Signs

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Like most evenings when I’m unable to take my sleeping pill, I lay in the neverending darkness of my room and try to make sense of my love life. CORRECTION: I try to make sense of my vacuous romantic existence.  The other night I began thinking about the early signs to the demise of certain relationships.  A friend of mine always reminded me of a saying her grandmother would tell her: “You’re going to keep pickin’ ’til you pick sh!t.”

Well ain’t that the muhfuggin’ truth. Catch all of the Ts from my last conversation with myself:

There was this guy I used to see, sleep with, let inside my home…however you want to slice it. All I can tell you is that we weren’t dating nor was he my man. Obviously. Here’s how my idiot mind works: I make a mental note of the thing that drives me batty about the person. I ask myself if I can see a lifetime of this anger-inducing trait without stabbing them in the throat. The answer to this question has never not been “No. No I can’t.”  Why don’t I listen to my gut? It’s clearly trying to tell me something, right? If some minute detail is bugging me about this otherwise normal dude, then I really don’t want to be in anything with them. Why do I stick around for the anguish? Pourquoi.

So back to this dude. The thing I couldn’t stand was the way he ate and drank. He was the loudest chewer/swallower in the history of time and also the land before that. I cannot stress how much this annoyed my insides. You may say, “Slow down, girl. Could it really be that bad?”  To which I reply:

"Yes, heifer...it was."

“Yes, heifer…it was.”

He didn’t eat with his mouth open. He didn’t slurp his food or drink. He didn’t even smack his lips.  Yet somehow I could hear every tooth he had in his head grind the sustenance in his mouth into a dust and/or paste while the sound of his neck muscles pushed it down into his digestive system.

*single blink*  Guys. GUYS?! GUYS!  I couldn’t. Just typing this is making bile rise in my throat. (BUT YOU CAN’T HEAR IT so I win!)

When things finally fizzled between us (for other reasons, can you believe it?), do you know what I did? I victory-jumped off my bed because I’d never have to hear him crunch pasta. Yes, crunch it. How can I hear you bite into a stove-top boiled, soft penne tube? I’m eating the same food. Mine is silent and I have a direct speaker into my own body. If I can’t hear me, why can I hear you? IF-I-CAN’T-HEAR-ME-WHY-CAN-I-HEAR-YOU!?!!!!?!?  *faints*

Well, I’m still single so maybe I’ll work on this in the interim but in my defense, it was really gross.

She Blinded Me With Science

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I performing an experiment after a friend date last week. We briefly discussed if I’d ever go back to online dating or if I was truly done with it. Without hesitation I told her I was done. We can all agree that was the best bread and butter of my blog, right? (Alliteration and bread referenced in a sentence almost made me climax just now…. *single blink*)

When I got home, her question stuck with me. Online dating has been a constant for the majority of my adult life – am I over it? Here’s the full experiment run-down:

  1. Rejoin one free online dating site for two weeks (I began last Sunday)
  2. Don’t phone it in; make a legit profile
  3. If I receive any messages, engage in conversation without sabotage
  4. At 11:59PM on Saturday, August 3rd, delete profile

My hypothesis is I’ll be more than happy to be rid of the profile. My fear is I’ll hesitate removing my profile because of my forever dependency.  So far, I’ve reconnected with someone I spoke to on another site several years ago and he remembered my name! I had no idea who he was, I’m still murky on details I just remember his name. Of course he is still online. His game…I can’t even with it.

There was a promising second person who caught my interest until he didn’t because he’s an idiot.

One more week…

no online dating

Thank Christ…I think the spell is broken.

Mr. Telephone Man

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Have you ever been so caught up in a new, “maybe” relationship that you assign a song as your ringtone for that guy/gal because it reminds you of them and you need to hear it whenever they call or text because their calls are WAY more exciting to receive than anyone else’s?

Have you ever BURNED THAT SONG TO THE DEEP, DARK GROUND once that “maybe” relationship goes belly-up faster than your dead goldfish, Mortimer?

Yeah, me neither. *single blink*

Ringtone

Feelin’ On Yo Booty

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Public.

Displays.

Of Affection…

Let’s talk about it.

I’m still on this celibate tip (can you believe it?!) but I’m not above making out with a cute boy. This is my individual journey so I’m creating routes as I go. A few weeks ago, I met this dangerously good-looking mixed race gentleman. I would describe him as Gaston from Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast” if Gaston had a Korean mommy. I instigated conversation and seemed to win him over with my specific brand of charm.  We decided to grab a drink after the party finished and got into some pretty interesting life topics.

There was a lot of touching during our conversation (the knee, the shoulder, the forehand, entwined fingers), the sexual chemistry was on high. It was a school night, I wasn’t going to sleep with him but does that mean I couldn’t get a little chups,* it had been FOREVER. We left together and chatted a bit on the sidewalk in front of the bar and for God and the world to see, he leaned in and kissed me. It. Was. Good! So good, I had to put one of my needed-to-be manicured hands against his barge-chest.

Suddenly, I hear the rumblings from a patio patron exclaiming he’s seen a lot of PDA that night…

*single blink*

JEALOUS MUCH?!?!?!?!,” my brain exclaimed as KG (Korean Gaston) laboriously worked his lips in ways I forgot existed. I was really enjoying myself until his hand, flopped upon my left breast and stayed there like a geriatric sloth that simply could not be bothered to hoist itself into the trees any longer. It blipped on my radar because he didn’t do anything with his hand. Not a squeeze, not a caress, not even a mammo. Trying very hard not to ruin the moment, I aggressively seductively removed his hand. Then his hand shot up to chest cliff again! Ummm…..ok.  Removed it yet again.  Maybe three times was the charm in his mind but it wasn’t in mine. In case he decided to try his move again, I interlaced my fingers into his and kept them by our sides. The kissing was quite lovely and I wanted to squeeze as much of that goodness out as possible but then I felt his other hand reach under my dress to cup my bum.

SIGH.

My attention, momentarily broken, allowed him to free his other hand from mine and plop it down on my fantastic rack again. Sooooooo…really that’s the end of this story. I have no problem with a little exploration in these situations but isn’t there a way to be a little more smooth; the world doesn’t have to see what you’re getting the privilege to traverse. Maybe in his mind, he was being completely debonaire. Maybe he was trying to squeeze the most out of our time together in his way because I told him I wasn’t going home with him. I can’t be mad at it or him, people and their boundaries/comfort levels are different. Here are my observations when it comes to PDAs:

  1. They’re loads of fun
  2. You don’t need to overtly cop a feel in public for it to remain fun

I don’t know if it’s a fine line, but there’s definitely a visible etching in the sand for these types of things. If you and your partner are exhibitionists, then sure, knock yourself out. But for me, there is nothing more turn-offable then being non-suavely groped.

So consider this my PSA for PDAs: Just. Be. Cool. It’ll all work itself out if it’s supposed to.

PDA

*Chups (pronounced like “choops”) means getting action without the doing the entire deed, if you know what I mean. So “a little chups” is like a great kiss.