So Jessica and I were arguing about the aforementioned film earlier, and totally took different views on it.
Troy said what I didn't like was the character arch.
I thought the lead was not redeemed in the end, because her metaphysical questions appeared less defined by choice as opposed to external events.
Spoiler: The lead believes there's no point to anything, but when the world really is about to end she steps up and provides support for her family that she could not provide earlier.
Troy and Jessica said there are always choices being made.
If CrazyK is "difficult to get along with," let me tell you she's the one person that will be "Hey, I got this!" when the getting along gets difficult.
I truly believe that we do not love people for their good qualities.
If I hate you, I can still appreciate your beauty, intelligence, or humor. But if I love you I can appreciate your demons.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Will you still love me when I am no longer young and F***able?
Apparently not...
How many relationships can end with "I am falling in love with you and..."
Essentially, I am not worth being friends with if you can't f*** me...?
Awesome.
Ok, I understand not wanting to be friends if you are "at war with yourself everytime I'm near," but we seriously need to work out better divorce terms.
Like shared custody.
You can't take my best friend with you...
Sometimes after you stop balling over the heartache and the way someone could play into your dark insecurities (Am I doing something to incite this behavior?), you have to just laugh.
How ridiculous is life? Rhetorical.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Bag Me a Good One, Will Ya?
I'm in quarter length yoga pants, a badly fitting tee and flip flops. My face is particularly angry at me today - my new "BB" creme breaks me out horribly every time I put it on, but I'm too broke to afford a new one right now. I've picked and squeezed my face to the point that I look like I'm dying from scurvy. I put on my fake hipster glasses hoping they might detract a little from the google map on my face. I am definitely not looking for attention today.
I ran to the grocery store to grab some fresh mozzarella, Perrier and ice.
"Which size?" the cashier asks.
"Ummm...the good one?"
She chuckles. "We have a 10 lb bag and a 20 lb."
"10 lb it is, then"
Right at that moment a guy comes over to bag my items. He asks me how I'm doing, "Fine, thanks. And you?" like my momma taught me.
I pay, and I see him drop one of my glass Perrier bottles out of the corner of my eye. It lands hard but unharmed, but he's frozen and wide eyed.
"Watch it, buster." I joke.
"Yeah, I don't want that to be what you remember me for."
Was that a... Was that a flirt?
Unlike the clubbing incident, this is flattering and cute. Even when I look like complete shit, I still think someone is flirting with me.
But then - I immediately know it will fail. He's wearing glasses. He might think mine are real. I don't want to have to admit they're fake. Doomed from the start.
- CrazyK
I ran to the grocery store to grab some fresh mozzarella, Perrier and ice.
"Which size?" the cashier asks.
"Ummm...the good one?"
She chuckles. "We have a 10 lb bag and a 20 lb."
"10 lb it is, then"
Right at that moment a guy comes over to bag my items. He asks me how I'm doing, "Fine, thanks. And you?" like my momma taught me.
I pay, and I see him drop one of my glass Perrier bottles out of the corner of my eye. It lands hard but unharmed, but he's frozen and wide eyed.
"Watch it, buster." I joke.
"Yeah, I don't want that to be what you remember me for."
Was that a... Was that a flirt?
Unlike the clubbing incident, this is flattering and cute. Even when I look like complete shit, I still think someone is flirting with me.
But then - I immediately know it will fail. He's wearing glasses. He might think mine are real. I don't want to have to admit they're fake. Doomed from the start.
- CrazyK
Thursday, August 22, 2013
A Totally Legal Binding Contract
I, CrazyK, on August 22 2013 do hereby bet (see: wager, gamble) that BoringBlonde will be married (see: wed, bought or ball-and-chained) before I am. The wage is $50 to be paid on day of wedding.
Not only because I seem to be completely incompetent when it comes to catching a man, but Blondie is in denial about her self-proclaimed idea of love. Also, Blondies desire to acquire babies is a ticking time bomb.
Additionally, after watching my sister get married from the deep belly of the audience, Blondie is my last and only chance of being a Maid of Honor in my life. I will not be succumbed with the knowledge that Blondie will never, ever, ever get married, because it must be so. Imagine the parties.
And so it is written.
Not only because I seem to be completely incompetent when it comes to catching a man, but Blondie is in denial about her self-proclaimed idea of love. Also, Blondies desire to acquire babies is a ticking time bomb.
Additionally, after watching my sister get married from the deep belly of the audience, Blondie is my last and only chance of being a Maid of Honor in my life. I will not be succumbed with the knowledge that Blondie will never, ever, ever get married, because it must be so. Imagine the parties.
