Something productive must happen out of all of this excruciating nonsense called "dating". I am 25, beautiful, talented, ambitious, intelligent... someone shoot me before I continue this pointless self reassurance. I’m a fairly young, according to the rest of the country. Blonde, "lightest natural blonde", according to my box of hair dye. Newly single. A wanna be actress/writer in LA. A small town, southern girl, just tryin to make it in the big city... ya'll. How more stereotypical can I get? Oh wait, here we go. I am starting a blog. About dating. In LA. Even if I manage to gain an audience, you will only like me for my mishaps. Like Paris. Wait, that reference is no longer trendy, like the Kardashians, there, better. And then my true talents will never be discovered. But hey, it’s LA. No ones talents really ever get discovered here anyway. Unless you're a tranny on CL who specializes in B.J.'s while tap dancing.
I am perhaps slightly more jaded tonight than usual. After 2 months single, coming out of a 3 year long relationship, I cried, for the first time tonight. Actually quite an insane fact, considering I am such a cry baby. I think I have cried at a commercial, a Hallmark card, old people holding hands, and the split of a Hollywood couple in the last 2 months. But not one tear over my relationship. The “love of my life”. Three years of planning, grocery shopping, apartment painting, weekend trips, amazing sex, constant companionship and love. Gone. And I have been a dry well. Until tonight.
There I lay. Alone, on my floor. Get ready for another stereotype. In a nest of chocolate wrappers. Not. Shitting. You. But I am not the average, emotional fat ass. I am a guilty, emotional fat ass. So I did crunches. Ate chocolate. Cried. And watched Celebrity Rehab. All at the same time. Why can’t all men be Dr. Drew? Can we answer that one!!?
On the subject of guilt. You know what I feel most guilty about. I wasn’t crying about my ex. Not the way he smelled or smiled or held me. I cried over the feeling. That feeling of security. Not waiting for texts. Or for reassurance that the some new guy wants you, still, after a night of high heels and a lack of moral judgement. No asking about their home towns. Their siblings. Their ex's. No, first time in their apartments. Or beds. No waking up with crunchy mascara and a slightly lesser attractive stranger in the morning light. Do you stay for coffee? Do you leave? Do you even stay the night? Do you go back to their house? Do you even meet them? Do you offer to pay? Do you give them your number to begin with? Are they gonna fall in love too quickly? Are they gonna use you? Will it hurt? Do they think you're fat or dumb, poor or successful, cool or lame, or fuckable!? Do they even like you?...Do you even like them? AHHHHHHHHHHH.
That. It’s that. It’s whatever is the opposite of all of those things. That’s what I cried over tonight. I cried over being alone. I cried over crying and no one being there to help me stop. Simple. I got what I asked for. Freedom. Dear God. I’ve got it. Tons. I am a slave to freedom. Funny. Only not.
I thought about maybe talking about the ex here. But I can’t yet. He will seep his way into my stories as they come out. Our relationship was far to complex to put into paragraph form. It was so elusive to even me, the know it all, that to try to contain it would only be a lie. Maybe I do miss him. Or at least what I spent 3 years trying to make him become. A man I had fabricated. A man he could never live up to. An idea of a man that made him less of his own self. Less of a man. If you have to fix a man, you will fuck him up. If he is weak enough to conform to you then he will end up being a zombie roaming the halls of your house. You will then look at him in his face, and hate him for being dead, when you’re the one who killed him.
Deep. Ugh. I almost had to stop writing. I should push forward. This is going to be harder than I thought. Even now I want to check my phone to see if number #1 as called me. Or if #2 got my text. Or is #5 is back from vegas and got the pictures I sent to his email. Or how #3 is taking my confessions that we would never work. I’ve never thought about it like this. Before 2 months ago, I had only ever been with 5 men my whole life. Had never even kissed a man outside of a relationship. Now I have #’s for them like cattle. If I heard a man speak about women he’s dating, the way I speak about men I’m dating, I would think he was a player, a heartless jerk off, and an emotionally immature, attention seeking, child. But this is me I’m talking about. And I am surely none of those things. (I just checked my phone). Have you since you started reading this?
I plan to talk about the men I date here. The whirl wind of the far too many in the last 2 months and also the ones in the future. Though deep inside I hope I end this blog in a week saying, "I found him! He's he one! We are engaged and are off to Istanbul to be touring gyspy, artist, spy assasins!" Or whatever....
There's the Pilot, the Fireman, the Photographer, the Rapist, the Metro Model, the Vampire, the Sex Addict, the Stalker, the Way too old for me Actor, the Rich Hipster, the Disney Prince and plenty more characters not yet named or discovered. Stay tuned.
This will hurt you far less than it will hurt me.
