SS: Online Dating and Pepper Spray

 

My mother told me when I moved to LA that I needed to be careful in every situation. I took that to heart in a lot of ways, but it’s really difficult to be one hundred percent safe when jumping into the abyss of online dating. I try mainly to keep my perimeter safe; crowded meeting location, not too dark, keep the first date relatively short, always always keep pepper spray on hand, and wear pants.

 

I would never profess myself an expert, if I was, I probably wouldn’t still be dating. I would however qualify myself as an experienced “first dater” because I have been on so many random, horrible, awesome, ridiculous first dates that most people wouldn’t believe me if I told them. I am just a typical girl though struggling to live in the big bad city of Los Angeles. Never would I say I’m the typical LA girl though, I’m far from it. My name is Grace Parker, I have reddish brown hair that falls down just below my shoulders, bright green eyes that change colors depending on the weather, fair skin and a good amount of freckles, longish legs though a slightly short torso and a decently sizable upper torso. Yes, all of this I somewhat highlight in my profile, paints a great picture doesn’t it? What I don’t say…I am not the skinniest girl ever though I wouldn’t call myself fat. I would put myself somewhere in the middle, curvy though confident with what I have. I don’t have a “decent backside” but I never stop doing squats because I am told again and again that that is how you “work that booty”…whatever that means. You see my point is; online profiles don’t tell you everything.

 

Like right now, I am sitting at the bar top because it’s way too cold to stand outside. I don’t care what people from the Mid-West say to me, I know I am in Los Angeles, but I am from Southern California. Sixty degrees with a slight wind chill wearing skinny jeans and a flimsy top is considered cold to me.

 

Shaking my head in annoyance that I left my overly heavy peacoat in my car I try to shake off the chills of the slightly full bar. There aren’t a whole lot of people, but the bar itself is dark and crowded in the small space allotted. Not my usual digs either, though I would never turn down a dive bar I typically go for places that have more than three beers on the tap list, especially if those beers end in “Lite”.  A sharp throat clearing from behind me grates into my ear and I turn my head to find my date.

 

First impression, oh dear god what did I get into. Second impression, I swear he didn’t look that short on the profile.

 

“Hi,” I squeaked out. Yes, I squeak, and surprisingly it pulled a smile from mister short stuff.

 

“Hey there, you look beautiful tonight.” His eyes did the whole dart down my body and slowly slide back up thing forgetting to look me in the eyes again for several long seconds. He wasn’t bad looking at all, in fact he had a really cute way about his style. I would put it somewhere between punk, surfer, and college frat boy. “Can I get you a drink?” He asked after his eyes found their way back to my face.

 

“Sure, I’ll have an Old Fashioned.” Though I might need two to get through this one. His eyes were already doing that wide open saucer gaze meaning that in about five minutes I would have to figure out a way to distance myself from his groping hands. Actually it took less than three minutes.

 

After one old fashioned and a complimentary shot of Jameson by my over eager date and I was ready to leave. Not leave with him leave, just leave, run away and never see this guy again. In the span of 20 minutes (I still can’t believe I lasted that long!) he asked me to join him back at his place for a threesome, because coming back to be with him, a virtual stranger, wasn’t already extremely strange. He wondered where I was from because I was so exotically beautiful, which makes him (as my grandmother would put it) fecally impacted with bovine manure. I am from Southern California, I am Scottish/Irish/English/with a dash of Native American. I am not exotic, I am a white girl with freckles which I feel like is highly common in the wild outback of…Los Angeles. Exotic my arse! He told me that he would love love love to have a girlfriend as beautiful as me which he followed up with flickered of eye contact toward my shirt and a biting/licking of his lower lips. Gross.

 

“You are the most beautiful thing,” he said with a slight slur. The alcohol was definitely getting to him.

 

“I am not a thing, I am a person you know.” I replied snippily. I couldn’t help it. It was the hundredth time I pushed his hand off my upper thigh only to have him slip his hand down my lower back. I no longer cared about being nice, or being a sweet first date, I was getting angry. I was all for a little mild flirting, but I have boundaries, and mister hands on tactic had crossed over the line. “I really actually need to be going.”

 

“No, you can’t, you haven’t been here nearly long enough!”

 

“Funny, I feel like I have massively overstayed my welcome.”

 

He didn’t find that funny at all, the pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows that made him resemble a frustrated child showed proof of that. “You haven’t finished your drink, and if you leave before you do, you can pay for yours yourself.”

