My Favorite Books from 2017

3 01 2018

Short Reviews of My Top 3 Books of 2017

In 2016 I read 21 books, including the dense and quite long Infinite Jest (which is worth it, even in its intensity. I suggest going to Infinite Summer for tips on making it through). In 2017 I upped my total slightly and read 28 books– that’s an average of 24 pages a day.

The way I’ve managed to get this much reading done and still excessively binge television shows and have a social life and do the whole work thing is by waking up an hour earlier in the day and reading before I do anything else.

When I do this I get invested in the book and am then able to get my page count done in a timely manner on the regular. Of course, some days I read more pages than others, but the system seems to be working.

My friend has made the resolution to read a book a week this year and I plan to steal this same idea because reading takes me to much better places than most of my other daily activities seem to do. Sometimes it’s better to replace one habit with another one instead of trying to remove the old habit altogether.

Here are my top 3 favorite books from 2017, if you’re looking for something to fall into this year.

1. Homesick for Another World by Ottessa Moshfegh

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Ever feel like a terrible human being? Never fear, you are probably not as terrible as the characters in this collection of short stories. Moshfegh has the ability to succinctly capture the essence of a person (the good, bad, and ugly of a person) always leaving you wanting more, but happy to have experienced the little bit that you did get.

I also read her novel Eileen, which was good but felt more drawn to the collection, as it was able to show glimpses of the humanity in all its fucked-up-ness that we often rarely get to see in creative form (which is a much more pleasant place to experience it than in reality).

 

2. Theft By Finding Diaries 1997-2002 by David Sedaris

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Even in his own diaries, Sedaris knows how to reveal the humor in the mundanity of everyday life. There were moments while reading where I literally spit out my drink because I was laughing so hard. Right when you think the moment can’t get any funnier he hits you with an even stronger punchline. If you can’t laugh at your own life, start with someone else’s, I suggest his, because humor is the best medicine for getting through the bullshit.

3. The Stranger in the Woods: The Extraordinary Story of the Last True Hermit by Michael Finkel

strangerinthewoodsbook

Ever have the desire to desert everything and everyone you know and go live alone in the middle of nowhere? Well, one guy actually did that, not just for a day, not just for a month, but for 27 years. If he hadn’t been a thief, he probably could have gotten away with it until he died, yet, that is not quite what happened.

As someone who is pretty introverted, what I found most fascinating about the book was the exploration of solitude–the attempt to understand why someone would not want to be around any other people.

Something happened during this book, something that caused me to suddenly finally feel okay for a day. Okay that I don’t have to want to be around people. Okay that sometimes I’d rather hide and not talk to anyone. Okay that I don’t have to like all the things other people like. Through his extreme outlier lifestyle, it helped me to see the facades of our daily existence and to look at solitude as a positive solution to the noise aka nausea of modern society.





At Least I have Longer Hair Now

2 01 2018

In 2017, I quit my job of 3 years, went to Burning Man, fell in love, went on road trip through the desert with lover, fell out of love while on said road trip, came back, wrote a book in a month, and then sat around and stared out the window until the year ended. I wasn’t meditating or having some deep existential breakthrough, I was literally just staring out a window.

It was a weird year.

At the beginning of the year I gave myself a theme, 2017 would be the year of patience. I would track my patience by growing out my hair and not dyeing it–this seems like a simple task for most people sure, but I am the type of person who snips and colors every month just to change it up. January found me with barely any hair on head, shaved on the sides with about an inch or two on top. (I had clearly been snipping at it for awhile.)

short hair

2016 Hair

I’m happy to say that I made it to the end, my hair is now almost to my chin, yet even though I have a symbolic representation of my theme, I’m not entirely sure having a theme helped that much.

Or maybe it did.

The reason why I chose patience, to begin with, had to do with my anger issues. The daily injustices and the real shit dramas that have accumulated over time that have helped shorten my fuse; I mostly respond by retreating, hiding in my room, stewing, letting it simmer, letting it boil, acting out with self-destructive behavior because I’m mad at myself the most.

I should have been smarter, should have saw it coming, should have done something about it etc. these ideas play in my head over and over becoming nearly paralyzing in nature.