And so it is written.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
LSHEED
Once upon a time in the valley, I found myself having sushi with a large shaved head of Eastern European decent (LSHEED).
You know those decisions in life that you know are bad and you make anyway? Yeah, letting my casual friend set me up on a blind date was one of them.
LSHEED wasn’t necessarily a bad guy, but I was wearing a pink dress and pink polish. I read in middle school: pink is the least threatening color. These days wearing it is more a technique to try and somewhat neutralize the searing acid that spurts from my mouth. Therefore, it is somewhat unrepresentative of my person without the accompanying backhanded compliments and de-masculinizing banter.
Here’s the catch: this being a set up by my friend, I felt
compelled to be nice as not to sully her honor…
If I didn’t have anything nice to say, I said nothing at
all. Therefore, I was mute, which is not my element. In essence de-clawed, I
became pinker than my polish.
LSHEED complimented my polish. I quickly informed him this was the least accurate feature of my normal appearance. I intern with toddlers. My research apprenticeship involves rats. I use my hands for everything. My nails are usually short and covered in finger paint.
Strike one for LSHEED.
LSHEED decided to try and recover by talking about his interest in settling down and marriage with “a girl like me.” He apparently thinks these are: a) appropriate topics for a first date and b) something I want to hear.
GIANTIC STRIKE TWO!!!!
I want to die celibate and surrounded by people who love me,
though I refuse to fuck them.
LSHEED is from one of those touchy feely cultures. DO NOT get touchy feely with protestant girls. You may have a handshake or for birthdays, Christmas, or a death in the family a hug.
Please note: physical contact no matter how innocent is not punctuation. LSHEED did not appear aware of this fact.
Strike three through seventeen for LSHEED.
LSHEED did, however, observe the repulsion with which I responded to his pats and other impertinences. I am not sure to what he contributed my behavior. It was in fact a product of my conviction I had every right to remove his hand, dry it, and hang it off my purse as a warning to other men, who thought to be so bold on a first date.
His idea of responding appropriately was to inform me he
usually “dates more conservative girls.” This implied I was conservative.
Me conservative? LSHEED probably arrived at this deduction from my monochromatic pink being and that fact I hadn’t attempted to verbally castrate him yet.
I laughed incredulously. I turned to…
Oh, did I mention this was a double blind date?
I turned to the guy across from me to share this new
revelation about how I can be perceived. What an accomplishment! My private
Christian schoolteachers would be so proud shocked.
Our fellow male blind dater was Russian. His nationality provided an opportunity to discuss Russian literature, something I know more about than my seeming conservativeness. LSHEED heard literature and ducked out conversation faster than most hot Angelinos can dodge a check. He started talking to the gorgeous straightedge life coach appointed to the Russian.
Russian is cool, though he doesn’t read much Russian
literature.
At some point during this tribulation, we collectively decided to leave our saké, in search of a facility serving intoxicating beverages later into the night. I was driving and,
consequently, not able to make use of one of my favorite coping mechanisms,
drinking copiously.
At the lounge, LSHEED proceeded to drink a scotch, tell me about his baseball scholarship, ask me what he presumably thought were deep questions, talk about growing up as a hoodlum (not necessarily a bad thing), relate his journey from athlete to a graduate school, order another scotch, than his journey from his unrelated degree to ownership of numerous businesses, and progressively invade my personal space. He followed me to the bathroom. He stood to close for anyone to be comfortable giving his ominous meaty stature. He cornered me as deeply into the crack between the wall and the couch as I could wedge myself. He placed my hand without my consent on his meaty chest to demonstrate how meaty it was. He grabbed
my hands while telling me what he liked about them and squeezed them till they
hurt.
My unresponsiveness culminated into the ultimate ego blow
when our fellow daters began necking on increasingly attractive couch next to
us. After all they were sitting on the whole coach where as I was sitting on a
crack and he was occupying the closest third of the couch.
He stared hazily at my mouth, licked scotch across his lips,
and began to describe how much he wanted to kiss them.
I generally don’t like the taste of scotch. I always don’t
like strange men touching me. And I never ever feel turned on by men using
their greater psychical mass in my personal space to demonstrate what a great
caveman they would have made thousands of years prior.
You want to show me what an able provider you are? Build me a new iphone.
Needless to say he had no 6s to offer me, and I had no desire to kiss him.
LSHEED, however, didn’t sit through that “No Means No” class in sixth grade. After I politely declined his equal parts scotch and fleshy lipped kiss, he tried asking again. Then describing what a good kisser he was. I hadn't previously considered how a hairless caveman would kiss.
