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Am I doing the right thing?

I mean, everything feels like a wrong turn.

My manic energy, however wavering, and lack of sleep has given way to a compulsive, stressed, panicked being who needs to cum six times a day just to distract themselves.

That is, until the questions pop up as pounds of flesh and blood swirl around on my computer screen, and suddenly I can no longer feel my own body.

It all just feels so…hopeless.

I know that’s a cliche.

It actually feels surreal–to know there is no right answer, no correct choice, no way out, no solution to anything.

When I was younger, I didn’t even think about the possibility of my whole life becoming, well, shit.

Every smile feels forced. Every laugh is followed by internalized anxiety and paranoia. Every conversation is emotionally draining, usually followed by irrational rage at people I love. I’m tired of the blank stares, the tired half-smiles that are a poor attempt to reassure me that I’m not going to sit on the train tracks and wait for my body to be run over and crushed into nothing.

My hatred for others has grown immensely and quickly. I lash out. I make jokes but they’re meant to burn. I dread seeing people I call friends.

And you know what? They don’t actually care. Nor should they have to.

They have their lives. And despite all their own problems and all their own complaining, I would take any single one of their lives over my own.

I feel like my best friend and I are drifting apart. And I’m self-aware enough to know this isn’t because of my current state–I’m always in a good mood when I see her, but that mood is dissuaded throughout our interaction because she just seems so…distant. So irritated by me.

I have my guesses as to why.

But I don’t want a repeat of last year, where she held everything in until she exploded via text message and I had to drive to her house and threaten to leave if she didn’t fucking talk to me about what was going on.

I know she doesn’t like to talk.

I just keep feeling like I’m letting her down and I don’t even know why. I feel insecure. I don’t really ask her to hang out anymore. I’ve almost stopped completely. I’ve learned not to text her because she never texts me back.

Every time I’m with her, it’s like we’re not actually together.

It makes me even more sad.

I just want to sleep for a while, stop jerking off so much, eat an actual meal, wear clothes that aren’t work clothes or gym clothes.

But tomorrow I’ll be back to staying up until 3am watching porn to, what? Distract myself?

I’m running out of distractions.


Down in the gutter.

It’s always a little disappointing when someone asks I am and they immediately disregard what I’ve said and delve into a whole spiel about their own misfortunes, in this case, something I’ve been hearing about for a long time. To me, the solution is simple.

The terrible rap music pulsates against my eardrums, gyrates in my skull. It is not fitting for my defeated and agitated mood and I’m tempted to change it but what would be the point? It’s only four more minutes out of…

I hear the word “boyfriend,” in a vapid attempt to relate to my expression of loneliness and dissatisfaction, and I literally roll my eyes to the roof of the car.

It’s a good thing that it’s dark outside.

“He’s a bum,” I want to say. She’s said it herself. I’ve agreed. But I still want to say those exact words in a bitter yet confident tone. I don’t want to say it to be cruel. I want to say it because I know she can do better.

Because, honestly, he’s like all those empty beer cans he’s probably recycled for five cents apiece.

I know this person. I know him very well. I know his manipulations and pathetic attachments and inability to help himself, or perhaps, his lack of desire to help himself. I know he will drag himself into the ground, and, if she’s not careful, she will be dragged down with him.

As she said, “I put up with everything.”

Taking (Another) Break.

I’ve been on the same dating website on and off for about six years now. I’ve been on my fair share of dates, but nothing’s ever amounted from them. I got pressured into giving a guy a handjob when I was 18, and that’s really the highlight.

Which is pretty sad.

Then came tinder. I’m pretty sure, if my memory is correct (which, to be fair, it is often not), I’ve only met two people from tinder–that guy I met who drove me to the res (which I wrote a blog post about last year), and a person who I fell for but ended up just wanting to be friends with me (and that’s where we are today).

I was talking with this friend recently about the frustrations I’ve been having, and she’s been having many similar ones. She has come to the conclusion that she is unlovable—while I tried to argue with her on this, I see where she’s coming from. If it hasn’t happened already, it probably never will happen, and probability and simple logic lead her to believe that she is the common factor, so it must be her.