 

I sneered at him, and honestly if I was a dragon he would have been burnt toast after that comment. “You ordered these drinks, and your card is up at the register. Remove your hands from me, I am leaving.” I stood without caring what he said, or even what he did. I was in a bar full of people, there wasn’t much he could do to harm me, but just in case I pulled my pepper spray from my purse and held it tightly in my hand.

 

I started toward the door but didn’t get all that far before a hand yanked on my elbow from behind and I quickly found a sharp corner of the wall at my back, and a short yet surprisingly muscular body at my front. “Leaving without finishing your drink is rude sweetheart, leaving me without a kiss goodnight is just down right mean.” At this point, the panic started to taste like bile in my throat. This man child was beyond ridiculous, he was actually leaning in toward me for a kiss.

 

“You must be joking,” I replied, though failed to keep the blatant shock from my voice. He totally wasn’t kidding.

 

“Well if you aren’t going to kiss me,” he said as his hands pulled away from my body giving me a momentary moment of relief. That is until I saw where his hands were traveling. In the loud atmosphere of the bar I couldn’t actually hear it, but I knew that the zipper to his pants was being pulled down. I saw him reach into his overly tight man skinny jeans. “If you aren’t going to kiss me,” he reiterated as he pulled out his proportionately sized member to his smaller stature, “then you can at least touch him for me?”

 

I think I laughed, though maybe choked on air would be a better explanation of my reaction. Regardless, I smiled, looked him straight in the eyes and lifted up my cute little pink bottled pepper spray. “If you don’t move away from me, and put that little tuna can you have there away, I will happily spray your junk with my pepper spray.”

 

Shock, horror, and bewilderment crossed his overly tanned face before his hands flew up into the air leaving his pants splayed wide open and his little member flopping back and forth in equal amounts of surprised terror. “Whatever you say bitch, just don’t shoot me!”

 

Of course me standing up for myself makes me a bitch. Of course everything I did until that very moment was seen as an invitation. I didn’t care, because I hadn’t done anything to deserve what he was putting me through, and I wouldn’t take what he had to offer sitting down. I kept my finger on the trigger and backed away toward the door before I pushed I open and slipped out into the night. I felt exuberant and disgusted with the evening, horrified and amazed.

 

I walked back to my car (I would say a nice clipped power walk to be safe) with my keys in my hand, my pepper spray still gripped between my fingers and a smug smile on my face. No one would ever force me into anything I didn’t want to do, and if they did, I wouldn’t hesitate to spray their junk. Best line of the night…

 

 

 

 

Short Story: The Best Friend Rules

1)      Don’t get too close to a guy you see everyday

2)      Don’t become really good friends with him if you are already attracted

3)      Don’t let him give you hugs for random moments outside of saying hello and goodbye

4)      Don’t let him see you without makeup

5)      Don’t let him see you cry

6)      Don’t become best friends

7)      Don’t fall in love with your best friend

8)      I said don’t…..

 

 

I know these rules as well as I know the back of my hand, but just like the back of my hand there are moments of, “where the hell did that freckle come from!” No matter how well you know something, it doesn’t mean it won’t change.

 

It’s easy, I will get right to the point, I met him on a Thursday morning on the first day of class. It was my final semester in college and I was more than ready to be done with it. I have heard the age old saying, “college isn’t about learning, it’s about putting up with all the bullshit to see if you have enough guts to wade through the massive stinking piles surrounding you.” I was done wading, and ready to start living.

 

It was the first day of Applied Arts, a mess around class that basically allowed you to fool around for most of the semester. You had six weeks to build three separate master pieces, with any form of structure, any use of materials, you just made random shit for six weeks and then presented it at the end of the class at a gallery art show. It was my last class, and the only class I had all semester long, my days would be easy sailing from here on out.

 

I sat down in a chair toward the middle of the wide classroom, and watched as the expansive room filled up with well over 50 students. Most of them I knew, but like most private schools with off campus living, I wasn’t all that close to many people in my classes save a few. Perhaps I would be making more friends before the end of the class.

 

I shouldn’t have thought that, I should have just kept to myself and choose a seat right up front, but as fate would have it I didn’t. As fate would have it, he sat next to me. Taylor Garland. I’d seen his face several times before, but we had never shared a class. It didn’t stop him from sitting next to me and saying, “Hey Grace,” like he had known me for years. It didn’t stop him from making silly jokes throughout the first day of lecture like we were already best buds, and it didn’t stop him from asking for my number as a work buddy when the Professor said we would need a partner for our first project.

