I never claimed it was a GOOD blog post.

Wait a minute . . .

. . . what’s this?

Is it . . . could it . . . be?

A BLOG?

From LRC?

Yeah, don’t ask me what I just did there with that POKE thing. I don’t know, either. I guess I was trying to like conjure up images of poking something unrecognizable (like a blog post from moi). Because THAT’S the smartest thing to do. Why do we do that? Why do we poke stuff when we don’t know what it is? We (and when I say we I mean people. Sorry if you’re not a person) are fucking strange.

Bee Tee Dubs, while I was Google Image-ing pictures of poking (TWSS), I came across this:

Isn’t that horrifying? And the kid is all nonchalant, like, “Yeah, I just shoved a freshly sharpened pencil like, way far in my ear. What’s the big effing deal? Gimme a 40 and let’s superman some hoes.”

Aaaaanyhearingloss, yes. Your eyes are not deceiving you. I am blogging.

Why, you may ask?

Because LAWYERMAN IS AWAY.

And when Lawyerman is away, LRC PLAYS!

And by “play,” I mean blog, be a douche on twitter, reload tumblr every five minutes, and wait for someone to get online and talk to me while I drink Coors Light out of a can while getonmyhorse plays in the background on loop.

Obviously.

With my weekend to myself, I can’t decide if I’d rather

1. take advantage of the fact that I don’t have to cook a five course meal all weekend and eat like a bird… like I ate when I was 10 pounds lighter, pre-Lawyerman, and not feel like a fucking cow, OR
2. eat as much cheese as possible, just ’cause I fucking CAN. Not that Lawyerman would ever try to prevent me from inhaling a fortnight’s worth of sharp cheddar in two days (I just wanted to say fortnight), but because I equate cheese consumption with rebelliousness. Don’t ever say I didn’t live on the EDGE.

Both options sound lovely, but my guess is that option number two (huh. huh.) will reign supreme because CHEESE NEVER LOSES.

Plus I’ve already eaten like eleven slices of cheese.

So yeah.

I guess option number one is out.

While As Much Nothing As Possible is the only thing I’ll likely cross of my list this weekend, in two weeks I will be skidding into Philly international to visit THIS LADY.

Someone is going to have to invent a new word for epic after all that awesomeness happens.

I made a graphic to commemorate the occasion, but I can’t post it here because of that whole semi-anonymity thing, and it has our beautiful faces on it. But trust me. It’s beautiful. And tie-dyed.

Also, if you haven’t clicked the getonmyhorse link yet, I suggest you do that now.

SHUT UP WOMAN GET ON MY HORSE

So there you have it, I have spoken. To be honest, I mainly blogged because I wanted to post a comment on my future husband Jason Isbell’s blog and in the off chance he were to click forward to my blog, I didn’t want the first post he saw to be a post about my horrible asparagus farts.

The kind of woman I am

(Blatantly stolen inspired by this post by Chelsea)

Photo by my Ma

I am the type of woman who: does not like turtlenecks because she feels like she’s being choked when she wears them, who thinks today’s bowel movement (or lack thereof) is a perfectly acceptable topic to discuss with her boyfriend, and who appreciates a good bourbon on the rocks.

I’m the woman who works well under pressure at work but not in relationships. The woman who buys peaches in the hopes of becoming healthier but eats the potato chips instead. The woman who will always come to your party if you invite her.

I’m the woman who can’t listen to an entire song, let alone album, without skipping to the next track. The woman who likes the gooiest and brownest of the boiled peanuts and always chooses a flat hot wing over a drumstick. I’m the woman who will get angry if you try to teach her because she wants to learn it herself.

I’m the woman who doesn’t understand those couples that have been together forever but have never farted in front of each other. The woman who thinks people in general just need to lighten the fuck up already. The woman who has to write everything down because SHE WILL FORGET.

I’m the woman who slathers her sandwich with far too much mayonnaise but won’t eat a french fry if it has ever made contact with ketchup, and will pick a burnt hot dog over a steak on most days. The woman who still jams out to California Love (do not judge me that is a BAD ASS SONG). The woman who forgets to pay her Target bill but will always remember your birthday.

