios: A. You annoyed someone larger than you in the bar this weekend and got into a fight. B. You crashed your Vespa. Being the rational person that I am, I’m more inclined to lean towards A, due the absence of any road burn or scrapes, cuts and bruises on your otherwise very very tan forearms adorned with gold man-jewelry. Not only are bar fights retarded for anyone, they are especially ridiculous for a man of your age. As is hitting on a 25 year old girl by referencing 80’s metal bands that were last relevant when I was a toddler. (Sorry Metallica). So, while i continue to wait for my cheeseburger, (and silently pray its ready with sufficient spacing to avoid being rushed and awkward at the fixin’s bar with you) and turn my back on you to stare mindlessly at the television playing old boxing matches - that, sir, is a hint you should take. SHOULD being the operative word. Because if only if it were that easy… annoying men around the city have collectively decided to beat the bitch into me. Was it entirely necessary to then ask the back of my head “So, do you like boxing?” ? EATYOURBURGERANDSHUTTHEFUCKUP. Which is what I hope you got from me going “not even a little”, grabbing my shit and standing to wait on the other side of the room.
No Mr. “Make it Strong” Long Island Ice Tea drinker - I don’t want your phone number. I especially don’t want it when you asked for it mid-order with 15 other people standing behind and around you boring holes into my head with their beady little drunk eyes. In fact, regardless of all other factors… I don’t want to give it to you because your drink of choice is not only a Long Island Ice Tea, but, its a “strong” one. Not only are Long Island’s disgusting in general, they are offensive to my people and make your breath reek of dirty bar mat. And make it strong? Really? Does asking for a really strong drink to be made even stronger make you feel like more of a man? As much of a man as raiding your parents liquor cabinet and mixing all their shit liquor together and topping it off with some Country Time and Coke? You want it extra strong? Your overpriced shitty drink just cost you 2 more dollars. And I’m gonna put a fucking cherry in it. So, when you ask me if I’d like your number, and I immediately answer “No.” Just take it, move along, and tell me precisely how many friends you are buying vodka cranberrys for. Any added dialogue other than your drink order will do nothing but make both parties uncomfortable. The last thing that’s going to sway me back onto team “Strong Long Island Ice Tea” is asking me “Why don’t you want my number?”. Which you of course did, more than once, because you are from San Francisco and you are drinking a liquid fist-pump. To add insult to injury, the fake puppy dog eye reaction to my “because I just fucking don’t, I don’t have time for this, give me the rest of your order or move along” DOESN’T MAKE ME FEEL BAD. Well, it does. I well with pity for your lack of dignity. And for fucks sake, if you wanted to give me your number so badly… don’t ask. Just do it. Because at least I can relish the perverse satisfaction of throwing it out after your back is turned without facing the 3rd degree of “why don’t you liiikkeeee meeee :( :( wah :,(“. Drink a whiskey with a beer back and shut the fuck up.
And no, Pepe, the little French Canadian I mistakenly went on a blind date on with, I will not be going out with you again. You are so new and fresh to the city, but it seems to already have gotten to you. I drank two beers and faked a headache… is this the kind of girlfriend you’d like to have? At 35, are you not smart enough to realize that first date headaches are the “Jimmy’s World” of cutting out early. Think of all the other shit I could just make up. No, sorry Pepe, I can’t make the Curling match, I really need to wash my car. Sorry Pepe, that Poutine joint looks delicious, but I’m allergic to potatoes. My bad Peps, that Fête Nationale parade isn’t gonna work for me, my pet rock died and I’m very, very sad. So, your texts that arrive every other day around 4pm with questions like “Hi Megan! Hey i would like to party! You in?”, “hey Megan, u in the mood 4 jameson? I am!” and “Hey Megan, would you like a drink or maybe a little debauchery? Haha, just kidding…” will remain completely unanswered. Which should also be your hint to stop sending them… Please?
PS: My name is spelled Meaghan.
PPS: I can’t say Pepe with a straight face.
PPPS: You are saved as “Pepe LePew” in my contacts.
It has been one month and (as of an hour ago) a half since I left the state of New York.
I’m not sure exactly what it was I was hoping to find. Some modern approximation of Manifest Destiny I suppose. The unwillingness to believe that I could potentially know anything of this world if I never left the comforts of the tri-state area for more than a week of my life. Adventure.
I come bright eyed and full of hope…
I came with a few thousands dollars and a plan as flaccid as my last date after the 4th whiskey shot.
I find it increasingly harder to explain to the people I meet why it is, exactly, I left NYC. I’m sure it has something to do with my inability to comprehensively explain it to myself. Sure, I know the factors, the potentials, and the ideas for thinly laid bricks for the wall that my “future” could or should be. But I’m here now. And every time I imagine laying down some mortar, my wall turns into a fortress.
And fortresses I know. I had turned NY into my own personal Janjira. An impenitrable foriegn stronghold of bullshit. So maybe I needed to run away, if only to take a breathe that didn’t reak of someone else’s perception or expectation. And to exhale without worry of offending.
Maybe the foggy San Franciscan air is here to give me back the parts of myself that got stolen by someone. Parts of me that I know you can get back, if you just figure out how, or at least how to stop looking over your shoulder. And maybe I just don’t know. Maybe I don’t owe anyone an explanation for anything.
I have a job. I have an apartment. I soon will have a bed.
I don’t have a plan.
So, ask me. Why did I come to San Francisco?