What are you hiding?

 
"... what does that mean, know me? To know me? ... nobody ever knows anybody else... ever! You will never know me." - Rules of Attraction

What does it really mean to know somebody? I feel like I know the people closest to me, but maybe I don't. As I type that, I realize, even the friends I hold deep in my heart, don't know a lot about me. They don't know all the things I've done, or how I feel deep down in the pit of my stomach. But the truth is, if given the option between the version they have of me, vs. the reality; they would pick the version they already know. Because we all have dirty little secrets. We all have things that we don't want anyone to know. There are some things you just don't tell the people you love, not because you feel shame for what you've done, but because your decisions affect them, and if those decisions will stain their memories of you, it becomes more considerate to simply keep it to yourself. So we keep our secrets bottled up tight. No one has to know, and no one really wants to know anyway. No one really wants the unedited, directors-cut version of you. We all want the studio release. The one that passed all the focus groups, the one that the critics gave two thumbs up. Commercial, marketable, packaged up in a pretty little box with a fancy bow. This is me, and you, and them, and everybody I know but don't really know.

There is something safe in not knowing the deep dark secrets of those around us. What if they're dirty? What if they're evil? What if they scare us? Would we ever be able to look at these people the same way again? We like the cover up. We like the shroud of seeming "normalcy" that cascade these people we give our hearts and respect to. Friends, lovers, professors, fathers, mothers; we trust them, with a partial blind eye attached to the love.

This isn't a conspiracy theory I'm working on either. These lives we live are full of so many different faucets, how could we ever expect someone to "know" about all of it? How can we expect someone to "understand" everything as well? Without judgment, without losing their respect, or their trust...

Maybe it's just me though. Maybe I'm the one with the secrets. All the compartmentalized sections of my mind, where I live many different lives; each one co-existing with the others. A myriad of different people, all residing together in this chaotic cluster fuck known as my life. Functional schizophrenia; that's what I'll call it. I know what you're thinking though... "Oh Bridgette, look at you being all dramatic." And maybe that's true. Maybe I am a little "dramatic." But more so than my drama induced, self-diagnosed multiple-personality disorder, I'm terribly frightened that it really is, just me. That I'm the only one with the secrets; with the evil and devious thoughts. That I'm the only one with this fear in my belly, of ultimately being "found out," and the picture perfect version of who I am, shattering right before my eyes.

Maybe I'm afraid of myself. The places I've been, the disasters I've created and then run away from. Maybe I'm afraid of what I know I'm capable of. There is an evil inside of me; a small bubble of revenge soaked hate. Right now, it's buried so far down, it seems quite impossible that it could ever surface in the same way it once did; so many years ago. But I can feel it churning around inside me. I can feel it shifting positions, just waiting for someone, something, anything, to pull the trigger. But it wouldn't be some miraculous explosion. It wouldn't come gushing out with puddles of muck encasing my feet. It would be a slow burn, a calculated leak. Bit by bit, piece by piece, moving at a snails pace through my whole body, taking over one cell at a time; until I was entirely consumed in the magnificence of it all.

So dramatic Bridgette!

... and it's true. I am quite dramatic. Jumping from point A to point Z and then back again, in a matter of mere seconds. But the truth behind the dramatic tonnage I so frequently flood my words with, lays a concept I believe most fully in:

We all have deep dark secrets inside of us. Secrets that would destroy us, free us, or simply stain the image those we love have of us. In the end, we're the only ones that have to live with these secrets. We choose whether or not sharing them would do more harm than good. Because even if you don't want to believe it, the truth is, NONE of us really want to know what it is those around us are hiding. NONE of us want the whole story, the full picture, all 50 takes of the same scene. You might think you do, but you don't. Because if you knew what I knew, you wouldn't want to know me anymore. And if you told me that one thing you've never told anybody, I probably wouldn't want to know you either.

And isn't it a little funny? Knowing all the dirty secrets we have, yet still feeling like we can judge those around us who are either, brave enough to let theirs out, or were careless enough to let themselves become exposed. I can't decide if that's ironic, or tragic, or both?

Ultimately, I probably don't want to know your secret, and you most definitely don't want to know mine. But just for the record, I know you have one, or two, or many. And there will come a day, most likely in a post-coital moment of embrace, where your defenses will have fallen to waste-side, and you'll be bleeding vulnerability right into my arms. And I'll ask you a question that, if truthfully answered, would end it all. So quiet your lips. Close your eyes. Take a moment, and ask yourself...

What are you hiding? 

Because we're all hiding something. Some of us better than others, but nonetheless, your secrets are yours and yours alone.

 

Believe it. Learn it. Hold on to it. 

I'm telling you right now... you don't really want to know.

love you mean it.

Let's talk about sex baby...

A few days ago, a friend of mine posted a blog entry about the different levels of a "woman's sexual performance," and suggested that I write one for the fellas. You can read his post HERE.

I've always wanted to write a "male performance review," but never had the motivation to do so. After talking with some girlfriends about their most recent exploits, I have come to the tragic realization, that most of their sexual experiences, have been less than stellar. Let's be honest, people in their 20's are fucking a lot. We're fucking a lot, with strangers, with lovers, and significant others.

With all this fucking going on, we should be able to talk about it, right?

(DISCLAIMER: This is all based on MY sexual experience, and the things I like/don't. EVERY girl is different, and while I'm attempting to generalize my overall opinion, the bottom line is, it's still, MY OPINION. All vaginas are their own, unique, Rubik's Cube of magic... just because you unlock the combination to one, DOES NOT mean you've unlocked the combination to all.)

FOREPLAY:

Hands down, probably the most important part of the sexual experience for the ladies. Vagina's are like vintage cars. You have to warm up the engine for a solid 15 minutes before you take them out for a spin. Sure, sometimes you're late for work and you just want to get nailed before you leave the house. During those circumstances, it is perfectly acceptable to skip over most foreplay, and get right to the down to the dirt dirty. BUT when you have the time, foreplay is the key to setting the mood, getting your girl off, and having a satisfying experience.

There are THREE rules/requirements which must be incorporated into all foreplay, in order for it to be successful, and ultimately lead to sexy-times:

1) BE A GOOD KISSER! - For the love of god, how motherfucking hard is it for you guys NOT to stick your entire tongue in our mouths? What makes you think licking our tonsils is sexy? Boys boys boys... it's all about the lips. Kiss softly, part them slowly, and use  your tongue SPARINGLY. When things get hot and heavy, that is not, I repeat NOT a signal for you to switch into your alter ego; Captain McTongue Plunger. My throat is not clogged, and I do not appreciate the esophagus examination. Kissing can be magic. AND there is a theory floating around the inner female circles, that men who are good kissers, are also good in bed. In my experience, this has been true 95% of the time. I'm just sayin'...

2) BE CONFIDENT! - I can't express fully enough, what a HUGE turn-off it is when guys are shy and tentative. If you want to kiss me, grab me and kiss me. Don't wait for me to make the first move. Do NOT timidly saunter around the room. If you want me, show me. I do not have time to waste reading mixed signals because you don't have the balls to make a move. This doesn't mean that you need to be an asshole, but you do need to BE A MAN.  There have been countless occasions where I've been into a guy, and they were so nervous and flustered when it came down to the "make-out session," I was immediately turned off. I know girls can be scary, I'm scary, but if you want to be with me, or ANY girl that has flare/sass/fantastic verbal discourse, you're going to have to man up, and be aggressive.