I’m the woman who bawls at movies like Charlotte’s Web but remains dry-eyed at funerals. I’m the woman who prefers Marshall to Ted, in spite of the fact that especially because he’s goofier. I’m the woman who refuses to wear pajamas.

I’m the woman who gets annoyed with people who think they own an entire week (sometimes even a MONTH) just because they have a birthday. I’m the woman who prefers dresses to pants. And I’m the type of woman who will cook you dinner with love, serve it to you, then clean up the dishes.

But you’d better fucking rub my shoulders afterward if you know what’s best for you.

And the weiner is . . .

Thanks to everyone who entered my contest! To recap, the winner will receive:

• A $15 iTunes gift card (I AM BROKE, OKAY?)
• A quickie store DVD porno with my face taped to the front. Your choice: Asian, Black, or White (not my face, the Adult DVD). That’s all the choices my quickie stores offer.
• My dignity after purchasing an Adult DVD at a quickie store and the satisfaction of knowing I will never be able to set foot in that quickie store again.

These may be the greatest prizes ever.

And now for the winner.

The person who got the most questions right is . . .

Drumroll please . ..

Dating Without Pants!

DWP got 8 out of 13. You go Glenn Coco!

Now that I’ve gotten one Mean Girls reference out of the way, DWP, send me your address so I can stalk you mail you your boring “white” porn.

I will be watching it first, though, before I send it. Just so ya know.

And yeah, I’ll clean it up first.

Now here comes the embarrassing part. The correct answers!

—

1. At what age did LRC have her first kiss?

a) 8

b) 12

c) 14 – I was a late bloomer . . .

d) 16

2. At what age did LRC lose her virginity?

a) 14 — . . . but I was also a fast learner!

b) 16

c) 18

d) 21

3. How many sexual partners has LRC had?

a) 1-13

b) 14-23 — The jury’s still out on an “official” number. Probably right around 20.

c) 24-35

d) More than 35

4. How many times has LRC been in love?

a) 3

b) 4

c) 5 – What can I say? I am a lover of men.

d) 6

5. Of the last four guys LRC has slept with, who had the biggest peen?

a) Murray

b) Adam – The Young One

c) BrownEyes

d) New York

6. What is the “hardest” drug LRC has ever done?

a) Marijuana

b) Cocaine – Bleh, I’m not proud of it, but it is what it is. Kids, don’t do drugs.

c) Heroin

d) LRC has never done drugs

7. Has LRC ever had sex in a car?

a) Yes — With Adam of Big Peen fame. It was HOT. But no, I was not driving.

b) No

c) Hell yes she was driving, biatch

8. What is the current state of LRC’s pubes?

a) Bald as Vin Diesel

b) Landing strip, nothing else

c) Half grown out from shedding the winter coat — Please refer to the following question.

d) 8 years of Bush just ain’t enough!

9. How long has it been since LRC has had sex IN HER OWN BED?

a) Less than a month

b) 1 month – 3 months

c) 3 months to 6 months

d) More than 6 months – Cry.

10. What’s LRC’s bra size?

a) 32A

b) 32B

c) 34B — More than a handful is a waste!

d) 34C

11. LRC’s favorite sex toy?

a) The Rabbit

b) Sybian

c) Plain Jane vibrator

d) None of this “sex toy” crap. I want REAL peen. – It’s true. When I was dating Tom, the one with The Boil, he bought me a rabbit. I tried to use it once, hated it, and ended up throwing it in the communal dumpster at my apartment amidst empty Bud Light cans and discarded “blunt guts.” Shiz just ain’t fo’ me.

12. Where did that stain on LRC’s bed come from?

a) New York

b) LRC’s cat (not the Sexual kind, the Feline kind) — Damned ticks.

c) Cheetos

d) Tears of sadness

13. What is the meanest thing LRC has ever said to a good friend?

a) “Your boyfriend’s dick isn’t as big as you said it was.”

b) “You really should try Proactiv if you want to get a date for the prom.”

c) “Shut up, you fat whore.” — I do have an explanation for this. Another blog, another day.

d) “If you leave me alone, I’ll give you $5. And maybe a handjob.”

