Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Like, Love, and Lust. But mostly Lust.

This cozy Autumn weather makes everyone all cuddly and lovey-dovey. And if you don't have a "special" friend to share that with, it sucks. Seeing all these precious couples parading through the leaves in their boots and toboggans gives me hateful hopes that they step in hidden dog poo. Because I don't get to be in love, or anything close it. Like lust. I've always wondered how people know that what they have is really love, and this is what I've come up with in my two decades of observation.

Clearly the best way to determine a couple's true relationship status is through the extent of their inappropriately sexual behavior in public. The more you kiss, hold hands, dry-hump, and go oral on your partner in front of an audience, the stronger your love is bound to be. Everyone knows that love can't be 100% true unless all your friends, family, and unassuming strangers are forced to be exposed to your embarrassing show of moaning PG-13 near-nudity. If you're comfortable enough together to play twister in the school hallway without a mat, or practice naked yoga on top of each other with your living room curtains open, then the only logical conclusion is that you must have a strong and lasting love.

If you still can't be sure that you and your significant other will one day sit on the front porch with 37 cats and matching rocking chairs, then take a look at your communication skills. By that, I don't mean how you work out your problems or if you listen to each other. What's really important are your random phone calls, texts, and mushy Facebook comments. Couples who call to "check in" every time their location changes must share a much deeper connection than I could ever dream of. Knowing that miles away, a person I care about moved from kitchen to living room is something I've never been lucky enough to experience. If you truly love someone, however, you won't stop there; you'll extend this over-communication to the public forum of Facebook. The cyberspace form of the high school makeout hallway, Facebook allows you to send one another intimate expressions of affection for all to see. A fun side effect: your territory gets marked.

It's inevitable that if you have found your special someone in life, you will gladly waste 85% of your paycheck on random gifts... whether SOS deserves it or not. Birthdays, Christmas, 3 1/2-month anniversaries, and Valentine's Day will be the most ridiculously excessive events since Kim Kardashian's wedding. Sweet and simple? Thoughtful and homemade? Forget it if you want your relationship to survive long enough to celebrate your 7-month-1-week anniversary, Arbor Day, and National Pancake Day. What you need are fireworks, sky-writing, matching new cars, and treasure chests of rubies. So save the acoustic strumming of your sappy love sonnet for your debut in a 1986 teen romance movie, you cheapskate. When people really love one another, the most exact way to express that is with a monetary value.

If a girl introduces herself with your last name, it obviously means you belong together... and that she wants you realize it. The sooner into your relationship this name-change occurs, the longer you are bound to be together. Prematurely acting like the two of you are married seems to be the healthiest way to progress with your relationship; to hell with slowly getting to know each other over time.

So I'm pretty sure I'll never be in love.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Bitch or Buddha?

Sometimes I think cutting my bangs or painting my nails will define my personality a little better or affect my attitude is some supernatural way. This always leads me to the disappointing realization that no matter how kickass my bangs look, and no matter how expertly I've applied 17 coats of hooker-red nail polish, I'm still a sarcastic, impatient, insecure, absent-minded mess with an affinity for commas and superfluous adjectives.

Ready for a night of walking the streets.
I've tried not to be those things, because those are terrible attributes to credit to yourself, but to no avail. When I abstain from sarcasm it's the worst, because I become overly polite to the point of robotic insincerity. There's very little for me to say if I've taken the vow of nonbitchyness, except things like "22 and a half" and "Dr. Pepper please."

During these spells of personality renovation, people sense my Buddha-like state of peace and strive to shatter it. Last week I had a complete stranger come into my work, and while I rang him up he lectured me about my dangerous decision to drop out of college. He told me I was making a foolish mistake and asked me if I wanted to continue to work there the rest of my life. So I ignored his words, nodded, and exclaimed, "Here's your receipt! Stay warm!"

It was the perfect balance between Bitch and Buddha. Because I got to say nice words with the clear subtext: "It doesn't matter what you're saying because I don't even know your name, you're wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and you just purchased drugstore-brand sex jelly."

That explanation was in case you thought I legitimately wanted that man to stay warm.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Short for Mohammad.

I used to go clubbing. And by "used to go," I mean that I went exactly three times. The first time, Kacy talked me into going to Greensboro with her to a mostly-black club because she was frustrated with her man-friend and needed some inappropriate dance therapy to recover. We didn't know prior to paying our way in that we were basically the only whit people there, and it wouldn't have mattered except our complete lack of rhythm felt like the focus of the entire building. But we decided that we were going to have fun, act like we didn't care about our macarena-style dancing, spend $4 for drinks, and dance with strange guys who were interested in us for our personality-enhancing cleavage.

They had a disco ball and played terrible music I didn't know, but it was okay because of the noisy friendly atmosphere and because I was hip-to-vagina with seventeen people at all times. Nobody noticed or cared that I couldn't dance, and I somehow wasn't claustrophobic even though I wasn't medicated. The last 2/5 of the light were spent dancing with one guy, who was inevitably enchanted by my tangled sweaty hair and smeared eyeliner.

