That Girl not only updated but completely revamped the blog... at a whole new address. This bitch is movin' on up to the east side...
http://mostlytrue.typepad.com/my-blog/
Follow this link to the new blog and don't forget to bookmark it! Thanks again for your support, bitches!
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
And now a word from our sponsor...
Recently, it came to my awareness that some readers may not understand exactly what this blog is. I feel it almost necessary to write a re-introduction. I had no idea how many people really read this blog because you aren’t all listed as a follower nor do too many of you interact with the Facebook fan page. So, let me begin by explaining who I am.
Who I am...
I have no idea. I am still trying to figure that out and every time I try to label myself or define myself, I find that I simply just can't. I am like a page ripped from a child's coloring book: lots of colors all over the place, carefree yet cautiously designed and always hanging just a little bit outside the lines. I would not compare myself to a chameleon, as they change their shades to remain hidden and unnoticed. My colors tend to change to redesign myself and with much purposeful thought. I have held many jobs, enjoyed many different groups of people, entertained various theories, philosophies and life practices. I've tried drugs, both illegal and legal and tend to drink in excess on occasion. I enjoy cooking and using my skillet as a science project. I love taking care of people and give more chances in life than most people should which has led me to get burned more times than I can count and yet I am incapable of forgiveness.
I can't nail down who I am more than anybody else in the world. People who claim to know exactly who they are tend to live life on a very surface level. I'm not going to lie or sugar coat anything because from what I'm told, life is too short. There is definitely one thing that I know to be true about myself more than anything else: I am eternally dissatisfied. And that is why I continue to work to change my body, my soul and my mind. I have to... because I don't know any other way.
With that being said...
this blog is my creative outlet. Well, let me be a bit more specific. This blog is THAT GIRL’s outlet. That Girl is an alter ego if you will. That Girl gets to say and do all of the things that I am too fucking scared to. On occasion, I, the real life girl behind the typed print, has gotten to be THAT GIRL… the bold, brazen, sassy and incredibly fucking fearless woman who throws caution to the wind and takes every chance that is presented to her. That Girl is incredible which is why I created her. Call me Dr. Frankenstein, I created a persona that is a product of myself and yet apparently, I also created a bit of a monster.
That Girl is the one that has the freedom and the lack of conscience to do and say the things that she does. Those of you who know the real voice behind the bitch know that I am loud and brazen and bold and a fighter… and scared and self-deprecating and that I am harder on myself than anybody ever could be. You know that I wear my heart on my sleeve and that it’s huge. You know that if there is one thing that I can’t stand, it’s the thought that I have hurt somebody unintentionally. You see, I take things very personally. That Girl doesn’t take anything. Ever.
There is an honesty…
within the words of this blog. There is truth to many of the stories. There are parts of each, however, that are embellished. That Girl uses the experiences that I, the real life girl, have had and the people that I have met and creates these characters and emboss them with something that helps me process the encounter so that I, the real life girl, can understand exactly why and how each of these encounters has affected her.
Life hasn’t been that easy for the real life girl in the last few years. I’ve had more changes in the last two years than most people have in a decade. Not all of them… actually, none of them, have been easy or warmly welcomed. I have made choices that I am not proud of. I have made mistakes that I can’t take back. I’ve made life altering actions that only few know about and that most never will. But honestly, I can’t change it. I can’t change who I am or what I’ve done anymore than the rest of you. The girl behind the bitch is human and I need more than anything for all of you loyal readers out there to remember that.
Sticks and Stones…
and words and actions and lots of other things hurt. The real life girl knows this. That Girl doesn’t feel hurt… she just gets angry. The real life girl grew up in a house that didn’t talk about anything and I mean NOTHING! If there was a problem, a curiosity or a misunderstanding there was only one thing to do: Grab a broom and sweep it under the rug. Keep sweeping until there is a mountain of built up shit under the rug so high that you can’t help but trip over it. And then when you do finally trip over it, peel back the rug and reveal more than you can ever deal with and try to get it sorted out all at once. Because that works, right?
No, it doesn’t. That Girl doesn’t see the point in beating around the bush. The real life girl doesn’t either but honestly, I spend my days trying to figure out exactly what it is that people want from me. That Girl doesn’t care what others want from her… she’s who I want to be. All I, the real life girl, has every really wanted is for people to be direct with me. Maybe if people were direct, the after burn wouldn’t hurt so badly. I have spent years trying to figure out why I, the real life girl, am so misunderstood. I have spent even more time trying to figure out why I’m an emotional masochist. But I can’t… nobody can. We just are who we are and we can change ourselves physically. We can open our eyes and broaden our minds. But we can’t change our hearts. The heart wants what the heart wants. Our hearts make us who we are.
And for that…
I won’t apologize. I am who I am. I write this blog under this persona because I have to. And yes, I am an emotional person and for the first time in my life, I’m not going to apologize for being who I am or anything that I have written here because I shouldn’t have to. I mean no harm by creating the characters the way I do. If you happen to recognize yourself in any of these characters, I hope you see the same person that I do because the people I encounter in my life are bad ass… with the exception of Big Mac. He’s just an ass but I think we’ve all agreed on that! We all make our mistakes and it is only through self-evaluation that we are finally able to see ourselves for who we really are: fallible. And that is living…
I don’t write to hurt or to pick on people or to paint some image of people that they find fucked up or unappealing. People paint the pictures of themselves and right now, you probably think I’m painting myself as a bitch but I’m just trying to be real. Because That Girl isn’t. We see in ourselves a darker person that we hope that the rest of the world sees in us. That’s human nature. And while I’ve said that I tend to be incapable of forgiveness, there is someone that I am trying to learn to forgive: myself.
So please…
take this blog with a grain of salt! If you happen to be mentioned under a pseudonym, be flattered that you have affected the real life girl enough for That Girl, her kick ass alter ego, to care about you enough to write about you… even if it is because you said something that pissed her off.
These are the MOSTLY TRUE TALES of a girl who shouldn’t have, and probably didn’t, but is going to tell you she did anyway. Why? Because it’s more fun that way.
Who I am...
I have no idea. I am still trying to figure that out and every time I try to label myself or define myself, I find that I simply just can't. I am like a page ripped from a child's coloring book: lots of colors all over the place, carefree yet cautiously designed and always hanging just a little bit outside the lines. I would not compare myself to a chameleon, as they change their shades to remain hidden and unnoticed. My colors tend to change to redesign myself and with much purposeful thought. I have held many jobs, enjoyed many different groups of people, entertained various theories, philosophies and life practices. I've tried drugs, both illegal and legal and tend to drink in excess on occasion. I enjoy cooking and using my skillet as a science project. I love taking care of people and give more chances in life than most people should which has led me to get burned more times than I can count and yet I am incapable of forgiveness.