TIE-BREAKER: How long, in months, was it from the day my parents got married until the day I was born? OPTIONAL, but, if you tie with someone else, this may be your chance to win. So just pick a number. 5 – we keep it classy here in The South.

—

And now that you all think I’m a whore with no morals, I think I can end this post.

TMI Thursday: The Boil

I have decided to participate in my very first TMI Thursday post! This is a re-post from my old blog, but it was posted on February 6, 2008 so some of my newer readers probably haven’t read it . I think this is a story that bears repeating.

It’s a brief one, but not without its share of grossness. Let’s get crackin’, shall we?

—

Before Murray, I dated a guy I’ll call Tom. He was eight years older than me, and he was a total ass. He blamed me for all his problems as if they were somehow my fault, and was basically just a terrible boyfriend. I don’t know why we stayed together for the year or so that we did, but I think lots of people have one or two relationships that are unjustifiable (at least in retrospect).

About the time Tom and I started dating, Tom got into a rut. He wasn’t taking care of himself very well—not taking daily showers, wearing dirty clothes to work, overeating, etc. Now that I think of it, I’m not sure if he started doing that after we started dating, or if he was already like that and only took care of himself in the early stages of our relationship so I’d stick around.

Anyhoo.

So Tom was nasty, if you want to know the truth. He disgusted me. One day, he showed me a boil that had erupted on his back. This was the hugest, nastiest boil I’d ever seen. Well, it was incidentally the first (and last, hopefully) boil I’d ever seen, but trust me. Even if I had seen 6,392 boils in my life, this one would’ve taken the cake. It was about the diameter of a half dollar and it protruded about 1/2 inch. MONSTER boil.

At the time, I was “living” with Tom for the most part, debating on whether or not to take the plunge and move completely out of my apartment (I never did, thank God). He had to be at work at 8:00 and I didn’t have to be at work until 9:00, so I usually stayed in bed until about the time he left for work.

One morning, I woke up to the sunshine and the sound of the water running in the bathroom. He was showering! Rejoice! A rare occurrence!

It was then that I realized I had been sleeping in a wet spot. And no, we had not had sex the night before.

His boil had burst.

I WAS SLEEPING IN A FUCKING PUDDLE OF PUS THAT HAD OOZED FROM HIS DISGUSTING, HAIRY BACK.

I jumped up from the bed, screaming, and ran into the bathroom. I flung the shower curtain back and said, “WHY would you not TELL ME that your BOIL had BURST?” I don’t remember exactly what he said in defense, probably because I was too horrified to pay attention to whatever response he may have had.

I shudder now just thinking about it.

I heart vlogging

Every time I vlog I feel like it’s gratuitous (oh, but vlogging, why can’t I quit you?), and this is two minutes of your life that you will never get back, but I got inspired when Rachel at I’m a Mom in Real Life vlogged about the winner of her contest.

Guess who won, by the way?

ME!

And all I had to do was vote for her new comic blog, which, incidentally, you should be reading. So go there now and add it to your reader.

See what a good contest winner I am? Gettin’ all linky and shit? Future contest holders, take note.

I’m ecstatic about all the prizes, but I am especially excited about this little gem. I <3 it!

So here’s my vlog. You’re welcome. Or I’m sorry. It could go either way.

And yes, I know I have a ridiculous southern accent. Do it, y’all! REDNECK POWER!

Ahem.

Also, in the spot where I focus on my cat Oliver, you can see my foot, and I am wearing the shoes NY so lovingly calls “pilgrim shoes,” because they look like, well, pilgrim shoes.

You can’t fire me, bitch I quit

I’m going to take a break today from blogging about my love life to tell you a horror story from an old job of mine.

When I was 19 and a freshman in college, I was desperate for a part-time job. One day,  my friend’s mother notified me of a part-time clerical position at a Pennysaver-esque publication which would be the perfect fit for me.

Score!

So I  got the details, and went by the office (let’s call it the Pennysaver). I met the man in charge (I shall call him Miserly Misogynist—for reasons that will become apparent momentarily—or MM for short) and he hired me on the spot. Our conversation went something like this:

MM: “So, do you have typing skills?”
LRC: “Yes, I type 80 words per minute.”
MM: “Are you available Wednesday through Friday?”
LRC: “Yes.”
MM: “You’re hired.”
LRC: “Wow, thanks!”
MM: “What’s your name again?”