When Kacy and I decided that our toes were too blistered to keep dancing, our eyes were too bloodshot to keep them open, and our throats had grown too raw to keep laughing and singing, we had to call it a night and head home. I bad farewell to my dance partner, who asked me for my number. Delighted and flattered, I gave it to him and floated home, thrilled with my exciting evening and new "romance." Because I'm only happy when I have a guy in my life.

In the following weeks, this fellow and I texted each other a lot. I found out his name was Mo (short for Mohammad. Don't judge him.) and he was from Africa. He found out I was from here and have a really boring life. I have no idea what we talked about, but he enjoyed telling me how pretty I was and discussing our different cultures. I enjoyed one of those topics.

Mo: It is so different here. In Africa, everyone is poor and works just to survive, not to go out to eat and dance and watch the movies.*

*That's not a typo. He really said things that way.

Me: Really? Gosh, that's interesting. I have boobies. And long hair. And sometimes, I wear bracelets.

Mo: Yes. I do like it in America, but some things confuse me still. What are the boobies?

Me: I haven't had sex in a year.

After a few of these in-depth conversations, we became so close that it seemed like a brilliant idea to go out on a date. And possibly get married. It sounded good to me because I get great pleasure from expensive Mexican food that other people pay for, so I let him talk me into it. We met at the mall so he wouldn't know where my house was, and rode to the restaurant awkwardly making small talk about the weather and how attractive I was. Out from under the disco lights, and through my well-rested non-bloodshot eyes, I realized not only was Mo wildly unattractive, he was old. Not creepy Hugh Hefner old, but nine years older than me. Which is 10-16 years older than most guys I get involved with.

He gazed at me in fascination as I gobbled down my cheesy chickeny rice at Mi Pueblo. Mesmerized by my chomping abilities and intriguing conversation, it was all he could to keep his hands off me. So he didn't. His greasy finger slithered down my arms, snaked around my wrist, and, my personal favorite, smeared across my face. It was like he was Helen Keller, if Helen Keller were a 29-year-old horny African man.

I was close to danger-texting Kacy so she could call me with a fake emergency and rescue me. But I really wanted to make the best of my evening out, so I stuck through the groping dinner fiasco in the teetering belief that attitude is 90% of the outcome. Bitchy Skeptical Cynic wasn't working out, so I tried on Bubbly Confident PartyGirl to see how that worked out for me. Turns out, Bubbly Confident PartyGirl makes rash decisions like agreeing to return to the nightclub where we met, driving 30 minutes out of our way, in my car, with a creepy greasy horny stranger-man driving. I don't allow BCPG to mingle anymore.

The ride tot he club was excruciating. I would've enjoyed it more if I'd been with Cujo and we both had explosive diarrhea. We nothing to talk about, but he didn't seem to realize that flaw in our chemistry. Mo, not Cujo. Cujo and I would have plenty to talk about.

Me: The speed limit is 35.

Mo: Yes, I am going to go 20 though, it is safer this way. I love to drive.

Me: Seriously? I hate driving. It's all frustrating and junk, and I get lost all the time.

Bitchy Skeptical Cynic was trying to come back a little bit.

Mo: I can drive and eat at the same time.

Me: That's... useful.

Mo: *Turns radio up* Oh this song could be about us. This is my favorite.

It was Kidd Rock's "All Summer Long." I still don't get it.

The club was jammin'. I paid $1 to keep my 6-inch stripper shoes safe in the lobby so I could get my toes flattened by pointy-heeled strangers. Mo kept my keys in his pocket for safekeeping, and tried to do the same with my phone. I wisely refused the latter so I could still danger-text if needed. It crossed my mind later that it would've been even wiser to just stay at home, eat froot loops, and fall asleep watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Mo guided me to a booth so he could continue rubbing my face and trying to kiss me. I ducked his enormous hungry lips for a while under the pretense of turning my head to enjoy the sights of drunken skanks dancing on poles and swinging. This went on so long that dancing actually seemed like a better option.

Moo seemed to have dancing confused with standing-up full-body massages. I was like, excuse me sir but can you please stop molesting me on the dance floor. And he was all, no, I'm going to put my hands in your pockets.

There aren't many tactful ways to tell a guy that you don't enjoy his slimy hands clogging up your pores when he has your car keys and you want to continue having a car. I liked having a car more than I liked having self-respect so I let him dance with me long enough to keep his feelings from being hurt. Then I exaggerated the pain in my feet so he'd pity me and drive me back to safe territory. Luckily Mo wasn't a bad guy, just a ridiculous, old, greasy guy. He drove me back to the lot where he'd left his car and told me how much fun he'd had.

Mo: I enjoyed being with you tonight and dancing with you. You dance very good.

Me: ...Right on. *Crosses arms and steps towards car, glancing around nervously*

Mo: I hope I will see you soon. You make me very happy. You will text me?

Me: I will, uh, probably text you. Yeah... oh man it's cold out here. Oh my gosh,, did you see that fire truck?! I wonder what's going on over there.

Mo: A fire probably. Like the fire burning in my heart for you.

Me: Oh God.

My dating life is pathetic.