He tried asking me more. Then LSHEED told me his hypotheses on how he thought I kissed: fabulously, if you were wondering. Then he asked some more, while continuing to invade my spacial bubble.
Finally, whatever reservations I held about my generally bitchy behavior went to Hell, where they most certainly belong. Exasperated, and fearing permanent damage to the invisible extension of my precious being known as personal space, I angrily commanded him to “Stop NAGGING me!”
Taken aback and amused he stammered, “Nagging? Nagging? I’m
not nagging; I’m trying to seduce you!”
My First Clubbing Experience
I'm not that used to getting hit on. It's probably because I don't really leave my house...like, ever. Or if the guys are just more direct and confident in L.A. Or if it's because, while I'm standing next to Blondie, I seem like "the sure thing" in comparison.
Anyway, in L.A., I've been hit on constantly. I don't exactly know what to do with it all.
At the dance club for Blondie's birthday:
I was standing on top of the couch, dancing with myself and sipping my vodka and cranberry intermittently, happy as a clam. Suddenly a guy hops up with me and we start dancing. I was fine dancing by myself but I'm having fun dancing with a random dude as well. Next thing I know we're making out. It's like halloween - sometimes a girl needs to act a little slutty every once in a while. Blondie's sitting down talking to friends and she sees us. She taps him on the shoulder and gives him the look.
I love my bestie. But lets move on.
(Blondie: you forgot the best part. I said, "I'm watching you." and he replied "Don't worry. I'm being a good boy!")
He probably wasn't the hottest guy in the club, and I know Blondie would have rather died than be seen kissing someone who wasn't a complete TEN. After a few mouth attacks I was ready to get away from him, as politely as possible. Because I'm the type of girl who would give you cupcakes just for appearing interested in me. I made an excuse to sit down. He sat down next to me, and we talked over the music for a bit. He had a stutter. Or he was tripping balls, I don't really know.
I wanted to keep dancing by myself, but I knew the second I started that he would invade my face space again. I crawled over the 10 people sitting on the couch to squeeze onto Blondie's lap. Hoping he would disappear into the crowd. He did. And I felt safe to dance again.
Y'all- guys must have a fucking sixth sense for this shit. Because not 30 seconds into my solo, I feel a hand on my waist. Sigh. Then he leaned in and whispered into my ear "Do you want to get to know each other better?"
I don't even know what that means. I started racking my brain. Hopefully he means go outside and talk about childhood memories, right? Most likely it involved a cocaine covered bathroom and a bad hand job - because lil' 'ol me doesn't carry condoms in her cigarette case. Oh well, whatever the fuck he meant, I didn't want to. I found my out.
"I don't think that's a good idea." I clearly say into his ear. He nodded, and I crawled over the sea of naked legs to Blondie again.
A friend of Blondie's who I met that night wanted to bum a cig off me, so we went outside. She's a beautiful girl, big luscious lips and a banging hourglass body. She's the typical Los Angeles hottie. We're almost done with our cigarettes when two guys come over and start talking to us. Their Australian accents are like tinkling bells to us.
"Oh, Australians, eh? Well, I hail from Ameristralia!"
Yes. I made a fucking reddit reference. They stared at me like deer in headlights (or should it be kangaroo in headlights?). Then I fucking clarified it was a reddit reference. They called me a nerd, and I died a little inside.
We end up talking to them for about 30 minutes. Blondie comes out twice to check on us. "We'll be right in," we keep saying. We hoped the boys would get the hint. We kept saying we were here for a friends birthday. They kept asking us what we were doing the rest of the night. They asked us where we were hanging out inside, we said a private table.
"Well, we have to go back inside." I announce. Blondie's friend grabs my arm and leans in.
"I told them they could come hang out with us." She's just like me - too polite to be blunt.
"Don't worry. Stick close to me, and we'll lose them in the crowd around our table. Maybe the promoters will tell them they can't hang out there, and then we're off the hook."
I lead them in, I hold Blondie's friend's hand behind my back and we waddle like jello on springs through the crowd. It parts for us - the boys, not so much. I smile sweetly to a guy pouring drinks at our table and ask to squeeze by him, and I make sure to brush against him as thanks. Blondie's friend and I stand back up on the wall behind the couch and start dancing.
I pretended like I couldn't see the two Australian boys the rest of the night, but to the honest, we had a perfect vantage point up on the couch. They were now awkwardly dancing alone in the standing crowd. We just kept dancing.
Near the end of the night, I was sitting next to Blondie. A guy I hadn't seen all night comes over and starts making small talk. "You're here for her birthday? How long have you guys known each other? Where are you from?" He even has a weird background story of rival promoters, and how if our promoter saw him he would kick him out. Lovely.