I can't nail down who I am more than anybody else in the world. People who claim to know exactly who they are tend to live life on a very surface level. I'm not going to lie or sugar coat anything because from what I'm told, life is too short. There is definitely one thing that I know to be true about myself more than anything else: I am eternally dissatisfied. And that is why I continue to work to change my body, my soul and my mind. I have to... because I don't know any other way.
With that being said...
this blog is my creative outlet. Well, let me be a bit more specific. This blog is THAT GIRL’s outlet. That Girl is an alter ego if you will. That Girl gets to say and do all of the things that I am too fucking scared to. On occasion, I, the real life girl behind the typed print, has gotten to be THAT GIRL… the bold, brazen, sassy and incredibly fucking fearless woman who throws caution to the wind and takes every chance that is presented to her. That Girl is incredible which is why I created her. Call me Dr. Frankenstein, I created a persona that is a product of myself and yet apparently, I also created a bit of a monster.
That Girl is the one that has the freedom and the lack of conscience to do and say the things that she does. Those of you who know the real voice behind the bitch know that I am loud and brazen and bold and a fighter… and scared and self-deprecating and that I am harder on myself than anybody ever could be. You know that I wear my heart on my sleeve and that it’s huge. You know that if there is one thing that I can’t stand, it’s the thought that I have hurt somebody unintentionally. You see, I take things very personally. That Girl doesn’t take anything. Ever.
There is an honesty…
within the words of this blog. There is truth to many of the stories. There are parts of each, however, that are embellished. That Girl uses the experiences that I, the real life girl, have had and the people that I have met and creates these characters and emboss them with something that helps me process the encounter so that I, the real life girl, can understand exactly why and how each of these encounters has affected her.
Life hasn’t been that easy for the real life girl in the last few years. I’ve had more changes in the last two years than most people have in a decade. Not all of them… actually, none of them, have been easy or warmly welcomed. I have made choices that I am not proud of. I have made mistakes that I can’t take back. I’ve made life altering actions that only few know about and that most never will. But honestly, I can’t change it. I can’t change who I am or what I’ve done anymore than the rest of you. The girl behind the bitch is human and I need more than anything for all of you loyal readers out there to remember that.
Sticks and Stones…
and words and actions and lots of other things hurt. The real life girl knows this. That Girl doesn’t feel hurt… she just gets angry. The real life girl grew up in a house that didn’t talk about anything and I mean NOTHING! If there was a problem, a curiosity or a misunderstanding there was only one thing to do: Grab a broom and sweep it under the rug. Keep sweeping until there is a mountain of built up shit under the rug so high that you can’t help but trip over it. And then when you do finally trip over it, peel back the rug and reveal more than you can ever deal with and try to get it sorted out all at once. Because that works, right?
No, it doesn’t. That Girl doesn’t see the point in beating around the bush. The real life girl doesn’t either but honestly, I spend my days trying to figure out exactly what it is that people want from me. That Girl doesn’t care what others want from her… she’s who I want to be. All I, the real life girl, has every really wanted is for people to be direct with me. Maybe if people were direct, the after burn wouldn’t hurt so badly. I have spent years trying to figure out why I, the real life girl, am so misunderstood. I have spent even more time trying to figure out why I’m an emotional masochist. But I can’t… nobody can. We just are who we are and we can change ourselves physically. We can open our eyes and broaden our minds. But we can’t change our hearts. The heart wants what the heart wants. Our hearts make us who we are.
And for that…
I won’t apologize. I am who I am. I write this blog under this persona because I have to. And yes, I am an emotional person and for the first time in my life, I’m not going to apologize for being who I am or anything that I have written here because I shouldn’t have to. I mean no harm by creating the characters the way I do. If you happen to recognize yourself in any of these characters, I hope you see the same person that I do because the people I encounter in my life are bad ass… with the exception of Big Mac. He’s just an ass but I think we’ve all agreed on that! We all make our mistakes and it is only through self-evaluation that we are finally able to see ourselves for who we really are: fallible. And that is living…
I don’t write to hurt or to pick on people or to paint some image of people that they find fucked up or unappealing. People paint the pictures of themselves and right now, you probably think I’m painting myself as a bitch but I’m just trying to be real. Because That Girl isn’t. We see in ourselves a darker person that we hope that the rest of the world sees in us. That’s human nature. And while I’ve said that I tend to be incapable of forgiveness, there is someone that I am trying to learn to forgive: myself.
So please…
take this blog with a grain of salt! If you happen to be mentioned under a pseudonym, be flattered that you have affected the real life girl enough for That Girl, her kick ass alter ego, to care about you enough to write about you… even if it is because you said something that pissed her off.
These are the MOSTLY TRUE TALES of a girl who shouldn’t have, and probably didn’t, but is going to tell you she did anyway. Why? Because it’s more fun that way.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Big Spoon is about to get Knifed by Little Spoon OR Why you shouldn't make an ass out of yourself by assuming
I'm not gonna lie. Right now, That Girl is pissed the fuck off. And I'm going to apologize for the my language ahead of time but I just can't it anymore.
This past weekend was absolutely amazing. Friday night was spent with a couple of friends, getting skunk faced drunk, dancing my ass off and forgetting all of the stress of my life lately. It was carefree and that's the way I like it. I like throwing caution to the wind, saying FUCK IT ALL, and just letting go of life for a few hours! I had more fun than I had had in a long time and I feel like I really deserved it. I mean, for dog's sake, I ate a gas station hot dog at 3:30am, made a few jokes with the cops sitting in the gas station as they watched me blister my hand with scalding hot nacho cheese (gastro-intestinal karma) and stayed up until 6:30 a.m. having a really nice conversation. It was one of those unforgettable nights that you wish could happen every Friday and Saturday night. I fell asleep face to face with someone who I never expected to be my Big Spoon. In fact, I extended an open invitation for him to be the Big Spoon in my utinsel drawer any day. So innocent; so warm.
