I apologize for the lack of updates. My life has been consumed by school, work, and Reddit and frankly I don't know how to unearth myself from this self-consuming black hole. I spend most of my time writing in my Livejournal because I can be selective in who reads it, and I'm a shady asshole who needs to hide things.

;D

So here are five important life updates!

1) I'm in my last semester of school... as long as I pass everything. Which I probably won't, but not for a lack of trying. Evidently after 6.5 years in college I still have absolutely no study skills nor the motivation to push myself to do better. And I also inadvertently stacked my schedule with the most difficult classes. I'm a glutton for punishment, I suppose.

2) I had my first ever "parents aren't home LET'S RAGE" party last weekend and it was a great success. I even had a keg. Did you know that kegs of UC Light are only $40? Because now that I know that, I'm never buying cases of beer again. I spent a few minutes at the beginning of the party wallowing in sadness that a certain someone didn't show up and then spent the rest of the night drinking Pink Panty Droppers and making all the boys jealous by writhing up against my best girlfriend. And clothes-hanger swordfighting (yeah, we'll leave it at swordfighting) with a guy who looks like Kurt Cobain. I also got asked if I wanted to have a threesome with a married couple, so it was all-in-all a success.

3) I made new friends. And by new friends I mean I went to see my buddy Chris Monty at the comedy show a few weeks ago and became friends with his pal Chris Roach. We had drinks, we had laughs, and we watched a man cry over a pitbull puppy, I got accused of being "rotisseried" by someone who may or may not be a little jealous, and so on and so forth. Love those boys.

4) I made old friends. I had a bff in high school named Sara and we were essentially carbon copies of each other. I moved to Syracuse and went a little crazy and she was worried and I dismissed her fears so we stopped talking. Lately we've been texting and now we're hanging out again. I've missed her dearly, and I'm so glad to have her back in my life.

5) I can't even think of a fifth life update... so I will leave you with this: ME GUSTA.

Fmerf.

I had a really nice, but really long ride to and from Old Forge tonight. Floyd Band officially kicked off their summer season with a fantastic concert - and I'm not even saying that because I'm in the band; we just played significantly better than normal tonight. In fact, if I were my dad, I might say that we "plowed solid."

But I had a lot of time to think while I was in the car (you know, in between praying that my tire wouldn't fall off and I'd be stranded and get eaten alive by bears, and wishing that my damn radiator would stop overheating). And I don't particularly love thinking, especially lately. Because while my life has been surprisingly good lately (wonderful, even) there's one thing that's really been bugging me. I touched on it a bit in my last entry - namely the paragraph about the boy I took a lot of chances for. Not the guy who thought I rolled my eyes too much... the disappearing man.

I resigned myself, over the past few months, to the fact that nothing would happen between us. I fell for him hard - and super suddenly - while dressed up as Olive Penderghast. Maybe an omen (dressing up as a fake skank doesn't really shed the best light on a person). But Olive ended up in love at the end of Easy A, and that's what I wanted too. I wanted a man riding a lawnmower to come sweep me away to the infamous Simple Minds song... I wanted a quintessential John Hughes movie romance and god damn it I wanted to look like Emma Stone.

None of that happened.

Disappearing man and I had quite a bit in common, and honestly? I thought we got along perfectly. I was definitely a giddy little mess when I was around him, but I'm going to chalk it up to the fact that I was in love (or in lust) with someone who WASN'T my boyfriend. In retrospect, maybe that's what scared him away. If I could do that to my boyfriend, I could probably do that to him if someone better came along.

But really, when he was around, we got along famously. And there were moments when I thought that I was on the brink of a Hughes-ian (Hughes-esque?) romance. Moments in the California king bed when I thought that we could go on like that forever. Pillow fight and awkward moments and a lot of touching-but-not-really-touching-because-we're-high-schoolers kind of things. His friend even messaged me telling me, essentially, to go forth and conquer.

Or plow solid.

So I did. I gave it my best effort. If I were Pat Benatar, I would have hit him with my best shot and motherfucking fired away. And from all that, I got nothing.

I laid myself on the line though. I told him, on one slightly drunk ride from Sylvan Beach, that I was trying my hardest because I liked him and I didn't think I was getting anything in return. He countered that he wasn't looking for a relationship. Fine, I'm glad he told me. Really. Because nothing sucks more than unrequited love. So I gave up the ghost. We did some laughing and said we'd just continue to be friends.

And I was fine with that. Really. I was glad that I could stop hoping for something that would never happen (goodbye Emma, goodbye John Hughes) and just chill out. And really, we made good friends.

But then he disappeared.

(His name isn't disappearing man for nothing, I suppose.)

And thus, I was wrong. There is one thing worse than unrequited love: unrequited friendship.

I haven't seen him since a week after our come-to-Jesus friendship talk, where he showed up at an event that I didn't know he was going to be at and I, being the sucker that I am, finagled my way out of hanging out with some of my best friends to spend the night with him. I left in the morning and haven't heard from him since. AKA over a month. AKA longer than he's ever gone without communication, and this includes during when he was cycling across the southern US for two months and somehow found time to send me postcards. I've sent three text messages, called twice, and emailed once. Nothing.