Then he says, "Do you want to be friends on Instagram?" Really? Is this the new phone number? Fucking Instagram??
"I don't have one," I lie. I do have one, but I have that thing locked down tighter than a nun.
"How about Facebook?" he even whips out his phone. I knew I couldn't lie about this one - I mean, who doesn't have a Facebook these days?
I exhale and say rather reluctantly, "I'd rather not." It's true, I have my Facebook locked down as well. I'd rather give someone my number than add them on Facebook - so many details about my life are on my Facebook and I've had a bad history of being cyber-stalked before.
The worst hit-on I saw all night, though, was as we were leaving. Blondie was standing outside the door, Blondie's friend was exiting and I was immediately following . As Blondie's friend crossed the threshold of the door, a guy standing right beside it fucking grabbed her and held her there. I stopped in shock. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but she was just staring at him. I thought she would have enough sass to bluntly remove herself, but she didn't.
I was psyching myself up to get between them, thinking I needed to allow enough time for her to do it herself and not seem rude, and I was also caught off guard. It seemed that she was, too. Suddenly, both Blondie and I rush forward, Blondie grabbing her arm and pulling her and me, yelling "hey, back off, asshole!" while throwing my arm out between them.
A few steps away Blondie says "ok, we have to protect you from the 100 guys hitting on you tonight."
A man standing a few feet away next to a cab says "Make that 101!"
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"I'd rather not."
"Hey, back off, asshole!"
I mean, really? Is that supposed to be attractive? Grabbing in the doorway, friending on Instagram, and bathroom handjobs? What the fuck, dudes?
- CrazyK
Anyway, in L.A., I've been hit on constantly. I don't exactly know what to do with it all.
At the dance club for Blondie's birthday:
I was standing on top of the couch, dancing with myself and sipping my vodka and cranberry intermittently, happy as a clam. Suddenly a guy hops up with me and we start dancing. I was fine dancing by myself but I'm having fun dancing with a random dude as well. Next thing I know we're making out. It's like halloween - sometimes a girl needs to act a little slutty every once in a while. Blondie's sitting down talking to friends and she sees us. She taps him on the shoulder and gives him the look.
I love my bestie. But lets move on.
(Blondie: you forgot the best part. I said, "I'm watching you." and he replied "Don't worry. I'm being a good boy!")
He probably wasn't the hottest guy in the club, and I know Blondie would have rather died than be seen kissing someone who wasn't a complete TEN. After a few mouth attacks I was ready to get away from him, as politely as possible. Because I'm the type of girl who would give you cupcakes just for appearing interested in me. I made an excuse to sit down. He sat down next to me, and we talked over the music for a bit. He had a stutter. Or he was tripping balls, I don't really know.
I wanted to keep dancing by myself, but I knew the second I started that he would invade my face space again. I crawled over the 10 people sitting on the couch to squeeze onto Blondie's lap. Hoping he would disappear into the crowd. He did. And I felt safe to dance again.
Y'all- guys must have a fucking sixth sense for this shit. Because not 30 seconds into my solo, I feel a hand on my waist. Sigh. Then he leaned in and whispered into my ear "Do you want to get to know each other better?"
I don't even know what that means. I started racking my brain. Hopefully he means go outside and talk about childhood memories, right? Most likely it involved a cocaine covered bathroom and a bad hand job - because lil' 'ol me doesn't carry condoms in her cigarette case. Oh well, whatever the fuck he meant, I didn't want to. I found my out.
"I don't think that's a good idea." I clearly say into his ear. He nodded, and I crawled over the sea of naked legs to Blondie again.
A friend of Blondie's who I met that night wanted to bum a cig off me, so we went outside. She's a beautiful girl, big luscious lips and a banging hourglass body. She's the typical Los Angeles hottie. We're almost done with our cigarettes when two guys come over and start talking to us. Their Australian accents are like tinkling bells to us.
"Oh, Australians, eh? Well, I hail from Ameristralia!"
Yes. I made a fucking reddit reference. They stared at me like deer in headlights (or should it be kangaroo in headlights?). Then I fucking clarified it was a reddit reference. They called me a nerd, and I died a little inside.
We end up talking to them for about 30 minutes. Blondie comes out twice to check on us. "We'll be right in," we keep saying. We hoped the boys would get the hint. We kept saying we were here for a friends birthday. They kept asking us what we were doing the rest of the night. They asked us where we were hanging out inside, we said a private table.
"Well, we have to go back inside." I announce. Blondie's friend grabs my arm and leans in.
"I told them they could come hang out with us." She's just like me - too polite to be blunt.