Saturday I was awoken from a nap by a text message from Guitar Hero. He asked what I was doing. I responded that I was preparing to take a shower. He responded with "Want some company?" I laughed to myself and politely told him no. We chatted some more. He was flirty. It was fun and refreshing. We had plans that night. Dinner, go watch his set (his band was playing a local show) and see where the night takes us. He invited me back to hang out and get drunk with him and his friends. I was still pretty wiped out from the night before but was enjoying myself so much that I decided that I might want to do that. I ended up making the right decision and staying home after the show. Sunday morning I awoke to a couple of missed texts from Guitar Hero.
Text 1: "I should have stayed with you but I'm scared to."
Text 2: "Wait... did you just make me go on a date? I don't do those."
I was confused and yet I found myself smiling. I thought it was cute that he admitted to being scared but I didn't know what he was scared of; I suppose I was a little scared of what his response would be. So I did what anybody without a filter between their brain and their mouth would do. I asked him.
His response was not surprising but frustrating. He was scared that I wanted more than he was wanting to give me. He was afraid that he was going to lead me on because he just wanted to be friends. Apparently, when I do something nice like buy a pizza to split with a friend, enjoy some good conversation and witty banter and buy the first round of drinks... it means I want to date you and sleep with you.
I was and am offended and appalled. This is not the first time that this has happened. In fact, it happened again today with someone that I would have never expected it from. All I did was make a little innuendo and apparently that means that I am wanting love, marriage, baby carriage and a partridge in a fucking pear tree.
Let me just explain something to all the men of the world. There is nothing that you all do better than assume. And you continue to do it wrong over and over again. Now is the time for you to stop what you are doing and pay more attention with your eyes, your ears and you hearts. Quit listening with your dicks because you are really fucking things up for yourself. You see sometimes being That Girl can get really lonely. Sometimes That Girl just needs to feel like there's the possibility of something more out there. She doesn't want it. She doesn't want more, but she needs to know that it is possible.
Virginia Satir, a family therapist, developed the idea of 4 hugs a day. "We need 4 hugs a day for survival. We need 8 hugs a day for maintenance. We need 12 hugs a day for growth." At this point, That Girl would settle for a hug a month. I got to be the Little Spoon to two different Big Spoons in the last week and let me just tell you how different my disposition was. A little touch can make us feel complete and there's nothing wrong with that.
But there is something wrong with people constantly assuming that they know what I need and what I want without even asking me. Quit flattering yourselves boys. Most of you are not worthy of That Girl and all she has to offer. None of you have ever taken the time to stop and notice what That Girl has to offer. You've all just looked at her and made up your mind without asking what's on hers. But it's time that stops. Maybe it's time that That Girl just quits trying to be a good person, a nice person, a friend to anybody with a penis.
Just remember: That Girl doesn't have a filter between her brain and her mouth. If she wants something, she's going to tell you.
This past weekend was absolutely amazing. Friday night was spent with a couple of friends, getting skunk faced drunk, dancing my ass off and forgetting all of the stress of my life lately. It was carefree and that's the way I like it. I like throwing caution to the wind, saying FUCK IT ALL, and just letting go of life for a few hours! I had more fun than I had had in a long time and I feel like I really deserved it. I mean, for dog's sake, I ate a gas station hot dog at 3:30am, made a few jokes with the cops sitting in the gas station as they watched me blister my hand with scalding hot nacho cheese (gastro-intestinal karma) and stayed up until 6:30 a.m. having a really nice conversation. It was one of those unforgettable nights that you wish could happen every Friday and Saturday night. I fell asleep face to face with someone who I never expected to be my Big Spoon. In fact, I extended an open invitation for him to be the Big Spoon in my utinsel drawer any day. So innocent; so warm.
Saturday I was awoken from a nap by a text message from Guitar Hero. He asked what I was doing. I responded that I was preparing to take a shower. He responded with "Want some company?" I laughed to myself and politely told him no. We chatted some more. He was flirty. It was fun and refreshing. We had plans that night. Dinner, go watch his set (his band was playing a local show) and see where the night takes us. He invited me back to hang out and get drunk with him and his friends. I was still pretty wiped out from the night before but was enjoying myself so much that I decided that I might want to do that. I ended up making the right decision and staying home after the show. Sunday morning I awoke to a couple of missed texts from Guitar Hero.
Text 1: "I should have stayed with you but I'm scared to."
Text 2: "Wait... did you just make me go on a date? I don't do those."
I was confused and yet I found myself smiling. I thought it was cute that he admitted to being scared but I didn't know what he was scared of; I suppose I was a little scared of what his response would be. So I did what anybody without a filter between their brain and their mouth would do. I asked him.
His response was not surprising but frustrating. He was scared that I wanted more than he was wanting to give me. He was afraid that he was going to lead me on because he just wanted to be friends. Apparently, when I do something nice like buy a pizza to split with a friend, enjoy some good conversation and witty banter and buy the first round of drinks... it means I want to date you and sleep with you.
I was and am offended and appalled. This is not the first time that this has happened. In fact, it happened again today with someone that I would have never expected it from. All I did was make a little innuendo and apparently that means that I am wanting love, marriage, baby carriage and a partridge in a fucking pear tree.
Let me just explain something to all the men of the world. There is nothing that you all do better than assume. And you continue to do it wrong over and over again. Now is the time for you to stop what you are doing and pay more attention with your eyes, your ears and you hearts. Quit listening with your dicks because you are really fucking things up for yourself. You see sometimes being That Girl can get really lonely. Sometimes That Girl just needs to feel like there's the possibility of something more out there. She doesn't want it. She doesn't want more, but she needs to know that it is possible.
Virginia Satir, a family therapist, developed the idea of 4 hugs a day. "We need 4 hugs a day for survival. We need 8 hugs a day for maintenance. We need 12 hugs a day for growth." At this point, That Girl would settle for a hug a month. I got to be the Little Spoon to two different Big Spoons in the last week and let me just tell you how different my disposition was. A little touch can make us feel complete and there's nothing wrong with that.
But there is something wrong with people constantly assuming that they know what I need and what I want without even asking me. Quit flattering yourselves boys. Most of you are not worthy of That Girl and all she has to offer. None of you have ever taken the time to stop and notice what That Girl has to offer. You've all just looked at her and made up your mind without asking what's on hers. But it's time that stops. Maybe it's time that That Girl just quits trying to be a good person, a nice person, a friend to anybody with a penis.
Just remember: That Girl doesn't have a filter between her brain and her mouth. If she wants something, she's going to tell you.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Sweet, sweet, candy cane flavored revenge...