Honestly? I'm missing him a lot. I'm sad that he hasn't returned any of my attempts at communication, and I'm ticked because I thought we had a good friendship, and I'm fucking angry because I wasted my time trying to be friends with someone who obviously doesn't care about me. It's not like I broke down and told him I was in love with him and would never get over him or went batshit the last time we hung out... we had a great time just hanging out as friends. Or so I thought.

I don't know where to go from here. Really. I can't write him an email about how bummed I am, because he won't reply. I can't call him or text him to say that this friendship is kaput and this is my swan song because he won't answer. I can't show up at his house because I know if I do, I'll start crying because I'm an emotional face-to-face "fuck you" teller, but I can't wait 'til the next time I see him because that'll probably be never. And really? I won't hold my breath waiting for him to come around, because I'll suffocate before then.

So I just have to drop it.

If you read this, disappearing man, I hope you know that you hurt me. Not because you didn't fall in love with me, not because you didn't want to be in a relationship with me, but because you didn't want to be my friend. Your friendship brought me infinite amounts of happiness when you managed to spare me time in your life. I hope I didn't do something to make you not want to be my friend, because I think I'm pretty damn cool and I think, deep down, that you think that too. Despite how hurt I am, I'll always be your rabbit, and I hope you know that, even though I say I won't hold my breath for you, I will, and I probably will forever.

Plow solid, my friend.

GET OUT OF MY WAY.

Here's something that my best friend taught me: I am a settler.

That one took some thinking. For me, that is. He's a smart dude and knows me better than I know myself, so I'm sure he's realized this for a lot longer than I have. We talked about my "fuck reaching for the stars, I'm reaching for whatever's accessible" attitude in depth at a bar last fall. At the time I was testing my friends' opinions of getting back together with Joe - which ended up happening, even though he and others were dead-set against it (at least nobody can say I listen to authority!). He thought I was getting back together with Joe because I was striking out with other guys. And I guess that was part of it... I had a good run last spring and early summer, what with the comedian and all, but after the boys of summer had gone, I was feeling a little blue. I WANT to say I got back together with Joe because we were never really "over" (because at that time, we weren't) - but I think I pushed for it because a) I was lonely and b) I knew he'd be there.

I settled, in retrospect. Fell back into something comfortable for the sake of being comfortable. I didn't see it that way at the time, but now I realize that the shit that bothered me at the last break up would continue bothering me because it wasn't FIXABLE shit - it was trivial shit that I can't really chalk up to anything but me having weird standards. And me not minding being a settler.

But BFF and I revisited the settling topic this weekend over some beers, and I have to say, he's so right. I like to put all my eggs in one basket and when that basket is overflowing and ready to topple and NOTHING HAPPENS (because let's face it, nothing ever happens), I get a little down in the dumps and seek solace of something comfortable.

I did this a few weeks ago.

(Not with Joe, though. Him and I are 199% over... like, Maury show over.)

I was on the precipice of something amazing with someone that I, admittedly, took a lot of risks for. I put all of my eggs in the basket and honestly? I thought my plan was super failproof. How couldn't it be? I'm awesome, he's awesome, we would make beautiful babies (you know, if I ever decide I need babies... which I sure as shit don't right now)... everything was there. And then he fell off the face of the earth, as he is wont to do. Seriously, dude needs a lesson in Communication 101. It was disheartening and I was pretty bummed.

So instead of taking it like a woman (read: eating a lot of ice cream and watching chick flicks and getting the fuck over it), I started talking to another dude. Cute, no doubt about it - I even texted Mike when I met the guy saying "this dude across from me looks like Tim (from GP) with less cokey eyes." (Shut up, that is a compliment in my world.) Met the guy, found him easy to talk to and down to earth and WHAT DO YOU KNOW, he actually knew how to return texts and would call when he said he would. Novel concept.

Then I slept with him.

I saw BFF the next day, and gave him the lowdown. He laughed in my face over the hilarity of the situation - and told me not to bother seeing cokeless Tim the next night, based on aforementioned hilarity. But I went anyway. And then saw him a few more times after that. Every time I came home, I talked to Mike and he would implore me to describe exactly why I kept going out with this dude.

My answer? Blank stares.

Really, I still don't know, other than he was cute and available and seemed to be decently interested in me. All signs pointed me to "STAY THE FUCK AWAY" but instead I just kept wanting to hang out with him because he was... well, he was THERE.

And that's kinda the definition of settling.

So I'm kinda trying this new thing. It's called "doing what I REALLY want" and "not getting attached to men that are all sorts of wrong for me." It's a little difficult, since I'm so used to trying a little too hard. And it's tough right now, since I'm a little lonely. But I'm realizing that when I get lonely, I should just probably call one of my friends - you know, since I actually have some of those now that I'm not all wrapped up in trying to hang out with guys that I don't like deep down.

