Tinder thirsts: I’m free at these weird times in the middle of business hours, and then Friday and Saturday nights.
Me: Uhhh, I can schedule a first date with you Mon through Thurs evenings.
Tinder thirsts: What about next weekend?
Me: I can schedule a first date with you Mon through Thurs evenings……
Tinder thirsts: Why can’t we meet Fridays or Saturdays?
Me: Because strangers on the internet don’t deserve my weekends just because they ask for it? I’m not cancelling my life to meet you.
Y’all, it’s crazy how many hopeless dates you’ll go on with these dating apps, which is why it’s important to maintain boundaries between it and your real life. If you let them have their way, you’ll look back at lot of wasted weekends where you wish you’d seen your family or friends instead…..
“Dear Mary, this email is to inform you that Edfinancial Services has processed your Income-Based Repayment Plan request. Your request has been denied.”
Denied consolidation, but also denied IBR on the loans separately. 🤷♀️ Whattya want here, I’m not a magician. Choose 1.
America is funny.
The subconscious is funny. It takes care of me when my instincts won’t. When your room is a pig sty, and every time I come over you still haven’t cleaned, I stub my toe or trip on everything, and I have to beg you to provide me–your guest–a clean towel, space on the bed, basic amenities, a single empty space on the floor to even put my overnight bag….. I’m attracted to you less and less each time until I’m finally not attracted to you at all. My subconscious looks into the future and sees you never pulling your weight, and it slowly cures me.
Thanks, subconscious–the real MVP. To the gross dude, you have literally shoved me out of bed and made me feel unwelcome for the last time. Congrats, it worked?
My grandfather and I were close only in that emotional way that girls are close with a grandfather. We didn’t have deep conversations, and it says a lot about my self-imposed isolation and general disinterest growing up that I learned most of what I know about him from reading his book. He believed certain things with every fiber of his being, and it made him happy to do so. When he lived, all I could see were what made us different. Here at the end, I’m thinking about all the wholesome interactions we shared over the years. He was a good and generous person; the kind of man who spent retirement picking up trash off the highway every morning in his bright yellow beetle, even if environmentalism was for weirdos. I suppose I get my outlandish fashion from him, even if we didn’t agree on much else. His positive outlook on humanity is something to aspire to.
Watching my grandfather run from invisible demons in his mind; hear him cry out in pain or fear or both, completely incapacitated and absent from reality…. I’m called back to those moments of madness that I have after my seizures, when I’m stuck between worlds but can’t move or speak or see or even form cogent thoughts. In those times I don’t have thoughts at all, I have “mind flashes” — flurries of images and feelings that make no sense when placed on a number line because there’s no relativity, connection, or logical flow between them. These times look and feel just like those episodes of Evangelion.
I only experience them for a few minutes, and they’re absolutely frightening every time. He (I assume) has been experiencing them for years. Y E A R S. Late-stage dementia is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen a person go through. It looks like complete insanity, and with the physical incapacitation to boot, there’s no ability to escape, distract, or end it (if that were his wish). It’s a version of being alive that is literal torture.
When I’m on the cusp of death, I hope I have even half so many visitors and well-wishers as he’s had. I hope my impact on others looks something like his. But I wouldn’t want his end. I’d hope someone rescues me (or I accomplish the rescue) long before I ever reached permanent Evangelion.
Older generations preach marriage but have no idea what a healthy, non-toxic marriage looks like and so can’t teach it. How can you possibly know true love if you marry the first person you give half-hearted head to in high school? But as long as you have a ring, right? 🙄
The fact I’m still attracted to men at all is proof sexuality isn’t a choice.
I had a bone-chilling dream last night. On the side of a backroad, off in deep woods somewhere, I and a friend discovered an underground series of dormitories that centered around a portal to another world, possible in a different dimension altogether. This other world was jaw-droppingly beautiful–pastel skies, space and time in flux, wide grasslands that shimmered and seemed to move in ways earth materials don’t. The potential of this reality-altering discovery could not be overdescribed.
So, why was it being kept down here in this underground dormitory in the woods? I come to discover naked female corpses being dumped beyond the portal. …Rich and powerful men were keeping the portal secret and using it as a dumping ground for their sex trafficked slaves to hide evidence and operate with impunity. The rest of the dream is escaping this underground dormitory (which is castle-sized, but horizontally instead of vertically) without being discovered, killed, and dumped across the portal myself.
What a meta take on the human race that this is what I assume the first evidence of a reality beyond our own would be used for. And I can’t even say with waking-world certainty that my take was incorrect.
What massive mindfuck-levels of privilege do you have to have in order to confidently dismiss any concerns from people who don’t look or sound exactly like you as this monolith non-category called “identity politics”?
Here I stand baking Pillsbury so that tomorrow morning my overnight guest and I can breakfast on eggs and sausage gravy biscuits. Someone send help, I am wasting my time being this perfect while the men I see don’t even muster the will to shower before coming over, or they expect me to brush my teeth around the mold and years-old beard hairs in their sinks. I met a man who doesn’t even do his own laundry at 29.
Yeah I know I’m wasting my time. But, I’ve tried being a worthless piece of shit to my dates and I couldn’t stand it. So, this me acknowledging that it’s not for them, it’s for me…. That fresh hair-do, perfect manicure, lotion, makeup, clean house, fresh sheets outta the dryer, beers and breakfast in the fridge; this is just who I am. It makes me happy to be this awesome.
Shower and buy some groceries before your gotdammed booty calls, you overgrown teenagers.
Today in “Facebook ads that know me better than I know myself”, we have my two fashions: bondage gear and Shire garb.
Having emotionally charged encounters with a poly dude who “doesn’t believe in relationships” is the equivalent of driving out to Yosemite without food, water, or camping equipment and thinking it’s going to go fine.
Me, to me: “Sure, but after a few years alone it’s better than nothing.”
My rebuttal, to me:
Update: It went south 👍
And it’s easy to be mad about how he wronged you when you’re always thinking about how he wronged you. Empty your mind, do yoga instead, and embrace new people. Keep what’s good, release what feels bad. Breathe in and out.
Relatives are at it again. I’m not flotsam that needs salvaging. I’m out there dating. It’s just not serious, and that’s okay. Men are praised for doing the same and considered picky with a smile; I get branded with a scarlet letter and considered aimless with a frown.
Well, here’s the deal. I have a limited amount of time left on this planet, and I’m not going to spend it being a watered down version of myself just so a man will like me enough to stick around. Yo, they don’t stick around either way, so why be less than authentic?
If me ON all the time intimidates dudes who might otherwise be good matches, then that’s on them. I will never be half of myself for a man’s comfort ever again.