i wouldn’t date me. you shouldn’t either.

I’ve decided that relationships are dangerous. At least in my case, as I have the bad—and somewhat pitiable—habit of losing myself entirely as I grow increasingly more distracted by the individual with whom I am involved. For this reason (and a few others I will refrain from mentioning here), I have had very few romances in my lifetime—namely, two legitimate and one of the non-relationship variety. Truthfully, I dislike the girlfriend (or, non-girlfriend, as the case may be) version of myself enough to avoid becoming her if at all possible. She’s boring and weak and irrationally insecure.

Unfortunately, successfully escaping this role requires a great deal of self-awareness and discipline—which can sometimes be hard to come by when confronted by an attractive and interested-in-me male for whom I have a certain affinity. As a result, I have occasionally gotten lost in dangerous relationships without realizing I have done so, sacrificing self in almost complete ignorance of my actions.

In an attempt to prevent this pattern from continuing, I’ve opted to consciously avoid all romantic interaction for a while, choosing to focus on getting myself together instead of entering into another unhealthy, self-obscuring relationship.

To assist me in my efforts, I have asked my hilarious and helpful and (conveniently) homosexual coworker, D., to harass me as much as possible during his shift. He has kindly agreed to periodically grab my ass throughout the day to ensure my appetite for the Mens does not go entirely unappeased. If that’s not friendship, I don’t know what is.

baby steps

Back in October, I talked a big game about getting help for my consistently reappearing and ever-so-stubborn unhappiness, promising (myself, mostly) to visit a doctor of some sort and submit to being poked and prodded and acupunctured in an effort to feel better soon. Well, as recent posts suggest, I have (foolishly, yes) failed to follow through on my plans to actively combat the discontentment.

Until today.

Next week, I will experience acupuncture for the first time—my attempt to ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING in the hopes of cultivating the so-long-gone happiness I crave.

To prepare, I have begun poking myself (gently, don’t worry) with needles throughout the day. This way, being pierced repeatedly for an entire hour won’t come as such a shock to my system.

I can’t wait.

it’s your birthday, mom. put down the vacuum.

Today is my mom’s birthday. She is officially one year older than she was last year at this time, though appearances continue to suggest otherwise. With my mom, getting older is a completely theoretical occurrence, as she seems to have ceased aging at least ten years ago. Seriously. This woman is beautiful and youthful, and part of me fears I will look her age before she does.

My mom is brilliant and motivated, compassionate and sincere, hilarious, happy, supportive and strong, and incredibly tolerant of her so-often-nonsensical daughter (see: me). Of her, I am in awe.

Happy birthday, mom. I love you.

Also: put down the dog so we can take your picture.

warning: this post may depress you

Last week, I uttered the words, “I’m worried about me” to my sister, having somehow identified and isolated a moment of relative clarity amidst my generally (and unhealthily) excessive rumination to acknowledge my inability to feel less depressed than I did on this day last month. Truthfully, I’ve been headed in a mostly downward direction these past six weeks—a descent interrupted only once by the brief but unbelievably therapeutic visit from friends too long gone. And now, as I find myself confronting the same damn sadness, I feel sometimes too tired to care, too exhausted by past attempts to cultivate contentment to even try this time around.

Sigh.

I’m sure I’ll feel better soon. One way or another.

(non)dating for dummies (see: me)

A friend of mine (who shall remain nameless) recently received an email and attached photograph of the fellow with whom she locked lips this New Year’s Eve. As women are wont to do, she forwarded said email and photo to her friends for our viewing pleasure and general shared enjoyment. In response, I sent a “How do you do it?” reply, curious as to my girl’s man-attracting tactics—particularly those that result in fishing trip photographs sent from thousands of miles away by a relative stranger after only one night of mostly innocent kissing.

Instead of answering my question and illuminating her clearly-working-for-her methods, my anonymous (for now) friend turned the tables on yours truly, asking me what it is I say to men to incite their interest at parties, as she (mistakenly) believes my luck with the fellas exceeds her own somehow. (Note: It doesn’t.) Said friend has even now gone so far as to request that I begin a new blog as a sort of guide to picking up men, which—in my very humble opinion—is mostly just laughable.

True, I have seduced a handful of unsuspecting suitors in my day, but the success of such operations has less to do with my inherent attractiveness and/or ability to entice men with my charm, and more to do with the obviously (and often alcoholically) impaired judgment of the victims I manage to entrap. Either that, or my Hold My Drink While I Kiss You, Yes That’s My Hand On Your Thigh approach.

In any event, I have never received day-after photographs—let alone phone calls—from most of my conquests, so I’d say my (as yet unnamed) friend has me beat where quality is concerned. With this in mind, I politely decline her request to author a blog of the dating advice variety, citing my lack of expertise and experience in the area as a reason for not doing so.

Plus, eye contact, intoxication, fear of commitment, and not-so-subtle harassment aren’t particularly insightful methods of persuasion. When I discover a more inventive tactic, I’ll reconsider my decision to not blog about my (mostly imaginary) love life and offer tips to others on the subject. In the meantime, may I encourage my pal to answer my original How Do You Do It inquiry, as I could definitely use some romantic direction myself.

a recap. sort of.

Today, I received a DVD from Leah containing more than eighty photos documenting our New Year’s Eve festivities—evidence of events forgotten in an alcoholic haze only moments after they happened that evening. Fortunately, my impressive ability to avoid cameras at all costs has spared me the embarrassment of seeing my overly intoxicated self captured on film more than a handful of times in the set Leah sent. Incredibly, I appear in only six of the eighty-three pictures, and—due to poor camera angle or overall blurriness—I am only clearly visible in four of those six. Even better is the complete lack of photographs to confirm my somewhat freely kissing lips and the individuals upon whom said lips supposedly landed. Cheers to that.

The best photos appear at the end of the slideshow and document my friends’ ill-fated decision to fill my dishwasher with the wrong kind of soap after cleaning my kitchen the following morning.

It’s nice to know I’m not the only one whose domestic prowess leaves something to be desired. Luckily, I prefer dancing to dishwashing anyway . . .

Notice my ability to cleverly hide behind my own arm whilst busting me some moves. Domesticity be damned. A woman of many talents, am I.

I miss my friends. If they came back, I'd even let them take my (non-obstructed by other body parts) picture.

Note to self: Time to develop some actually-marketable-in-the-real-world skills. Drunken dancing and camera evasion don't count.

this sucks

Unbelievably, the tantalizing combination of handcuffs and (Maker’s) Mark was not enough to keep my recently visiting friends from returning to the various professional and academic obligations awaiting them in their real lives. Much to my dismay, the last of these remarkable women took off on Tuesday, leaving me to confront my sometimes monotonous reality on my own the following morning. Awesome.

I’ve been suffering from a mild case of post-party depression in the wake of my friends’ departures, as I come to terms with their absence and readjust to a life that functions relatively well without the luxury of regular spooning sessions. It hasn’t been an easy transition. I’d forgotten how nice it is to have my personal space bubble infiltrated by pretty girls on a consistent basis, but now that I’ve been effectively reminded of this fact, I’m struggling to reacclimate to an often (and sadly) hug-less existence.

And while torturing my cat with unwelcome and mostly overbearing affection can sometimes comfort me in my solitude, it certainly can’t compare to the real thing.

Next year, the handcuffs come out for sure. Because—as Leah so eloquently emailed—this sucks.