Personal Project, or Operation Self-Help

OK, so in light of my most recent breakup, I have decided to embark on a personal journey of self-reflection and fixing. Quick summary of the turbulent relationships of 2011:

In January, I met a guy in the Army who'd served fifteen months in Afghanistan and suffered PTSD. Sexy, tall, amazing in bed, dog-owner, the works. The PTSD should have been a clue but he was seriously sexy so I started dating him, driven once again by the loins and not the gray matter. After a splendid V-Day, his shit came out and he was physically abusive. Yes, I was hit in the face and shoved into a wall by this guy. It has made me stronger, though. Oh, and it ended quickly. We don't speak at all and it was a very easy break-up. I did go through about two weeks wondering "What the hell did I do to deserve that abuse?"

In May, I met Flyboy, an advanced technician at Dish network and a part-time waiter at Macados. Super romantic, very tall and nerdy (my kryptonite), cute smile, big kissable lips, not horrible (though nowhere near excellent) in bed, mostly good things. Here's the thing: he's 26 years old and he flunked out of college. He told me right from the beginning that he wanted to go back to school and/or get a pilot's license; he "just needed to get his life in order." Now, unless you're a physics + aerospace engineering double-major or pursuing some equally difficult academic program, college is easy. Yes, I said it: it's EASY. Everyone faces a setback here and there but to completely flunk out takes skill, or lack thereof. In August, he was fired from Dish and began working full-time at Macados, which was a decision that was not met with admiration. I distinctly remember telling him, "What am I going to tell my parents when they meet you?" In hindsight, I should have ended it right there but instead, I dragged it out thinking it would get better. He decided that I wasn't worth his precious time of drinking until 5 AM every night with his Macafucktard friends and dumped me on Halloween. In costume. Yeah, it's really awesome walking home crying as Indiana Jones's Slutty TA. Then, two days after he broke up with me, he's already dating some fat bitch, or whale, if you will.

Instead of resorting to my slutty days of early 2010-2011 and embarking on a string of one-night-stands, I have taken a sort of celibacy vow. I can't be the one to constantly make the first move anymore. I demand to be courted, and I will not be having any sex until I am in a stable, monogamous, real relationship, and that is only after a reasonable courtship period. It's really fucking weird having that thought process but I know I need to do this.

I also know that I have developed a pattern since I dumped my freshman year boyfriend in the fall of 2009. I say I want a guy who's well-adjusted, successful, ambitious, and a strong man. I fall for, to be perfectly honest, jackasses (sorry bout it not sorry), and end up having quick five-month long flings that indicate nothing except extremely poor life choices. It got me thinking that I need some help in getting back in the "right direction," so to speak. The common denominator in my failed relationships is me. Yes, world: I am ready to have a long term relationship. I do want to get married someday, and married for life, not married until it gets a bit rocky. I will not put up with little boy problems any longer. I need a man, goddammit.

Now, I have returned home from VT for winter break and as usual, one of the first things I do is head to the library and pick up an exhaustive amount of reading material that I finish right before I go back to school (I read really fast). This time, I focused on two things: job hunting and getting my novel ready to go. As I browsed the nonfiction shelves, looking for answers to my impending problems of unemployment and lack of publication, I was hit once again with one of my biggest problems with myself. See, it seems that almost everyone in my sorority is either in a serious relationship or engaged. Cognitive dissonance is a seriously powerful sensation because while I'm extremely happy for them in their happiness, I'm also supremely jealous and constantly look at myself in the mirror asking, "Just what the fuck is so wrong with me? I'm blond with big tits (or so I've been told), clean skin, small waist, pretty smile, sharp wit, educated, and I hate chick flicks. How am I still single?"

And yes, being single has its blessings, and many of them. Some of my favorites are:

1. Waking up at noon to my own snoring and no one else's
   
2. Not being ashamed of shitting in my own home (yes, I have sent boyfriends out of the apartment whilst I use the facilities)
   
3. Having a weekend to myself to catch up on my trashy reality TV shows, read Cosmopolitan or Vogue, or husband shopping in Upper Quad (that's when you go to the area where the Corps boys are, dressed really sexy and pretend they're staring at you)
   
4. Not having to share a damn thing: blankets, pillows, space, time, French fries, beer, wine, cheese, etc.
   
5. Never having to apologize for being with your friends, no matter how secretive/bitchy/weird/sexual tension inducing (Flyboy was supremely jealous of S)
   
6. Having the chance to study without constantly being texted/IMed. Honestly, what part of "I AM STUDYING FOR THE GRE RIGHT NOW LEAVE ME THE CHRIST ALONE" do men not understand?
   