 

I won’t lie, the first three weeks went by uneventful enough. After the first day of being shocked by the up close view of his stunning copper brown hair, and seriously brilliant green eyes, I was able to keep my girly-ness in check. I didn’t swoon when he walked through the door, and my breath didn’t catch in my throat. For three whole weeks he was just a friend, a sweet natured, easy going buddy; then one day all of that changed.

 

It was a random day in the middle of the week and I was running late for class. I lived less than mile away from school but it was still a hefty jog if I was going to walk. I hated being late, and to be honest it had nothing to do with my teacher giving me the evil eye, it actually had everything to do with Taylor. Even though I hated to admit it, I loved every second I had with him, and it was slowly becoming a problem. I would rush to class and get there before he would casually saunter in, and at the end of class I would slow my pace and put everything away one little piece at a time. I wanted more minutes next to him, and as much as I was trying to deny my affection growing, I just blamed it on the fact that he was a good friend and I enjoyed his company. What dirty evil lies I feed myself, nasty dark bitter lies.

 

Not only was I running late, but I was also unable to get my car to start, and me being the idiot that I am decided it was a great idea to call Taylor. “Hey, I don’t think I am going to be able to make it to class today. You think you can handle taking notes for me?”

 

“No!” Was his first response. “I’m not even there yet, if you aren’t going I’m not going. Where are you, I’ll come get you.” I should have said no, I should have lied, I shouldn’t have told him exactly where I was because then he would know where I lived. I shouldn’t have told him that my car wouldn’t start forcing him to offer me a ride every day for the remainder of the class. Most importantly I shouldn’t have gone with him to the bar he took me to instead of being in class like we were supposed to be.

 

The first drink was ok, but the second one was uncalled for. The third one should never have happened and the fourth one I totally blamed on Taylor. We were giggling, and groping onto one another in our stumbling drunken state. We left his car at the bar and somehow managed to make it back to his apartment. We laughed and giggled the whole way down the hall to his room, and we stayed up all night playing stupid you tube videos and laughing at dumb music videos. We both agreed it was time to sleep at 5 in the morning, and we both equally crashed when our heads hit the pillow on his queen sized bed.

 

I woke with a slight headache, a rolling stomach, and a preconceived notion that I had mascara running down my face. “Hey, you have mascara running down your face raccoon,” he said without a pause when his eyes first split open.

 

“Thanks,” I replied sarcastically. “Your hair looks like Alphalpha and Einstein put together.”

 

“Wicked.” He said on a yawn. “Breakfast?” And that’s how our routine of sleepovers started. We never undressed around each other, we cuddled slightly but not obscenely, we just loved being around one another. There was slight sexual tension, but I only ever saw it on my side, I never really knew if he felt the same way. Maybe one morning I woke up to us spooning and I felt a little more of him than I should have, can’t say I regretted it, but I can say it made my cheeks flame bright red and I quickly scooted away so he didn’t know I noticed.

 

Two weeks before our class was over we were listening to a lecture on the practical use of wire in plaster molds. Maybe 15 minutes into the teachers introduction to new metal materials I felt Taylor’s hand moving up my calf the tops of my black zipper boots. He reached for the zipper and pulled it all the way down leaving my boot to flop open like a peeled banana. He didn’t fix the zipper he just left it wide open flashing me with a daring smile with the words, ‘wanna play?’ sparking from his grassy eyes. For the next 45 minutes I endured, ok maybe I thoroughly enjoyed, Taylors hand slowly sliding up my calf and then slowly zipping down my boot as his fingers trailed over my skin to the tops of my ankles before I reached down and zipped the boot back into place. Zip. Caress. Zip. Repeat. When class was over he reached over and gave me a hug. “Hey be right back, I have to head to the counselors office, but I’ll meet you out front in about 15 minutes ok?” I nodded, and that was when casual un –needed yet totally wanted hugs popped into our lifestyle.