So began a three year long tenure of being overworked and underappreciated! I will say this, however: within the first month of typing classified advertisements, I saw the other workers doing ad layouts on their Macs and I said, “I want to do that!” And so, another graphic designer was borne into the workforce. Exactly what this world needs. Tee. So I do have that job to thank for the work experience that landed me my current job. Yay.

Anyhoodsterpoot, my boss turned out to be a huge jackass misogynist with absolutely no clue as to how to manage people. Surprise! Bet you didn’t see that one coming. He, however, was not the worst person I worked with. My co-worker, Skankface, was the bane of my existence.

Let me give you a little background on Skankface. This girl was very likely the white-trashiest person I have ever met. She came to work every day with greasy hair and was always at least 30 minutes late. When I started the job, she’d recently had a boob job gone awry and she’d had to have one of the implants taken out. After a few weeks, she was able to get the implant replaced, but a few months after that? She got bitten by a brown recluse spider (don’t click on that link unless you want nightmares for the rest of the week). ON THE BOOB. I don’t know if you know about brown recluse spiders, but when they bite you? THE VENOM EATS AWAY YOUR BODY TISSUE. So she had a hole in her boob. Had to get the implants taken out, again.

And instead of just accepting that sweater cows just weren’t in the cards for her?

SHE GOT MORE IMPLANTS.

Smart one.

Well, Skankface and I developed sort of a pseudo-friendship out of convenience because we worked so closely together, and every once in a while I’d even risk being seen in public with her (until that time she got in a drink-throwing fight with another group of girls, and vomited all over the steps outside a bar. I vowed never to take her anywhere again after that debacle).

When she got promoted to a sales position in our sister office, though? It quickly became clear who MM’s favorite was.

Hint: not me.

Sure, she landed lots of accounts. Brought in lots of money to the company. Her clients loved her.

Guess why?

She was sleeping with them!

Are you getting a clearer picture of her skankiness now?

Good. Because I honestly don’t think I could ever do it justice.

Sooo, anyway. Back to the story at hand. MM was allowing Skankface to squeak by at work, drifting in around 11am and sneaking out before 5, taking 2 hour lunch breaks. Just being a slackass in general. Doting on how great a job she was doing. But if I was five minutes late (which was RARE)? You’d better believe I’d never hear the end of it.

I wasn’t the only one who was angered by MM’s preferential treatment to Skankface. Especially since it was her (more than likely) STD-ridden vadge that was the cause of all her “success.” Several of us complained to MM, and, of course, in true MM fashion, he told Skankface that we’d been complaining about her.

(If we’d had an HR department, his ass would have been grass SO, SO many times. His practices were highly unethical. I would work late every Friday while MM and my other co-workers sat in the back room and drank beer.)

So Skankface began to resent all of us. Our hatred was mutual.

Then one day, I arrived at work to find some clutter on the desktop of my computer. There was a new image file I’d never seen on there before. Skankface used my computer on Monday mornings (she worked in my office one day a week, when I wasn’t there, since MM didn’t want to pay me more than he had to), so I knew the image had to be hers. I clicked on it to make sure it wasn’t anything I needed to keep on the computer.

It was.

A photo.

Of Skankface.

Naked, covered only by twenty dollar bills.

Whaaaaaaaaaaaat?

This was too good not to share, so I told my co-worker to come look before I deleted it. Well, instead of keeping it to herself, she called MM’s wife and told on Skankface. Of course, in true Skankface fashion, Skankface was taking a  “sick day,” so MM had to call her at home to reprimand her, only because MM’s wife made him. Not because he actually thought that, you know, having a naked picture of yourself on a co-worker’s computer was WRONG, or anything.

So guess what Skankface does?

Calls the office, asks to speak to me, and my co-worker takes a message because she knows that Skankface is going to be PISSED at me for “telling on her” (even though I didn’t, really), and her message to me is this.

“Tell [LRC] to call me on her lunch break because I am going to BEAT HER ASS.”

Yeah, THAT is going to happen. Let me go ahead and call you so we can make an appointment for that ass-kickin’. Shall I provide the brass knuckles?

