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July 10, 2015

Ferashback

Here's an oldie, but goodie...


My building manager is from Cambodia.  

When I correct his pronunciation, he corrects mine.  I'm serious.

Sore and Tinder

I scoured through hundreds of men on Tinder and hand selected a few for dates.  Despite many of their profiles saying otherwise, all of them made it very clear that they weren't interested in a relationship... which was completely unnecessary, especially for the ones who told me this in my living room.  Here is the view from my futon:


The icon with Christ dead, being lowered into the tomb, is called "Extreme Humility". 


The rest of my place is covered in books about Holy Tradition.  They don't understand that I can't date just any pagan weirdo.  



There's an assumption that I want a relationship, which isn't exactly wrong, but somehow I don't get to vote on the partner.  



So thank you, all of you, for the very kind but completely unnecessary "I'm not looking for..." speeches.  








Tinder-ella

As a Mother's Day present, I put a profile up for a month on Tinder.  For those of you new to the thirty-five year old boundary war between me and my mother (hi mom!  I love you!), here is an excerpt from my very first post on this site from six years ago, titled "Ten Minutes of Conversation with Mom on the Patio While Trying to Write".
*
Me:  Why do you assume I'll never find love?

Mom:  I think you should-that's the point!  I think a guy should love you and see how wonderful you are!  Get the damn dog off me.
*
That was back when I was just a naive, twenty-nine year old kid.  I had my whole life ahead of me.  
Me at 29.  Just a whippersnapper, full of dreams.  
Now I'm a washed up thirty-five year old hag with dusty ovaries and saggy boobies.  Sometimes if I shake my head really fast, I can see jowls.  

Me currently.  Yuck!  Ridden hard and put away wet.   

I cannot stress enough how much I hate dating.  The last date I went on was in 2008, and I didn't even know it was a date until he started feeding me sushi.  My modus operandi is to either jump into shitty relationships or jump into great friendships.  People like me, who got sucker punched by grief at a young age, know already that we will wish for more time with others, therefore we don't waste it.  

Apparently that behavior is creepy on dates.  There is a superficial protocol of what I'm allowed to discuss.  Blink...blink...


Andy and Kat at the beach.  I got pissed off because it was January, and he went swimming in the ocean.  I thought he was going to get hypothermia and die.  He died four Januaries later...by slipping off an icy roof.  Apparently, this is not a first date anecdote.  


Granted, I'm not famous, but that memoir I wrote years ago became shockingly popular- I was even recognized out of state (that was, by far, the raddest time in my life).  So, the table next to us could know things my date isn't allowed to know yet. 

I interpreted this as the rules not applying to me, and subsequently made up my own.  I turned the experience into a side project, kept records, dated college kids, and trampled all over others' feelings in the process.

Hiding behind my "craft" is a lie.  I know myself.  I pulled this shit because it was a tactical move against rejection.  Like, a scientist doesn't get butt hurt when the rat bites him.

I've since scrapped the project, and I owe a massive apology.  Especially to one person in particular.