3) TEASE ME! - Seriously guys, like 70% of a girls excitement factor, falls into the teasing arena. ALL woman want what they can't have. So, if you pretend that you're not going to give it to us, WE'RE GOING TO WANT IT MORE. Building anticipation, heightens the intensity of the experience, and the greater the intensity, the greater the orgasm. I know they say, "if you can make a girl laugh, your can make her do anything," but I think it's much more accurate to say, "if you can make a girl cum, you can make her do anything." It's true. Believe it. If you don't believe it, you've probably never made a girl cum before, and that, in itself, is tragic...

The other stuff that comes with foreplay is all about feeling out the situation. When you're in the heat of the moment, it's okay to "feel around," and figure out what your girl likes. Don't think about it too much, because the more you're in your head, the less you're in the moment, and foreplay is all about, "being in the moment."  

ORAL SEX:

Okay. This is pretty cut and dry. You're either good at this, or you're not. Since a lot of girls can ONLY get-off from oral sex, it is really IMPORTANT that you're good at this, or at least working on being good at this.

The BEST "oral sex instructional guide" I've ever read, was in VICE magazine. I can't write anything better about it, so I'm not going to try. 

HOW TO PROPERLY PERFORM CUNNILINGUS

HOW TO PROPERLY PERFORM FELLATIO  

happy reading.

SEXY-TIME:

Congrats! You've made it to the point of penetration! Don't you feel special? I'm going to break things down into levels now; where do you think you fail... er... I mean... uh fall... where do you "fall?"

Level 1 - I'll be laughing with my friends about this later.

The foreplay was obviously decent enough to get you to this point, but something got lost in translation from the time we stopped kissing to when you put the condom on. This is the kind of sex that you can't help but laugh about later. It's usually a guy who doesn't know what the definition of rhythm is, and has somehow, all of a sudden, forgotten the three most important rules: 1) BE A GOOD KISSER! 2) BE CONFIDENT! 3) TEASE ME! ... Things get real awkward, real quick and the guy either, 1) starts jack hammering like a bunny on meth, or  2) loses any sense of motion and things just get... "choppy." 

BTW: JACK-HAMMERING IS NEVER OKAY. It's basically the equivalent of masturbating with a vagina... it does NOT feel good. I do NOT like it and I will NOT be seeing you again. Things usually turn so comical, I have, on occasion, retreated back into my mind and started making a check list of all the 'LOLZ' I will be regaling my friends with at brunch the next day. Tragically, many men qualify this experience as "good sex," and continue to call me for "dates." This blows my mind, and I don't know how to accurately get the message across, that you my friend, have officially been classified as: "the awkward sex guy I went home with last night." Congratulations, you FAIL.

Level 2 - So hot, but so stupid.

There is an intense attraction... You're super hot and I've been dreaming of licking things off your abs all night. Being such a stud creates an illusion of confidence and while you're definitely NOT "future-husband-material," you're still ridiculously attractive, and an awesome kisser to boot. At this point, everything's perfect and then, the guy talks. This guy is pretty dumb, but thus far, was hot enough to bypass most of my intellectual barriers. Unfortunately, upon realizing my stud horse might actually have an IQ equal to that of tanbark, I start to lose interest. The attraction is strong enough to keep the heat going, but knowing that I'm feeling things on an entirely different spectrum; makes the moment disconnected. Things feel a bit empty and ultimately meaningless. That's not to say meaningless sex can't, on occasion, be entertaining for your vagina, BUT, when you've had amazing, meaningFUL sex with someone else, the empty, anonymous sex loses its novelty real fast. There aren't too many tips I can offer here, other than: DON'T BE RETARDED.

Seriously, read a motherfucking book every once in a while bitch. And if you could please attempt to know something OTHER than assorted sports trivia, and UFC factoids, it would be much appreciated, k, thx.

Level 3 - You're pretty amazing.

The sex at this level, is what most of us search for and hopefully end up experiencing with the people we're really excited about fucking. This is the girl that makes you wash extra long in the shower before your sexy-time rendezvous. The whole experience is passionate, gratifying, and actually gets you thinking about a potential "relationship status change" on facebook. Ultimately, this person is someone you could fall in love with, and each time you fuck, the connection gets deeper... no pun intended. Your bodies move together completely in sync (aka - "NOT choppy") and when the post-coital moment is over, you still want to hang out with this chick, cause' she's pretty fucking cool. Congratulations, you've achieved something pretty spectacular... now don't fuck it up.

Level 4 - HOLY FUCKING SHIT, I'M SO IN LOVE WITH YOU,  MY BRAIN IS EXPLODING WITH ENDORPHINS.

This is what I like to call EPIC SEX. This is the kind of sex that leaves you weak in the knees hours after you've finished. This is the kind of sex that gets you hard just thinking about it. This is the kind of sex that happens ONLY when you're crazy in love with someone, and you both connect with each other in a way you've never connected with another human before. It's more than sex; it becomes a religious experience every time you touch. This is the kind of love that entire albums are dedicated to. This is the kind of connection that movies are made about. This is the sex that we all wish for, hope for, and long for in the deep dark reaches of our loins. If you're having sex like this, hold on tight, and don't fuck it up. If you DO manage to fuck it up, you might as well just kill yourself, because you're never going to get anything better than this... But you knew that already.

 So class, what have we learned today?

1) Be a good kisser. This is the key to everything. One kiss can make it or break it.

2) BE A MAN. Pussy-bitches need not apply... There is nothing that turns a woman off faster, then a guy who can't "throw down the gauntlet" in the bedroom.

3) Tease me... anticipation about fucking, is almost as exciting as the actual FUCKING.

4) Be good at eating vagina. If you're not good at, you better be working on it. If you're one of those guys who "doesn't go down on girls," you should probably just stay at home with your hand and a bottle of Jergens moisturizing lotion.

New words to live by ladies: If he doesn't go down on you, he doesn't get inside of you.

5) JACK-HAMMERING IS NEVER OKAY.  I am not your masturbatory aid, this is supposed to be a mutually gratifying experience. Learn how to use your dick BEFORE you go sticking it in living organisms.

6) The best sex happens when two people aren't just "attracted" to each other, but connected to each other as well. There's no simple way to do this, but just know, that when you do finally end up connecting, everything that comes in and out of that experience will be pretty fucking amazing. 

There are a lot of things I didn't cover here, so if you have something to add, feel free to chime in with your thoughts. I've enabled "anonymous" commenting, so you can bitch and moan about whatever part of this pissed you off, and I will have NO IDEA who you are... unless of course, you sign your name.

The bottom line is, every girl is different, and the only way to figure out EXACTLY what she wants/needs/feels. is to ask her. I know it can be "awkward," or "embarrassing" to talk about sex, but if you're not "too embarrassed" to be fucking, then you shouldn't be "too embarrassed" to ask questions. This is your body, this is your heart; this isn't the 1950's, it's OKAY to tell people what you want, and what you don't.

Honestly. if you can't talk about sex with your partner, then you probably shouldn't be having sex in the first place.

love you meant it.

She ain't nothin' but a Gold Digger...

When I was 16, I convinced myself that all I wanted was a super hot rich husband, a big house, an unlimited monthly clothing allowance, and a fancy car. At 19, I decided that "love was all that mattered." I was desperately in love with my boyfriend, and would have been happy anywhere with him; including living in a cardboard box on the street... in theory of course. Now, at 25, it feels like the continuum has come full circle, and I find myself at a crossroad of the two extremes. Love isn't enough. It's enough for the immediate, passionate affair of the heart, but after the sweat from your forehead has dried, there has to be something else holding it together.