So I run.

I go outside, no music, no podcasts, and I run the anger away. I run nearly every day and I’m still mad.

Yet, I’m patient with myself. I tell myself this anger will not last forever. That I must harness the energy of it. That I must channel that anger into something useful and not just use it to rage out on the hundreds of drivers in Colorado who don’t seem to know how to operate the cars that they drive. I am patient with myself for not being patient.

I pull at a strand of hair and watch myself becoming more and more irritable. I hold on to it, I take a breath, I wonder how many more days are left in the year so I can stop paying attention to how impatient I am.

So, I’ve gotten somewhere at least. I’ve gotten to the point where I can see myself and that seems like a pretty important skill to possess. I notice the irritability, the anger, the unnecessary clapbacks quicker than I used to. It doesn’t always stop an outburst from happening, but it’s almost as if I’m not attached to it anymore. That I can see it as a pattern of behavior that’s reactionary, that happens because that’s how I’ve been reacting for so many years, yet I no longer see those reactions as belonging to me.

I know that they do. But I also know that they don’t have to. That eventually I will feel the old impatient me coming up to the surface and I can stop her, I can replace her with a different storyline.

Undoing 30+ years on reacting one way with another may, in fact, take longer than 365 days, but I’m a bit closer than I was before and now I can put my hair up in a ponytail and (soon) whip it in people’s faces if they’re annoying me in a bar–so there’s that.

long hair

One whole year of growing hair out, so patient in 2017.

What’s in store for 2018? I’m contemplating the art of discipline. Self-control. Motivation. Hoping the patience I gained from 2017 will help, only time will tell….

 





Cat Person, Fiction, & Thoughts on Likes and Love

11 12 2017

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Are we all each other’s stories?

The other day my friend sent me a link to a fiction story in the New Yorker called “Cat Person.”

I avoided reading it, mostly because it’s the New Yorker and that’s what I do every time I have a subscription to the magazine–ignore it week after week while the guilt from not opening them piles higher and higher.

Anyway, my friend bothered me about it again; he told me people were buzzing about it on the internets, so after a long sigh, and an even longer “fffinnnee,” I went ahead and went for it.

*Spoilers ahead*

This excruciatingly painful fictional tale is about a 20-year-old woman who goes on a date with a 30-ish old guy she meets at her job at a movie theater.

As I said to my friend, “It’s good, but in a cringe-worthy type of way.”

The author examines the internal dialogue of this woman, revealing many relatable thoughts we’ve all had while dating.

What’s most painful is that we see ourselves in her ( we see ourselves in him too, though we all seem much less likely to admit that considering how it ends) and the parts we see are the parts of ourselves we look back on later in life and wish we had trusted our instincts and intuitions.

What I think the author does so well through these characters is show how easy it is to create stories about who other people are in order for us to like them.

Hence the cringe. It’s not that it’s so much of a mismatched non-compatible interaction, it’s that we’ve all been in situations where we just really want the other person to be who we desire them to be instead of who they are.

In fact, what ripped my heart out while reading this was that just last night I cut it off with a guy for almost the exact same reason.

Not that he had been terrible in bed or called me a whore or anything, but that I had made-up a narrative in my head about who he was–and more importantly, who I was when I was with him–a story that was not even close to being accurate in reality.

I did it because I wanted so badly to like someone that I failed to pay attention to who that person really was, until it was too late.

The female character wants the guy to be so badly who he was in his flirty smart text messages that she starts reading him in ways to reassure herself that he those things in real life. Just because someone is smart and witty doesn’t mean they’re a good person.

It’s like with this guy I was dating, he told me he’d only disappoint me. He told me he was the worst. He told me he was a terrible person. And while he was doing it, I knew I should run away, I knew that people will always tell you who they are, and yet, I stuck around.

I made him prove it.

Is it because I’m a masochist? Is it because that even though I’ve learned over and over again that you can’t change a person, I still haven’t learned it enough?

I think it’s because we’re all addicted to liking someone and being liked in return. The chase, the dating, the sex, it all just comes down to us wanting to be wanted.