 

Three nights after the boots charade I found myself doubled over in fit of pain begging any god that would listen to fix me. Which is ridiculous when you think about it really, there is no point begging for anyone to fix the problems of being a human, but it would be nice if someone listened. I didn’t get a god to help ease my pain though, I got Taylor. As the kidney stone worked its vicious tricks inside my body threatening to cleave me in two, Taylor walked into my room screaming at me to get off the pot. It was funny, but I couldn’t laugh, instead a stream of tears slipped through my lashes and I cried out like a woman giving birth to an elephant. I wish I was exaggerating, but I’m seriously not. Those little spiky calcium bastards hurt like a bitch!

 

“Grace, babe, what’s wrong?” Taylor asked as he fell to the floor in my bathroom. He had pounded through the bathroom door like a battle ram almost like he thought someone was murdering me, but when he saw me cowering on the floor in a pile of messy sweat ridden clothes and massive tears streaming down my face his eyes flipped over to concern in an instant. He called me babe, was all I could focus on. Which seriously was ridiculous looking back at the situation. I was on the floor in a fit of pain, a kidney stone was stabbing my internal tubing like a blood crazed axe murder and the only thing on my mind was, he called me babe. Crazy, I was going crazy. “Tell me babe, what’s wrong?”

 

“Kidney stones,” I whisper on a wave of pain desperately trying to hold back the tears. Before I could stop myself though, I thought of Dane Cook, don’t ask me why because I will never understand why it popped in my head. We had only watched the stand up video one time that very first night we were together but before I could hold the reins on my idiotic rambling I looked him dead in the eyes with tears streaming and said, “I did my best.”

 

That was when I no longer saw him as just a school friend, he was a rock of strength for me. He was my go to friend to call in all situations. When I locked myself out of my apartment he climbed through the window. When I stubbed my toe walking to his car he lifted me up and carried me the rest of the way before running (and I mean quickly running) back to the school to grab me a band-aid. To answer any questions popping up in your head no we hadn’t kissed, we hadn’t cuddled naked, or do anything that involves the naked tango. We were just friends, really good, really close best friends.

 

When he stood in front of the class on the last day, I knew I was in trouble. I knew I was done for. I couldn’t stop staring at his lips. They were so beautiful as he spoke, I wondered right then and there what they tasted like. I was desperate to know, but I knew I wasn’t allowed to have that knowledge. Best Friends don’t kiss each other, they don’t, and that’s because Best Friends don’t fall in love with each other.

 

All my rules, every single one of them snapped in two, I let all of them fall through my fingers because of this one beautiful man. I was stuck then, because I couldn’t look at him any other way. My eyes lingered longer. My hands itched to slide through his hair. I just wanted to be close to him, I wanted to hold onto him and have it be more than just friends.

 

On the evening of the Art Show I dressed my best to impress. Little black dress and strappy black heels, hair curled and make-up on, I was a much hotter version of my typical dressed down state. By the looks in his eyes when he picked me up, he thought the same. “Hey sexy lady, you need a ride?” He cooed at me from the street as he pulled up to the curb.

 

I giggled and tried not to let my imagination run wild with hunger over what he just said. I didn’t want to let my thoughts slip into more dangerous territory, but staring back at his crisp grey button down and black slacks, I knew I wasn’t going to win that fight. I was losing, quickly. The night was amazing, and like always we had our own secret fun between just the two of us while we were surrounded by people that we didn’t much care for.

 

I told myself no, I swear I screamed it when I looked up into his face as the lights dimmed and a short video popped up on the far wall running through a montage of school work unable to make it to the Art Show. His eyes locked on mine too, a small dare of, ‘let’s see who blinks first.’ But the perversion of our games usually headed down a more dramatic ending, and as the music grew louder, the space between us grew smaller. I felt his breath across my lips, and my eyes slipped close before I could stop them.

 

What happened next I didn’t plan because there is no way for me to plan things like this. You don’t just decide, a best friend is just that…a friend. But not Taylor, he was more than that to me, more than I could have expressed to him in single words or looks. I didn’t know how else to explain it to him, and instead of thinking through my actions I did what any completely insane love sick puppy girl would do. I slammed my lips against his causing him to jerk into sudden stillness with shock. It was only for a second, but the butterflies that swarmed in my stomach made it feel like hours.

 

“Um…,” he said immediately after I pulled back.

 

“Yeah,” I replied, my eyes still closed tight. But I didn’t stop there, why would I? There was no reason to be realistic and think that after a sharp biting kiss that me speaking was a good idea. I wasn’t in my right mind, I was losing my shit, but I did it anyways. Such an idiot. “I’m falling in love with you.”