Lauren and I were talking the other day, and both started to whine, "where are the rich older men who want to take care of us?"

Seriously... where are they?

I am officially old enough to accept the fact that I'm not going to marry a super rich guy, who is also stunningly gorgeous, AND has an amazing personality... I'm not going to marry that guy, because "that guy" doesn't actually exist. And if he does, he's gay. Rich, stunning, intelligent, amazing guys are never straight.

Soooo... this really throws a wrench into my ultimate plan. The easiest qualification to throw out right off the bat, would obviously be "stunningly gorgeous." The 16-year-old version of me, would never of even fathomed letting a guy pushing 70 touch her. But the 25-year-old me is sitting at her laptop asking, how much money can I get for said "touching?"

Apparently the older version of myself is a money-grubbing hoe-bag...

But I digress...

I don't think I could ever actually be a "gold digger." While I would LOVE to have absolutely no responsibilities other than looking pretty, and shopping, I know that would get real old, real quick. Tragically, the motivation to accomplish things that are at least marginally meaningful, overpower all delusions of future trophy wife status.

DAMN YOU MORAL COMPASS!

I've been thinking a lot about whores lately, and have come to the realization that, ALL of us are participating in varying degrees of prostitution. Some girls date guys they're not that in to, simply because they buy them lots of presents, or make them feel "special." Some guys date girls they're not particularly excited about, simply because it's a warm body to lay next to and put their penis in. In return, these less than stellar examples of compassionate beings, give their 2nd choice lovers, their bodies, and a fake version of intimacy. All parties involved are using these temporary partners, to get something they want. In essence, selling themselves for physical and emotional compensation.

I've stayed in relationships longer than I should have, because the person I was with would dote on me, and make me feel like a better version of the girl I actually was. Knowing that I was no longer in love with them didn't see to matter to me. I was getting the attention that I wanted, and in return, I would give them my body, and a fake version of my love that they so desperatly wanted.

Sometimes I wonder how many of my friends are prostituting themselves in their relationships? I wonder who is faking the love, and who is giving up their body in return for "attention." I wonder how many of my friends are really "in love," or even know what that means.

Not to be completely cynical, but I can't help but believe on some level, that "whores" are the last honest relationship there is. I mean it's pretty straight forward; you give them money, they give you an orgasm, and a momentary connection to another human that fades as soon as the seamen dries on the inseam of your pants.

At least whores are up front about what they're doing, and why they're doing it. The rest of us however, we're sneaky sluts. Hiding behind these forced "relationships," just so we don't have to be alone. Inside our heads, we develop a "love point" tally, that keeps track of how much you give verses how much get. The points add up, and in the end we deem our failed relationships as having been "worth it," or "worthless." It always comes down to the scorecard...

But there will be a day, when you fall in love again... for the first time, or the fifth time, and all of this will sound like nonsense. You'll dream about their kisses, and convince yourself that it will be different this time... And maybe it will... For you, I hope it will.

The tally will always come back though, and you'll begin to ponder, yet again...

How much is your love worth?

 love you mean it.

... and now it seems light-years away.

Last thanksgiving, I got into an EPIC fight with my boyfriend at the time, who I will refer to in this story, as X. I guess it was "technically" the day after thanksgiving, because this "fight" happened at like 4 am. We went to my parents house early that Thursday for midday dinner, and around 6pm, we went to X's mother's boyfriend's family gathering. It was a day full of extreme consumption, mixed families and I remember being pretty happy when we finally crawled into bed. Completely stuffed, and relatively peaceful, I drifted off to sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night, X was restless, and kept getting up. This wasn't entirely uncommon. X frequently had trouble sleeping, due to being a Type A, overly anxious, basket case about 80% of the time.

At around 3:30am, I could hear him mumbling in the other room. Wondering what the hell he was doing, I got up, in hopes of coaxing him back to bed. He was in the office, putting his shoes on when I entered the room. I sat down on the couch and asked him what he was doing, and he proceeded to lose his mind right in front of me. My eyes were still blurry, and barely open, as a whirlwind of emotional re-verb, blew my eardrums out of this dimension. The flood gates of everything I had ever done wrong, came gushing into that cold room. I remember he told me I was selfish, and that I didn't care about anyone but myself. He said that I constantly took from everyone around me, and that I never gave anything back. Tears were streaming down his face, while he blubbered about how immature and silly I was. That nothing mattered to me, and he was sick of dealing with my selfishness. This went on for at least 45minutes, but that's the only part of the conversation I really remember.

I was calm in the beginning, and tried to reason with him in an attempt to understand what had triggered his lashing out. My attempts at a logical discussion seemed to only make him more upset. "You're always trying to be so rational! I can never win an argument with you," Mr. X screeched back at me. I remember almost laughing at how absolutely insane that sounded. Who would ever use "being rational" as an argument AGAINST someones credibility? The fact that it was 4am, started to sink down inside me hard, and my eyes were so very heavy, and so very tired. I started to cry out of sheer exhaustion. I didn't understand what I had done, but apparently it was all my fault.

Once we both calmed down, I learned that X was upset, because the day before thanksgiving, I said I was going to come over in the afternoon and make cookies. I ended up having to work later than I thought that day, and decided to finish some homework before I went to his house. I called, and told him my revised plan, and everything seemed fine. I guess it wasn't. Apparently, he was secretly mad at me for putting my job and school before him/thanksgiving cookies. This in turn, made me a selfish, immature, horrible human being.

After hearing all of this information, I screamed at him for being such a child and treating me this way. He yelled back, and left the house. I threw myself on the floor and cried until I didn't have any tears left. It wasn't about the fucking cookies, or even all the horrible things he said. It was the fact that this all came erupting out of nowhere, that it was almost as if he spent the early morning hours while I was sleeping, to conjure up some way to get angry with me, just to break me down. I felt so alone, and so helpless laying on the bedroom floor. I felt so sorry for myself and absolutely pathetic. I couldn't believe I let someone talk to me the way X did, and even worse was the fact that I was still so in love with him, I couldn't bring myself to even fathom a life without him.

I eventually pulled myself off the floor, went into the bathroom, and stared at myself in the mirror, for longer than I care to admit. I remember gawking at my face, and being unable to recognize myself; like I was the ghost of a complete stranger. The girl looking back at me was so sad, and so lost. She was no longer me, but rather a version of something awful I had become. I went back into the bedroom, got dressed, and drove to my friend Lauren's house.

Mr. X apologized the next day, and begged me to forgive him. I did, and things went back to the way they were for a few months longer. We broke up in the spring, about 4 months after that fight. It blows my mind to think about what a completely different person I was a year ago. I was convinced that I would crumble into pieces without Mr. X. And now, 365 days later, I can't even imagine being with X. I can barely understand how we ever fit together, or even loved each other. I feel like I'm light-years away from the girl I used to be.

I wonder now, so far from who I was then, if I ever really loved him? He never actually knew who I was. He never really saw me, like really truly saw me. It was always a game, an illusion, with slight of hands, and tricky wordplay. When he first told me he loved me, I knew he meant it, but I was still playing the game. I was still pretending, stuck in the distractions I had created to shield me from the frightening consequences of reality. In my heart, I want to believe that it was true, that I was actually in love, but something inside, tells me I wasn't. How can you be in love with someone who doesn't even know you?