I manage to get through the rest of the day fairly unscathed, until MM comes into the office around 4:45, right before the end of the day.

He asks us to all gather around, because he has an announcement to make.

“[Skankface] put in her two weeks’ notice today.”

Internal monologue of the rest of the office: “WOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Instead of addressing the absolutely tasteless and inappropriate behavior from Skankface (um, hello? She put a naked picture of herself on my computer and then THREATENED ME WITH BODILY HARM), MM’s complaints were, “Sigh, well, with [Skankface] gone, we are going to lose [account], which is [$xxxx] per month, and [account], which is [$xxxx] a month . . .”

And while MM is going down his list of people Skankface was fucking accounts, I stopped him and said, “I’m sorry, are we not going to address how [Skankface] THREATENED me earlier?”

Then, and I will never forget the look on MM’s face when he asked me this, MM said, “Well, why did you have to say anything to anyone about it?”

Oh hell naw.

So I stood up from my stool, said “FUCK. THIS. SHIT,” and walked out.

MM (the coward that he is) had my co-worker call me, begging me to come back. I said, “No, and if he calls me, I’m going to tell him the same thing.”

So MM came to my HOUSE, BEGGING me to come back. Man was almost in tears. After all, I WAS a very big part of his company. I did all the layouts and ads.

I told him, in my firmest voice, and with my straightest face, “No, I will not come back to work for you. Not now, not ever.”

And that was one of my proudest moments. Finally saying enough was enough, and standing up to a 60 year-old man who had mistreated me for three years.

All seriousness aside, though? That shit was crazified, y’all! My coworkers still tell that story to this day, and now I can laugh about it.

Sooooo, after having read that long-ass story, don’t you want to delurk (since it’s National Delurking Day or whatever the flip it is) and tell me a work horror story of your own? Doesn’t have to be as lengthy as mine, obviously.

Oh, and I’m not proofreading this post. Bitch is already 1400 words long and it’s almost quittin’ time. So I apologize for anything that doesn’t make sense, which is likely this entire post.

I know you’re jealous of my ultra-classy lifestyle

Last Friday night found me with an invitation to dinner from NY and and invitation to a party from my engaged friend, Lori.

Dinner with NY was enjoyable, filled with our usual outbursts of inappropriately loud laughter and discussions of a flyer I designed for his band (which he loved, by the way. I had been worried for nothing). During our dinner, I started getting texts from my drunk cousins (who NY knows from high school—they are the ones I was with the night I drunkenly gave him my phone number) asking me questions to the nature of, “Have you licked his balls yet?”

Maturity. They has it.

I couldn’t hold back my reaction of pure amused horror (Is that possible? To be amused and horrified at the same time? Apparently it is.) from NY, so he asked what was up, and I explained that my wasted cousins were harassing me with sexual text messages. He then requested the phone number of one of them (because neither of them would recognize his number) and texted her, “Ball parade. Your chin.”

Needless to say, this became a fun game for the rest of the night, even after NY and I parted ways after dinner, with her trying to guess who he was, and him coming up with funny stuff to reply with, using me as an accomplice via text message.

Anyhoodster, after dinner I drove to “the river” (what people around these parts call a nearby body of water that rednecks and rich folks alike call home) to meet my friend Lori at the aforementioned party.

Y’all. This was a Redneck River Party if I ever done seen one.

There was at least one Camaro in the yard.

Songs about riding dirt roads permeated the stereo speakers alongside gangsta rap and Linkin Park.

The keg was floated by 10pm.

Store-bought Jello shots were passed around.

Beer funneling ensued.

(Side note: Lori, what prompted you to funnel five beers? Are you 19? Is this spring break? Methinks not.)

It was quite the sight to behold.

At one point, I was approached by a guy whose name was, honest to God, Clem. I could NOT make this shit up if I tried. What made it even better? He asked me, “I’m sorry, I seem to have lost my phone number. Can I have yours?”

I think the laughter that followed was a bit excessive, but what can I say? It was funneh.

There was also another guy who would NOT leave me alone. Let’s call him, Eager Beaver. He was a bit pushy and I, in an attempt to be nice, just smiled and nodded, attempting to balance politeness and uninterestedness.