I can't believe that it's been so long since I've written! I can't even begin to catch you up on the last few months. For the most part, they were uneventful with splashes of excitement here and there. Before I move into 2011, let me tell you about my last encounter with Big Mac as I promised that I would fill you in on running into him. Let me set the scene for you: Santa themed pub crawl, about 6 hours in, 3 sheets to the wind, dancing, singing, and having a great time with friends new and old. At about the third bar that we went to, I was sitting with Sweet K at the bar. We had been joined by Guitar Hero as I will call him and his trusty sidekick. Sweet K begged me to tell Guitar Hero the story of my awful date with Big Mac. Not only was he shocked and appalled, he was laughing hysterically at the absurdity of it all! Who knew that later that evening, we'd run into Big Mac.
As I said, we were about 6 hours into the pub crawl and I want you to understand that this was for charity. We were boozing for a good cause. As part of the cause, we were given little trinkets to give out to bar going patrons not part of the crawl in hopes of getting them to participate next year. As we were preparing to crawl to the next establishment, I had one final candy cane left and noticed a couple sitting in a booth in the corner. They were cozy, cuddled up quite close to each other. I was obnoxiously drunk. I'm not gonna lie. I was loud and having a fantastic time! I wanted them to join the fun!
As I approached the table, I slammed the candy cane (which had spent most of the evening tucked into my partially exposed breasts) down in front of them and gave a quick spiel about how we were drinking for poor kids or something along those lines. The woman looked at me a little bewildered. She looked to be about 40. She had this bad perm that definitely belonged in 1989 and was frighteningly forgettable. It was only a few seconds before her date turned to look at me. All of a sudden, as he was turning his head in what appeared to be slow motion, or maybe I was drunk, I noticed those dog awful earrings that I mentioned in the previous post. I stood there for half a second as he looked at me and said, "Oh my god." "Oh shit." I replied. Then I turned to his date and told her to be prepared to split the bill because his ass wasn't paying for hers. I turned around and walked away. Big Mac's mouth was still hanging open as I exited the bar.
Guitar Hero was right behind me and so was Sweet K. As we walked outside into the cold night air, Guitar Hero asked me what the previous scene was all about. I explained that the story I had told him earlier, the horrifying scene full of disrespect and a total lack of human decency, Big Mac was the starring role and that was him. He laughed when he realized what I had just done and then proceeded to kiss me and tell me it was Big Mac's loss.
On a different note, the last few months have been quite tumultuous. There are less than a handful of people in my life who have been so privy to the 8th circle of my personal hell. You see, That Girl, made a big mistake and hurt someone very near and dear to where her heart is supposed to be. Her actions spoke louder than words and while she may have ignored the tyrant in her life for awhile, she's come face to face with a monster that she can't seem to defeat: her conscience. That Girl is taking some time to reconnect to who she knows she is, somewhere deep down. You see, That Girl, has had some very adult realizations brought to light lately that have been all but welcomed into her world. That Girl fucking hates growing up.
I realize that this blog post just took a very serious turn, but have no fear. Just give That Girl a little bit of time as she learns and tries to forgive herself for what she's done and she'll be more than happy to return to the land of the living. She's been working out physically and mentally in hopes of reinventing herself just a bit. Oh, and her ass is shrinking quite nicely.
That Girl promises to write more often. That Girl didn't realize how much she had been missed until she was getting her hair done last week (step 1 of reinvention... it's kind of like self-mutilation on way healthier). You see, while the multitude of colors were being painted into her hair, the wonderful hair artist she goes to said, "My husband told me to tell you to write another blog!". Thanks for the support everybody. Just remember to do something that you shouldn't every single day.
As I said, we were about 6 hours into the pub crawl and I want you to understand that this was for charity. We were boozing for a good cause. As part of the cause, we were given little trinkets to give out to bar going patrons not part of the crawl in hopes of getting them to participate next year. As we were preparing to crawl to the next establishment, I had one final candy cane left and noticed a couple sitting in a booth in the corner. They were cozy, cuddled up quite close to each other. I was obnoxiously drunk. I'm not gonna lie. I was loud and having a fantastic time! I wanted them to join the fun!
As I approached the table, I slammed the candy cane (which had spent most of the evening tucked into my partially exposed breasts) down in front of them and gave a quick spiel about how we were drinking for poor kids or something along those lines. The woman looked at me a little bewildered. She looked to be about 40. She had this bad perm that definitely belonged in 1989 and was frighteningly forgettable. It was only a few seconds before her date turned to look at me. All of a sudden, as he was turning his head in what appeared to be slow motion, or maybe I was drunk, I noticed those dog awful earrings that I mentioned in the previous post. I stood there for half a second as he looked at me and said, "Oh my god." "Oh shit." I replied. Then I turned to his date and told her to be prepared to split the bill because his ass wasn't paying for hers. I turned around and walked away. Big Mac's mouth was still hanging open as I exited the bar.
Guitar Hero was right behind me and so was Sweet K. As we walked outside into the cold night air, Guitar Hero asked me what the previous scene was all about. I explained that the story I had told him earlier, the horrifying scene full of disrespect and a total lack of human decency, Big Mac was the starring role and that was him. He laughed when he realized what I had just done and then proceeded to kiss me and tell me it was Big Mac's loss.
On a different note, the last few months have been quite tumultuous. There are less than a handful of people in my life who have been so privy to the 8th circle of my personal hell. You see, That Girl, made a big mistake and hurt someone very near and dear to where her heart is supposed to be. Her actions spoke louder than words and while she may have ignored the tyrant in her life for awhile, she's come face to face with a monster that she can't seem to defeat: her conscience. That Girl is taking some time to reconnect to who she knows she is, somewhere deep down. You see, That Girl, has had some very adult realizations brought to light lately that have been all but welcomed into her world. That Girl fucking hates growing up.
I realize that this blog post just took a very serious turn, but have no fear. Just give That Girl a little bit of time as she learns and tries to forgive herself for what she's done and she'll be more than happy to return to the land of the living. She's been working out physically and mentally in hopes of reinventing herself just a bit. Oh, and her ass is shrinking quite nicely.
That Girl promises to write more often. That Girl didn't realize how much she had been missed until she was getting her hair done last week (step 1 of reinvention... it's kind of like self-mutilation on way healthier). You see, while the multitude of colors were being painted into her hair, the wonderful hair artist she goes to said, "My husband told me to tell you to write another blog!". Thanks for the support everybody. Just remember to do something that you shouldn't every single day.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Let them eat cake!