A lot has happened in the last 365 days. So often, I feel like my life is at a stand still, as if I'm simply static on the screen. Thinking back on the last year, it's pretty obvious to me that my life has been anything but a stand still. I just don't know why it's so hard to feel the movement in the immediate present. Retrospect is a motherfucker. So smug in its ability to give meaning to the time that has passed.

Then again, if someone told me a year ago that my life would look like it does right now, I would have laughed at them, and retreated back to my emotionally abusive relationship... Time has a way of giving everything perspective, while simultaneously making a joke of the perspective you USED to have.

I wonder what this life is going to look like next year?

I can't say for certain, but I've got a feeling it's going to be pretty amazing...

love you mean it. 

Hey. I'm talking to you!

1. MEXICAN GUY AT THE GYM TALKING ON YOUR CELL PHONE WHILE DOING BICEP CURLS IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR - Seriously? Do you think you look sexy talking on your circa 2001 flip phone? Are you convinced my vagina is going to fall open with lustful pangs because you own, and can operate electronic devices? FYI, you look like a motherfucking douchebag, and no one gives a shit that you have a cell phone. If you want to talk to your goddamn friends, or whatever phone sex service you have a monthly subscription, go outside and use your phone there. It's beyond annoying listening to the garbage spilling out of your mouth. No one gives a shit, you are rude, and have a small penis.

2. MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN WHO IS HOLDING UP THE LINE AT THE MOVIE THEATER - WTF lady? Okay, I'm sorry your husband no longer wants to listen to the verbal drainage dribbling out of your mouth, but neither does the 17-year old cashier at the AMC. If you don't know what movie you want to see, GET OUT OF LINE UNTIL YOU FUCKING FIGURE IT OUT! Seriously, it is NOT okay to stand at the ticket booth for TEN MINUTES, asking questions about ALL the movies playing that day. This is what moviefone.com and google are for. Please get out of the line, and figure out what movie you want to see BEFORE you get to the theater.

3. ATTENTION ALL DUDES WEARING shit like this, or even worse, THIS! These are NOT, I repeat, NOT okay fashion choices. Here is a shopping tip for all you studs struggling to find balance in the fashion continuum - If it sparkles, has glitter, extensive cursive squiggles, and/or metallic lettering, LEAVE IT AT THE STORE! Shit like that only occasionally looks good on super buff black dudes. Since it is highly unlikely that you are a super buff black dude reading this right now, we're just going to go ahead and say that the shirts mentioned above, are NEVER okay. The "LA trash douchebag" style, isn't a trend, it's a disease... save yourself before it's too late. REMEMBER, after you purchase your first Ed Hardy muscle tee, it's just a sleigh ride down into the complicated world of hair-straighteners and eye-liner... do you really want to be that guy?

4. GIRLS STOP BEING SUCH BITCHES! - Okay, I know that it gets really annoying when you're trying to run errands, and random construction workers are yelling sexually explicit puns about "nailing you hard," but come on, lose the sour puss face. How about, instead of looking like you just drank rancid milk and pooped yourself at the same time, you yell something equally sexually explicit, AND insane back? Like, "Oh ya, you know how I like it! Hard AND rusty!" Or, "That's right you big stud horse! I want you to nail me to the bulldozer, and fuck me like the reincarnation of Jesus!" ... I have yet to try the last one, but I feel that it most definitely falls under the "insane" category, therefore meeting half of the aforementioned qualifications.

5. 43 YEAR OLD CONSTRUCTION DUDE YELLING SEXUAL INNUENDOS AT YOUNG GIRLS - Seriously? Has this method of getting vagina EVER worked for you? Do you really think the 17 year old high-school seniors you're propositioning for "sexy-times," are actually turned on by your meth face, and orange safety vest? I think it's pretty obvious you've made some poor "life-choices," but come on dude, leave the underage poon alone. Go find someone your own age to bone at a sex addicts anonymous meeting. You can both compare 'juvie' stories, and why it was "all dads fault," while smoking copious amounts of amphetamines.... just please don't get anyone preggers. Wrap that shit up bitch.  

6. STOP TRYING TO BE SO GODDAMN COOL - This applies to basically everyone, myself included. Anyone who even remotely breaches on said "cool-factor," is a total dork. I have never met anyone whom I thought was super awesome, who wasn't also a complete and total beavis. The concept of "cool," relies really heavily on the idea that people are by nature, smooth, perfect, calm, non-spastic entities. This is BULLSHIT. People are messy, clumsy, uncoordinated, skin sacks full of organs. It's time we embrace the fact that we're all train-wrecks crashing into to different stations. No one is "better" than anyone else. It doesn't matter what music you like, or art you enjoy, or recreational activities you participate in... you are a dumbass... we are ALL dumbasses. No matter how "cool" you think something you do, or have, or know, is, there will ALWAYS be someone, somewhere, making fun of you/it/them. Let's just get over ourselves and enjoy the fact that everybody is an awkward superdork in their own way...

While we're at it, lets also try and figure out a way to make "Slip'n-Slide" an actual sport, AND get it in the Olympics.

love you meant it.

So... I had this insane dream last night.

Lauren (my best friend/roomie) and I are living in this house in Berkeley, and she decides to have a crazy party without telling me. I wake up from a nap, and go into the living room, where I find a bunch of people I don't know. I'm kind of excited because I don't know what's happening. I see some people I think I know, and start mingling. The party gets bigger and bigger, and before I know it, Lauren is dancing on the dining room table, swinging a rope around in the air.

I go outside for a minute, and start yelling at these people for parking in the neighbors bushes. They tell me to "fuck off," so I shout back, "keep walking motherfuckers, I'm going to break all the windows on your car while you're gone." They continue to walk up the street, one of the guys flips me off, so I take a bat, which was conveniently laying on the sidewalk, and bust the shit out of their car.

On the front porch of our house, two guys from the party start fighting, I jump in the middle of them, and try to break it up. I'm holding one of the guys back, and am strong enough to push him back inside, as the other guy leaves the party. The guy I pushed back inside, keeps trying to get back on the porch, so I start kissing him. He stops wanting to fight, and keeps kissing me. After a few minutes, I notice my mouth is glowing, and the guy I'm kissing looks like he's about to pass out. I go outside, and start running up to random dudes, kissing them, and then watching as they fall down, completely sedated.

Meanwhile, down the street, a gang of gun toting break-dancers (no, i'm not kidding), are calling my name. I think I know them, so I run towards them. I can hear Lauren telling me not to go, but I just assume she's wasted, and doesn't know what she's talking about. The gang starts this insane break-dancing routine all around me, and then, all of a sudden, everything goes dark. I can't see a thing, but I feel someone grab me, and put there hand over my mouth, with a gun to my head.

The next thing I remember, is being in this giant auditorium with the break-dancing gang. They force me to take an "anti-gravity pill," which makes you weightless, and gives you the physical control of a beach ball. I start floating, and the gang begins this martial arts, ninja-like routine, where they kick my weightless body around the room. It doesn't hurt, but I have no control over how fast, or how much I'm spinning.