 

Those words, they are death when unwarranted. They are cruel evil punishment when not expected, they are sharp grating knives when used without consent. He didn’t reply, he just stared at me, his glossy green eyes blinked several times but he didn’t speak. His hands reached out for my waist and he pulled me in for a soft hug. My heart felt like it was about to leap out of my chest. “I think we should go home Grace.”

 

He gave me a hug, so that was sweet. He drove me to my apartment, but he didn’t stay over. He said he had work in the morning. I didn’t see him the following day because I had work that evening. One day led into two, which trickled into four. It was the longest amount of time we had been apart since we met. I felt like my body was literally dying from the inside. My heart felt like a withering stone flaking into useless ash inside the barren cave of my chest. I not only pushed him away, I kicked him out of my life with six simple words.

 

My heart only fluttered fifty thousand times when I saw his car parked outside my apartment the next afternoon. My steps only felt like 100 pounds of lead as I saw his shoulder leaning against my door like he was trying to force the wood open by his weight alone. I might have stopped breathing when he turned toward me his eyes wide and sad like he hadn’t meant to kill the joyful bouncy puppy like friendship we originally had before he suddenly disappeared. I tried to speak, but the words just wouldn’t come out.

 

He took three steps toward me and stopped before his hands reached out and pulled me into the tightest hug I had ever experienced. I breathed him in because it felt like he was saying goodbye as much as he was saying sorry. I tried to remember the feeling of his warmth because it felt like I would never get to feel it again. I felt his face nudge closer to my ear as the heat of his breath slipped down my neck before he whispered the words that would change my life forever. “I love you too.”

 

 

 

 

Prologue: Potholes

Everyone has a story that needs to be told. Everyone carries the puzzle around that makes up the entity of their life, a growing mash of pieces shoved together to make you who you are. Some stories are typical, some are appalling and scary, but my story can only be explained as ironically normal and strange. I don’t life a weird life, and I would never consider it out of the ordinary, but the short stories I want to share with you will add up to where I am today. One at a time isn’t so bad, but as I look back and review each tale in sordid detail I am starting to realize, my life is not ordinary, quite honestly my life is extremely comical in the most depressing and lonely way.

 

Don’t worry though, I’m not sad, though I repeatedly reminded that perhaps I should be, I am in fact not. I don’t really have much to complain about; I have a decent job though it doesn’t pay fantastically, I have phenomenal friends that I hang out with regularly, I have a beautiful apartment and share it with an amazing roommate, I own the most adorably annoying and perfectly doggish Pug named The Dude, I have a wonderful family, awesome siblings, super supportive parents….in a nut shell I am truly amazing blessed. So where does the comedic tradgedy come in? Well two things actually.

 

1)      I have a completely abysmal dating history, like seriously completely atrocious.

2)      I have come to realize that I am the living female version of Good Luck Chuck (from that movie with Dane Cook and Jessica Alba, basically everyone who dates me finds the PERSON OF THEIR DREAMS right after we split)

 

I mean this honestly, I have stories upon stories of HORRIBLE dating experiences that I can no longer keep to myself. I have been told over and over again that I need to share them with people, not just for the comedic value, but also maybe to shed some light on the insanely ridiculous crap I have had to put up with. Maybe, if enough men read this, they will see the pain they cause, they will understand the wrongs of their actions and make a change. Maybe I can let them in on the “how to not mess up a first date,” “how to not comes across as a tool,” “how to not seem shy even if you totally are,” “how to KEEP YOU HANDS OFF OF ME UNTIL WE ARE ATLEAST 10 MINUTES INTO THE DAMN DATE!!!!!” Or, maybe they will gloss over these words and continue down the path of lonely rude man that treats women like a piece of meat.

 

I don’t use this blog as a yelling source, I am sorry if I SHOUTY CAP every now and then, but sometimes I feel like I really need to make a point. This is a very big point, I am a 27 year old single female living in Los Angeles, and I have yet (in the whole three years that I have been here) to find a genuine man that is what I like to call, “A good match.”

 

Here is where a lot of outsiders say things like:

-You don’t need a man to be happy

-Screw them stay single

-Wouldn’t you rather be single than be with the wrong person

-Why would you want a relationship, being single is so much fun!