However, it's just that time. And OK, part of this desire to be in a true, long-term relationship with an upstanding man is fueled by the fact that Flyboy, a revirginized, when I met him at least, waiter (I never promised to be nonjudgmental about that), is already getting his dick wet on a routine basis whereas I am dangerously close to not having sex for three months. That may not be healthy but at least I recognize it, which is apparently a start.

But I digress.

Browsing the shelves, I stumbled across the array of self-help books, targeted for sad, desperate women like myself. Yes, the covers profess that "this is targeted for smart, beautiful, successful women who are done dealing with bullshit!" Let's just be honest: we're the ones who have a time limit, the boys do not. However, standing in front of those glossy covers, promising me that if I read the words, absorb the knowledge, and do exactly what this "expert" says, I can and will find the man of my dreams AND have a successful relationship with him that will result in a happy, stable, lifelong marriage. In a frenzy a la Bridget Jones, I grabbed practically every book and have since embarked on an experiment. Operation Self-Help is underway.

In true English-major form, I have been analyzing these texts for rhetoric, target audience, and bias on the part of the author. Christ, even in my down time, I do research. Anyway, here goes nothing!

XOXO
~M

What a Toolbox

Flyboy broke up with me yesterday morning. I was initially devastated but after careful consideration, and a lot of chocolate, wine, and Spartacus: Blood and Sand episodes, I am actually relieved that this happened. Yes, I'm mortified that a waiter dumped me and it may sound judgmental but I really just don't care. The man went on academic suspension for a semester and instead of returning the following term, like at least two of the people I know who have been in that situation, he was content to not go back and try harder. That supreme lack of ambition is seriously such a turn-off. Now, I'm not going to be angsty here and believe that I will never find someone else because to be perfectly honest, after that tediousness, I am done with this relationship shit for a while.

For some reason, we women are told that failed relationships are more or less learning experiences. "What did you take back from it?" In summary, I took back:

1. An appreciation for my parents' hard work in raising me that instilled in me the determination to ensure that I don't end up stuck waiting tables. No, I'm not going to discuss the economic repercussions of living this lifestyle. I'm discussing the beings that one interacts with if one is to choose this career path. There is something to be said about the waitstaff of any restaurant that can be frequented on a college budget, and that is that they are greasy, non-sparkling vampires. I have never been around a more hateful group of nocturnal cretans than Flyboy's pals. They routinely ignored me in his presence, and after a while he also ignored me in public. After a short while, they called me "whore" and "bitch" in my face and he just fucking stood there and did nothing. Don't get me wrong, I can stand up for myself but when your own boyfriend doesn't do a damn thing about that sort of behavior, I think that it's just as bad as if he himself is doing it. What makes them vampires is that their tendency to be oppressively loud, obnoxious, and prone to simply discussing their past drama up until 5 AM on weekdays. It's perplexing to think that most of these people are college students, except Flyboy and his two cohorts. Personally, unless I am working extremely diligently on any number assignments, I am down for the count at 2 AM. Put the damn Yuengling and Rock Band down; it's Tuesday. What the fuck are you doing with your life?
2. A reaffirmation that I will not put up with laziness. In conjunction with being a degree-less waiter, the guy had dreams of being a commercial pilot (which I initially found incredibly promising), hence the name Flyboy. He routinely said, "I'm going to make a trip to the flight school and talk to advisers and try to get in." He started this broken record in August; it is now Halloween and he still has not gone. He would also say that he'd clean his room/car/kitchen or do anything else tedious but necessary, then spend all goddamn day playing LoL (League of Legends. After witnessing hours of playtime, I still don't know the objective nor the appeal). Now, Batman: Arkham City was perfectly acceptable, to a point. There's only so many times of witnessing the guy play a game while forgetting to get his horrid close-to-Jew-'fro hair trimmed. Procrastination in life is ridiculous; I can be hypocritical here and say that procrastination in school is just part of being a student.
   
