I had a conversation with my best friend from college last night. Hearing from him was wonderful, because sometimes I worry that everyone back east has forgotten about me since we graduated. But some of the things he mentioned stuck with me.
They are all living in New York City together, but he began to confess to me that none of them are really happy. They are tired, bored, overworked. They want to leave. He is applying to grad schools in the Midwest. The Midwest! Who goes from NYC to the Midwest? But for him, that was his dream. And it made me wonder: is there such thing as a 20-something individual that is content with where they live and what they do?
I have been miserable in Tucson. But he said to me, "I'm so happy you are livin' it up and having an amazing time down there." And I didn't argue, because I wanted him to think it was true. And that's what I strive for every time I'm on Facebook and post pictures and statuses of only awesome and beautiful things. And they do the same. And yet deep down, we are both envious of each other.
What will make us happy?
Will moving to San Francisco fix everything? Will I finally love my life? Will I be proud of myself? Will I feel independent?
I don't know anymore.
All I know is that I have to try.
You have to take leaps. You have to fall backwards into a crowd. If you aren't happy somewhere, then you change it. You just change it. You chase satisfaction. You chase what you think will help you. And if you get there and realize it was a mistake? Whatever. Play it out, see how it goes. Worst case scenario, you move back home into the arms of your family. And then you just try again.
Because we're young. We are given these precious 10 years to fuck around and figure out what we want. After talking to Kevin, I learned that there is not a single one of us that is completely happy and that is where they want to be for the rest of their lives. It is rare for a person at 32 to be where they were when they were 22.
There is a negative, desperate, and scared part of me that says I have a supportive family so I should just try to stay near them. But there is an adventurous and opportunistic part of me that says I have a supportive family so I should take the plunge knowing that if I begin to drown, I will have them to help me. But relying on parents while you live down the street does a lot more emotional damage then relying on them when you are making a life for yourself in a crazy random city that you just might end up falling in love with.
So get that craigslist roommate. Get that job that pays shit but feels good. If you have the slightest hunch that it will be what makes you happy, DO IT. Otherwise you will always wonder if that would've been the better road to take when you hit that fork.
I'm 24. I'm single. I am smart and nice. I have no reason not to just try. Last time I took a leap was when I decided to go to school on the other end of the country. And it was the best thing that ever happened to me.
And if everything turns to shit, I'll have my dog.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Mirrors Ruin Everything
I'm not sure how old I was. It had to be young. I guess I can trace it to middle school, because that's when we got all the wooden closet doors in the house replaced with mirrored ones. I only know that because the mirror had a lot to do with it.
I don't know what it is that made me suddenly appreciate my body. If my chronological estimates are correct, I didn't have much of one. Skinny, awkward, no tits, acne. But some carnal urge (most cliche statement ever) brought me on the floor and had me writhing in front of the mirror. I was on my stomach, on my back, on my knees, whatever. Just playing music and doing what I had been told on TV was sexy, and enjoying the fact that I was doing it. Me! The awkward girl at school that none of the boys were interested in. She was sexy (or so I thought)! And she knows it! And then one night, I started grinding on the floor a little. Then it became thrusting, then before I knew it, something happened that I couldn't explain. I know what it is now, but at the time I freaked. I know I can embrace it and enjoy it now, but at the time, I didn't recognize or appreciate the fact that I had just had my first orgasm.
The next feeling was guilt. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water, and I remember passing my mom on the way there. And I grew hot and shaky and so incredibly guilty that I thought I might throw up. But I got in bed, and I started thinking, and when my mind stopped racing, I realized what had happened. And I was proud. I had my very first dirty little secret.
Which brings us to now. Orgasms are fantastic, obviously. Pleasuring yourself is a no-brainer, obviously. It gets me relaxed and tired and I always have good dreams after. Not to mention the event itself. The build up, the breakdown. Every aspect is amazing.
But there is one aspect of the orgasms of the 25 year old me that differ from that of the 13 year old me.
I have to think of someone else to help me come now. But when I had my first orgasm, all I had to do was look at myself. I turned me on. Me. I didn't need anyone else in the picture. I looked at myself and loved the way I looked when I was being sexy.
Now, I have to take myself away from me as much as possible. I can't think of where I am, what I'm doing, and especially what I look like. I come up with a fantasy of some sexy encounter with a stranger with the face of my latest crush. But in my fantasy, I'm gorgeous. I'm stunning. I'm thin. The best part about the fantasy is the fact that this imaginary man wants me so bad he has to have me right then and there, and who is so consumed by the experience that he will do anything to make me come. And when I do, he is ecstatic.