That Girl has been pretty quiet lately... biting her tongue and such. It's really more that I've been over-stressed, over-worked and underwhelmed. As I enter the last Monday of my 29th year of life, I've been quite reflective this weekend. In an effort to regain some sense of control over my life, I spent my whole weekend cleaning, organizing and trying to mentally purge some of the negativity that has been all consuming lately. Sometimes you just get those feelings that you can't shake, but I did get a sense of relief while separating my shirts and pants and hanging them all appropriately. I nearly had a moment like in the movie Running with Scissors where the two kids stood on the kitchen table with brooms destroying the ceiling tiles with all of their pent up angst. When asked why they did it, they simply replied "We needed high ceilings." I need more than high ceilings... I already have those.
I've received several text messages asking me about my upcoming birthday. In just over 3 days, I'll be 30. Truth be told, 30 is an age I never though I'd see. After all, at the ripe age of 13, I had an incredibly vivid dream in which I died at the age of 27. I had awoken with such a sense of peace as opposed to fear and panic, that I took it as truth. It's made the last 3 years almost surreal as I never expected to wake up during them but wasn't disappointed when I did.
Birthdays were never a big deal in our house as a kid. I can remember being little and having a Halloween themed costume party in the old stone basement at my parents old Victorian. As I got older, my birthdays lost their magic. I can remember my mother practically begging girls to show up for a sleepover here and there. It's hard to have friends when your the fat girl. Kids are just fucking cruel. As I became a young teenager, the birthday parties had all but ceased and seemed to even go unnoticed by my own family except for the occasional gift. The best birthday I ever had included lunch at McDonald's (we never ate fast food), several present for me to open, all wrapped elegantly and a chocolate cake. I somehow felt like this birthday was more out of pity as I was turning 16 and spent the entire afternoon at the hospital getting a CAT scan to see if I had a brain tumor. It wasn't a tumor, just a terrible migraine. Other than that, we never really celebrated birthdays. My older brother always got a homemade lemon cake from my mom... his favorite. My younger brother always got some weird St. Nicholas' day tradition of putting his shoes outside the bedroom door. When he awoke, he always had a few more goodies than the rest of us.
I always wanted a surprise party with all of my friends. I wanted a group of people to think about my birthday before I did. I wanted some handsome beau to send me a beautiful bouquet of flowers to my work with a simple note saying nothing more than "You are beautiful." with only his first name attached to the card, inciting a few whispers from coworkers. I wanted my family to throw me a dinner where they use the China and my siblings come because they want to be there, not because they are begged by my mother. I wanted a day to celebrate me. But who doesn't... right?
So far, I've had a wonderful lunch with my oldest friend who still manages to put up with my ass after all these years. She gave me a card with strict instructions not to open it until Wednesday, so far so good. Looking back on the last year, there's been a lot of changes and a lot of time lost. Looking back on the last 10 years, all I can say is... wow. I have grown so much, learned so much, made so many wonderful mistakes. I have been pushed, pulled, dragged and beaten. I have experienced love and hate and lust and rage, sometimes all at the same time. I have built up walls and broken them down and built them back up again.
I have tried new things... like online dating. Just a word of wise to the single 30 something men out there. If you are trying to impress somebody, do not, I repeat, DO NOT take professional photos with your cats. That's right, I said cats, plural, as in more than one. And even more importantly, DO NOT spoon your cat and pay someone to photograph it in hopes that it will find you a mate. It won't. My guess is, that's the only pussy that guy is ever gonna get.
I didn't make my weight loss goals, but I'm still thinner than I was at 17. I'm looking pretty good for my age... I think. Others may disagree... Skippy for example... well, he skipped out. No surprise there. I told you last time, I knew it was over but there was a part of me that still wanted to hope that he was gonna be different than all the others. I'm not gonna lie, I started to put another layer on the the ol' wall. There's a sense of loneliness that's been all encompassing lately. This city can get really fucking big sometimes.
I'm not really a futurist and maybe that's why it is so hard for me to deal with turning 30. I find it hard to believe that I have survived 30 years, let alone that I may live another 30. I am both terrified and excited to see what the future holds but I still want the flowers and a fucking chocolate cake. Is that too much to ask?
I've received several text messages asking me about my upcoming birthday. In just over 3 days, I'll be 30. Truth be told, 30 is an age I never though I'd see. After all, at the ripe age of 13, I had an incredibly vivid dream in which I died at the age of 27. I had awoken with such a sense of peace as opposed to fear and panic, that I took it as truth. It's made the last 3 years almost surreal as I never expected to wake up during them but wasn't disappointed when I did.
Birthdays were never a big deal in our house as a kid. I can remember being little and having a Halloween themed costume party in the old stone basement at my parents old Victorian. As I got older, my birthdays lost their magic. I can remember my mother practically begging girls to show up for a sleepover here and there. It's hard to have friends when your the fat girl. Kids are just fucking cruel. As I became a young teenager, the birthday parties had all but ceased and seemed to even go unnoticed by my own family except for the occasional gift. The best birthday I ever had included lunch at McDonald's (we never ate fast food), several present for me to open, all wrapped elegantly and a chocolate cake. I somehow felt like this birthday was more out of pity as I was turning 16 and spent the entire afternoon at the hospital getting a CAT scan to see if I had a brain tumor. It wasn't a tumor, just a terrible migraine. Other than that, we never really celebrated birthdays. My older brother always got a homemade lemon cake from my mom... his favorite. My younger brother always got some weird St. Nicholas' day tradition of putting his shoes outside the bedroom door. When he awoke, he always had a few more goodies than the rest of us.
I always wanted a surprise party with all of my friends. I wanted a group of people to think about my birthday before I did. I wanted some handsome beau to send me a beautiful bouquet of flowers to my work with a simple note saying nothing more than "You are beautiful." with only his first name attached to the card, inciting a few whispers from coworkers. I wanted my family to throw me a dinner where they use the China and my siblings come because they want to be there, not because they are begged by my mother. I wanted a day to celebrate me. But who doesn't... right?
So far, I've had a wonderful lunch with my oldest friend who still manages to put up with my ass after all these years. She gave me a card with strict instructions not to open it until Wednesday, so far so good. Looking back on the last year, there's been a lot of changes and a lot of time lost. Looking back on the last 10 years, all I can say is... wow. I have grown so much, learned so much, made so many wonderful mistakes. I have been pushed, pulled, dragged and beaten. I have experienced love and hate and lust and rage, sometimes all at the same time. I have built up walls and broken them down and built them back up again.