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How do we stop ourselves from filling in the blanks on questions we have about people before we get to know them? How do we stop ourselves from projecting things we want them to be when they’re clearly not those things? How do we rid ourselves of expectations particularly when there’s so much excitement when we meet someone new? Is it possible to not get swept up into the bubble of misrepresentation? Into the love-bubble? (or even the like-bubble?)

I don’t know. I haven’t figured anything out.

All I know is that I need to save my stories for my writing and quit making up fictions about people who will always tell me who they are, if I just ask and if I just listen.





Finding My Way Back to Me

7 12 2017

Kill the writer. Remove the block.

I decided I was going to become a writer when I was 13. My grandfather had just died, my great-grandmother had just died, and my dog had been hit by a car–and died. Writing was the only thing that helped relieve some of the pain. If I wrote it down, it would go away, it would be over there in the notebook instead of inside me. I could revisit the ideas if I wanted but I no longer owned them, the notebook did.

I’m not sure what happened, but at some point in the last couple of months, I’ve lost it. I’ve lost my desire to write. I’ve lost myself.

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Every day I look at my computer and I think how I should post a tweet or a Facebook update. I should express my point of view. I should return to the world I know so well. Yet, I freeze. I sit for hours staring, saddened by the turn of events that continue to happen every day on this earth; I feel paralyzed. What could my thoughts actually do to help any of them? Who am I in the greater scheme of things?

I am just like everyone else.

We are all the same.

We are all different.

My voice, just another sound shooting through the airwaves, internet waves, waving at no one in particular, hoping at least someone hears me, sees me, waves back. A thin line of connectivity. The string that ties me to humanity. If I cut it, I’ll lose myself.

Maybe it’s time for that self to go.

Kill the parts I no longer need.

Rise above the mainstream machine.

Find more of me as I remove the layers that others have glossed, painted, laid over me.
A product of my generation. Of this time. Of the before and the after.

The math that doesn’t add up.

The apathy from never being good enough.

The ego of always being better than.

Never one or the other, always neutral with the weight of experience pushing one up more than the other.

Words come out, but do we ever really say anything?





Thank You For Parking Here

8 06 2017

Lately, I’ve been having a series of parking issues. You could say my head is ahead of itself, as in, as I’m parking I’ve already parked and am onto my next task, but in reality I have not yet parked and thus end up failing to parallel properly or I land across the yellow line and need to re-do at least five times.

Last night, I come home later than usual and there’s not spot on my block. So, I park on the main street nearest me. Of course, I had gone to buy plants and groceries so I had an entire car to unload (because that’s obviously when one would need convenience the most and not get a close spot).

parkinghere

I am on my third and final trip, trying to tell myself positive things like, “hey you didn’t get your run in today so be thankful you’re getting some extra exercise,” and “look our neighbor has a pretty blooming bush, how hopeful late spring becomes,” you know, happy thoughts of that nature, etc. I remove my tote bags from my trunk (<- look at me remembering my reusable bags) when this old white dude in a maroon colored van creeps up behind me. He rolls down his passenger window, leans over and nearly inaudibly whispers, “thank you.”

It takes me a second to register what he said, then I am confused.

Is he thanking me for parking here?

Is he thanking me just because I exist?

Is he thanking me because I saved his life in some lucid dream he had the night before?

A second later I become angry.

He better not be thanking me because I’m wearing a dress and now he has a boner. He better not be thanking me because he somehow believes in some weird white male fantasy that I am wearing what I’m wearing for him.

I slam my trunk down.

This will not do.

I glare at him in a way that says, “if you do not move along in less than one second I will come after you and rip your eyeballs out of your head.”

I step in the direction of his van.

I am destruction.
I am fury.
I am woman who has had enough.
I am empowered Goddess.
I am not about to take another man’s shit.

White Old Creep lurches forward like a puppy dog that has been spanked for peeing all over the floor. If an oversized metal vehicle had the capabilities to shrug its shoulders this is what that van seems to do.

I turn and stomp back to my house. “Asshole,” I mumble under my breath.

I become conflicted.

Is it wrong to be thankful for the beauty in the world?

No.

Is it wrong to drive a creepy van and use it to creep up on a woman parked on the side of the road and whisper weird things at her?

Yeah, that’s pretty fucking weird.