And with this new thing I'm trying, I'm realizing I'm actually pretty picky about guys. Ok, I know it doesn't seem like it - I think about some (most) of the people I've dated and slept with and wince in embarrassment. I dealt with it at the time because a) I didn't realize I was settling and b) am able to put up with a lot of shit from people I "like." And by a lot, I mean a metric shit ton. Let's take a look at some of the bullshit I put up with over the years...

• Dated a straight-edge guy for SEVEN MONTHS (before dumping him for his friend). He had a list of ailments a mile long and he called me "honey" and had the creepiest goatee ever.

• Slept with my best friend's cousin, who has a lazy eye.

• Passed up going to prom with the hottest, buffest dude to go with a guy three years younger than me (he was a freshman, I was a senior - IN HIGH SCHOOL).

• Slept with a guy who then told me he was gay... and then I slept with him two more times.

• Went on a few dates with a guy who refused to try any ethnic cuisine and lived with his parents and whined about how old he felt.

• Dated a guy who told me he went to prison for six months when instead he was out of state fucking an underage girl.

• Dated a guy (FOR TWO WEEKS) who showed up unannounced at my house on my birthday to spend the weekend - and I didn't tell him where I lived.

How many more stories do I need to tell to make my point? In all of those situations (save the last one - that dude was just a creep) I settled for dudes that were all sorts of wrong for me because I was bored, horny, or lonely. And to tell you the truth, after thinking about all of those things, I'm pretty fucking ready to be done with it... as well as a little appalled that I would even DO some of those things.

So starting now, I'm done with that. I'm done dating guys because I *can*. I'm done settling for creeps and losers and assholes because I'm lonely and need attention. In fact, starting now...

• I will not date a man who doesn't have proper dental hygiene.
• I will not date a man who calls me "honey."
• I will not date a man who calls me any sort of term of endearment on the first date.
• I will not date a man who can't fuck well. PERIOD.
• I will not go on a date or hang out with a guy who texts me ten times in a row because that shit's annoying.
• I will not go on a date with someone who will not eat Asian food.
• I will not date a man who does not appreciate Staples or Target.
• I will not wear sexy underwear for men. LACE PANTIES ARE UNCOMFORTABLE.
• I will not use a dating website, so help me god.
• I will not agree to go on a date with anyone more than 20 years older than me - see what I did there?
• I will not drive to go on date with someone who will not drive to see me.
• I will not date someone who doesn't drink, unless they don't have a problem with my drinking.
• I will not sleep with men with curly chest hair.
• I will not sleep with men with lazy eyes.
• I will not sleep with hobbits.
• I will not take any more virginities.
• I will not date a man who whines about how tired they are all the time.
• I will not date a man who isn't comfortable with my weight.
• I will not date a man who fetishizes my weight.
• I will not date a man who fetishizes my boobs or my feet.
• I will not date a man who wears Ed Hardy.
• I will not date a man who fist pumps seriously.
  
• I won't apologize for not wanting to date a guy.
• I won't make excuses for not wanting to hang out with a guy.
• I will never date a man who doesn't play an instrument - or doesn't appreciate good music.
• I will never sleep with a man only because he plays an instrument - unless he's famous.
• I will stop talking about my sexual encounters with females on the first date.
• I will stop interrupting men when they try to speak.
• I will not apologize for liking or not liking something.
• I will not apologize for living with my parents.
• I will not apologize for not calling or texting someone back.
  
• I will not feign interest at being outside BECAUSE I HATE BEING OUTSIDE.
  
• I will not date anyone who doesn't like Gridley Paige.
• I will not date anyone who doesn't like my best friend.
• I will not date anyone who drinks Bud Light Lime.
• I will not date anyone who is inherently negative.
• I won't apologize for snoring when my nose is stuffy.
• I won't pretend a pillow fight is just a pillow fight.
• I won't get overwhelmed by men in authority positions.
• I won't apologize for who I am.

So to all of you reading this, please feel free to call shenanigans if you ever see me breaking any of my rules. This is to say that if I'm talking to old lumberjacks at bars, please tell me to BACK THE FUCK OFF because I'm tired of being such a boring little settler. I need to do me for awhile...

Ok, I need to do me forever.

Angry and bitter, party of me.

I've been called a lot of things over my almost 24 years on earth. I had high school friends lovingly call me "conceited" - and yeah, since the shoe fit, I wore it (and oh I wore it good). Random guys and girls like to call me "bitch" and it's probably because they're jealous of how awesome I am, so that's fine. I even had a close friend call me the dreaded "C" word - to be fair, I don't remember why, but I probably deserved it. That little quibble hurt and propelled us into a few months of silence but now things are fine. I've mostly forgiven him. (Mostly.) So I'm used to being verbally abused, per se. Sticks and stones may break my bones, and words will make me laugh and probably hit you and then laugh some more, but they certainly won't hurt me.

Except when I give three years of my life to a person and it's classified as "a little hiccup."