I’m paraphrasing here, but you get the idea.

I’ve spent years trying not to believe those exact thoughts. I’ve spent my entire young adult life holding onto this hope that someday I will find someone. And I’m not even asking for a long-term partner or a soulmate–I’m merely asking for someone to show me a little bit what it’s like to be romanced, to be loved, to have a good time, to have something special with someone, even if for a while.

But, it seems highly unlikely.

Last night I checked Tinder and, lo and behold, the guy who I had talked with at the bar for a little while who I also matched with on the app, unmatched with me.

Now, this really isn’t a big deal. But I was still befuddled. Any number of reasons could have caused this unmatching, but damn, you’d think, Hey, we’ve already talked, sliding into this online conversation will be a lot easier.

But I don’t think people on tinder are that serious. Tinder is game. It’s an ego-boosting app, and that’s usually the end of it.

So I deleted all my “dating apps.” Because my friend may be right–it may be time to give up the ghost. It may be time to just try and accept being alone. Sure, I’ve tried before, but I was younger then, and now that I’m 23 with a pretty solid understanding of myself, maybe it’s time.

The reality is, not everyone meets somebody else. And it seems like that’s probably my reality.

The Internal Argument – Intimacy

I’ve been dating my partner, boyfriend, whatever you want to call him for two months. The first time we were physically intimate, beyond a mere kiss or subtle touch, occurred when I grabbed him against me and made out with him. The second time happened when I straddled him on the couch and we made out, again, for a long time, and I completely explored his body and eventually gave him oral sex.

My boyfriend is actually less sexually experienced than I am, but he’s more open to engaging in physical acts than I am. When we were fooling around, I refused to remove any article of clothing.

I know everyone deals with body confidence issues, but it angers and upsets me how deep mine go.

Yesterday we were sitting on his bed and he touched my shoulder and I recoiled in quite a volatile manner. I apologized, and we discussed it briefly. I was feeling depressed and although one part of my brain wanted to accept the touch, deeply desiring and enjoying it, the other, more dominant part of my brain, told my body to retreat, that I didn’t deserve to be touched, and to avoid it.

This toxic, argumentative part of my brain is always the part that wins, and I don’t know why.

Again, everyone deals with body confidence issues. We’re not thin enough, not toned enough, not muscular enough. We have cellulite and scars. Our stomachs aren’t flat. We have hair in places we don’t want hair. Whatever it is, it’s an issue. I guess my issue is, there’s not one part about my body that I like. Even when I was in shape and 75 pounds lighter than I am now and could actually be deemed “attractive” by the average person, I hated my body. But gaining the weight back has made my self-hatred even more severe.

The idea of not being in control scares me. If I let my partner dominate the situation, I lose control, and I won’t be able to enjoy myself amidst all of my worrying and self-hatred.

And don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate myself. I’ve come a long way, and generally, I quite like myself. But I only like the inside of myself. In fact, I love who I am as a person. However, that love and respect does not translate to my physical form, and for whatever reason, my disdain for my body trumps all self-love I do actually have.

I feel guilty because I don’t want my partner to think it’s him. I feel guilty because I can’t change how I feel about my body. I feel guilty because I can’t give my partner something he wants, and deserves.

I’m not sure how others, as uncomfortable as they are with their bodies, can take off their clothing and be okay with it.


Just when I thought I was done questioning…

I’m not.

To give a quick update, I’m in a relationship. After nearly 22 years of being single and thinking that would never change, I’m in a relationship. I’m in a relationship with a man. I like him a lot. I love how he knows so much about so many different things and how passionate he is about particular things, and his little old-fashioned quirks. I love his smile. I love how he’s shorter than me. I love his hand on my collarbone and I love when he gently grips my arm out of excitement.

But I don’t know if I’m sexually attracted to him.