There's a loud boom sound, and the lights in the room begin to make a crackling noise. The gang disappears, and I see a white horizon line in front of me. I'm still floating in the center of the room, when there's another loud boom, and all the light around me, turns into these fractal combination's; my whole body starts shaking uncontrollably. The shaking turns into an earthquake, and the building falls to pieces around me. From my elevated position in midair, I look out into the distance, and as far as I can see, the whole city has been destroyed. There are no more buildings, no more people, total nothingness. There's another loud boom, and the sky goes dark, Everything is black. I feel something pull me from my shoulders, and while I still can't see anything, I feel a cool breeze on my face.

I have somehow been transported to the future, and I'm sitting at a metal table, across from a very large robot. The robot tells me there has been an invisible energy force killing humans everyday when the sun sets. My mouth starts glowing again, and when I begin to speak, colors starts falling out of it. I'm embarrassed by this, but the robot tells me not to be, because that is why he brought me here. I don't understand, so he explains that the energy force that's killing people, sent a message to him, saying that he will reveal himself, but only to me.

The robot says that the colors will kill him, and I'm the only one who can help. I'm really afraid at this point, but I agree to meet with the energy force. The robot gives me a map, and leaves. The colors are still spilling out of my mouth, and they get all over the map. The robot has disappeared, and  I start wandering the streets, hoping the energy force will find me. Everything in this world is metallic. The sky is metallic, the streets are metallic, and here I am, spilling colors out of my mouth, leaving a trail wherever I go. I see no people, only metal boxes and objects I can't identify. I walk into an open door on the side of the street. Inside, it's just a room. a dark room, with a chair, and a clock on the wall. I look around, and the door closes behind me. The room is very cold, so cold, it hurts my lungs to breathe deeply. I hear whispers, but can't make out where they're coming from. All of a sudden, there is another loud boom, and the floor falls out from under me. I don't fall with it though. I'm walking on the air where it used to be. I look down, and can see all the way to the center of the earth. the heat from the core warms the room, and I'm no longer struggling to breath deeply. The four walls around the room, fall backwards, like cardboard cutouts. I realize that I'm in a dollhouse that just collapsed. I start growing bigger and bigger, until I'm sitting on the table, on top of the broken dollhouse, in a library. I walk around the library, and realize I'm the only one there. I start to get scared, and just want to leave. I find the exit, but everything outside is so dark, I have no idea where I am.

I start crying, and buckets of colors spill out of my eyes and mouth. I end up swimming in a pool full of colors. I dive down deep because I can breathe underwater, and I see the robot, I swim after him trying to get his attention, but he's a broken, dead robot now. I continue swimming and realize that underneath me, there is a giant LCD screen, playing a video called "history of earth." It's going much too fast to make out everything that's happening, but dates from the future start flashing over the screen, attached to horrible events that have yet to take place. The screen goes blank, and the water starts swirling around me like I'm going down a drain. I see faces in front of me smile, and then frown. I can't control my body anymore, and I fall into a tube tunnel that pushes me so fast, my eyes burn from the pressure.

The tunnel shoots me out into space, and I'm once again weightless in the sky. The stars that are closest to me, are very tiny, and I can hold them in my hand. They wink at me, and whistle when I touch them. Somewhere behind me, there is a loud bellowing voice that says, "You can't be here." I try to turn around and look at who said that, but the tiny stars in front of me swirl around my face, giggling and winking at me, and say, "you have to go now... goodnight." There is a big flash of light, like a camera going off right in my face, and then I wake up.

No, I did not take acid before bed last night.

My roommate said maybe space Jesus was trying to contact me...

I'm not convinced that's true, but I'm also not ruling it out as an option.

love you mean it.

I'm not ready.

Ready or not; there are moments in all our lives when we come face to face with everything that scares us; like a mirror reflecting all the imperfections of every decision we’ve ever made.


In my limited experience on this planet, I have learned that, "I'm not ready," is more often than not, code for, "I don't want to do that." My number one break-up line is "I'm not ready for a serious relationship." I realize that I'm calling myself out here, but "I'm not ready," is fucking bullshit. It's not that "I'm not ready for a serious relationship," it's that "I don't want to be in a serious relationship... with you."

"I'm not ready" is sugar-coating on the bitter pill of truth. No one wants to hear, "I don't want to be with you." So instead of telling the truth, we fluff it up, stretch it out, and massage it until the bullshit comes oozing out, and the whole nasty mess is right there in front of us.

There are only 3 circumstances where "I'm not ready" is an applicable and legitimate excuse,

1) Circumstances where a learned skill is needed in order to complete the task at hand. For example: Driving a motorcycle - Kind of important that you're "ready" BEFORE you take this on.

2) Physical appearance - I frequently utter the phrase "I'm not ready," to appease friends who are wondering how it's humanly possible to actually spend the amount of time I do, finding and putting on my pants.

3) Any and all forms of standardized tests - No one is ever ready for these, and saying "I'm not ready" before you put your pencil to that unforgiving scantron, is totally normal procedure.

Other than the above list of legit excuses, "I'm not ready" almost always means, "I just don't want to."

When you want something, when you really really want something, all the silly excuses tend to fall to the waste side. Ready or not, the things in life that we really, truly long for, are above the "I'm not ready" bullshit.

If you think about it, when was the last time you were ready for anything?

EXAMPLES:

Leaving the womb - Totally wasn't ready for that. In fact, I'm still recovering from the trauma of that event.

Learning how/where babies come from - At 8-years old, I was appalled, and actually refused to believe "sex" was how babies were made, until 7th grade. Definitely wasn't ready for that information.

First REAL crush - Lucas Austin... I was a 6th grader with the mental poise a freshman would have envied. He was an 8th grader with the intellectual prowess of tree moss. This might be where my attraction to older men started, but I digress... To accurately profess my love, I made Lucas a bouquet of paper flowers from my Pretty Petals flower making activity kit. I thought this was the "pimp" thing to do. I thought I was a genius, expressing my feelings so creatively. I was wrong. No one told me that this was the worse possible way to get a boy to like you. No one told me that boys were only interested in pizza and boobies. Since I had neither, Lucas and I didn't really work out. He went to high-school the next year, and I kicked 7th grades ass. I threw away the stupid paper flower activity kit, but not before I used all the scented paper to make my own paper flower boutique, which I very dramatically ripped to pieces in front of a stuffed animal audience. I was definitely NOT ready for the reality of junior-high lust.

Getting my drivers license - Those who have driven with me, might say that I'm STILL "not ready" to operate a motor vehicle, To you I say, imagine how AMAZING my driving abilities were when I was first learning! Within 2 months of getting my license, I managed to lock myself out of the car 5 times. One of those times, the car was still on. Ya, I locked myself out of a running car. I don't know how it happened, but it was further proof that I was most certainly NOT ready for the epic responsibility of driving around several tons of metal, resting next to tank full of flammable liquid.

In fact, it's shocking to most people that I haven't accidentally blown myself up; in a car, or with the help of other explosives/precarious circumstances involving flames.

Most recent example:

Graduating College - Hello real world, I'm not ready to make friends with you just yet. I still have a lot of fucking up to do. Would you mind coming back next year?

I wasn't ready for any of these things, and minus leaving the womb, and learning how babies are made, I wanted all of them. I wanted to make a grand gesture that exposed my 6th grade love, regardless of whether or not is was the lamest idea ever. I wanted to get my drivers license, even though I was terrified of totaling a car (which I actually did end up doing many months later, there was a trolley car involved, and I don't like talking about it because it's painfully embarrassing, so I'll have to save that story for another blog). And last but not least, I wanted to graduate college, even though it was ridiculously fucking hard, and adapting to the real world after being in school for what seems like forever, isn't exactly a cake walk.