-Marriage isn’t real, love isn’t real, get used to it

 

I think now is the time to share my stories, share my experiences and puzzle pieces with you. Maybe you will hear something in them that helps you see the truth….we are all looking, some of us just found the route of extremely bumpy messed up roads. I think I found the worst road possible, right now I’m stuck on a particularly nasty pothole.

 

I am woman, hear me roar!!

I normally try to reserve my blog for things related to my craft of work, but every once in a while (which seems more often lately) something really irks me and I feel I need to write about it. I chalk it up to saying, I am still writing, which in a sense is a “craft.”

 

The other day I was approached by a stranger who said, “You would be amazing to photograph, you have a beautiful face, very pretty legs, but I think you would have to trim down the middle if you wanted to make it a serious profession.” One, no I don’t want to make being a model a serious profession, I have no idea where that came from. And two, the nerve people have saying this to complete strangers. I in fact did not reply, mainly because it would have turned into me screaming at him about how rude it is to tell a woman she should try to be smaller, skinnier, more trim. Basically, if someone ever approaches me and says, “You’re chubby, you should hop on a treadmill,” I might actually punch them in the face. If I come back demanding respect I get the “she’s a feminist crazy girl” look, which honestly most women should have. We are women yes, we do demand respect, and I am one that will fight until I achieve it.

 

When did it become more attractive to look like a mini bean pole? When were curves and a full bodied woman seen as unattractive? I don’t think beauty is about a dress size I think it’s about the confidence you carry, the dazzle of your personality, however I have never had a guy come up to me and say, “wow, your brain is beautiful.” Women are looked at as a sexual object. We are objectified, shot down, pushed into the corset of societies ideals of what beautiful should be. We wake up and pile on the makeup and hair products, we squeeze into tight dresses and short skirts, snap into the super lift extra curvy bra and plaster on the sparkling smile because….why? To impress? To feel beautiful? We buy certain outfits that not only fit, but also slim, to hide unwanted extra belly fat or disguise the extra wide hips and larger thighs. This isn’t just annoying, it can be utterly depressing. And then you open a magazine and see all the size zero models with perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect outfits and massive amounts of Photoshop that ISN’T REAL!!

 

Women are taught at a young age, through ways of observation, that we are to be thin and dainty. We must refrain from speaking our minds and keep opinions to ourselves. If we choose to speak we must choose our words wisely. Women aren’t to be on top in the work place, we are to remain just beneath the status quo. You know what I say to that, I say SCREW IT! No, I will not take a back seat when I want to sit in the front. I will wear pants and tank tops and flats to work if I want to, I will wear a dress when it suits ME. I will speak honestly, and don’t think I won’t be forward you will hear what I am thinking. Yes I do want that last cookie, no I don’t want to stop eating bread, yes I know that sandwich has calories, and no I don’t want a non-fat extra lite soy calorie free latte. Give me the sugar, the fat, the everything I want because I want it. In a lovely poetry slam edition, a poet named Lily Myers stood and shared an impressive poem called “Shrinking Women.” http://hereandnowwbur.org  It’s worth a watch, and it explains the issues of what we have learned through our lives as a woman and how completely ridiculous it is that we continue to live this way.

 

Mean while, on the male’s side, I won’t lie you have your own fish to fry. But….you can actually eat the fried fish can’t you? You don’t worry about too much extra when you waltz into older age, men look esteemed and classic with grey hair, round glowing cheeks, a full belly and a scruff of beard. Women, you better color that hair. You better buy gobs of wrinkle contol, pore diminishing,  skin brightener, luminating cream, cover up, and when all else fails go under the knife to rip out the fat, tuck up the laughter lines and crow’s feet and why not lift the flat breasts while you’re at it so the world has something to look at when they are talking to you. Do you see the ridiculousness of this harsh difference? I'd you don't you are...ignoring it.

 

The problem with being a woman and dealing with this struggle to maintain appearances is that even when you go the lengths to be “perfect” from the eyes of the world today, it doesn’t always work. In the business world, it almost doesn’t matter what you look like, you are female and that is already one negative aspect against you. When thinking about publishing my novel I am thinking of using a suedo name so that I am not based on my name alone when people go to look at my work. How sad is that? I am afraid that I won’t be judged on my work, but solely on my sexual being. I am a woman, therefore my novel is filled with yucky women stuff, lovey dovey mush, and of course whiny unmanageable characters. NO YOU ARE WRONG! That doesn’t stop the publishing world from thinking it though. In a Huffington Post article I was amazed at the research done by VIDA stating the differences of publication stats of men and women.