Is it wrong for me to be wearing this dress?

No, I can wear whatever the fuck I want.

Is it wrong for people to be thinking in their heads, “yeah, but when you do wear short dresses, skirts, etc. that kind of lewd behavior from entitled creepy men is expected.”

Yes. Yes it is wrong to be thinking it, but it doesn’t stop people, even me from thinking it. Thinking about how I can’t even park a half a block from my house without being gawked at like some humping post. Thinking about how maybe I’m too old now to be dressing so scandalously, thinking about how dumb it is to think I’m dressing scandalously just because my dress cuts above the knee.

Wondering if I should actually feel flattered that I’m still getting cat-called. Wondering why I am wondering that when I know deep down that there are plenty of less creepy ways to flatter people, particularly strangers.

Proud of myself though, proud for getting pissed and going after him instead of retreating, smiling, acting like I’m complimented when I’m not, I’m annoyed.

I’m proud of my body.

Proud of my mind.

Proud of my ability to finally after years and years, move forward to fight instead of backing away.

Not that it’s a bad choice to back away, surviving is always a good choice. But, enough is enough already. Making that step is what I needed to do to get back in my head right. To be like, nah bro, I got this, watch me take care of me. Watch me wear what I want, walk how I want, be who I want, even park where I want–because now my head is back, which means there isn’t any parallel fear. I can back my boatcar wherever I need.





In Honor of my Grandpa Dave.

3 08 2016

This was the talk I gave about my Grandpa Dave on August 1st, 2016. And yes, the preacher did ask the crowd afterward if anyone had any ivory soap with them to wash my mouth out. If there’s one thing my grandpa taught me, it was to always tell it like it is, and I wrote this in honor of him and that passionate way to live life. 

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Grandpa Dave and me when I was just a wee thing.

As many of you here know, my grandparents started dating in high school. One of my favorite stories is how, at the beginning of their courtship they would end up at the Dairy Queen; on the first date my grandma ordered a strawberry shortcake and because she was so bashful, she ended up having him order the same thing for her over and over, date after date, because she didn’t want him to know that she didn’t really like their strawberry shortcake all that much.

But. She liked him, and he was a good one to like.

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Dave and Arlene May 1961

They were married the day after Christmas in 1960 and have been together ever since. For me, they were a shining example of love that endures, love that survives through the thick and thin, the good and bad; a love that was real, true, even if at times there were struggles, they were always there for each other and for their children. They had four lovely, generous, and outspoken kids, 2 even named after hollywood celebrities, Rick (after Ricky Nelson), Sandy, my mother (after Sandra Dee), and then Tom aka “Spook,” and Bob. They loved good music and my grandfather never shied away from belting a tune or two out loud at any random moment.

grandpagrillGrandpa Dave was at his best when he was at home, spending time outside on the patio, the long nights with the bug zapper and the laughing and chatting; grilling, drinking beer and bellowing out those old tunes.

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket/never let it fade away…

Blue moon/you saw me standing alone/without a dream in my heart/without a love of my own

Charlie Brown — Why’s everybody always pickin’ on me?– you know Charlie Brown right?) he’d say.

I was to him, Krystal Leanie the Big Fat Green Beanie to which I would also yell back, “Grandpa! I’m NOT fat and I’m not a green bean!!”

All the grandchildren learned quickly to hide their knees when in his presence or he’d “show us how a crow lights,” by pressing on the pressure points that make the leg jump.

When we were really young we’d all climb up on top of him while he laid on the couch and try to take over his tv remote, which only worked for a short period of time before it was back on a baseball, or basketball, or football, or the worst of all, golf. He was an avid sports fan, dedicated to The Royals, The Chiefs and KU no matter if it was a winning or losing season. He himself played on a winning softball team. He also coached his kids on winning sports teams. And when my mom started coaching me, he’d come to all the games and cheer me on, very loudly, often expressing his opinions of the situation to the umpire.

He was a stickler for routine. Every morning he’d drink his Folgers and finish a crossword puzzle and we’d often find him listening to sports radio, many of us trying hard to turn that shit off.