Bottom line; "I'm not ready," is an excuse. Plain and simple. It's an excuse not to tell the truth. Because when "I'm not ready" is involved, the truth isn't that we're "not ready," it's that we "don't want to."

So, for the sake of being honest, I'm going to take this opportunity to divulge what I really meant, when I said I "wasn't ready."

"I'm not ready for a serious relationship." = "I don't want to be in a serious relationship... with you."

"I'm not ready to get married." = "I don't want to marry... you."

"I'm not ready to move in together." = "I don't want to live... with you."

"I'm not ready to say 'i love you.'" = "I'm just not in love... with you."

"I'm not ready to have sex." = "I don't want to have sex... with you."

I could go on, but I think I've exposed enough open wounds for one evening.

I feel like it's pretty safe to say that none of us are ever ready for any of the things that happen in life. Hell, if I could, I would totally vote to go back to the womb. The womb was cozy... warm... and connected to an endless food source. Since retreating back to the bubble of my formation, isn't exactly tangible without copious amounts of hallucinogens, I guess I'll have to settle for reality, or a version there of. I would say that "I'm not ready to become one with reality," but we all know what I mean to say, is "I don't want to become one with reality."

I think the hardest part about being human, is finding out that everyone else is human too; proving that, underneath the shells we define ourselves by, we’re all the same, completely vulnerable, unnervingly fragile, and likely to bleed to death when stabbed in a major artery.

I might not be "ready" for reality just yet, but regardless, I'm running full speed ahead into my future. I'm going to get lost, I'm going to misplace my compass, I'm going to try and fail, I'm going win, lose, laugh and cry, all the way into my coffin.

The first-aid kit is packed.

I'm ready to trip and fall into the abyss.

Skinned knees welcome.

Bring it Universe.

Hit me with your best shot.

love you mean it. 

Moving SUUUUUUCKS...

Moving sucks. Really really sucks. I had forgotten how much it sucked, because I haven't had to move in about 3 years. Now that I remember how badly it sucks, I have decided to stay where I am forever, or set all my stuff on fire when I have to leave. The whole "lighting things on fire" solution, might seem bit "drastic," but it would also be an ultimate resolution. Then again, I'm a mild commitment-phobe, and setting things on fire, is a decision you need to be committed to.

Anywayzzz...

I moved out of my apartment this past weekend, and while it did suck (see above), it was also quite liberating. I'm going to miss my neighborhood, and the people around there. I'm going to miss my roommates, and our late night chats/1am bar runs, aka: "Hey it's a random Tuesday night, lets grab a quick beer before it's last call!"

It feels so surreal that it's all over. This place has been my home through a smorgasbord of amazing nights, crazy bullshit, insane roommates, new best friends, relationships ending, new love sprouting, a hundred tears, and a million laughs.  I realize that it's not like I can't visit my friends, or go to the same cafés I used to frequent, but things have officially changed. No matter how much I want to feel otherwise, everything is different now. It might seem silly to have such an epic attachment to a building that's 80 years-old, and hasn't been renovated since the Reagan administration (mmm... asbestos), but it was my home, and it meant something to me.

It's so strange when you catch yourself growing up. I still feel like a kid in my head. A little girl, dreaming of what she wants to be when she grows up.

*News Flash Bridgette* - This is "grown-up," and there are no second chances, no do-overs, and no way to "take back" the years that have slipped away. It's full-steam ahead; now or never little girl.

I feel so small, so often, that when I actually witness myself doing grown-up things, or "taking responsibility," I'm always completely enthralled by my new found competence. But after that moment passes, I get a little uneasy, and start to feel this desperate ache in my belly for a "grown-up" to check and make sure I did everything right.

I don't know about you guys, but I feel like I was ill-prepared to enter 'adult-hood.' Sure, I knew it was coming, but I most definitely did NOT receive the handbook on "how not to fail at life." I can't decide if the realization that you might not being "doing life" correctly, and then accepting that fact, is, ultimately what defines the actuality of truly being, "an adult?'

I'm pretty sure it's a crap-shoot either way. 

I have decided that life, is simply a game of Russian roulette. Some of us are playing with revolvers, and some of us are playing with machine guns. I, on the other hand, am still having trouble turning the safety off.

I've almost got it though...  

A few more steps, and the gun will be cocked. 

Barrel to my temple. 

Ready. Aim. Fire.

love you mean it. 

Love, or Something Lke it.

"Almost all the time you tell yourself you're loving somebody, you're really just using them. This only looks like love." -  Chuck P

Recently, I've been thinking a lot about love. What it means. Where it comes from. Why feels so good, and hurts so bad, all at the same time.

My roommate came home with her ex-boyfriend tonight. They broke up about a year ago, and were in a 6-year relationship prior to that. When I first met her, she was still wounded from the split. She thought this guy was the "one." I don't know the details of the break-up, but it was clear that he wasn't ready to "settle down," and things ended because of that simple fact. Seeing her with him, it was quite obvious her feelings were still strong, and while some time has passed since they'd last been together, it also looked quite clear that the reasons for their break-up hadn't really changed.

This got me thinking about the relationships I've been in. Most of my friends would say that I've been pretty lucky with the men in my life. I don't think luck has very much to do with it, but regardless, I have had some pretty awesome relationships. Granted, they couldn't have been "that" awesome, because, well... they ended. But overall, the guys who have been "lucky" enough to call themselves my boyfriend, have all been really amazing fellas. 

At some point, with all the men I've ever loved, there was a moment where I was so in love, I didn't think I could live without them. Deep down, I obviously knew that I could in fact, "live without them." I had been alive before they were in my life, and I would be alive after. But at the time, the love was so intense, it felt like I would just evaporate into the atmosphere without them. Not in the co-dependent, "l need constant attention or I'll freak out and accuse you of cheating on me while at dinner with my parents" sort of way. < --- (Yes. This totally happened to me. *NOTE* - Just to be clear, it was the GUY who freaked out at dinner in front of his parents and blamed it on love, it was NOT me). But in the, "You're so amazing, I just want to be part of your life" sort of way.

Thinking back, I can't help but wonder, where does the intensity of this overwhelming love go?

I've always believed that above and beyond everything, love is the only thing that matters. For the first time in my life, I'm not sure that's true anymore.

I still believe in love, but suddenly, it's become this massive black-hole of uncertainty, circulating in and out of my mind's eye. What if the person you love just stops loving you? What if the more you fall in love with someone, the more they start falling out of love with you? And what if, at the end of the day, above and beyond everything, love just isn't enough?

I know that everyone who has ever been in love, has speculated on the above questions, but this is the first time I've ever really cared about the truth in the answers.

Maybe it's that I'm getting older. Maybe it's that I feel a little lost. Or maybe I'm just starting to give up on all the bullshit that falls out of our mouths when we're trying to get laid, or simply want to feel close to someone without actually having to align our hearts, and attach.

Everybody is so busy trying to "find themselves," I feel like we've stopped trying to find each other. I'm not by any means trying to be judgmental here either. I mean fuck, I'm the QUEEN of "trying to find myself." But honestly, I don't think we ever really "find ourselves." I think we're a collection of everyone we've ever known. A mosaic of fragmented memories. Everyone who has ever touched us, physically, emotionally, mentally, is a part of who we are.