"Don't worry. Stick close to me, and we'll lose them in the crowd around our table. Maybe the promoters will tell them they can't hang out there, and then we're off the hook."
I lead them in, I hold Blondie's friend's hand behind my back and we waddle like jello on springs through the crowd. It parts for us - the boys, not so much. I smile sweetly to a guy pouring drinks at our table and ask to squeeze by him, and I make sure to brush against him as thanks. Blondie's friend and I stand back up on the wall behind the couch and start dancing.
I pretended like I couldn't see the two Australian boys the rest of the night, but to the honest, we had a perfect vantage point up on the couch. They were now awkwardly dancing alone in the standing crowd. We just kept dancing.
Near the end of the night, I was sitting next to Blondie. A guy I hadn't seen all night comes over and starts making small talk. "You're here for her birthday? How long have you guys known each other? Where are you from?" He even has a weird background story of rival promoters, and how if our promoter saw him he would kick him out. Lovely.
Then he says, "Do you want to be friends on Instagram?" Really? Is this the new phone number? Fucking Instagram??
"I don't have one," I lie. I do have one, but I have that thing locked down tighter than a nun.
"How about Facebook?" he even whips out his phone. I knew I couldn't lie about this one - I mean, who doesn't have a Facebook these days?
I exhale and say rather reluctantly, "I'd rather not." It's true, I have my Facebook locked down as well. I'd rather give someone my number than add them on Facebook - so many details about my life are on my Facebook and I've had a bad history of being cyber-stalked before.
The worst hit-on I saw all night, though, was as we were leaving. Blondie was standing outside the door, Blondie's friend was exiting and I was immediately following . As Blondie's friend crossed the threshold of the door, a guy standing right beside it fucking grabbed her and held her there. I stopped in shock. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but she was just staring at him. I thought she would have enough sass to bluntly remove herself, but she didn't.
I was psyching myself up to get between them, thinking I needed to allow enough time for her to do it herself and not seem rude, and I was also caught off guard. It seemed that she was, too. Suddenly, both Blondie and I rush forward, Blondie grabbing her arm and pulling her and me, yelling "hey, back off, asshole!" while throwing my arm out between them.
A few steps away Blondie says "ok, we have to protect you from the 100 guys hitting on you tonight."
A man standing a few feet away next to a cab says "Make that 101!"
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"I'd rather not."
"Hey, back off, asshole!"
I mean, really? Is that supposed to be attractive? Grabbing in the doorway, friending on Instagram, and bathroom handjobs? What the fuck, dudes?
- CrazyK
Friday, August 9, 2013
The Bends
Here's a good example of how my hopeless romantic mind works.
Recently I was on a flight. I'm a pro-flyer. I never like to talk to the people beside me. Sometimes I have imaginary ones in my head, but my mouth is never brave enough to actually open.
I board the plane late, I'm walking down the aisle, looking for my row. Everyone has those moments, when you see the people coming down the aisle and you hope they're either going to fill in that empty seat next to you or not. Until that seat is filled, everyone is a candidate and your anxiety peaks. I am usually a person you wish would sit next to you; the tiny, mousy cute girl. As I'm glancing between my ticket and the numbers, I catch the eye of a young guy sitting down. He's cute, and has an adorable smile on his face- almost as though life hasn't chewed him up and spat him back out yet. Wouldn't you know it, he's my seat buddy.
"Hi, I'm in the window. Sorry." I swing my backpack over my head into the bin. He, and the man sitting aisle, stand up for me to get in.
The adorable boy asks, "Would you like me to sit in the window seat?"
I glanced down for a barely millisecond and responded, "It really doesn't matter to me." I mumbled it, really, because my ticket was clenched between my teeth.
He does, I sit in the middle and I thank him. I get an overly enthusiastic "No, thank YOU." in return. I smile to myself, humored at his expense. If I had said that, I would be internally chastising myself right about now. I'm imagining his internal monologue.
I do my usual routine, pull out my book, my phone and my journal. I immediately delve into my book, a memoir, and don't look up for another 4.5 hours. Adorable boy next to me spent a lot of time staring out the window. He played a first person shooter game on a tablet for a bit, then stared back out the window.
I kept telling myself I should speak to him. Strike up a conversation - that's what adults do. How often do you sit next to someone mutually attractive on a plane? He probably wants me to say something. Hey, I might even get his number and we could hang out after we land.
But I didn't. I read while he watched the in-flight movie. He laughed out loud. God, that was actually really adorable. I finished my entire book right as the attendants were announcing our descent. I packed it away in my purse and silently waited for us to land.
I leaned back, trying to relieve my back pain. I found myself leaning towards adorable boy and away from middle age man next to me. I braced my weight on my hand, which was clamped around the arm rest. We avoided eye contact.