I have tried new things... like online dating. Just a word of wise to the single 30 something men out there. If you are trying to impress somebody, do not, I repeat, DO NOT take professional photos with your cats. That's right, I said cats, plural, as in more than one. And even more importantly, DO NOT spoon your cat and pay someone to photograph it in hopes that it will find you a mate. It won't. My guess is, that's the only pussy that guy is ever gonna get.
I didn't make my weight loss goals, but I'm still thinner than I was at 17. I'm looking pretty good for my age... I think. Others may disagree... Skippy for example... well, he skipped out. No surprise there. I told you last time, I knew it was over but there was a part of me that still wanted to hope that he was gonna be different than all the others. I'm not gonna lie, I started to put another layer on the the ol' wall. There's a sense of loneliness that's been all encompassing lately. This city can get really fucking big sometimes.
I'm not really a futurist and maybe that's why it is so hard for me to deal with turning 30. I find it hard to believe that I have survived 30 years, let alone that I may live another 30. I am both terrified and excited to see what the future holds but I still want the flowers and a fucking chocolate cake. Is that too much to ask?
Monday, September 20, 2010
Walk of shame? More like a limp actually...
So That Girl has been working so much (as usual) that she was having a hard time relaxing. I had already planned a 4 day weekend to go back to the small town that I lived for so long... good friends and always a good time ensues when I'm there. As I've said before, life is just easier there. It's as if all of the expectations go away as soon as I pull into that town. I had a feeling it was going to be a good weekend but I had no idea what would happen. As usual, I shouldn't have done some of what I did, but I did anyway!
Skippy texted me on Tuesday night but I didn't hear it and didn't text him back until much later. I hadn't really heard from him since our sunrise makeout session the last time I had been there. I shot him a text the next night and asked what his plans were for the weekend.
"Well, I was hoping to run into those BLE's"
"BLE's?"
"Best lips ever. You were blessed."
I giggled, blushed and thank dog he couldn't see me. I enjoyed kissing him. Alot. I'm not gonna lie... we've got chemistry.
Friday was full of binge drinking wheat beer for 10 hours and ending up in the ex's bed. Now, this happens on occasion that I end up in his bed. He's not a bad guy now that we've learned how to be friends and nothing ever happens. I show up, drop my pants, crawl into bed and get one of the best nights sleep ever. Eventually, he will roll over and spoon me and I sleep like a fucking baby. Maybe it's just that it's comfortable. I don't really know, but we both agree, it's nice. And there's no awkwardness the next morning. Generally, as I was this weekend, I'm greeted with "Good morning baby. There's ibuprophen on the dresser. I gotta start locking my door at night so these crazy crackhead women quit wandering into my room." followed by a smack in the face with his pillow.
Saturday I awoke, rested but with a killer hangover... mainly just a headache. Nobody and I mean NOBODY in their right mind should ever drink wheat beer for 10 hours. Holy Hangovers, Batman. My head was fucking killing me. I smelled like a god damn brewery and I was exhausted. Oh, and I still hadn't seen Skippy. He was being good Friday night and we were going to meet up on Saturday.
After a nap, a shower, some terribly delicious diner breakfast food... I was ready for round 2. Skinny jeans, check. Hot shirt, check. Killer heels, check. Perfect lipstick for my lips... check, check, check.
Skippy showed up in new jeans, a new shirt and new shoes. I totally thought it was adorable and so I called him out on buying a new outfit to impress a pretty girl. I was greeted with an awkward half hug as if he was trying to hide his excitement just a little. You see, he'd already been texting KimKim, my chinese friend, to see if I was with her and to see where we were heading. He pounded a few drinks as he didn't get to the bar until later. Between Skippy and Nasty Nate, I was getting compliments all night long. I was apparently beautiful that night and I'll be honest, I felt it.
As the drinks flowed, Skippy and I moved closer to eachother physically. He asked what I was doing for the night and I told him that I didn't have any plans... I didn't have a car (had left it at a friends and rode with KimKim) and that I didn't really know where I was sleeping. "You're sleeping with me," he said. "Do you want to stay with me?" he asked almost realizing that he had nearly demanded it.
"Yeah, I'll stay with you." I was blushing. I was half excited, half anxious. I was gonna make out with a hot boy again.
Sitting on his couch, he grabbed me by the chin and pulled me into him. He's delicious and oh so smooth with his moves. At one point, he turned his head right as I went to bite his cheek just a little. I ended up with a mouthful of his hair. We both laughed. "My hair? really? Well that's a first." he said.
"That has got to be the most retarded thing I've ever done," I said, picking hair out of my mouth. I'm such a dumbass sometimes but we'll just blame it on the alcohol.
Kissing Skippy is like... tasting ice cream for the first time. It's a surprise birthday party with all of your closest friends. It's one of the best feelings ever. It is sooo... entrancing. Before I knew it, one thing led to another and my toes were a curlin'. It was sweet and a nice mix of animalism and gentleness. I'll leave the details to your imagination but I walked out an earring short and limping due to a broken toe. Turns out, I'm much more flexible than you'd believe. I'd always wanted to have a night of decent sex to Bob Marley and The Wailers album "Legend". Mission accomplished.
He texted me the next day after he'd taken me back to my car, where we made out some more. He was having Sunday Funday and I was going to go back over after I finished my obligations for the day... pre-planned visits and such. I never made it back over but did spend a portion of the evening texting him back discussing our previous evening. He had fun. I had fun. He apologized for breaking my toe. He found my earring in the couch. He'll be up here for a visit in a couple of weeks. We may get together then.
I'm not gonna lie... I know it's all over. I know that this little fling is done. That's how my cookie always crumbles but damn... what a good fucking cookie.
Skippy texted me on Tuesday night but I didn't hear it and didn't text him back until much later. I hadn't really heard from him since our sunrise makeout session the last time I had been there. I shot him a text the next night and asked what his plans were for the weekend.
"Well, I was hoping to run into those BLE's"
"BLE's?"
"Best lips ever. You were blessed."
I giggled, blushed and thank dog he couldn't see me. I enjoyed kissing him. Alot. I'm not gonna lie... we've got chemistry.