He was at his worst on the road. Anyone who has everyone gotten into a vehicle with him knows what I’m talking about. To me, it was an adventure. I could tell other people were nervous, but I was always excited, ready to go fast, waiting for the next new cuss word I’d learn. “These damn farmers,” and “What? Are we in a fucking parade here?” were his top phrases, and to say that didn’t rub off on me would be a complete and total lie.

And that might be the most beautiful thing about grandpa Dave. He was not a bullshiter. He was bold and stubborn and always had an opinion to share even if it was sometimes a bit shall we say, off color, or about killing those worthless cats, though it was usually about politics or sports teams and certain players lack of skill.

It’s taken me years to admit that I am actually a less-than-average driver and when I sort of kind of ran into a menu sign at the Sonic while driving his truck to work one day, both my uncle Bob and my grandpa were the calmest I’ve ever seen them about someone in the family doing something really ridiculously stupid. I thought he’d kill me, but he was just glad I wasn’t hurt. And that’s the thing, deep down he was the sweetest, most loving, gentle soul, which is perhaps why sometimes he came across as the opposite–he didn’t want to give that secret away. Anyone close to him though, knew better. Not very many men baby-talk their dogs or let their grandchildren ride them like a horse through the house.

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Yes, I have proof this really happened, that’s me and grandpa Dave back in the day. 

He lived in Greeley his entire life, and worked for 32 Years at GM, many of you know him best from the Greeley Quick Shop aka the liquor store where he’d greet everyone with a big “how you doing today?,” and shoot the shit with anyone who had the time.

He was far from perfect, but who isn’t? There were things he liked and things he didn’t like and he’d always tell you which one was which. Regardless of which side you were on in those discussion, they were always lively; and his honesty and sincerity were two of his most admirable traits.

He will be greatly missed in the community, by his friends, and within our family.

I will say, that to this day, whenever I hear someone loudly sneeze three times in a row, I wait for the echoing GOD Damn It!!! I know I will never hear it again, but that God Damn It spirit will live on forever.

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Grandpa Dave, me, Grandma Arlene, Mindy and Judy, Christmas 2011.





9 Random Thoughts About the Million-Dollar Doomsday Condos

18 01 2015

9 Random Thoughts About the Million-Dollar Doomsday Condos

Somehow I stumbled across an article about these Luxury Survival Condos built in an former Atlas missile silo in the middle of nowhere Kansas—and since I’m from Kansas I felt like I needed to know more, but all I was left with after learning about them was more questions.

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1. First the website claimed it was in a “secret” location; I kept digging and I’m pretty sure I figured out where it is; my main concern is that if I’m paying millions of dollars to have shelter after a nuclear attack, how am I going to get there in time? Am I going to take my helicopter there? And if everyone—all 70 or so people who can live there too—takes their helicopters, where are we all going to park?

2. There’s a community pool inside. How are they going to keep pool water clear for 5+ years. How do they have enough water for that? You know some bored people are going to bang it out in there at least a few times, is there enough chlorine to kill all of those tiny tiny swimmers that will escape?

3. Speaking swimmers, will there be a medical staff? How will people deal with pregnancy? One would think that IUDs would be a good addition, but if only 70 people are left in the world, they’d probably also want to start repopulating the planet and I don’t know if I’d really want to give birth in an underground bunker. What about formula, baby food, diapers?

4. Most importantly, what about death? Where do the dead bodies go?

5. And what if someone coming in has a weird contagious disease?

6. Plumbing is also a concern. I’m sure they’ve thought this through. I saw that they have the bidet style toilets to cut back on the use of toilet paper, but what if something goes wrong with the pipes?

7. I haven’t even gotten to the social aspects. Can you even imagine being stuck in a building with 70 other rich assholes? Like surviving a nuclear attack and then getting trapped in one space with a bunch of crazy doomsday people might actually be worse than dying.

8. Have they even thought about the life philosophies they’re going to instill? Like if you could start over from scratch basically, then you could get people to believe in anything. You could make up your own religion, your own customs, and relationship-structures. They’d really have a golden opportunity and I imagine that they’d just waste it on reformulating capitalism and monogamy—yawn.

9. They have security guards there. If there was an attack, wouldn’t the guys with the guns get dibs?





Do Not Let Your Wrinkles Ruin All of Our Lives.