Then, we hit turbulence. It was pretty jostling, and adorable boys hand shot up and landed on top of mine on the armrest. This was so cliche- just like a goddamn romantic comedy. I'd like to say there was an electric shock when our skin touched. His palm was just clammy. He let go immediately and I chuckled. He was a nervous flyer. How cute.
"Sorry." he muttered.
"That's ok" I said. I moved my hand.
We started actually talking after that. He admitted he was nervous, we talked about recent plane crashes. We lived in the same town. He was in school. He was on his way to San Diego for a surfing competition.
"I know flying is supposed to be safe and everything," he said. "but y'know I still just feel uneasy."
"I get that. I had the same thing happen to me during my SCUBA diving class. I realized I didn't like the idea that I couldn't breathe and be stuck 50 feet under water if something went wrong."
"Oh, I don't SCUBA dive."
"Professional surfer and you don't SCUBA?"
"Naw."
I was having flashes of romantic comedies again. This guy had a personality I didn't know. Just like I had one he didn't - and I found myself wanting to tell him.
"I don't have it right now because I gave it to my fiancé. She just flew to Alaska." He was now talking about his iPod. And fiancé. A fiancé who has a reason to go to Alaska.
Well, there goes my buzz. Alaska is so much cooler than me.
We kept talking. He pulled out his medical marijuana card, commenting on how he was looking forward to "partying" when he got to San Diego. Which, by the way was a connecting flight, so he wasn't even going to leave the airport. Scratch those imaginary lunch date plans.
We bantered while we stood in the mass of people waiting to get off. He asked my name and told me his. His eyes were very pretty.
"Sorry about the hand thing earlier." He gestured to the arm rest.
"No, it's really fine. Funny, actually. I thought that kind of stuff only happened in movies."
"Yeah, I know. I couldn't believe that actually happened." Just the fact that he noticed as well, made my day. Maybe we were star-crossed soul mates.
We disembarked the plane together, and he made small talk up the tunnel as I power walked to the exit. I thought I had lost him through the crowd until I turned around and saw he was right behind me.
"Well, CrazyK, maybe our paths will meet again." And he kinda smirked.
Oh, come on. You weren't supposed to carry on the romantic comedy cliche.
I smiled, replied with a coy "maybe" waved and headed downstairs. I immediately texted Blondie about him. And his fiancé. She asked me what he looked like. Of course.
"Cute. Kind of like a rough Zac Efron."
That's what it's like. Now I'm not trying to get all fucking "deep" on you and shit, but I am. Just bare with me.
Having a hopeless romantic brain like mine is like SCUBA diving. You're lured in with the promise of international travel, exploration and a really cool hobby. Slowly, you start descending, weighed down by iron baggage, before you even notice. Oh, this is nice, you think. Look, a seahorse. I fucking love seahorses. You see this vast ocean out in front of you, and you day dream about the things you will see, the things you will do. You get way too ahead of yourself.
Suddenly, you realize you're descending too fast. You're at 50 feet and you forgot to level off. And fuck - you forgot your oxygen tank. You were too busy thinking of the things you could do to realize the things you needed to do. Mayday, mayday. Abort. You start scrambling to get to the surface, cursing at yourself along the way. For a second you wonder if its possible to look sexy while drowning.
You get to the top, struggling for breath. You feel sick because you ascended too fast. That was such a stupid mistake. You swear you'll never do that again. And then you're on land, with the knowledge that you're safe now.
Who the fuck thinks that's fun?
-CrazyK
(edit: Blondie says this post is too sappy. And you know what? It might be. But maybe that's why I'm the friggin' romantic, and shes the commitment-phobe. Should I add the parts where I had brief thoughts of ravishing him in a hotel room as soon as I landed? Or the dark glimpse of "his fiance doesn't have to know"? I like to blame those thoughts on my year-long dry spell, and am secure in the knowledge that I would have never have done them anyway. And that there were fantasies of cuddling on couches watching movies while he laughed out loud, too. Ergo: my brain is weird. )
Recently I was on a flight. I'm a pro-flyer. I never like to talk to the people beside me. Sometimes I have imaginary ones in my head, but my mouth is never brave enough to actually open.
I board the plane late, I'm walking down the aisle, looking for my row. Everyone has those moments, when you see the people coming down the aisle and you hope they're either going to fill in that empty seat next to you or not. Until that seat is filled, everyone is a candidate and your anxiety peaks. I am usually a person you wish would sit next to you; the tiny, mousy cute girl. As I'm glancing between my ticket and the numbers, I catch the eye of a young guy sitting down. He's cute, and has an adorable smile on his face- almost as though life hasn't chewed him up and spat him back out yet. Wouldn't you know it, he's my seat buddy.