 

“According to VIDA's study, the New Yorker published 459 pieces by men vs. 165 pieces by women in 2011. The New Republic published 198 articles by men vs. 50 articles by women. The New York Times Book Review reviewed 520 male authors vs. 273 female authors. It is not the first time someone has called the New York Times Book Review out on not paying enough attention to female novelists.”- Huffington Post

 

“The numbers show what many of us have suspected or known for a while: women are underrepresented on every level in these publications.

The stats are published online in the form of pie charts, and there’s something peculiarly poignant about seeing them broken down in this way: the small blue female slice, often scandalously slim, in a big red pie. The New York Review of Books last year published 79 women and 462 men; The Times Literary Supplement reviewed books by 330 women and 1036 men; The Paris Review interviewed one woman author and seven men. That’s a small slice.”- The Wheeler Center

 

I wish I could say, “I am going to change the worlds view on this!” I wish I could say that it were as easy as a spoken word, but it isn’t. Women look at themselves with a notion of needing to make themselves better to fit in. Look at Marilyn Monroe, she changed everything about herself just to take a place in the spotlight. She was a beautiful curvy woman, but the spot light highlights the flaws society deems unworthy of perfection. I can’t change what people think, but I can change how I live my own life. I am who I am, and I will be loved that way or not, but I won’t allow the NOTS to cinch me into the mold they prefer. I am a size 10, I have curves and I am proud of what my mama gave me. Take it or leave it, because I will never change my appearance or who I am for someone else’s gratification.

 

So I am going to go eat a healthy sandwich, because I want to, and follow it up with a big pint of ice cream…because YUM! You better hide delicious calories, I am coming to get you!!!

 

Vfx Solidarity

Watching this Damn near broke my heart. This is important, and it needs to change.

http://io9.com/watch-the-full-documentary-on-how-hollywood-is-destroyi-1531962015

When did dating turn into this?

I am going to Preface this with a small note: I don’t need to explain to you why I am single, but I feel maybe other women want to hear they aren’t alone in the issues that crop up when you are a strong independent single woman.

 

I am going to follow that up with a small message: I don’t appreciate when I tell a guy I want to take my time, and get to know him and he automatically assume I am rejecting him and tell me…and I quote… “maybe you should go find some dumb ass meat head who only wants to get in your pants, maybe you just want that anyway.” Doesn’t that also mean that you are turning your hate on me because you are lonely and…also I quote…. “just want to be with someone, anyone, it doesn’t matter who as long as she wants to be with me. I don’t want to be single, and I want to find someone who also doesn’t want to be single.”

 

Yesterday I was asked a very simple question, one I know I have been asked before but for some reason when this question filtered through my synapses into my brain, it really irked me. The question was: “Why are you still single, is there something wrong with you?”

 

Now, to explain the situation, on this date were discussing the difficult position of being single when February hits. I, on one hand, would love a sweet romantic evening, but at the same time I don’t want that from any joe-schmoe. I would love to be with the person I love and care about, but if I don’t have that when the infamous hallmark holiday comes around I don’t get sad. I don’t worry about being alone, and I don’t care that I treat it like any other normal day. I actually enjoy being single, I enjoy the freedom and the carefree way I am able to live my life. Now, that isn’t to say being in a relationship sucks. If you are in a healthy relationship and love your S.O. then awesome for you, and I am happy for you!! I am only trying to get the point across that whether you are in a relationship or you are not, you should love living your life and enjoy what you have. Being single comes with many perks, as does being in a relationship, but when someone actually makes the point to stab at my singleness like it’s a disease, it makes me a little annoyed.

 

I am not single because I am forced to be, I am single because I choose to be. There is a very big difference between the two. I would rather be happy on my own than be in a miserable relationship because I am afraid to be by myself. Just because I am alone, doesn’t make me terminally lonely.

 

Something else that has happened more recently;  I am finding a lot of men take me trying to “be friends first” in a negative way. If I don’t meet a guy in the normal organic way, and we meet with the precedent of going on a date, they almost automatically assume that if the date went well I will be their girlfriend by the end of the week. I’m sorry boys, it doesn’t work that way. Even worse, they expect that if the date went well and I show interest, they assume they will also get lucky by the end of the night. I really really don’t understand that logic. (Now, disclaimer….of course this isn’t every date. I have had some seriously great dates, have amazing guy friends, and have dated some wonderful men that I am still really good friends with. Those are the men that I share with the people in my life, of course you don’t really hear about these guys that I am referring to because they rarely last longer than a week on my radar. Just needed to clarify.)