Friday was full of binge drinking wheat beer for 10 hours and ending up in the ex's bed. Now, this happens on occasion that I end up in his bed. He's not a bad guy now that we've learned how to be friends and nothing ever happens. I show up, drop my pants, crawl into bed and get one of the best nights sleep ever. Eventually, he will roll over and spoon me and I sleep like a fucking baby. Maybe it's just that it's comfortable. I don't really know, but we both agree, it's nice. And there's no awkwardness the next morning. Generally, as I was this weekend, I'm greeted with "Good morning baby. There's ibuprophen on the dresser. I gotta start locking my door at night so these crazy crackhead women quit wandering into my room." followed by a smack in the face with his pillow.
Saturday I awoke, rested but with a killer hangover... mainly just a headache. Nobody and I mean NOBODY in their right mind should ever drink wheat beer for 10 hours. Holy Hangovers, Batman. My head was fucking killing me. I smelled like a god damn brewery and I was exhausted. Oh, and I still hadn't seen Skippy. He was being good Friday night and we were going to meet up on Saturday.
After a nap, a shower, some terribly delicious diner breakfast food... I was ready for round 2. Skinny jeans, check. Hot shirt, check. Killer heels, check. Perfect lipstick for my lips... check, check, check.
Skippy showed up in new jeans, a new shirt and new shoes. I totally thought it was adorable and so I called him out on buying a new outfit to impress a pretty girl. I was greeted with an awkward half hug as if he was trying to hide his excitement just a little. You see, he'd already been texting KimKim, my chinese friend, to see if I was with her and to see where we were heading. He pounded a few drinks as he didn't get to the bar until later. Between Skippy and Nasty Nate, I was getting compliments all night long. I was apparently beautiful that night and I'll be honest, I felt it.
As the drinks flowed, Skippy and I moved closer to eachother physically. He asked what I was doing for the night and I told him that I didn't have any plans... I didn't have a car (had left it at a friends and rode with KimKim) and that I didn't really know where I was sleeping. "You're sleeping with me," he said. "Do you want to stay with me?" he asked almost realizing that he had nearly demanded it.
"Yeah, I'll stay with you." I was blushing. I was half excited, half anxious. I was gonna make out with a hot boy again.
Sitting on his couch, he grabbed me by the chin and pulled me into him. He's delicious and oh so smooth with his moves. At one point, he turned his head right as I went to bite his cheek just a little. I ended up with a mouthful of his hair. We both laughed. "My hair? really? Well that's a first." he said.
"That has got to be the most retarded thing I've ever done," I said, picking hair out of my mouth. I'm such a dumbass sometimes but we'll just blame it on the alcohol.
Kissing Skippy is like... tasting ice cream for the first time. It's a surprise birthday party with all of your closest friends. It's one of the best feelings ever. It is sooo... entrancing. Before I knew it, one thing led to another and my toes were a curlin'. It was sweet and a nice mix of animalism and gentleness. I'll leave the details to your imagination but I walked out an earring short and limping due to a broken toe. Turns out, I'm much more flexible than you'd believe. I'd always wanted to have a night of decent sex to Bob Marley and The Wailers album "Legend". Mission accomplished.
He texted me the next day after he'd taken me back to my car, where we made out some more. He was having Sunday Funday and I was going to go back over after I finished my obligations for the day... pre-planned visits and such. I never made it back over but did spend a portion of the evening texting him back discussing our previous evening. He had fun. I had fun. He apologized for breaking my toe. He found my earring in the couch. He'll be up here for a visit in a couple of weeks. We may get together then.
I'm not gonna lie... I know it's all over. I know that this little fling is done. That's how my cookie always crumbles but damn... what a good fucking cookie.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Beers, boys and bruised bladders
That Girl has had several busy weeks in a row and finally decided that it was time to take a mini road trip to see friends and remember what it's like to love the shit out of life for a weekend. So, like the ol' Cheers adage goes, I wanted to "go where everybody knows your name". So I did. And it was awesome. You can't plan weekends like this one. I spent part of the day with the ones I love the most, playing with the kids, shopping with my sister and enjoying a bit of normalcy.
Come sundown though, it was time for beers and debauchery. Lots and lots of debauchery. I wanted a night that wouldn't soon be forgotten and that's exactly what I got. Starting at one bar, I was greeted by friends I hadn't seen in months with comments about how good I look. It was a giant step up from a bar with Big Mac. Got my beers and my girls, what more do you need, right?
The night got interesting as we hopped from bar to bar. Finally settling in our favorite watering hole, I find myself sitting next to an old friend from the summer of Special K. You see, that summer was an experiment with ketamine and a wide range of hallucinogenics and coed softball. Dub as I will refer to him, was a much welcome blast from the past! As we reminisced and caught up, Dub, who was double fisting it, knocked me on my ass and took my breath away.
"What are you doing these days, Dub?"
"I'm leaving for Afghanistan tomorrow," he said.
"Really? Wow. That's too bad."
"You should have sex with me. I mean, I'm leaving for Afghanistan tomorrow. You could be the last woman I ever have sex with. It's, like, your patriotic duty! It would be un-American of you NOT to have sex with me! Are you an American?!"
I laughed so hard, saluted him, said God Bless America, spread my legs under the booth and said, "Well, in that case, climb on in!" It had to be one of the best pick up lines ever. And it was definitely classic Dub.
As the bar closed, we found ourselves in the parking lot trying to figure out plans for the rest of the evening. Dub invited us back to his friend Skippy's house for more beers. We kindly obliged. As the hours moved on, the moon moved past and the beers dwindled, our laughs became louder, the jokes better and the bond stronger. These are the nights that I miss living in the city. In that small town, there's always a porch to sit on in the dark and watch the stars crawl slowly by as the trains whistle in the distance.
Sitting at Skippy's, I came out of the bathroom to find TJ, another flake from the summer of Special K, sitting in my lawn chair. After hugs and high fives and a few quick quips from the past, we continued our socialization and antics.
"Hey, come here for a second," TJ said, not moving from his lawn chair.
I walked over and bent down next to his chair as he motioned me closer, as if he had a secret to tell.
"Can I just see, like, one of your nipples?" he asked with a straight face, cigarette dangling from his lips.
"No! I am a classy lady!" I quipped.
"I know you are, that's why I asked discreetly and I just meant me, not everybody else." TJ's logic was flawless. He had me there. But Skippy had heard. Skippy announced it, told TJ to leave me alone and we all had a good laugh, a hearty laugh, the kind that makes your cheeks hurt.