"Hi, I'm in the window. Sorry." I swing my backpack over my head into the bin. He, and the man sitting aisle, stand up for me to get in.
The adorable boy asks, "Would you like me to sit in the window seat?"
I glanced down for a barely millisecond and responded, "It really doesn't matter to me." I mumbled it, really, because my ticket was clenched between my teeth.
He does, I sit in the middle and I thank him. I get an overly enthusiastic "No, thank YOU." in return. I smile to myself, humored at his expense. If I had said that, I would be internally chastising myself right about now. I'm imagining his internal monologue.
I do my usual routine, pull out my book, my phone and my journal. I immediately delve into my book, a memoir, and don't look up for another 4.5 hours. Adorable boy next to me spent a lot of time staring out the window. He played a first person shooter game on a tablet for a bit, then stared back out the window.
I kept telling myself I should speak to him. Strike up a conversation - that's what adults do. How often do you sit next to someone mutually attractive on a plane? He probably wants me to say something. Hey, I might even get his number and we could hang out after we land.
But I didn't. I read while he watched the in-flight movie. He laughed out loud. God, that was actually really adorable. I finished my entire book right as the attendants were announcing our descent. I packed it away in my purse and silently waited for us to land.
I leaned back, trying to relieve my back pain. I found myself leaning towards adorable boy and away from middle age man next to me. I braced my weight on my hand, which was clamped around the arm rest. We avoided eye contact.
Then, we hit turbulence. It was pretty jostling, and adorable boys hand shot up and landed on top of mine on the armrest. This was so cliche- just like a goddamn romantic comedy. I'd like to say there was an electric shock when our skin touched. His palm was just clammy. He let go immediately and I chuckled. He was a nervous flyer. How cute.
"Sorry." he muttered.
"That's ok" I said. I moved my hand.
We started actually talking after that. He admitted he was nervous, we talked about recent plane crashes. We lived in the same town. He was in school. He was on his way to San Diego for a surfing competition.
"I know flying is supposed to be safe and everything," he said. "but y'know I still just feel uneasy."
"I get that. I had the same thing happen to me during my SCUBA diving class. I realized I didn't like the idea that I couldn't breathe and be stuck 50 feet under water if something went wrong."
"Oh, I don't SCUBA dive."
"Professional surfer and you don't SCUBA?"
"Naw."
I was having flashes of romantic comedies again. This guy had a personality I didn't know. Just like I had one he didn't - and I found myself wanting to tell him.
"I don't have it right now because I gave it to my fiancé. She just flew to Alaska." He was now talking about his iPod. And fiancé. A fiancé who has a reason to go to Alaska.
Well, there goes my buzz. Alaska is so much cooler than me.
We kept talking. He pulled out his medical marijuana card, commenting on how he was looking forward to "partying" when he got to San Diego. Which, by the way was a connecting flight, so he wasn't even going to leave the airport. Scratch those imaginary lunch date plans.
We bantered while we stood in the mass of people waiting to get off. He asked my name and told me his. His eyes were very pretty.
"Sorry about the hand thing earlier." He gestured to the arm rest.
"No, it's really fine. Funny, actually. I thought that kind of stuff only happened in movies."
"Yeah, I know. I couldn't believe that actually happened." Just the fact that he noticed as well, made my day. Maybe we were star-crossed soul mates.
We disembarked the plane together, and he made small talk up the tunnel as I power walked to the exit. I thought I had lost him through the crowd until I turned around and saw he was right behind me.
"Well, CrazyK, maybe our paths will meet again." And he kinda smirked.
Oh, come on. You weren't supposed to carry on the romantic comedy cliche.
I smiled, replied with a coy "maybe" waved and headed downstairs. I immediately texted Blondie about him. And his fiancé. She asked me what he looked like. Of course.
"Cute. Kind of like a rough Zac Efron."
That's what it's like. Now I'm not trying to get all fucking "deep" on you and shit, but I am. Just bare with me.
Having a hopeless romantic brain like mine is like SCUBA diving. You're lured in with the promise of international travel, exploration and a really cool hobby. Slowly, you start descending, weighed down by iron baggage, before you even notice. Oh, this is nice, you think. Look, a seahorse. I fucking love seahorses. You see this vast ocean out in front of you, and you day dream about the things you will see, the things you will do. You get way too ahead of yourself.