26 11 2013

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Meet Betty.

Day-Zero-Betty is in deep-thought and it is disgusting. I mean look at that furrowed brow. How gross that her face is making an expression. I can’t even handle it. Luckily for all of us there is a drug out there that can fix her. It’s called Botox and OMG does it work miracles. I mean, imagine what Betty would have to do if Botox wasn’t around to stop her face from moving? She would basically have to hide, like all alone, except for maybe a few cats that were clueless to how gross her wrinkly face actually is (or maybe those felines would be aware but they would put up with it because she feeds them tuna, who knows what cats really think).

In any case, Day-Zero-Betty is absolutely hideous.

Just look at her.

No! Don’t!

If Botox didn’t give her a makeover we would all be puking every time we ran into her on the street. Betty wouldn’t even be able to have a regular job because no one would be able to tolerate the grotesqueness, those deep rivers and crevasses of her facial features that make it look like she was more 3D map than woman.

“Is that the Nile?” People would ask, which would cause her to cry and those deep streams would fill with water.

Sometimes little fish were found swimming there.

Poor Betty.

But, not Poor Betty anymore! Thanks to Botox her face is no longer a breeding ground for perch and tilapia. No, now on Day 7 Betty can blend in with the rest of society and walk around with her blank canvas of a mug, which is a relief. People with wrinkles are evil really, walking around reminding everyone else of our impending doom.

It’s incredibly rude to make people think about death, their own death especially. We need to believe that we can live forever (even if it is a mirage caused by wonder drugs).

Botox is like immortality in a bottle.

Except that it only immortalizes a face. Or only immortalizes the (lack of) expression of one’s face (and like it only does that until the chemical fades out of the body and the face starts deteriorating again. So, technically, not immortal, but that’s just a small detail in the light of a faux youthful glow).

So, yeah, if you suspect there may be a wrinkle or two making its way to your face, stop it! Stop that wrinkle dead in its tracks. You’re only 20? 7? 14? Doesn’t matter. Wrinkles can pop up and ruin your life at ANY time. You cannot be too careful. Try Botox prevention. Just constantly inject your face with chemicals that make it look like you are a robot. There is nothing sexier and more charming than a robot, with their monotone voices and hard cold exteriors, oh yeah!

Do it today because if you don’t, you might look your age and there is nothing worse than that.

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I too had wrinkles once, but thanks to taking a picture without my brow furrowed, I fixed it all up!





Having a Fling Doesn’t Have to End a Relationship.

18 11 2013

The other night I decided since I didn’t have a Netflix tv obsession at the moment that I was going to instead sit through an entire movie. The movie I chose was called Fling. I picked it because it was about a couple in an open relationship. I thought it would be interesting to see how they worked through these ideas via a mainstream outlet. It was pretty typical in that the monogamy-culture won in the end.

But what really struck me odd was the way in which they proceeded to carry out this open relationship. It was unrealistic to say the least. They had established no boundaries in their non-monogamy, choosing to flirt, go home with, make-out with other people within each other’s presence. Now, there are very few people in the world who could handle doing this at the rate in which this couple did. Like they would go out together and then each other’s flings would show up at the same space and they didn’t think there would be drama or tension or awkwardness. And if there was awkwardness it wasn’t something the main couple were capable of admitting was happening between the two of them.

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What tore the couple apart was not the non-monogamy though. It was only after they started keeping secrets, lying, not communicating, that their relationship started to unravel. And they weren’t just lying to each other but to everyone close to them. The main guy started sleeping with his best friend’s sister and neglected to tell him. The best friend flipped and it was hard to determine if it was because he thought his sister deserved better or that he felt he was being deceived. In any case, it could have been not nearly dramatic if they were all just upfront from the beginning about everything–because if you love your sister and you love your best friend–why would it be a big deal if they loved each other too?

Some may say the main partnership always had problems and the two involved in the open-relationship were doing it because they didn’t want to be alone and were only with each other until something better came along. Because they blatantly loved each other I don’t think that’s a strong argument, but perhaps what happened is that they loved each other, but were no longer “in love” with each other.