The tiny pieces all fit together in the most fucked up Picasso style painting, known simply, as our life.  We don't "find ourselves," we accidentally create ourselves through a series of mistakes, near-death experiences, and existential crises. 

But in the end, it seems like love is the glue that holds it all together. I realize how nauseating that last sentence is, but I can't help but believe in its validity.

So how far do you go for love? Do you block out the doubts, and love with your heart wide open, even though it might get ripped out of your chest? Do you trust someone who you know might just be as evil as you are? Do you move to another place just to follow it?  Or do you let it go because you're not sure how much you're willing to gamble?

And when love leaves us defeated and broken, lying on the bathroom floor, do we still believe that it was "worth it?"

Is it ever "worth it?"

In one sentence, Oscar Wilde bluntly sums up exactly what i'm trying to say:

"The secret of life, is to appreciate the pleasure of being terribly, terribly deceived." 

I don't know what happened with my roommate and her ex-boyfriend tonight. But if life were a Nora Ephron screenplay,  they would fall back in love, get married, have some babies, and live in a bubble full of happiness, topped off with an epic proposal on the roof of the empire state building. 

Tragically however, this is real life, and shit like that doesn't happen in real life.

Even if they did fall back in love, get married, and have babies, at some point, one of them would get restless and need to "find themselves" again. My roommate will become frustrated by her husbands long hours at the office, so she'll start flirting with the kid at the cafe down the street. The babies are stressing her out, and her husband isn't helping like she thought he would. They start fighting all the time, and the distance between them grows. She starts sleeping with the cafe kid, while her husband bangs his secretary on company time. They become ghosts of the people they once were, expertly pretending that everything is just perfect...

Perfect like it was in the beginning...

In the beginning... back when love was enough.

I think it's safe to say that I feel quite strongly their relationship won't be working out.

But hey... what do I know? 

love you mean it.

*SORRY* - I know, I suck.

Okay. I think it's safe to say that I FAIL at updating my blog with any sort of frequency.

BUT... I'm going to start updating more.

Considering the fact that there are only like 3 people who even read this, I don't think anyone really cares about the frequency of my "blogging," but either way, I'm going to write more.

Promise.

love you mean it.

Dear downstairs neighbors.

 
So... my downstairs neighbors have the loudest fucking sex in the world. They have the loudest fucking sex at 3 in the fucking morning, almost every fucking night. Now, I've had lots of really loud sex (sorry dad), not so much recently, but in general, if I'm going to be FUCKING really loud, I'll attempt to be considerate about the volume and time of day/night said fucking is taking place, since I live with roommates in a VERY thin-walled Victorian flat.

It seriously sounds like people are dying downstairs, and their bodies are being thrown against the wall, over and over again. More than anything, at this point, I just want to see what the hell they're doing to make so much goddamn noise. It's disturbingly loud.

Soooo...

Dear downstairs neighbors,

Please shut the fuck up. Some people actually like sleeping in the middle of the night. Getting awoken by your guttural moans at 3am, isn't really working for me, so if you could possible start the animal sex at around like 10pm instead, it would be greatly appreciated.

Happy Fucking!

- B

love you mean it.

♥ Stephanie Michelle Proctor ♥

Three years ago today, my step-sister Stephanie passed away.

Despite the time that's passed, I can't stop myself from wanting to believe that she's just off at college, and I'll see her over the holidays. We'll go to the gym together, and make fun of my dad for wearing fleece zip-up vests and Birkenstocks.

It's fucking unfair.

Sometimes I feel like there's a perpetual dark cloud hanging over my head, and no matter how much light I'm surrounded by, this shadow is always blocking the warmth.

The self-centered little girl inside of me is constantly asking, "Why me? Why do these bad things always happen to me?" Truth be told, sometimes, I want to wallow in her words. I want to swim in the vast ocean of self-pity, but I choose not to. Because if I'm going to swim in that ocean, I better get in line. There's a whole collection of nations who have experienced more heartache than I could ever imagine. Families across the globe who know things about loss that I will never understand.

But that doesn't make losing Stephanie any less devastating, or any less important than the millions of other children who have died from circumstances that were not only preventable, but didn't need to happen in the first place. And while I don't believe in a heaven, or the fiery inferno of "hell," I do believe that the massive amount of energy that flows through each and every one of us, has to go somewhere once our hearts stop beating.

I don't know where the charged groupings of electrons escape too, but I would like to believe that they stick around and disperse into the air. I would like to believe that the energy from everyone who has ever passed, fills the atmosphere, and surrounds all of us in microscopic molecular patterns that can occasionally be observed in split second glances when we accidentally fall into the right frequency.

I'm aware at how insane the above theory sounds, but haven't you ever been in your head all day, and seen a shadow out of the corner of your eye that you could have sworn was a person? Haven't you ever felt someone behind you, only to turn and find that you're all alone? I'm not pontificating on whether or not “ghosts” exist, I'm talking about energy. I'm talking about that moment when the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, because you feel a draft in a windowless room.

The brain is such a powerful generator, I suppose there is a more likely chance that these notions of energy interference are explainable by the great depths our minds will travel, just to cope with the intense emotional blender loss generates.

I don't care though. Right now, the rational juxtaposition is worthless to me. Because despite the facts, I want to believe that when I miss my mother, and I close my eyes to picture her face, that her energy is somewhere close, somewhere near me. I want to believe that when I focus in on the memory of her hand touching my forehead, brushing the hair off my cheek, the fragment of time where I can almost feel her next to me, is actually real. That when I think I can smell her skin, or see the outline of her frame, it isn't just my imagination, but a little piece of the molecular pattern her shell was constructed of.

So, whether or not it's “crazy,” or “stupid,” or simply “false,” I not only want to believe it, I need to believe it. I need to believe for that split second, her energy was there, and I could feel it because I fell onto it's frequency. I need to believe that it wasn't all for nothing.

I need to believe that when I'm driving down my parents street, and the wind hits my face with that perfect smell of fall on its coat tails, Stephanie is there too... spread out and dispersed in the atmosphere, circulating through the seasons, in and out of lungs across the world.

I need to believe it, not because it's necessarily true, but because it means something to me.

What is any of this worth if it doesn't mean something, if it doesn't matter?

So Stephanie, where ever your dispersed carbon and molecular pattern has floated off too, and whatever frequency you might be traveling within, I love you, and you are missed with every ounce of blood, bone, and sinew inside me.

You are missed with every fragment of every second that has passed since you've been gone.

You are missed more than any words from any language could ever accurately convey.

♥ Stephanie Michelle Proctor ♥
October 18, 1986- October 2, 2006

I think the universe and I are in an abusive relationship.

I'm pretty sure, somewhere out there, in the vast expanse of space and time, there is a video-feed of my life, that several alien children are watching, and no doubt, hysterically laughing at. Sometimes, when I'm experiencing a particularly spastic moment of FAIL, I actually look around to see if I can spot the camera recording the immediate disaster at hand.

Yes, I'm aware of how self-involved the above theory is, but I don't care, it's true. I really do feel like this the majority of the time. And I would even venture to say, that a lot of people who happen to experience an unnerving amount of spastic awkwardness throughout each day, feel similarly.