And I have to squeeze my eyes shut. Because if I think about what I look like--lying in bed, old shitty tank top on, granny panties, greasy hair back in a headband, bloating stomach--I completely lose it. Because I feel gross and desperate and...guilty. The means have changed, but the guilt stays the same. I no longer feel guilty for the act, I feel guilty that I am the one doing it. Because I feel that writhing around in bed or on the floor is a priviledge that only sexy people deserve.
Why do I care so much what I look like while I'm doing it? Why can't I fully embrace the experience and understand that an orgasm in itself, no matter what the circumstances, is sexy? Will I ever turn myself on again?
And here's the question that just struck me: Is this why I have only had orgasms alone, and never in front of someone else?
Now that's fucked up.
I don't know what it is that made me suddenly appreciate my body. If my chronological estimates are correct, I didn't have much of one. Skinny, awkward, no tits, acne. But some carnal urge (most cliche statement ever) brought me on the floor and had me writhing in front of the mirror. I was on my stomach, on my back, on my knees, whatever. Just playing music and doing what I had been told on TV was sexy, and enjoying the fact that I was doing it. Me! The awkward girl at school that none of the boys were interested in. She was sexy (or so I thought)! And she knows it! And then one night, I started grinding on the floor a little. Then it became thrusting, then before I knew it, something happened that I couldn't explain. I know what it is now, but at the time I freaked. I know I can embrace it and enjoy it now, but at the time, I didn't recognize or appreciate the fact that I had just had my first orgasm.
The next feeling was guilt. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water, and I remember passing my mom on the way there. And I grew hot and shaky and so incredibly guilty that I thought I might throw up. But I got in bed, and I started thinking, and when my mind stopped racing, I realized what had happened. And I was proud. I had my very first dirty little secret.
Which brings us to now. Orgasms are fantastic, obviously. Pleasuring yourself is a no-brainer, obviously. It gets me relaxed and tired and I always have good dreams after. Not to mention the event itself. The build up, the breakdown. Every aspect is amazing.
But there is one aspect of the orgasms of the 25 year old me that differ from that of the 13 year old me.
I have to think of someone else to help me come now. But when I had my first orgasm, all I had to do was look at myself. I turned me on. Me. I didn't need anyone else in the picture. I looked at myself and loved the way I looked when I was being sexy.
Now, I have to take myself away from me as much as possible. I can't think of where I am, what I'm doing, and especially what I look like. I come up with a fantasy of some sexy encounter with a stranger with the face of my latest crush. But in my fantasy, I'm gorgeous. I'm stunning. I'm thin. The best part about the fantasy is the fact that this imaginary man wants me so bad he has to have me right then and there, and who is so consumed by the experience that he will do anything to make me come. And when I do, he is ecstatic.
And I have to squeeze my eyes shut. Because if I think about what I look like--lying in bed, old shitty tank top on, granny panties, greasy hair back in a headband, bloating stomach--I completely lose it. Because I feel gross and desperate and...guilty. The means have changed, but the guilt stays the same. I no longer feel guilty for the act, I feel guilty that I am the one doing it. Because I feel that writhing around in bed or on the floor is a priviledge that only sexy people deserve.
Why do I care so much what I look like while I'm doing it? Why can't I fully embrace the experience and understand that an orgasm in itself, no matter what the circumstances, is sexy? Will I ever turn myself on again?
And here's the question that just struck me: Is this why I have only had orgasms alone, and never in front of someone else?
Now that's fucked up.
Monday, September 10, 2012
An Open Letter to Shitty Bosses
Dear Shitty Bosses,
You are our boss. You have authority over what we do and how we do it. You are in charge of whether or not we get the money that we need to live comfortably. And if we do get the money, you are in charge of exactly how much money we get and, therefore, how comfortably we are going to live. How you manage us is what decides how we feel when we are at work. If you are productive and fun, we will feel good. If you are a piece of shit, we will not feel good.
We, as the employees of shitty bosses, do not feel good.
You, as the shitty bosses, should not feel good. But you probably do.
Because you don't realize how shitty you actually are. All you know is that you have employees and you are in charge of their money and if they are good enough to have it. And if you feel like insulting us for some reason--that reason most often being that you feel like insulting someone--you can. And we can't say anything back. And that gets your dick hard.
So, shitty bosses, here is my guess as to what your employees probably want to say to you.
You are worthless. If it weren't for the fact that you are in charge of our money, we would have cut your balls off ages ago. If, one day, we woke up and were told by an anonymous source that you would be fired that day and didn't know it, we would probably skip happily right into your office, pour your hot coffee on your lap, stick a pen in your eye socket, then skip away. You are terrible. You are devoid of human compassion and are completely disconnected from those of us who do the real work in this godforsaken place. You come in late, you leave early. And for that short period where we are at work at the same time, you use every second of it to belittle us and point out our mistakes, with a few short breaks to close your office door and jack off to your own reflection. You will insult an employee while they cry in front of you, then go home and sit around and not think about that employee again. You will sleep soundly.