3. A reaffirmation that I will not put up with bullshit. It's fine and dandy to believe that your party is more important than my studying but at least have the balls to admit it to me. I thought men liked honesty and directness. Apparently, when a female employs it for too long, it's detrimental. I don't like playing mind games and I have the nards to tell you to knock it the fuck off. I could play mindgames and give you headaches as you try to figure out what went wrong. Instead, I prefer to be up front about consequences and would love it if the other person felt the same way.
   
4. An understanding that guys who play acoustic guitar to try and seduce a girl are serious toolboxes. I mean, really? Need I go on? It's such a trademark thing for a douchebag to do. I'm a little more unique, but that's because I have bias as a band kid. Give me a guy who can play jazz trumpet or a smooth string bass. Better yet, a Norweigian fiddle or ukulele. Something really out there.
5. A discovery that I really do not like boring people. Flyboy's life is rather monotonous, which appeals to his one-dimensional friends. After a while, I found it both tedious and platitudinous. There were only a select few number of topics on the guy's brain and hardly any of them of any significance. I'm interning for an Africa ESL program with some English heavyweights but what does he want to talk about? Sidework at the restaurant. Uh ok then.
6. A monotonous sex life is basically like asking for infidelity. How many men have been caught in adultery scandals due to their wives' lack of enthusiasm in the sack? Countless. So why is it that when a female suggests more interesting techniques, the man balks? Gotta love those double standards.
   

I know that I am far from perfect. I get it. I'm stubborn, volatile, detail-oriented, blunt, and intense. It's my senior year and I'm trying to get into graduate school; in retrospect I should have made this just a summer fling and called it quits the day classes started. I am going to throw myself into my work in much the same way Lindsay Lohan throws herself on a crack dealer.

XOXO
~M

Excuse Me, Your Ex Doesn't Care. Also, Grammar

For all of those ladies who desire to continue their lives with their exes 8,000 miles away by tagging them in Facebook posts, please get the fuck over yourselves. You are gone. His meat thermometer is no longer measuring the temperatures of your moist, frothing spam sammich. Shut the fuck up and edit your grammar, please. You are in graduate school; get your* life together.

Just had to get that out of my system.

But seriously, if there are graduate students who don't understand basic grammar, for fuck's sake turn in your applications because you absolutely do not deserve to be admitted to whatever program had the audacity to think you are worthy of pursuing a tertiary (undergraduate is secondary education) degree there.

1. You're = you are. Your = possessive. Used in a sentence: Your ex doesn't give a rat's ass if you're thinking about that time in Florida, or Myrtle, or wherever.
2. There, they're, and their. Used in some sentences: There is a group of women. They're wishing you would choke on your own vomit (see lesson 1 for clarification). Their day is made better with every sip of their gin and tonic.
3. It's and Its. Used in some sentences: It's a wonderful day for the friendly neighborhood twat. Its belly is looking particularly swollen from all that semen it swallowed last night.

English, motha fucka DO YOU SPEAK IT?

Wine does magical things to the body. It's the social lubricant, according to Professor Boyer. No joke, it's in his book, Drink This Now.

~M

PS - I am absolutely excited for The Hunger Games being made into a movie.

* no excuse for the initial posting. >.<

Lists I have made at work

When you are the self-checkout attendant at a respected grocery store like myself, you tend to do things in your boredom at 10 PM that don't disturb the 5 customers buying beer. I created a book of lists and, much like this video (I love Jenna Marbles, btw),

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKIAbueB9sM&feature=related

I decided to write a short, incomplete list of the people that I would not say no to having an hour, or eight, of pleasantries with them. Pleasantries means...sex

ANYWAY, here we go.

• That guy from White Collar, aka Matt Bomer
• Andy Whitfield
• Danny Coale
• James and Oliver Phelps at the same time
• Sean Patrick Flanery
• Matt Damon
• The delicious piece of chocolate that is The Old Spice Guy, even though I not-so-secretly think black guy's junk looks fake (it's SO SHINY)
• Sean Biggerstaff (ironic name)
• Pierce Brosnan
  
• Silas from Weeds. Uncle Andy if he got me incredibly incapacitated with his romanticism
• Josh Groban only after he sang to me in French, because French is the language of sex. Italian is tied for second place with Spanish
• Deryck Whibley from Sum 41. Need I say more?
• Hugh Jackman
• Hugh Dancy
• James Marsden
• Katy Perry. Russel Brand can watch and only hop in after 30 minutes.
  