Not going to lie, that hurts a little bit. To sum up an entire 36-month relationship as basically a bump in the proverbial road of life is a little... I don't know, ridiculous, don't you think? Especially considering the copious amount of time and energy and money that I put into that relationship - apparently that all meant a whole lot of nothing. It's nice to know that driving to Syracuse twice a week for three years - that's 160 miles a week, times 156 weeks = 24,960 miles (take a few thousand to make up for the three breakups but give a few thousand for the random road trips) - was really worth it. Thanks so much, my car really appreciated all the extra unnecessary miles.

Maybe I'm reading too far into the "little hiccups" comment, as I'm wont to do. But some of my actions were also construed as a "decent amount of bullcrap" so now I'm thinking that mayhaps I'm not reading between the lines here. And okay... I get it. I put boys through a variety of meaningless bullhocky basically because I can. And by "variety of meaningless bullhocky" I mean I ask them to do really simple nice things that any normal human being would do if they possessed one bit of compassion. Like pull up the car when there's a big puddle or giant snow hill because I don't ever wear appropriate footwear. Or hold my hand and not roll your eyes when I'm trying to jump over the big puddle in the road that you just HAD to park in because you don't care that I wear inappropriate footwear. Or take me out to Applebee's because I just want a goddamn meal in which I can EXPECT what's going to be on the plate in front of me instead of a Vietnamese place where I have to eat shitty pho with tendon-y meatballs. Or not whine when I want to go to ~yet another~ Gridley Paige show. Because I don't care if you think they're just another mediocre cover band, I love Gridley Paige and you should just put up with it since you're getting regular sex from me.

You know, normal shit like that.

Deep breaths.

And okay, maybe I can tend to get a bit obnoxious with boys. If I had been labeled "obnoxiously annoying skank" I wouldn't fight it. When the time comes to heave ho and I can't yet bring myself to say it, I get a little... uh, weird. Like I cancel out on things that have been planned for a long time because the thought of driving in a car for four hours is nauseating. Or I say that I'm busy and go get coffee with my best friend (who, for the last time, I AM NOT SLEEPING WITH FOR FUCK'S SAKE) instead. That's fine though, because I know that boys do the same thing. Ten bucks says 3/4ths of the guys I've dated have skipped plans with me to go bitch to their bros about how awkward I am.

But really, the normal end-stage distancing that doesn't warrant discounting three years of (what I consider... or considered) an awesome relationship, right? Maybe it's generic ranting, or maybe it's part of the natural mourning process.... but I take huge offense to my time and effort being trivialized into nothingness. I may have done some things wrong, but it's not like the other party made mistakes either. I figured we were letting bygones be bygones in the breakup - hell, we've even spoken a few times since, and everything seemed hunky dory pie, but evidently I was a bigger bitch than I thought and I deserve to have all my efforts knocked into oblivion.

Fine.

So for that, I'll leave you all with this nice quote from my friends in Punchline. Because now I listen to them without any ~witty retorts~ about how ~punk rock~ they are.

I've got some news... I might like it better without you, baby.

PS: Hope you're enjoying all of the random hiccups I left you with over the last three years, dude I evidently wasted three years of my young life with. I hope you're especially loving the PS3 I bought you...

Three years is over.

God, I was young. He was there when I turned 21, brought me to Kitty Hoynes for my first drink and I remember not knowing what to order, despite having drunk myself under tables every weekend since I’d turned 18. He invited all of his friends – I didn’t have many, and I’m sure my best two were at the apartment fighting over (and due to) cheap whiskey. His friends bought me drinks all night. I got sloshed on 7&7s and walked home barefoot through the streets of Syracuse.

I keep doing that… calling it home. It was our home. I might have technically lived off the Syracuse campus in an apartment that I sometimes paid rent for, but in my heart I lived in Nettleton with him. I moved in even before we were together – maybe even while I was still dating his friend – and never really left. I think I left a part of me behind in that place… actually, I think we left a part of us behind.

It was a dinky little place that’s now probably full of black mold and misery, but it was there that I got to know him and grew to love him. Though there are so many things that hold the memories (so many things I never realized held the memories), the apartment at Nettleton will forever remain in the middle of it all. That first night at Nettleton, before I knew what it was all going to amount to, an hour after he dropped me back off at my real apartment and then messaged me asking if I would come back over, and I showed up in sweatpants and we spent the night laughing and yes, sleeping together… that night is sealed in my memory and it sometimes feels like it will never leave.

But I always left.

He did leave once… or rather made me leave once after spending two hours in a bathtub figuring out how to get me to leave. I spent two weeks on Westcott in yet another apartment I paid rent for with one of my best friends and a stompy psycho named Jane. For two weeks I slept in a brand-new bed that my parents bought me for my 21^st birthday and hadn’t used before… or since. And two weeks later he came to get me and brought me back home to Nettleton.

And then we left Nettleton for another dinky place, away from downtown. He needed a change of scenery. I needed to be with him, and by proxy agreed that a change of scenery would be nice. The place was worse than anything I’ve ever lived in, and there were a lot of tears over crooked floorboards and bats and noises and spiders. I was uncomfortable there.