It felt that they just threw themselves into an open-relationship without much thought as to how it should or could actually function properly. It initially worked when they were being truthful about everything and weren’t making any intense connections with other people. It was when other connections became stronger and they didn’t know how to balance all of the different emotions and issues within each coupling that it all seemed to fall apart.

I was left feeling torn because in a way it did show how an open-relationship doesn’t work and that could be just as beneficial for making sure that doesn’t happen within one’s own open-relationship, but at the same time it pushed monogamy, making their relationship seem perverted and not as serious or meaningful as it could be, which is bullshit.

The things that go wrong in relationships, whether monogamous or other, are generally the same. People fall out of love for whatever reasons and instead of ending it because they’re too scared or too comfortable they end up being dishonest, deceitful and they fail at communicating what’s going on with them.

In the end, I’d say it was an okay story, but it would be nice to see more movies or tv shows where non-monogamy (polyamory, open-relationships, etc.) works in a positive healthy way, but I suppose it takes people in them to start telling their stories and perhaps when it’s positive and healthy it’s actually pretty boring and no one really cares.





OKC Broadcast Dating Story Disasters.

12 11 2013

So, OK Cupid added this thing where you can “set your broadcast,” which is basically like a facebook status for dates. People use it to make plans within a two-hour time span. As a person with an adventurous spontaneous mentality I have on occasion tested this, sometimes for fun, when I need a few good posts for Aimless, sometimes when I am actually looking for someone to hangout with because all my “friends” are too busy for me.

jack ass

Story 1: No Confirmation

The first time I ever met anyone from a broadcast I put exactly where I was going to be, which, by the way, is a big mistake. I ended up meeting this guy at a bar near me; he was visiting from out of town and we had great conversation about writing, technology, beer etc. This was not like a date or a sexual thing, just two people enjoying life. Eventually it was bar close and it started clearing out. I guess I had seen the guy from the corner of my eye earlier, but randomly this 40ish tall skinny beaten-down looking ginger came up and started talking to us. Like he wouldn’t stop talking to us. He was drunk. Eventually we got out of there; I looked at my phone and he had sent me multiple messages, messages to the point of them feeling stalker-ish. It was weird because generally, at least in my opinion, you wouldn’t go to a place to meet someone unless the other person confirmed that they were indeed in desire of meeting you.

Story 2: Wiped Out.

Another time I had an extra ticket to a movie and I didn’t want to go alone because it looked like it was going to be intense. The movie was indeed intense, there was a lot of murdering and blood and dungeons and overall weirdness, to the point where I felt like I was going to vomit. But I didn’t.

No, I didn’t.

I got this guy into the movie with me, a ticket that would normally cost $13. I bought us a round at the theater. We then ended up at a bar after where we proceeded to get into this ugly argument about gender. Trust that it’s very difficult to win an argument with me about gender, though it’s a subject I thoroughly enjoy engaging in with people regardless of their knowledge or lack there of. Even though we were arguing he’d slip in stuff about going back to my place and wanting to kiss me etc. which I deflected because I was in no way interested.

In any case, I was slightly buzzed and he seemed to have suddenly gotten drunk drunk out of nowhere. I was talking about something, he took a drink of his beer and then out of nowhere spit it up all over me, like the beer projectiled across the table spraying me all across the front of my body. I stared at him in shock for a moment. Then I stared at him in complete annoyance.

“Dude. Aren’t you going to try to, I don’t know, wipe this off of me?” I said.

He just keeps looking down at the table shaking his head, “I can’t.” he replied.

I grabbed napkins from the bar and cleaned myself off.

“Well, I think it’s time for me to go.” I said.

Then he looks at me confused. “Aren’t you going to pay for your beer?”

By this point I was appalled. “Dude. I watched you the entire time while you ordered and they ran your card.”

“Oh. Oh, I don’t remember that.” He said.

I couldn’t handle the situation anymore. So I told him to deal with it; I thanked him for spitting up all over me and I left.

Later I got an apology text from him for being “rude,” but, yeah, that did nothing to help the rudeness at the time.

So. I think perhaps, it’s time to retire the broadcast idea, it’s probably time to retire OKC in general, but that’s a different story.