• Stephen Colbert
• Neil Patrick Harris, regardless of him being gay with a married partner and a daddy. He's fucking awesome.
• ANY of the US Navy Blue Angels
• Nigel Barker
• Gordon Ramsay, only after he made a beef wellington for me and screamed in that delightful Scottish accent at a bunch of ignorant bitches
• Ryan Lochte, whom I have met and have a signed photo of him. Be jealous
  
• Raphael Nadal
• Jonathan Rhys Meyers
• Henry Cavill
• Daniel Craig
• Eric Bana
• Kellan Lutz, only after I've tied him up and he promises to not say a goddamn word about Twilight
• Channing Tatum
• Christian Bale
• Tom Wisdom, the young guy in 300
• Jesse Spencer

Like I said, a short list. Everyone has lists like these. You know it's so true. Here's another fun one: these are some of the things I go bat-shit crazy for, again in no particular order:

• Baby seals
• Reality TV marathons, particularly Hell's Kitchen and ANTM
• Private Selection Italian Cafe TIra Misu Ice Cream
• Hokie football
• That first sunburn that totally turns into a tan
• New textbooks
• Kissing
• Jewelry
• Boys making dinner
• Bull and Bones Cheese Fries
• Champagne
• A really long, awesome, slightly sweaty bout of sex. The kind where after several orgasms, you high-five each other and say "SHOWER!!!"
• Husky and Labrador puppies
• Skinny dipping
• Writing checks with fancy pens
• Scaring freshmen by existing and knowing what's up
• New sundresses
• Getting complimented in said sundresses
• Steak, calamari, lobster rolls, crab legs, swordfish, chardonnay, etc.
• Lord of the Rings
• ANYTHING by Kate Spade
• Trashy, smutty romance novels
• Tasty drinks with rum
• Sam Adams Summer Ale
• Glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars
• New pens on fresh new paper
• The roar of an engine, especially from a Corvette or a motorcycle
• That feeling right after you've shaved your legs, aka dolphin skin
  

Being a cashier is a shit job. We have to make it this entertaining.

XOXO
~M

General What-the-Fuckery

Just started the second week of classes and I've got to say that I am ready to leave here, via graduation and hopefully have either a Big Girl Job or a spot in an MFA program elsewhere in the country. Now don't get me wrong: I love my school and I love my major and I really love my professors this semester (Ed Falco and Nikki Giovanni. Yeah, they're kind of a big deal. Be jealous). With that being said, here's what I am more than excited to leave on May 12, 2012:

1. Parking Services. How many undergraduates are on this campus? Over 26,000. More than 60% of those live off campus and are going to more than likely commute to their classes. Some of the bus routes don't go to all of the apartment complexes available to students so they have to drive. Why the fuck are there excess Faculty/Staff spots? More importantly, why is a professor parking in a Commuter/Graduate spot? And I honestly feel that if you are a graduate student, you get the same privileges as the GTA's. I know several students here bitch about this problem and, to be honest, the behemoth parking garage (of which the first level is still F/S) is NOT helpful at all.
2. Bad cell service in buildings. It's the tail end of 2011. AT&T shouldn't be having this lack of service issue anymore.
3. Professors who assign things, you work your ass off on them, and they don't accept it. I know that there is an intrinsic value on every piece of work that you do in class but after spending two hours on a thorough write-up of Shadow of a Doubt, one would expect at least a high five.
   
4. Newcomers not knowing how to read maps. It's really simple and there's no need to get lost. Pirates rarely had maps but they seemed to have no trouble raping, pillaging, and scaring the living shit out of everyone.

In other news, I finally turned the Big 21. That's terribly exciting and I'm so grateful to everyone who came and made it special. The day after the bar crawl was rather unpleasant but it was absolutely worth it.

Additionally, in my time as a blossoming writer, I have never been tasked with writing a sex letter to someone in California. Yes, there is a story: whilst recovering from what was the Hangover from Purgatory after my birthday festivities (Hangover from Hell is a tie between Fall Rush Party 2009 and Christmas Party 2010), Flyboy's roommate grabbed his laptop and told me, "I need help writing a sex letter to my sex pen pal in CA."

I perked up from the covers. "Excuse me?"

"Yes," said Roommate.

"What do you mean, sex pen pal? Do you actually exchange snail mail?"

"Fuck no, email."

"How did this even happen?"