And so I left. Not because I hated it there – I would have lived anywhere that he was, as long as it meant I was with him – but I went back to live with my parents and get my life back in order. I might have lost a little of my mind when I went home, and I know we lost a lot of our love when I left too. The day I went, I made him promise me that it wouldn’t be over and that we would be fine. He promised and I promised and I think we both meant it. Sometimes I still think I meant it. God knows I certainly wanted to mean it.

It’s never that easy though. We made a lot of promises to each other over the three years, and I’d like to think that we kept a lot of them. It was hard though, being away from him. Every time I’d think everything was going great, something would come along and uproot me. I let him go so many times since I’ve lived at home, and so many times he’s been there to pick me back up.

But I kept falling down. I thought the last time was the hardest though. I swore up and down it was for good – swore we’d tried every which way to make it work – and also swore that we’d remain friends. We carried on talking after breaking up, no matter how awkward and difficult it was. Then we ended up in Washington DC for Mets game. He had booked separate beds at the hotel in DC and we slept comfortably in our separate beds. We didn’t hold hands, we didn’t start making out during the game like at new Yankee Stadium, we saw one of the greatest bands ever and took a beautiful three-hour walk through the parks. It was the best trip of my life.

And we got back into Syracuse late on Labor Day… too late for me to drive back home. And we shared his bed and that was that. And I swore up and down that we were back together for good. We hid the “relationship” for quite a while, until Halloween. I was emotional because he was hooking up with a scaly monstrosity, and he was emotional because he didn’t want to be with her. We swore we would make it work.

We tried.

Sometimes trying just gets to be too much. The relationship wasn’t work at Nettleton – it just was. Having to actively make love be present in a relationship is so draining. And after three years, it had to be over.

I wish it didn’t. I wish with every ounce of love I have left in me that it didn’t have to be over. But it got to the point that I hurt when he’s here, and I hurt when he’s not here. And I chose to hurt by myself.

I hope he knows how much love I have for him – how much love I’ve always had for him, since that first night in Nettleton. And I hope he understands that I’m still not sure if the choice I made was the right choice, and I hope he forgives me if I break down the next time I see him… if I see him. I hope he knows that I ache every second of the day because I’m not able to hear his voice, and I hope he knows that I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused him over the past three years, because pain was not my intention. I hope he’s reading this and it doesn’t make him hurt and I hope he doesn’t find every word to be yet another of my dramatizations. And I hope that he looks back on our three years together and remembers all of the wonderful times exactly as I do.

And I hope one day that I’m able to get over him.

Arthur is killing me!

I'm getting old.

Look, I know I'm only 23 and that's really not OLD. But I can feel the old creeping in. I don't know if it's a result of becoming so complacent with life and not having the gumption to change it or what, but it's evident that I'm not the ~fancy young stallion~ that I used to be.

I notice the old all the time. My forehead? Wrinkly. Like, even when I'm not smiling or being really excited with my eyebrows... there are constant wrinkles. WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN? I always said when I was younger that I thought wrinkles were a sign of maturity and dignity. Ha, fuck that. I don't want my wrinkles anymore. All they're a sign of is that I spent way too much time in a tanning bed preparing for senior prom when I should've been spending the time finding a new boyfriend who WASN'T a freshman.

And my tits? They're still excellent, don't get me wrong... but sometimes they take a little more hoisting than they should. Maybe it comes with the territory of being an E-cup, but that little bitch called gravity needs to cut it out. I've completely obliterated two bras in the last two months (and hi, E-cup bras are not cheap). I'm going to be the little old lady with a very small nipple-to-knee ratio if this doesn't stop soon.

But for as much as I notice the old, the old doesn't bother me too much. Because old is the new young, obviously. I happen to be a huge proponent of the recent 90s fashion flashback - you can never have enough stirrup leggings and grungy flannel in your wardrobe (and wearing originals back from 2nd grade is thrifty too!). And you can't really beat not discounting men in their 40s as potential life mates, right? Sure they probably lost their virginity before you were born (thus making it possible for you to be their biological daughter... in theory) but when they die in their 80s you'll still have a bunch of years left 'til you kick it... and maybe some life insurance money.

It's a win/win, really.

But every once in awhile, the old really hurts me deep down. And last night, old struck again.

I went to see the Ataris. In North Syracuse. (There are already two things wrong with this situation, but whatever.) And I saw an old man onstage setting up and sound-checking equipment. Ok, so not really old... just like I'm not really old. And as I watched him set up, I said to myself, "self, this man looks very familiar."

Probably because he was the lead singer of the Ataris. And he was old.

I mourned for my childhood, I really did. Over ten years ago, I heard my first song by a fresh-faced Kris Roe and have been attached to the band ever since. And the band grew up and I grew up and now we're both getting old, except that their music hasn't aged and seeing a tired mid-30s man behind a guitar where a young, bleach blonde punk rocker used to be made me a little sad and nostalgic. And when I politely requested that they play "Hey Kid!," Kris said he couldn't play it... because he didn't remember how it went.

The old... it hurts.