As your employees, we would like to reiterate how little we actually care about you. It may seem like a lot, because we abide by your rules and obey your authority. But that does not mean we actually care about you. The fact is, we wouldn't call anyone if you didn't show up to work one day. We wouldn't care. We would go on about our work, probably more efficiently and definitely more happily.
We will love the day that we get new jobs and can quit this one, so we can tell you how we really feel. We have drafts saved on our computers of resignation letters that we want to give to you. Resignation letters that succinctly express in the most detail exactly how much we despise you. We won't spoil it anymore, so consider this letter a prologue to the next one, which you will be reading from the bottom of a well in our basements while we starve you so we can make a coat out of your skin.
See you at work!
Your employees.
You are our boss. You have authority over what we do and how we do it. You are in charge of whether or not we get the money that we need to live comfortably. And if we do get the money, you are in charge of exactly how much money we get and, therefore, how comfortably we are going to live. How you manage us is what decides how we feel when we are at work. If you are productive and fun, we will feel good. If you are a piece of shit, we will not feel good.
We, as the employees of shitty bosses, do not feel good.
You, as the shitty bosses, should not feel good. But you probably do.
Because you don't realize how shitty you actually are. All you know is that you have employees and you are in charge of their money and if they are good enough to have it. And if you feel like insulting us for some reason--that reason most often being that you feel like insulting someone--you can. And we can't say anything back. And that gets your dick hard.
So, shitty bosses, here is my guess as to what your employees probably want to say to you.
You are worthless. If it weren't for the fact that you are in charge of our money, we would have cut your balls off ages ago. If, one day, we woke up and were told by an anonymous source that you would be fired that day and didn't know it, we would probably skip happily right into your office, pour your hot coffee on your lap, stick a pen in your eye socket, then skip away. You are terrible. You are devoid of human compassion and are completely disconnected from those of us who do the real work in this godforsaken place. You come in late, you leave early. And for that short period where we are at work at the same time, you use every second of it to belittle us and point out our mistakes, with a few short breaks to close your office door and jack off to your own reflection. You will insult an employee while they cry in front of you, then go home and sit around and not think about that employee again. You will sleep soundly.
As your employees, we would like to reiterate how little we actually care about you. It may seem like a lot, because we abide by your rules and obey your authority. But that does not mean we actually care about you. The fact is, we wouldn't call anyone if you didn't show up to work one day. We wouldn't care. We would go on about our work, probably more efficiently and definitely more happily.
We will love the day that we get new jobs and can quit this one, so we can tell you how we really feel. We have drafts saved on our computers of resignation letters that we want to give to you. Resignation letters that succinctly express in the most detail exactly how much we despise you. We won't spoil it anymore, so consider this letter a prologue to the next one, which you will be reading from the bottom of a well in our basements while we starve you so we can make a coat out of your skin.
See you at work!
Your employees.
What everyone already knows about online dating
I have four open accounts on online dating websites. Two of them require monthly payment. One of those two is paid for by my mother. I am a cliche. A cliche of a cliche.
I've gotten one date out of these websites. Drinks. During which the male counterpart insisted that we split the $14. You would think after this I would've quit, but this is the part that isn't very cliche. I keep the accounts going just to observe. It's an interesting pool of people. Those who are at a time in their lives where they feel socially obligated to have a significant other. They are done with college, because college is basically a giant dating service in itself (I'm using the word "date" loosely in this case). They are working, but in a shitty job. I only say that because it always seems like people in shitty jobs are always single. Maybe I've read too many "Cathy" comics. The other, most defining and uniting characteristic of dating site patrons is laziness. Think about it. What did we do to meet people in the past? We went out. We got set up by friends. We dressed up to look nice in public. Now we get out of bed, grab our laptop from the kitchen and slice of pizza from the desk and check our inbox for "winks", "smiles", or some other trite little signal you can send to someone because you are too much of a pussy to write actual words to them.
If you do get a message, it is almost always going to be from someone who sent it at 3 am the night before, and it almost always says "hey wuts up" and nothing else. Who reads this message, looks at the person's profile, calls their friend and says "Oh my god Stephanie, this is the one"? No one. Because if you do look at the profile, it will consist of one picture, taken of the guy either on his computer or on his phone in front of a mirror. No sign of friends or other humans that could take the picture for him. Just him and his mirror and his keyboard and probably a half-eaten Doritos Locos taco.
And this is dating now. And we do it because it's so easy. If you aren't interested in the dude, you don't have to come up with an excuse or kindly let them down. You don't have to do anything. Literally, just close the message and never respond and never think about this person again. And then keep waiting for that one day when you'll get a message from a Ryan Gosling doppleganger that expresses in a beautiful and succinct way how he wishes dating hadn't become so impersonal and he was about to close his account until he saw your photo and he realized that maybe the internet wasn't completely devoid of true beauty. And keep ignoring people that say internet dating is weird and keep listening to people that say they know someone who knows someone whose stepsister is getting married to a guy she met on match.com.