The most we’ve done is made out. Once. On our fourth date. He kissed my lips for the first time and I grabbed him and pulled him against my body and ravaged his mouth. Other than that, there’s been physical contact, but nothing more than slight cuddling (I hate that word, by the way) and kissing each other goodbye at night. And last night, as I was lying in bed, I started to fret. Because I realized I don’t want to do anything more.

He is not the kind of man to pressure me into anything. But I felt pressured last night when his roommates all left to go to a party, and one of them raised his eyebrows as he said we could “have some alone time.” My partner and I spent the night watching Breaking Bad on the couch, but during some lulls, I felt pressured for more. It’s hard to explain, but you know when you just feel that energy? I felt it.

Anyway, back to the fretting. I realize I’m content with minimal physical contact. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve always kind of been like that. I like my space. But the issue is…I’m not that way with women. I know I’m sexually attracted to women. I want to touch and kiss women. I want to have sex with women. And here I am, with my partner, whom I adore, and I don’t feel that way.

What is wrong with me?

Am I biromantic rather than bisexual? I thought I had figured out my sexual identity, but now I’m not so sure.

And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe my sexual attraction will grow. But right now, the thought of having sex with a man, even a man I care for, somewhat repulses me, if I’m being completely honest.

I thought I had it figured out. Guess not.


Men Die Young

I was actually excited about this “date” (thanks, Tinder…) but sitting in the passenger side of this stranger’s car, listening to the Deftones, has me totally unenthused. Maybe this person’s lack of simple manners stems from the fact they went to Rush-Henrietta and don’t trim their beard enough. Beards are fine, but there’s a limit. I haven’t made eye contact with him once, nor has he tried to make eye contact with me. He inhales his cigarette really sharply and exaggerated and I expect him to say something each time. He’s boring. Or maybe I’m boring.

Sitting in the passenger seat, I know why men die younger: because they drive like lunatics. I keep thinking, I don’t want my parents to see my mangled corpse in the wreckage of this strange man’s car. On sharp turns it takes all of my muscles working together to keep myself in the seat. He changed the music and turned it up even louder. As if I’m not deaf enough as it is.

His lack of manners come even more into play when we reach the reservation. He doesn’t wait for me to get my cartons, or wait for me to pay, or even wait to head back to his shit-mobile. Again, no eye contact. On the drive back he plays some terrible punk-metal-teen-angst-sounding band that I hate. Commercials via Spotify keep coming on, either advertising beer or sex or both. I watch the sphere of the sun in the reflection of the window. It’s silent. My mind wanders.

I think about how getting an 8.5 out of 10 on a poem isn’t good enough. I think about how I need to participate in my classes more, and that project that’s coming up that I need to email my professor about. And that paper on Orlando which I really need to start writing. I think about the possibility of being raped, and I think about how I’ve never thought of that before. I think about how I need to buy booze but I have so little money and I really hope my paycheck is decent this week but I know it will be mere pennies. I think about how dry my mouth is and how cold the inside of the car is.

I have nothing to ask this person.

There’s not even a handshake on parting, which would have been weirdly formal but I’d take anything over him scuttling back into his apartment, which, only God knows what that looks like. It takes me a minute to back out of the small, snow-choked driveway and I head back toward 490, toward home, with a cigarette between my fingers. I took a chance. I took a chance, and I only wasted two hours of my life. But at least I got a free ride to the reservation. There is that.


Being Single on Valentine’s Day (Again)


I’ve never not been single on Valentine’s Day, so I suppose I should be used to it by now. But my bitterness about being single comes through full-force on this day, knowing my friends and family members will all be cuddling and fucking their mates and I’ll be drinking beer by myself on my bare mattress while watching Bob’s Burgers.

I’m always bitter about being single to some degree. Lately I’ve been really bitter. Online dating is worn out–it has no purpose for me anymore. I know I’m not going to meet anyone in the near (or far) future, so I’d like for my mind to just give up on the idea, but I’m a romantic at heart, and crave companionship.

This is just a dumb holiday anyway.