Feed my narcissism please.

I think I've been spoiled by one of my "friends."

I don't use the quotes facetiously; I use them because, while we are friends, we also sleep together, which I guess makes us some sort of quasi-friends-with-benefits mutually beneficial unwritten agreement that continues to go label-less (much to my relief). It's a situation that can't really be summarized in quite so few words, so we don't try to summarize it and instead, take it at face value: we're friends that fuck.

And I love it.

The situation affords me a freedom I couldn't get in a relationship. I'm obviously attracted to said friend on some internal level - definitely physically, but more so intellectually - but we met under casual pretenses and things have stayed as such. There were no butterflies, no awkward conversation points, and I've never felt less than 100% comfortable when I'm with him. There isn't the constant feeling of ineptitude, no niggling worries of "does he like me or doesn't he?," and my heart isn't shouting "ASK ME OUT WHY WON'T YOU ASK ME OUT WTF ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!" I truly enjoy his company, there is an emotional connection that hasn't been taken out of the friends context, and there's great sex.

I think the main reason I like it is because I'm selfish. I am - I always have been. I like to think the world revolves around me, mostly because it does. I had a conversation with a friend recently who mentioned that complex (not mine, but his own) in a similar context - he's not seeking a relationship because he's too selfish. A bad trait to have if you're looking for love... but I say more power to us for recognizing the trait and not sucking anyone else up into our narcissism.

So it's perfect - "Friend" and I get to go out and do coupley things and not hold hands through it. He buys me dinner and I don't feel indebted to him. I don't have to watch sports I don't understand with him, and he doesn't need to sit through Grey's Anatomy with me. We can have sex and not have to say "I love you" afterward, and I can get in my car in the morning and not cry the whole way home. We can even date other people.

So I tried.

It didn't work.

I've gone on a bunch dates with other guys - thanks to the dating website - since the birth of the situation and they've been okay for the most part. But conversation on the most recent date with one of the guys from Plenty of Fish (our second time meeting) eventually turned to "When's the last time you had sex?" and he was honest in saying it'd been a long time for him (years) and I was honest in replying with that it had only been a couple weeks for me, which elicited a pause and a slightly awkward "oh," which in turn made me feel like I had to explain myself... and I ended up muttering a vague and kind of clinical "I have an agreement with someone."

Things still progressed on the date and I was enjoying his company until he muttered four words that can make me balk even worse than last-season Mike Pelfrey with bases loaded: "So, what is this?"

Then I shut down. He wanted a relationship to come of this, and I... I'm too caught up and happy with being single to even entertain the notion of starting a relationship. And I've been spoiled by such a great friends-with-benefits situation that a relationship isn't worth it. I don't want to look for Mr. Right - and I don't need a Mr. Right Now, because I have super friends and a great whatever-the-fuck situation aforementioned friend and I are in.

So I deleted my POF account.

And now I'm going to focus on having my cake and eating it too, because that's what selfish, spoiled people do.

I have five posts in my queue that I've started and not completed... the result of working six days a week and having plans every night. They'll eventually be finished, but I just need to say this:

Four of my friends are now on plentyoffish.

This bitch is a trendsetter.

Forwarded Conversation - Subject: I need your help!

Most people think I don't do much at work. Uhhh... so wrong. Today I helped thwart a Nigerian scammer in Scotland.

Back story: Boss got an email from a friend's old (pre-marriage) email address - the same scam some doucher tried to pull on my Facebook friends a few months ago. Because he (nor I) have anything better to do, he decided to play along. I helped a little bit, but mostly sat around giggling uncontrollably. Shit got serious. And he gave me permission to repost the entire conversation so the world (or all four followers) can really see what exactly we do all day... so read on and prosper, my friends.

Nigerian Prince, 11:09 AM

I had a trip to Scotland on a short vacation but it was tough for mecos I was mugged at a gun point and all valuable things got stolen. Idon't know what to do right now cos the authorities are not being 100%supportive but the good thing is that I still have my passport butdon't have enough money to get back home and pay for the hotel billsand the hotel manager won't let me leave until I settle the bills.I need your help with some loan (1,550Pounds) equivalent to 2,450 USdollars. It has really been embarrassing for me as I have nothing onme now.

Boss, 11:20 AM

Oh my God! Terrible! How can I get you the money!?

Nigerian Prince, 11:29 AM

I'm glad to hear back from you and I really appreciate the fact that you are trying to help me out of my huge mess. Thank God I still have my passport with me so you can wire the money to me on my name VIA MONEYGRAM TRANSFER.
Here are the details needed to send the money to me:

Name: Nigerian Prince
City: Scotland
Country: United Kingdom

Please attach the payment slip via email or you can send me the information you used to send the money including the MTCN control Number.I will surely refund the money when I return.

Boss, 11:48 AM

Ok! I can send the money immediately but I need to know a few things first.Which account should I take the money out of? You know how crazy the boss's accountant can be. Are you sure that's enough money to get you home? We just closed on that deal, so there's plenty for now.