He wasn’t getting it.

As NY and I were texting back and forth, Eager Beaver (EB) commenced to repeatedly snap my phone shut.

Um. Dude. Not cool. And totally not your business.

I was highly annoyed.

At one point, EB asked me about my “fiance or husband,” and I told him I wasn’t married or engaged, but that I was dating someone. He chose to ignore that last part, because later on after I left, he asked Lori if I was dating someone and she told him, “yes.” He then said, “That’s not what she told me!”

Ugh.

Anyhoodster. So he asked Lori if I’d said anything about him to her. Lori said, “She said you got on her nerves.”

Lori. I heart you.

EB still Facebook friended me the next night, however. Maybe he’s a masochist?

Before I left the party, though? I got to experience a girl fight. It was awesome and terrible all at the same time. I was seated on the couch, which was positioned in the middle of the living room, and I was RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of the crossfire. Thankfully, people were holding them back and it never came to blows over my fragile little body.

One of the girls’ boyfriends was crying. There was screaming. “Whore” and “bitch” were thrown about mercilessly.

And I dipped the fuck out of there.

I always flee when people fight. Even if they’re not, like, physically fighting. Because there’s always the possibility that it will come to blows. I guess fighting just makes me uncomfortable, and there’s always a possibility that the cops will come. I remember one time my (then) boyfriend had to chase me down the sidewalk because I saw a guy throw a punch at another guy and I just TOOK OFF down the road without saying anything to anyone.

You would think small towns would be boring, right?

You, my friend, would be wrong.

—–

On a side note, I want to say thank you to everyone who voted me for Best Relationships/Sex Blog for the 20 Something Bloggers Bootleg Awards. I am so humbled and grateful. All of the nominees deserve a shout out, so go check ‘em out. Lots of deserving bloggers on there. I wish everyone could win, but alas, that is not how “awards” work. Psh.

In all seriousness, though. Thanks a lot. I got the warm fuzzies. Heart.

Just a little service I provide

I’ve been doing some thinking lately about why I blog. Why I choose to share what I share, and withhold what I withhold.

When I returned to blogging around October of 2007 (previously I’d had several personal websites and a LiveJournal, on and off, since about 1996—when I was THIRTEEN. Literary masterpieces, my first “blogs” were not), it was mostly just to share my interesting and comical thoughts (although, how “interesting” or “comical” these thoughts were is debatable). I had become bored at work and needed something to fill all the moments in my workday after I’d checked Facebook and MySpace eleventy bajillion times, after I’d finished my work and there was little to occupy my time.

I was in a relationship with Murray at the time, and while I did blog about things related to him, our relationship was not the focus of my blog. I started out at Blogger, then moved to WordPress a few months later, deciding that it was the superior of the two. I used my first name and Murray’s first name (although I switched to using only his first initial upon my move to WP), and would only post photos of myself periodically.

One day, not long after the breakup with Murray, when checking my blog’s stats, I got a sinking feeling that my privacy was about to be compromised. I made the impulsive decision to close the blog and open a new one, and only told those in my gmail contact list about it.

This is that blog. I named it Long Red Cape after a song about letting go of something you had been holding onto for far too long. Not only was I in love with the song, but I thought its meaning was very fitting for the phase of life I had just entered. Moving on. Letting go.

Through blogging, I have “met” throngs of amazing women and men, and I’m grateful for the experience I’ve gotten through all of this.

When I look at my entries that garner the most attention—higher stats, more comments, longer and more emotionally-driven comments—are the ones that relate to my dating life, post-breakup.

While I don’t write this blog for my readers, I also don’t do it JUST for me.

That being said, I think one of the things that makes my blog unique is the theme it has adopted as the months have passed (almost six months since the breakup! CRAZY! Seems like five minutes ago I was writing the five month post) is this: dating in a small town.

You may be thinking, Whoop-De-Fucking-Doo, LRC. Congratulations. I don’t give a shit.

I know many of you who read inhabit large cities. I live in a town of less than 20,000.

Dating in a small town? Is some TOUGH SHIT.

Do you know how hard it is to hang out with someone ONCE and then find out the next week everyone is talking about how you are in a relationship with that person?