Suddenly, you realize you're descending too fast. You're at 50 feet and you forgot to level off. And fuck - you forgot your oxygen tank. You were too busy thinking of the things you could do to realize the things you needed to do. Mayday, mayday. Abort. You start scrambling to get to the surface, cursing at yourself along the way. For a second you wonder if its possible to look sexy while drowning.
You get to the top, struggling for breath. You feel sick because you ascended too fast. That was such a stupid mistake. You swear you'll never do that again. And then you're on land, with the knowledge that you're safe now.
Who the fuck thinks that's fun?
-CrazyK
(edit: Blondie says this post is too sappy. And you know what? It might be. But maybe that's why I'm the friggin' romantic, and shes the commitment-phobe. Should I add the parts where I had brief thoughts of ravishing him in a hotel room as soon as I landed? Or the dark glimpse of "his fiance doesn't have to know"? I like to blame those thoughts on my year-long dry spell, and am secure in the knowledge that I would have never have done them anyway. And that there were fantasies of cuddling on couches watching movies while he laughed out loud, too. Ergo: my brain is weird. )
Monday, August 5, 2013
My "Date" Shoes
I'm 22. I'm a Scorpio. I like classical music and long walks on the beach.
Wait - no I don't. I fucking hate walking. Especially on a date where I probably wore my high heels. Do you know how annoying walking in heels is, let alone on sand? Fuck that. Warn a sister if you think there will be walking involved. I can wear my Uggs.
I can't count the amount of times I've come home from a date with unbearable blisters on my feet. I don't know if the guy is trying to figure out if I'm physically fit, or is trying to prove that he is. I'm fit, believe me. I've had to walk an hour to work every day in Europe. The difference there was I was wearing my comfy shoes.
Rule #1. Don't roll the windows down because you will mess up her hair. It probably took a lot of tears to look half-way decent. But they seem to teach this one in middle school.
Rule #2: If she's got pretty shoes on her feet, don't suggest a "stroll" around campus or the shopping center. I'd much rather sit my ass down and continue looking pretty. I will go home in a much better mood than I would with blistered feet.
-CrazyK
(edit: I remember Blondie saying in middle school that you weren't a "real" model if you couldn't run in heels. And true, she lives in heels. But look at her feet. I dare you. It's a battlefield.)
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Bi-Polar Opposites
Blondie and I couldn't be more different.
She's 5'11, thin as a rail, and has long blonde flowing hair that seems impossible. She's a model. And I don't mean that in that "she's my best friend and I believe the best in her" kind of way. I mean that as a "she's actually a fucking model".
Me? Well, she thinks I have self-esteem issues. Which is probably true, but it's most likely because I have a fucking model for a best friend. Most girls believe that whole "there's an unnatural expectation of beauty" and "that's all photoshop." But I got to look at that unnatural expectation of beauty everyday while I was going through my fat stage. I get to wake up cuddling that non-photoshopped ass some mornings (eat your heart out, boys). There's nothing worse than going to a photo shoot with your 15 year old best friend only to be treated like you don't exist because you had a bad acne break out that week.
I like to call us The Beauty and the Beast, but Blondie usually ends up smacking me across the face. She's suggested getting a shock collar.
But I love her. There's a reason we're best friends. Sometimes even we don't know what the reason is, but it's there.
She's a model with intimacy issues, a sharp sarcastic sense of humor who thinks she's never going to get married. I'm the average girl who was voted "most likely to get married by 24" in high school because I'm such a hopeless romantic. And I've learned that's the most dangerous thing to be in this world.
-CrazyK
She's 5'11, thin as a rail, and has long blonde flowing hair that seems impossible. She's a model. And I don't mean that in that "she's my best friend and I believe the best in her" kind of way. I mean that as a "she's actually a fucking model".
Me? Well, she thinks I have self-esteem issues. Which is probably true, but it's most likely because I have a fucking model for a best friend. Most girls believe that whole "there's an unnatural expectation of beauty" and "that's all photoshop." But I got to look at that unnatural expectation of beauty everyday while I was going through my fat stage. I get to wake up cuddling that non-photoshopped ass some mornings (eat your heart out, boys). There's nothing worse than going to a photo shoot with your 15 year old best friend only to be treated like you don't exist because you had a bad acne break out that week.
I like to call us The Beauty and the Beast, but Blondie usually ends up smacking me across the face. She's suggested getting a shock collar.
But I love her. There's a reason we're best friends. Sometimes even we don't know what the reason is, but it's there.
She's a model with intimacy issues, a sharp sarcastic sense of humor who thinks she's never going to get married. I'm the average girl who was voted "most likely to get married by 24" in high school because I'm such a hopeless romantic. And I've learned that's the most dangerous thing to be in this world.
-CrazyK
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