Nigerian Prince, 11:51 AM

Yes, am Okay with the few $$ and I need your quick response

Boss, 12:05 PM

OK I sent the moneygram. I can't find that MCTN number or whatever it was you called it. Where is that on the receipt? Just keep in mind that the boss will need an explanation for where that money went when you get back to town. You are bringing back the package, right? Nikki Snarks is all set to push.

Nigerian Prince, 12:20 PM

Don't worry about boss I will explain better when I return and am sorry for the stress that I have been putting you through but I can't cash the money here in Scotland without the full details from the MONEYGRAM. You have to get back to me with the full details including the confirmation number.

I keep waiting in the library.

Boss, 12:32 PM

Oh, right, "the library". I forgot that boss prefers little code words when we're emailing. Well, I sent the money via MONEYGRAM and the confirmation code is "bazooka penis" (if you know what I mean wink wink)Hit me back if you understand, Ms. Comeford.Boss wanted me to add that if you're not back by the scheduled drop, you might as well stay in Scotland. Ha, what a card he is!

Nigerian Prince, 12:39 PM

This is not clear!! cos you still need to send the confirmation number to me....with it transaction is complete.

Boss, 1:00 PM

Good, you passed the test. Boss said you might just be trying to rip me off, but I knew it was you all along Lowdangler! The confirmation code is: "delta, juliet, criminey, alpha, alpha, velociraptor, bravo, zulu, whiskey, 12789, rape, Michael Douglas".Do you copy, Lowdangler? Awaiting confirmation...Maverick out.

Boss, 1:28 PM

Was the transaction successful? Do you need further clarification? Lowdangler, have you been compromised? Please advise. Boss online now, awaiting confirmation and expected delivery.

(Conversation then turned to Gmail chat, hence no timestamps.)

Boss: Nigerian Prince - boss is telling me to cancel it. Please respond before 1400 EST to avoid cancellation.

Nigerian Prince: the confirmation number was wrong

Nigerian Prince: please resend it ...

Boss: OK I guess you guys changed the code without telling me. I rechecked what I sent and it was accurate, Ghostrider.

Boss: Goose tells me the updated coding would work as follows for your confirmation code:

Boss: D

Boss: 3

Boss: 7

Boss: 7

Boss: G

Boss: 6

Boss: 1

Boss: 2

Boss: 1

Boss: 9

Boss: D

Boss: O

Boss: N

Boss: G

Boss: B

Boss: 4

Boss: 5

Boss: T

Boss: 3

Boss: R

Boss: Did this properly transmit? Please advise.

Nigerian Prince: yes

Nigerian Prince: I need to move down to the bank right now

Nigerian Prince: talk to you later

Boss: Wait.

Boss: More code. From the boss.

Nigerian Prince: what

Boss: Did you "bludgeon" that woman with the "dildo" per our discussion?

Boss: Well? He needs to know. Do you copy, Maverick?

Nigerian Prince is offline. Messages you send will be delivered when Nigerian Prince comes online.

See? Very important things happen in the gardens, my friends.

Let me show you how lame I can be.

Destination: Desperation.
Population: Me.

I don't know... maybe I shouldn't go as far as to call myself desperate. But I'm not really sure how to correctly describe the new low I've reached without taking a personal jab against my flamboyant behavior, so desperate it is.

I joined a dating website.

Mostly for shits and gigs, because I'm reticent to say that I'll dredge anything up in the fucking online backwaters of society. And it's a free website, so to say I'm going to get my proverbial pick of the litter is, well, just completely whacked. Not that I'm sure a pay-site would find me that 40-year old rich bastard with sardonic wit and no children that will fall prey to my tig ol' biddies, but you know, maybe throwing a few bucks on the line will up the playing field a little bit. Maybe. But because I'm notoriously Jewy with my money when it comes to things I can do myself, I went for bottom of the barrel. The dating cesspool of the interwebs.

The site is "Plentyoffish.com." I chose this one because I read words phonetically and thought it was "Plenty Offish" and figured I'd fit right in with my aloofness and irreverence towards society. I really didn't figure it out until a little green banner popped up saying "Lets Go Fishing!" (initially I just cried over the lack of apostrophe) and then it struck me like a bag of dicks and I went "EEEAAWWWWWWOOOHHH." Really loud. And maybe stamped my feet. And woke up the dog with my exasperation. If I had any sort of decency or humility, I probably would've checked myself at that point; every other person's inner conscience would be shouting "THIS IS LAME LET'S ABORT THE MISSION" but no, not me.

(I repeat: Not desperate at all.)

My first task: choose a user name and a catchphrase to encompass my awesome being. I thought long and hard (that's what she said)... a catchphrase can be the difference between finding a doucher who just wants to fuck and finding the man of my dreams (lumberjacks). Since I'm hoping to find a habitual stoner who wears bathrobes and drinks white russians, I chose "bunnylebowski" for my name - which is frankly a misnomer, because Bunny was a) skinny, b) blonde, and c) Tara Reid... none of which I am. But I love irony, so I went with it. And my catchphrase? "I'm not a prophet but I'm here to profit." Because I'm not, and I am.