So all the crazy stuff that has been happening to me has largely been the result of living and dating in a small town. Because Murray? And BE? And New York? And even Adam?

Yeah, they all know each other.

For example, the other night, after drunkenly giving NY my number and probably being more flirtatious than usual, I saw Murray, and he said, “So, I saw you talking to [NY] . . .”

Me: “Yeah . . .” (thinking: NONE OF YOUR DAMNED BUSINESS, HOLMES.)

And the other night when I was out with NY? One of his friends said, “I see your car over at [name of intersection] sometimes, who lives there?”

Me: “Um . . . [BE]’s parents.” He asked me this RIGHT IN FRONT OF NY.

So, uh, don’t be surprised if the craziness continues. Because I am in like with two boys right now, and I hope, for my sake and theirs, that the shit does not hit the fan.

In NY-related news (you seem to all like him so this should make you happy): we hung out again on Friday night, and I actually did sleep in his bed. Still no sex, which is the way I want it to be, but there are times when we’re getting hot and heavy on the couch that I am thinking GOD WHY DON’T YOU JUST RIP MY CLOTHES OFF ALREADY. He doesn’t snore, which is fantastic, because I have a hard time getting to sleep when it sounds like someone is choking on a windmill. I cooked dinner for him last night and we played Scrabble.

Can I just say? I LOVE THAT HE WANTED TO PLAY SCRABBLE WITH ME. I always feel like I’m being an imposition on someone if I ask them to play a game with me. Most guys I date, do not play games (well, not games like SCRABBLE anyway . . . they play MIND GAMES. Totes different). I ended up conceding because he was ripping me a new one.

I actually think he might be too smart for me. He writes shit. Shit that gets published. He has a very quick wit. And he has a phenomenal vocabulary.

And I? I write this little blog that is basically just a dump for my brain and emotions. Not exactly on the same level as his stuff, as I have read some things he has written (GOOGLE = MY BOYFRIEND).

I know this sounds bad,  but I’m not used to being the less intelligent one. It’s not that I need to feel smarter than the other person to feel in control. It’s not that at all. I LIKE smart guys. They TURN ME ON.

I just feel uncomfortable if I’m unable to communicate with someone on a higher level than myself. I think things like, “Does he think I’m just another one of those cute, dumb girls who has gotten through life on her looks alone?” I mean, I know I’m no beauty queen, but I have felt judged on my looks before. People think that since I’m young and cute, that I can’t possibly know anything about life, because things have just been handed to me.

I didn’t mean for this to turn into a long-winded rant on feeling pigeonholed, because I really don’t feel like that most of the time. I guess I’m just not used to being the less intelligent one.

BUT. That doesn’t stop me from being SERIOUSLY IN LIKE with NY. He makes me giggle, and he gives me the WHOOSH feeling when think about kissing him.

—–

In other news, Ashley of Turquoise Ribbons gave me this lovely award:

The award says: “This blog invests and believes in proximity” (meaning, that blogging makes us ‘close’-being close through proxy). These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbon of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers!

So here are the folks I’m passing it on to:

One Step at a Time

Skrinkering Hearts

Little Spoon

Blogsecret

I am participating in this thing called BlogSecret. I have submitted my secret, and it will be posted on another participant’s blog. This is not my secret (it wouldn’t really be a “secret” if it were MY secret, now would it?)

Nilsa has posted a list of all the participants on her blog. Go check them out, and happy reading!

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I’m a girl. A woman, I suppose. And you know that whole double-standard thing – a guy sleeps with handfuls of women, and he’s a player, a girl does the same and she’s a slut? That’s the story of my life. I have slept with 49 men. And a few women, as well. No one knows this. Would they judge me? Hell yes. You’re probably judging me as you’re reading this.

But you dont know why I did what I did, do you? Well, here’s the story, that not many people know.

I was 15. I went out to a nightclub with my friends, without my parents knowing. I went drinking, and partying. My first time doing anything ‘illegal’. I got drunk. And was raped. By someone I knew. That guy took my virginity. On the rooftop of a shitty, seedy nightclub. And then left me there.

My friends didn’t believe me. They knew the guy, and they said he’d never have done something like that. Why would I make this shit up? was my flabbergasted response.