"This girl and I went to high school together and she'd had a crush on me. She caught up with me on Facebook and we started talking...and then we started drunk texting...which, inevitably, turned into sexting. So now we write letters to each other describing what we basically want to do to each other, if we could. Normally, I do these alone but I thought we could all work together. Fun for the whole family!"

"What does she even look like? I'd assume y'all have exchanged dirty pics?"

Click click click click click. "Here's her face!" Short-ish brown hair, pale, nerd glasses, lip piercing, looks petite but trying way too hard to be edgy. "And here's her tittays!" My eyes were assaulted with the black-and-white image of a petite torso with what I guessed counts as a very nice rack. Large, full, a bit prone to gravity, perky nips. No nip piercing like me but who's counting. I ascertained all of this in .5 seconds, then quickly looked away, in case he decided he wanted me to write the proportions of her labia.

I honestly had to wonder if I'd just gotten sexually harassed and, if so, by whom.

Now, I've been in some very odd situations but playing what is, essentially, Erotic Mad Libs ranks very high on my list. Before I knew it, I found myself asking if she liked in more sensual or more kinky, "because I go either way. Whatever tickles my fancy at the time."

It was in that moment I decided I shouldn't say a damn word except "WATER" whilst hungover.

XOXO
~M

Lovely

Boy, I never write on this thing. Wonder why I keep it up.

Anyway, so my grandfather passed away recently and I had to fly to Texas to bury him, along with the rest of the family. It's a huge, crazy Catholic family, which I am absolutely OK with. Some of the great things about Texas are the way their beer just seems to flow, the gigantic malls, the great road system, and venison sausage. It's really goddamn hot though and my mountain self couldn't exactly handle it. I miss them all greatly and I am hoping to be able to seem them under better circumstances.

In other news, my personal life is pretty phenomenal. I honestly couldn't ask for a better man than Flyboy. He's the absolute best and has exceeded all of my expectations. Yay me!

I'm writing this now while I wait for a phone call from the clinic because I, at the lovely age of 20 years, have a lump in my tit. That's just kinda fun to say. "Hi, I'm 20 and there's a small chance I have breast cancer." Not saying it is because it could more than likely be some sort of cyst but you know. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. I'm not too worried about it, honestly. It could be bad karma for hating the Relay for Life people so much (they're a cult). Regardless, it's there and I just don't see how difficult it is for the medical professionals here to hook me up with an ultrasound machine and just take a picture of the fucking thing.

So yeah, that's basically it for now. I'm trying to do that thing that so many girls do: will the phone to ring with their minds. Ring, phone, ring. Damn you, ring.

Update

So apparently I don't keep up with this thing as I should, mostly because there has been very little in my life that has been significant. Since December, among other things, I've started working as a cashier for a little spare change and it's not spectacular. 85% of my job could be done by a trained monkey and the other 15% is insanely micromanaged. Then there are the customers. Bless their hearts but God was not kind to most of them. There are the crotchety old people, the screaming babies with snot running down their faces, the tedious couples, and several toothless dirty others. It's rather uninteresting. The only interesting part is that my boss has on several occasions confessed his love for me, which is unnerving beyond reasonable thought. It's not a romantic gesture; it's fucking scary.

Anyway, I kicked ass in class, particularly nonfiction. My workshop group apparently liked my blunt tone and the fact that I don't shy away from less than savory topics. So that's pretty spectacular to hear.

Dated a guy, former military with a tattoo, so that's two things off my list. Wasn't great, wasn't horrible, certainly wasn't a core shaker. It changed me, meaning that no matter physically fit they are, military men have very little capacity to be in a relationship. That's all I'm really going to say about that.

Oh, it turns out that honestly is not the best policy. There are people who stay in a relationship for every wrong reason in the book and manipulate the hell out of each other, and they can't see past the bullshit. I'd really like to hire a psychologist to research the kind of mental gymnastics that one has to undergo to justify those actions. It'd be a journal that I'd read for sure.

Anyway, on a more positive note, I've been blessed with a second summer fling. He's training to be a pilot, which is just ridiculously awesome. And I was very up front about the whole "this is just a fling I don't give a damn about your hopes, dreams, and yadda yadda yadda." The weird thing is he wants to know mine. He wants to know every detail about me and pick my brain apart. Much to my chagrin but he's really tall and cute and have yet to find a truly nasty quality about him. Shields are up for sure, though.

XOXO (except to any thundercunts out there)
M