Next task: Fill my profile. It's like Facebook, but with more clarifying demographic drivel like height (5'3"), how often I drink (frequently/as often as possible), and my occupation (office bitch). My profile says that I'm looking for a man, I never want children, I don't give a flying fuck about religion, and that my blood type is O-neg and I have a history of seasonal allergies and depression but no STDs and I've had human genome mapping done and have a ginormous IQ. On POF, I only have four interests: Jeff Bridges, body modification, Wisniowka, and post-grunge bitch rock. And if you know me? You know that, really, those ARE my only four interests.

POF then prompted me to put up pictures - something about how your quest to find "The One" will be 83% more successful if you appease the male appetite for eye candy. (Bonbons and boobies, anyone?) In the interest of following my ironic behavior, I chose to put up the most heinous of photos I could find in my obviously meager collection (because I'm not a ham and hate having my picture taken): a zombie face, a cheesy smile with a thumbs up, me being an asshole on stage with the Argonauts, a clinically retarded face wearing giant white spirals, and a shot from Halloween with my titties a'bursting from my pinup dress while drinking Blue Moon.

Those photos basically sum up my existence.

But POF wasn't done with the exploitation. I had to create an "About Me" section, because the data I supplied in the first section wasn't enough for their quizzical site. Finally - a chance to shine...

"People call me difficult, self-assured, intimidating, and diabolical... and I don't disagree. I'm verbose and have a dark, self-depreciating sense of humor. I enjoy lumberjacks, old people, and the Oxford comma; I hate parking garages, mayonnaise, and people who don't use Oxford commas. You should probably be highly intelligent and well-versed in the English language (hi, please know how to spell and use correct grammar) and not bother me constantly with mindless drivel. I hate mindless drivel. Obviously."

Now, if POF was a person, they would have shown me the errors of my ways. I made some key mistakes in my "About Me" section. Let me pontificate...

1. Nobody knows what the fuck an Oxford comma is.
2. MENSA candidates don't hang out on dating websites.
3. Men think "diabolical" means "nymphomaniac."

It's okay though. I knew I was setting myself up for abject failure and wasn't about to turn back at this point; I wasted too much time already, so I might as well chalk this one up to noob status and seal the deal. The site prompted me for one more tall-tale request: Describe your first date.

Cue my perverted mind.

"Perhaps play a little game called "Just the Tip." Just for a second... just to see how it feels."

Well that was certainly a cardinal sin. I thought it was a well-played Vince Vaughn movie quote, but apparently nobody watches his movies anymore and it goes over most peoples' heads... or onto most guy's heads.

As soon as I published my profile, the floodgates opened - or should I say the swarm of fucking locusts began plaguing me? The messages came in, two or three at a time, all with the same subject line: "Hi." FYI, POF has an quick message feature and the subject line defaults to "Hi" and pretty soon I was knuckles deep in messages proclaiming the generic and banal greeting and I began to think that I, in fact, was the one that was high.

It probably would have made the email reading far more epic.

And because I aim to please my readers, I'll bless you with a few of my favorite messages - with commentary at no extra cost!

• Meathead frat dude in Rochester: "yo whats good? lol like your pics ;) lets smoke some salvia.lol jk"
• Fellow Bridges fan with no picture: "heya...how come i never see you on yahoo?" PROBABLY BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW YOU.
• Clingy farmer in Cicero: "did i piss u off" This comes after a decent conversation and exchange of phone numbers. In 6 hours of "knowing" him, he sent me over 50 text messages and would freak out if I didn't reply in seconds. Hellooooo obnoxious!
• 50-year old sketcher: "your sexy. we should get together i'll help you profit."
• An athletic Utican: "Just the tip is my favorite game!! and can you humor me and tell me what an oxford comma is cause i've sure as sh*tnever heard of one" Well, at least we're honest. For what it's worth, I replied, and dude is pretty chill, and we might go dancing sometime. He is, however, dumb as a stump.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

They haven't all been as horrendously ridiculous though... and (shock and horror!) I've actually met two people from the site already. One's a teacher from L'pool - we had a few drinks and talked about awesome music - and the other's a journalist from Utica, who I actually ran into at the Gridley Paige show last night. It wasn't harrowing and didn't make me nervous... probably because I love talking about myself so much (nobody knows that about me).

So I'll forge on. Online dating is clearly not without its faults, but it's been a fun escape from reality and the banality of CNY. I'll probably not meet the witty rich baggageless bastard or the lumberjack with Mr. Bridges' sincerity (and haircut), but if nothing else, it'll give me an endless supply of lulz and something for me to rant about.

Because for as much as I love myself, I love ranting a hell of a lot more.

But maybe I should change the opening of this entry. Because I'm clearly not desperate (oh look, I made a joke), and I'm not the only one wading the murky waters of the interweb dating lagoon. Maybe it should go a little something like this...

Destination: Unabashed Shamelessness.
Population: All of the lonely losers of the world.

...Meh, not self-depreciating enough.