And if you need to get laid by the time you meet your soulmate, hit up InterracialDating.com. Not a joke.
I've gotten one date out of these websites. Drinks. During which the male counterpart insisted that we split the $14. You would think after this I would've quit, but this is the part that isn't very cliche. I keep the accounts going just to observe. It's an interesting pool of people. Those who are at a time in their lives where they feel socially obligated to have a significant other. They are done with college, because college is basically a giant dating service in itself (I'm using the word "date" loosely in this case). They are working, but in a shitty job. I only say that because it always seems like people in shitty jobs are always single. Maybe I've read too many "Cathy" comics. The other, most defining and uniting characteristic of dating site patrons is laziness. Think about it. What did we do to meet people in the past? We went out. We got set up by friends. We dressed up to look nice in public. Now we get out of bed, grab our laptop from the kitchen and slice of pizza from the desk and check our inbox for "winks", "smiles", or some other trite little signal you can send to someone because you are too much of a pussy to write actual words to them.
If you do get a message, it is almost always going to be from someone who sent it at 3 am the night before, and it almost always says "hey wuts up" and nothing else. Who reads this message, looks at the person's profile, calls their friend and says "Oh my god Stephanie, this is the one"? No one. Because if you do look at the profile, it will consist of one picture, taken of the guy either on his computer or on his phone in front of a mirror. No sign of friends or other humans that could take the picture for him. Just him and his mirror and his keyboard and probably a half-eaten Doritos Locos taco.
And this is dating now. And we do it because it's so easy. If you aren't interested in the dude, you don't have to come up with an excuse or kindly let them down. You don't have to do anything. Literally, just close the message and never respond and never think about this person again. And then keep waiting for that one day when you'll get a message from a Ryan Gosling doppleganger that expresses in a beautiful and succinct way how he wishes dating hadn't become so impersonal and he was about to close his account until he saw your photo and he realized that maybe the internet wasn't completely devoid of true beauty. And keep ignoring people that say internet dating is weird and keep listening to people that say they know someone who knows someone whose stepsister is getting married to a guy she met on match.com.
And if you need to get laid by the time you meet your soulmate, hit up InterracialDating.com. Not a joke.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Epilepsy & Sex: Are We Allowed to Laugh?
As I write this sentence, I have absolutely no idea whether
or not this is going to be a serious and reflective pityfest or a quippy and
ridiculous fluff-piece.
I have had epilepsy since I was eleven years old. And my
primary goal since the very first day has been to approach it honestly, openly,
and with enough humor that people around me won’t feel the inevitable
discomfort of seeing someone with a very socially stigmatized condition.
Seizures are weird. They are different. And when people approach weird and
different things, they laugh. It’s instinctual. You have to laugh. And I go
with it, because when you are caught making fun of someone behind their back
(for whatever reason), you hope to God that that person will go along with it
and laugh with you. So when someone gets that weird look on their face when I
tell them I have seizures, because they are remembering some joke that they
heard or told about them, I grant them their wish and tell them a joke of my own.
It was totally fine, and then sex came into the picture.
I’m going to take a detour for a second. College guys think
they are sex gods. They do. And for the most part they aren’t. What do they
know about great sex? The only practice they’ve had has been on their inexperienced
girlfriends in high school or drunk girls that fake orgasms so they can go home
and eat tacos and pass out without worrying about farting in their sleep. They
are the shitty band in cramped bar that gets a great crowd because it’s dollar
beer night and anything is better than last night’s karaoke. But stick them in
a stadium and they’ll realize that they no, they are not the next ACDC.
With that said, let’s just get to the point.
When I was 22, I had a seizure during sex.
Okay, so it was foreplay, but we were downtown, so that was
enough material for my then-boyfriend to look at himself and consider the fact
that maybe his sexual prowess was so overpowering that I was rocketed into a
literal fit of pleasure. At the time he was very supportive and comforting, but
it was a few days later that his buddy made a drunken comment at a party about
him having “magic fingers”.
Of course, I laughed. What could I do? I had programmed
myself into making sure that no one would ever feel sorry for me or guilty that
they may have said the wrong thing around me.
But god dammit, that was fucked up right?
I never confronted him about it. I never even got on his
case for actually telling someone it happened in the first place. But I broke
up with him a few months later. I gave several reasons completely unrelated to
the incident and the humiliation that had ensued, but I didn’t tell him that
that was one of them. I had found my limit. I had found the line between funny
and inappropriate. And of course, that line was sex.
Because that is where everyone’s line is.
For the record, I didn’t even come.
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