Let me give you an example:

A few days ago, while I was at the gym, I happened to notice a particularly attractive male specimen. Now, to be fair, the gym in North Beach is full of "carbon-copy-cut-out-Ken dolls," so seeing someone "attractive," isn't exactly news. However, anyone who knows me at all, can relate the fact that I'm not a huge fan of generic looking "hot guys." Sure, the "Ken-doll cut-outs" are nice to look at, but in my overall experience, they're dumb as shit, and the ones that aren't borderline retarded, are usually, HUGE DOUCHEBAGS, who have somehow managed to delude themselves into thinking they're actually intelligent, or even worse, "funny" and "charismatic."

I'm sorry, but just because you obtained a degree by coasting through college on a baseball scholarship, doesn't make you "smart." Some of the stupidest people I know have college degrees. It should also be noted that, having a high batting average doesn't necessarily mean someone can read. It means they can hit a ball with a wooden stick relatively well, and with a certain amount of consistency.

You know who else was good at hitting things with big wooden sticks? 

HOMO ERECTUS

Ok, I'm getting off topic here. Truthfully, I have no problem with hot guys who are "reading comprehension challenged." They're fun to play with... kind of like POGS were in the 5th grade.

Anyway, this guy I saw just had such a beautiful face. I don't know how else to describe it, other than, he was simply,"so salty". Now, I realize that with my track record, he was probably an idiot, but as we all know, beauty is intoxicating, and blind to most rational judgments.

So here I am at the gym, staring at the pretty man like a fucking voyeur, when all of a sudden, he turns around, and notices me gawking at him like a creepy-stalker-girl. I, of course, get super flustered, and overcompensate for my awkwardness by being even more awkward. I decided that I was being silly, and that it's okay to look at people. Besides, I have a strict "no dating anyone from the gym policy." I've learned that lesson WAY too many times, hence the policy; formulated from many many bad dates, and uncomfortable post-rejection run-ins. So, I turned up the Kanye in my earbuds (no I'm not "mad" at him, and I don't give a fuck about his d-bag VMA drama either), and proceeded to run on the treadmill.

I was under the assumption that my earlier moment of awkwardness was all the awkward I would be experiencing at the gym that day, so after my run, I went to lift some weights.

I have never been so wrong. 

During the hour or so I was at the gym, every time the pretty man walked within a 20-foot radius of me, I would:


a) drop a weight
b) trip over my feet
c) walk into a machine
             or 
d) all of the above. 


This happened about 10 or so times, until I finally decided to leave the gym, before I actually injured myself. I'm pretty sure someone rigged my sports bra with a shock collar while I wasn't looking, because that's the only explanation for my uncontrollable spastic reflexes.

(Yes, I still stand by the above theory as the most logical explanation for my extreme lack of coordination).

Safeway is in the same shopping structure as the gym, so I headed over there in an attempt to still make the evening productive despite my gym FAIL. After racing my cart up and down the isles for 20 minutes or so, I had obtained all the food items I wanted to purchase. I got in line, but realized I forgot milk. So, in a hasty 360 degree turn, I whipped my cart around, and like the starting line at the INDY 500, I raced it down the cereal isle, balancing my lower torso on the handle bar, while my feet were airborne behind me. Under estimating the speed of my cart, and the odds that someone would walk past the end of the isle I was flying down at the very same time, I came crashing into another Safeway patron, right in front of the butter and pudding display.

In all my years of shopping cart racing, I've never actually hit another person. Sure, I've knocked plenty of things over, and definitely had a few close calls, but I hadn't made "cart-body" contact before. While profusely apologizing, and picking up all the items I had knocked out of their basket, I realized this wasn't just a random Safeway shopper, nope, that would have been too easy, and much less entertaining for the alien children watching my video feed; therefore, in an obvious cosmic conspiracy to continue to make Bridgette FAIL, the Safeway patron was, of course, the pretty man from the gym.

Mortified beyond comprehension, I began giggling like a drunk sorority girl who had just finished inhaling a crate of whip-its. I then started mumbling incoherently, and officially secured the title of the "gravity challenged insane girl from the gym," Northern California chapter.

My short-bus will be picking me up any minute now.

After regaining the bare-minimum of composure one needs in order to NOT have a seizure, I rationalized that, it's okay to be a little retarded sometimes. I know I'm retarded more than just "sometimes," but I have the amazing ability to rationalize all situations into whatever my deluded perception of reality happens to be that day.

I took a deep breath, and calmed down, assuming again of course, that this moment of awkwardness was definitely all the awkward I would be experiencing at Safeway that day.

I was wrong... again.

Much too smug about my newfound ability to maintain my motor skills in a non-spastic fashion, I leaned down to retrive an apple that rolled under the "Thomas' English Muffin" display. In one misguided foot placement, my entire leg slid sideways, and about 40 bags of english muffins came crashing down on top of me. The pretty man laughed for a second, and attempted to help me, but his efforts were thwarted as entire army of Safeway employees went DEFCON 5 on my ass in the bread isle.

There was a moment while I was laying there, covered in english muffins (I had managed to fall backwards, instead of on my face), where I was almost convinced that I could actually hear the laughter of the alien children through in the buzzing of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling.

Having turned a lovely shade of crimson, no doubt due to EXTREME mortification, I rationalized, again, that everyone has days when their coordination is fighting gravity and stuff falls on them... I bet... : /

As I stood up, profusely apologizing, again, this time to the Safeway army, I noticed that the pretty man had disappeared. And by disappeared, I mean, ran as fast as he could away from the maladroit girl (me), before the awkward became contagious. I lingered by the pudding for about 10 minutes, in an effort to make sure I didn't run into him, again, sans cart.

I finally made it to the checkstand, and bought my groceries without tripping, falling, or dropping a thing. I left safeway, and walked up the stairs to the parking lot to retrieve my car. Once again, I started to feel smug, and was sure this time, gravity had waved its white flag, and we were friends again.

I laughed to myself as I replayed the Safeway FAIL in my head. I mean, despite the extraordinary embarrassment, the whole thing was pretty hilarious. Plus, I was absolutely positive that the previous moment of EXTREME awkwardness, was most definitely all the awkward I would be experiencing at the North Point shopping center that night.

But... I was wrong... yet again.

I know what you're thinking: "Bridgette, you can't be more than 100 feet away from your car, what could have possibly happened in that short distance you had to travel?"

Well, I apparently misread gravities "white flag" as a surrender, when in fact, it was actually meant to be a "challenge flag." The challenge being, whether or not I could maintain enough focus to walk the 100 feet to my car. Easy right? I mean, I know how to walk, and I could see my car straight ahead, so naturally I assumed, I got this. 

About half-way through the first row of parked cars, a silver toyota 4-runner slowed down to let me cross in front. The headlights beamed into my pupils, and I realized that the driver was, *drum roll please* ... The pretty man! Big surprise right? ... I bit my lip and kept my focus straight ahead, thinking, "Okay, you can do this, here is your chance for redemption Bridgette! Just walk to your car like a normal person. You. got. this." 

I must have been focusing too hard on the end point, because about 2 seconds after I told myself, "You got this," I literally "fell over" my own feet in a dramatic "Matrix" style slow fall. Thankfully, I was able to catch myself, before I did a face-plant into the cement, and by "caught myself," I of course mean, "fell onto a parked car."

Yes, that's right, I tripped, and fell onto a parked car. 

Moral of the Story = I'm not really sure, but I think some would suggest that I start wearing protective padding before I leave the house.

I hope the alien children appreciate the great lengths I go to, to entertain them.

Also, I think it's safe to conclude that, the universe and I are definitely in an abusive relationship.

I have to go now.

My short-bus is here, and I can't find my helmet.