Sleeping around is pretty fun, but there’s something to be said for respecting the emotions and the egos of your various sexual partners. It might be fun to flaunt your status as the village bicycle, but, as I get older, I’ve come to realize that it’s not really anybody’s business whom I sleep with, and, also, who really gives a fuck? All risk of STD aside (because, let’s be honest, you should really, really be wearing a condom every time), I guess that current sexual partners might want to know who the other ones out there are, but, at the same time, once you’ve built up a high tolerance for jealousy, it doesn’t really matter. Because the fact of the matter is, we are lucky enough to be having sex with each other right now, so what do all the other small details matter? The association of emotion and fornication is a fallacy, yet, in some instances, emotion comes naturally. So, as adults, it’s up to us to check our emotions and our underwear at the door, and we need to realize that sex is an isolated incident. The emotions that we choose to give into after the fact are something that we wholly control, yet, at the same time, anticipating your partners’ emotions in a positive, loving way is essential. So instead of baiting people for jealousy and setting them up for insecurity, give your sexual partners the benefit of common courtesy and respect for their emotions. Not everyone is able to dissociate physical desire from emotional alchemy, therefore it’s important to remember to love the people in your immediate vicinity to the fullest of your capacity, and, then, as soon as they’re gone, you can do whatever you want.
So I’m sitting at the bar with a large group of friends, and, suddenly, next thing I know: everyone here is a fucking couple. Which suddenly makes me feel nauseous, although, maybe it’s the eighth shot of tequila that is making me feel nauseous and not the dizzying realization that everybody here is awkwardly coupled up. Maybe it’s a sickness induced by the abandonment of all those punk ideals that I thought all of us were still touting, but has old age made us soft? I mean, I’m pretty sure that these are all the friends with whom I used to run around town and scam people. Didn’t we used to compete in the numbers game together? Or, wait, so what’s happened here? Did the principle of free love suddenly become trite? Or is it that there’s a certain amount of comfort in having someone steady to fuck at the end of the night. But comfort is so fucking boring, so I guess I’ll meander away from my group of friends and up to that somewhat attractive looking drunk guy at the end of the bar, because youth fades easy but the wanton, misguided principles of fuck and be free forever dies very hard.
Maybe you’ve heard of this new tumblr that’s become pretty popular within the current conversation about feminism. It’s called Women Against Feminism. Go ahead. Check it out. Read some of those blu…
It’s easy to crumble beneath your own ego. I could tell he thought of himself as attractive, and, even worse, he thought that he had convinced me that he was attractive. As I sat there with my martini glass filled with some yellow liquid that was just going to make me feel sick the next day. Smiling in an unprofound way, because that’s what dates are, aren’t they? He speaks, again, and I remember that my mother told me not to roll my eyes, lest they get stuck that way, but that would have been okay. Because then I wouldn’t have to look at this bullshit right now, which isn’t to say that I’m fetishizing blindness right now, just that there are certain things in life that you wish you hadn’t seen, and his face is one of those things. And the words he’s saying – that, too. I wish I had never heard them. Although, rather than being tucked tightly into my bed with the TV on, maybe it’s better to wish that someone attractive and interesting were sitting across from me, holding me hostage under the pretense of free drinks, smelling slightly of stale cheese and cheap cologne. Why did I wear my nice perfume for this. I smell fine. I put on my Chanel perfume and my Chanel shoes, both of which were acquired for me at a bargain rate but are genuine nonetheless. Although, still too much effort for this date right now, so I eat another cracker and smile convincingly. When will this be over, and I have friends that are prostitutes, and they wouldn’t suffer through this kind of bullshit for anything less than $300. But me? Maybe I’m a fool, because I’ve had two drinks so far, and I’m not nearly drunk enough, and I’m going to go home without even having the guts to ask for cab fare. But, wait, that’s okay, I’m not a prostitute, nor do I aspire to be one. I’m just your average, run of the mill girl with smart phone and a couple online dating profiles and a miraculously heretofore unshattered illusion of the possibility of attraction co-mingling with fornication. Which is laughable, I know, because that’s what got me here in the first place, but, oh well, I guess I’ll continue making the incredibly calculated gesture of only exhaling while he speaks because if I make the mistake of inhaling while he’s exhaling then I’m going to have suppress another face-curdled wince of nose full of bad breath, and, yeesh, what do people eat before they go on dates so that they smell like this? Keep smiling, little girl, keep smiling. Keep drinking, too, because maybe another shot of green chartreuse will completely dismantle your olfactory capabilities, thereby rendering this date slightly more bearable, but, for now, try to buy him a shot of Rumpleminz or something, because, holy shit. Did he eat a dead rat last night or what? This is fucking awful.
My dreams have dried up, or did they never exist. I stay in more than I used to, which means that I field half hearted text messages at ten a.m. when I wake up the next day. The time stamp is from 1:13, as usual. Always on time, from various people, asking what I’m doing or where I am. I wonder how long before they catch up and realize that I am nowhere, doing nothing, and that I am thoroughly content to be here and doing these things. I have burned alcohol like gasoline down my throat. Bitten ravenous into flesh filled with drugs. Dug my nails into coffins, expectorating putrid and vomit in the faces of fuzzy friends. But enough of all that. It’s not that I’m an adult anymore today than yesterday, it’s that being child has become mundane. A routine. Much like doing the same thing day after day after day becomes mundane, or, worse, addiction. I have no time for that. There’s a pursuit of novelty in my veins, and addiction is the opposite of novelty. I have seen novelty gnaw at the arms of otherwise intelligent, attractive people, and gangrene is not beautiful. I don’t like to let my limbs fester in the sunlight, and being poor is so fucking boring. Tomorrow’s parties are exactly like yesterday’s, except the faces have changed, but the people have not. We’re all still the same. Vapid, useless. Philosophically confused. On our way to somewhere else, or nowhere in particular. When people said it was pathetic when I was doing it, I didn’t believe them. Because it was fun. And it felt good. But now? Now that I’m saying it, I believe every word.