 

Look I like going on dates, I like meeting new people, and I like making new friends in the wild search for my one “true partner in crime.” The problem is, that once you do something that the guy you’re on a date with doesn’t like or agree with you immediately get dubbed the slut, the bitch, the crazy, the overly sensitive…they go from telling you they are beautiful to calling you a crazy psycho bitch in less than 30 seconds.

 

Now I am not knocking the dating scene, or first dates, on-line dating, or anything that involves dating. Like I said, I do enjoy the random outing, but I am more and more amazed at the reactions I get from guys when I tell them something they don’t want to hear. The list of things they usually get upset with……

1)      You are really nice, and thank you for the date, but I really think I should go home instead of going back to your place

2)      Well I have only known you for less than a day really, I don’t think being your girlfriend right now is a good idea

3)      I like to take my time and get to know a person before I become romantically involved with a person

4)      The first date was fun, but I don’t think you are what I am looking for in a relationship

 

Actual responses to these statements

1)      I thought you were fun and easy going not a stuck up bitch

2)      I thought we were really great together, we had so much fun. I guess I was wrong about you though, you just aren’t up to par of what a perfect woman should be

3)      Does that mean you play the field and sleep around, because I don’t date whores

4)      Fine, whatever, go sleep with all those other ass bags who treat you like crap. You probably like them for that anyways, sluts normally do.

Talk about defensive, crazy critical…..and RUDE!!

 

I know your reaction might be….”Jessica, why are you taking this so seriously?” Well, to be honest I am not taking it to heart, but I think I am more amazed at how many times this has happened in the last three years of me being single. This isn’t a onetime thing, this has happened repeatedly. Those men who swear they are the last gentleman alive, but then call you a total bitch and whore because you didn’t sleep with them. It seriously boggles my MIND!!!

 

The truth of the matter, I don’t need a man to be happy. I don’t need to lock down a boyfriend ASAP to make myself feel fulfilled. I don’t need someone else telling me who I am, and how I should  live my life, and that they think I am a shitty person. I know who I am, and I won’t apologize for also knowing what I want.

 

I am a single woman.

I am independent.

I am happy…and no one can take that away from me.

The competition BEGINS!

I have some very exciting and totally terrifying news to share with you my peeps. I'm submitting my MANNY into a writing contest!! I have a month to write a queary, aka synopsis, perfect the first 3000-5000 words (to snag the judges interest) and edit the entire first draft of my little adventure novel. By little I mean 175,000 words...no biggie right? Yeah, my nails are rapidly disappearing from all the nervous biting. Eep!!
So if you don't hear from me much over the next month you will know why. Wish me luck as I take on this behemoth of a contest, and thank you to Matt Tomlinson for giving me the information to compete. I'm off, and as my favorite hobbit eloquently : I'm going on an adventure!! (Basically I'll be sitting in front of my laptop for the next month straight, it's very exciting work let me tell you)

You always deserve the best

Weapons of Self Destruction

Don't worry dear sweet
This won't take long
It will happen so fast
You won't even know
Look at the pictures
And take it all in
Stab your self hard
Don't you dare give in
Hold onto the knife
Don't you dare let it go
Push it in deep
Until you can't say no
Listen to me now
There's nothing to save
Watch yourself bleed out
All over the page
Rip your chest open
And bare it to me
Blessed sweet darling
Give it all up to me
And when you see him
For the very next time
You'll feel nothing inside
Where it once felt Devine
Now tear out the dagger
You shoved so hard in
And submit to the tears
Before your new life begins

My inner dialogue....

Today I find that I think of random quotes, emotions, heartfelt words…they cram into my brain and fill my day with a flurry of images. I try to imagine the words on the page floating onto the screen, how do I describe this moment for the reader to see in their minds? How do I paint a picture with words that everyone knows but have never heard before? I yearn to share these moments, I want you to see the struggle and moments of elation with these characters that I have grown so fond of. I want to share this world with you, I want you to hear their voice and feel their pain. I only want you to see what I see, because to me, this story is beautiful.

-the constant thoughts of an aspiring writer