TJ's antics, Dub's commentary and the additional beers culminated in even more pick up lines. My heart was truly won over when Skippy asked if he could "bruise my bladder later". I laughed so hard, I nearly peed my pants!
Slowly the crowd faded away. One by one, taxis arrived, couches were found, short drives were made and I found myself sitting on the stoop with Skippy enjoying the last of my now luke warm beer. We talked about music, being middle children, our siblings, and what seems like a million more single sentence conversations. Before I knew it, the sky began to turn a deep turquoise-lavender. A train rolled by a few blocks away blowing it's whistle loud enough to break our speech and stop our lips. It was in that moment that we found ourselves in one of those awkward moments of direct eye contact, the kind where you can feel the kinetic connection, the kind where you feel like your touching but you're not... the kind where your breaths synchronize themselves but your heart beats take on a mind of their own.
Skippy leaned in, gently grabbed my chin, and kissed me. The next moments were lost until the train whistle stopped and was replaced by birds chirping. I opened my eyes and it was light. The sun was coming up. That morning, I laid myself softly down in Skippy's bed. We continued to make out for what seemed like hours. As I traced the tattoo on his right bicep with my finger, I felt a roughness. I could tell it was a scar.
"What story does this tell?" I asked him quietly.
"Are you sure you want to know?" he asked.
"I want to know it all." I replied.
"Have you ever heard of the USS Cole?" he said quietly. I could feel his heart racing through his chest as it laid on top of mine.
At 20 years old, Skippy was serving in the US Navy when the ship was bombed. He still has shrapnel in his arm and memories, more like nightmares, burned forever in his brain.
Skippy kissed me again and again. It was that kind of making out that makes your whole body tingle, that removes every stress, every insecurity, and fills every bit of time and space.
Skippy called last night to see if I made it home okay, to see when I was coming back and to tell me that he missed my lips. I know, that this night will never happen again, but the memory of it all is enough to keep me smiling for at least the next few days. Besides, who needs a hamburger when you've got peanut butter? I'll take the Skippy's of the world over the Big Macs any day.
Come sundown though, it was time for beers and debauchery. Lots and lots of debauchery. I wanted a night that wouldn't soon be forgotten and that's exactly what I got. Starting at one bar, I was greeted by friends I hadn't seen in months with comments about how good I look. It was a giant step up from a bar with Big Mac. Got my beers and my girls, what more do you need, right?
The night got interesting as we hopped from bar to bar. Finally settling in our favorite watering hole, I find myself sitting next to an old friend from the summer of Special K. You see, that summer was an experiment with ketamine and a wide range of hallucinogenics and coed softball. Dub as I will refer to him, was a much welcome blast from the past! As we reminisced and caught up, Dub, who was double fisting it, knocked me on my ass and took my breath away.
"What are you doing these days, Dub?"
"I'm leaving for Afghanistan tomorrow," he said.
"Really? Wow. That's too bad."
"You should have sex with me. I mean, I'm leaving for Afghanistan tomorrow. You could be the last woman I ever have sex with. It's, like, your patriotic duty! It would be un-American of you NOT to have sex with me! Are you an American?!"
I laughed so hard, saluted him, said God Bless America, spread my legs under the booth and said, "Well, in that case, climb on in!" It had to be one of the best pick up lines ever. And it was definitely classic Dub.
As the bar closed, we found ourselves in the parking lot trying to figure out plans for the rest of the evening. Dub invited us back to his friend Skippy's house for more beers. We kindly obliged. As the hours moved on, the moon moved past and the beers dwindled, our laughs became louder, the jokes better and the bond stronger. These are the nights that I miss living in the city. In that small town, there's always a porch to sit on in the dark and watch the stars crawl slowly by as the trains whistle in the distance.
Sitting at Skippy's, I came out of the bathroom to find TJ, another flake from the summer of Special K, sitting in my lawn chair. After hugs and high fives and a few quick quips from the past, we continued our socialization and antics.
"Hey, come here for a second," TJ said, not moving from his lawn chair.
I walked over and bent down next to his chair as he motioned me closer, as if he had a secret to tell.
"Can I just see, like, one of your nipples?" he asked with a straight face, cigarette dangling from his lips.
"No! I am a classy lady!" I quipped.
"I know you are, that's why I asked discreetly and I just meant me, not everybody else." TJ's logic was flawless. He had me there. But Skippy had heard. Skippy announced it, told TJ to leave me alone and we all had a good laugh, a hearty laugh, the kind that makes your cheeks hurt.
TJ's antics, Dub's commentary and the additional beers culminated in even more pick up lines. My heart was truly won over when Skippy asked if he could "bruise my bladder later". I laughed so hard, I nearly peed my pants!
Slowly the crowd faded away. One by one, taxis arrived, couches were found, short drives were made and I found myself sitting on the stoop with Skippy enjoying the last of my now luke warm beer. We talked about music, being middle children, our siblings, and what seems like a million more single sentence conversations. Before I knew it, the sky began to turn a deep turquoise-lavender. A train rolled by a few blocks away blowing it's whistle loud enough to break our speech and stop our lips. It was in that moment that we found ourselves in one of those awkward moments of direct eye contact, the kind where you can feel the kinetic connection, the kind where you feel like your touching but you're not... the kind where your breaths synchronize themselves but your heart beats take on a mind of their own.
Skippy leaned in, gently grabbed my chin, and kissed me. The next moments were lost until the train whistle stopped and was replaced by birds chirping. I opened my eyes and it was light. The sun was coming up. That morning, I laid myself softly down in Skippy's bed. We continued to make out for what seemed like hours. As I traced the tattoo on his right bicep with my finger, I felt a roughness. I could tell it was a scar.
"What story does this tell?" I asked him quietly.
"Are you sure you want to know?" he asked.
"I want to know it all." I replied.
"Have you ever heard of the USS Cole?" he said quietly. I could feel his heart racing through his chest as it laid on top of mine.
At 20 years old, Skippy was serving in the US Navy when the ship was bombed. He still has shrapnel in his arm and memories, more like nightmares, burned forever in his brain.
Skippy kissed me again and again. It was that kind of making out that makes your whole body tingle, that removes every stress, every insecurity, and fills every bit of time and space.
Skippy called last night to see if I made it home okay, to see when I was coming back and to tell me that he missed my lips. I know, that this night will never happen again, but the memory of it all is enough to keep me smiling for at least the next few days. Besides, who needs a hamburger when you've got peanut butter? I'll take the Skippy's of the world over the Big Macs any day.