I’d planned on waiting until I got married, before losing my virginity. I wanted it to be special. With someone special. I wanted to have fond memories of my first time. Not alcohol-blurred traumatic recollections. But I never got what I wanted. Someone else made that decision for me. Someone else stole my virginity. Without second thought. And then made me doubt myself. Made me think I’d come on to him. That I’d begged for it. Whatever.

After that, sex was nothing special to me. Sex was nothing to me, in fact. I slept with whomever took my fancy. I realised that I was only doing it to re-gain some measure of control. I had no control over the first time, so maybe I could have control over the other times. Control over other men. The sex was empty. Meaningless. Boring. I could never orgasm. I could never bring myself to make myself vulnerable enough to allow my body to enjoy the sexual acts I was parttaking in. I didn’tcare.Another notch on the bed post. Another fuck. Throw that guy away, and move on to the next one. Maybe the next one could get through to me. Maybe the next one would heal me.

They never did. I’ve realised now, that it’s up to me, to heal myself. How I’m going to do that, I’m not entirely sure. But I do know that this is the first step on a very long journey to self-discovery, acceptance and healing.

But I want to still know one thing. Now that you know the story, do you still judge me for having slept with so many people?

If I’d have known then what I know now

While watching election coverage on MSNBC, I got bored (oh, the ADD) and began perusing the internet. When I saw Mim online, I gchatted her to tell her how much I loved her recent vlog.

We got to talking about miscellaneous things. BE. The election. Movies that make us cry, etc.

(For the record, the movie that makes me SOB audibly—so much so that I usually have to towel off afterward—and usually causes me to end up sleeping like a baby that night after all that melodramatic catharsis, is Charlotte’s Web.)

Mim suggested I watch What Dreams May Come, as it is one of those types of movies.

(Just READING the description of that movie made me want to cry. Damn this IUD and these unexpected hormones.)

So I added it to my Netflix queue and went on my merry way.

Or, so I tried.

This thing Netflix does when you add a movie to your queue, which is incredibly useful and convenient, is that it suggests other movies SIMILAR TO the movie you just selected.

One of those movies it selected for me after I added What Dreams May Come was The Science of Sleep.

I have never seen this movie. I do not know, nor do I care to know, anything about it.

Then where are you going with this pointless rant, LRC?

Well, I’ll tell you.

A few months ago, a friend of mine had a going away party because he was to be moving away to California for God knows how long. During the party, he had everyone draw numbers. He then threw every DVD in his collection on the living room floor. Whoever had their number drawn, got to pick a DVD. The process repeated until every DVD was gone.

Adam picked The Science of Sleep.

AH. NOW it gets interesting.

Remember Adam? The younger guy who absolutely stole my heart (and my sense of reality) for a few weeks and then discarded it like it was the watered down remains of a skinny iced vanilla latte?

Yeah, that one.

So eventually the DVD ended up getting left at my house. We were going to watch it, but, uh, OTHER THINGS prevailed.

(Sex.)

So when things started going sour with us and Adam basically curb-stomped what was left of my self-respect after the breakup with Murray, I pulled that DVD out from my TV stand.

And commenced to smash it into tiny pieces.

There was screaming. There was crying. There was melodrama.

(And an ensuing hangover the next day.)

The point of my post is this. All that pain. All that confusion. All that ANGER I felt that night?

Is gone.

And has been for months.

At that moment, I felt as if I were this pathetic, insignificant little flea who could NOT see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

I felt used. I felt unloved. I felt . . . empty.

And now?

. . . Adam who?

Things like this serve as a reminder to me. Remember that phrase, This too shall pass? It may sound cliché, but damn it. It’s clichéd for a reason.

IT’S TRUE.

That thing that may be absolutely ass raping your emotions? That thing that may cause you not to want to get out of bed in the morning?

In a month . . . hell, in a week, maybe even by TOMORROW . . . that thing will be SO INSIGNIFICANT to you.

And you’ll move on.

And you’ll be able to enjoy that skinny iced vanilla latte with a ginormous grin on your face because DAMN IT, YOU ARE GOING TO BE OK.

GOOD, even.

Remember that.