I met a close guy friend’s new girlfriend recently, and I think I like her, even though it’s unfortunately not mutual. Even though I find her a little terrifying. Even as I mentally prepare for this friend to drop out of my life for the duration of their relationship.
*shrug*
If he’s happy, wants to see where this goes, and shit, is finally getting laid, who am I to do anything but wish him the best?
A few drinks in at the bar, I declare I have to pee. New Girlfriend says, “Me too,” and follows me to the restaurant’s pissing quarters.
As we wash our hands side-by-side, this girl who’s barely spoken all night rapid fires a barrage of questions about how do I know her boyfriend/did we ever date/why not/did I know they’re official now with juuust enough hostility and accusation that I felt…
a little flattered.
Dang. This IG butt model and OnlyFans-treprenuer feels somehow threatened by my homely ass?
Nice.
*checks out baggy, mismatched clothes, unwashed hair, and makeup-less face in the mirror*
I don’t get it, but fuck, I’ll take it.
Part of me is a little worried this bitch is into like..witchcraft n shit. Cuz the day after meeting her my car gets totaled on the freeway on my way home from a staycation.
I’m gonna go with my rational mind and say the two incidents aren’t related.
In the span of just a few days, it’s goodbye platonic friend! Goodbye car! My poor little Chevy and literal ride-or-die for the past 6 years, purchased after my previous car was also totaled by a reckless driver on the freeway.
Careful out there, people.
As I removed a hulky suitcase, yoga mat, and a bunch of random shit from my now-lifeless vehicle, I thought, “Man. Maybe I do need a life partner.”
Funny I only ever think that when faced with the immediate prospect of lifting heavy objects.
Maybe I should just work out more,
I say to myself as I lay in bed eating chocolate covered pretzels and polishing off another $5 bottle of wine.
It’s ok. Everyone needs a break sometimes. It’s been a stressful few days and plus I’m on my period…
in 3 weeks.
So, here we are. Another night alone doing nothing.
A year ago, I thought I’d be on a mad bender boning all sorts of randos to make up for lost time once things opened back up.
But alas, I upped the dosage on my birth control, and a surprise side effect is that it completely and utterly destroyed my sex drive.
It’s awesome.
I’ve never been more productive in my life. I have so much free time now that I don’t spend any chasing the D. I’m like a laundress in the Middle Ages who’s handed a washer and dryer.
Right now, you could be the most gorgeous dude alive, don a sexy fireman outfit, cuddle a puppy in your left hand and wave your dingdong in my face with your right, and I’d just shrug apathetically and think, “Hm. That is an objectively good looking man.”
I’ve tried and failed to explain this. I will literally say, “I’m on the pill. It’s killed my sex drive,” and I swear guys only hear, “I’m on the pill.”
What to do with all this newfound free time.
Duh. Binge more murder shows.
One of my sisters is incredibly sensitive to TV spoilers. She doesn’t wanna hear any comments about any episode she hasn’t yet watched. I could say, “The next episode is scary,” about a horror show where people die in every episode, and she’d feel like my insensitive comment spoiled the whole series.
It’s hard for me to remember this cuz I honestly don’t get it. You could tell me who dies before I start a show and it wouldn’t make the series any less interesting.
I still don’t know how or when or why or how I’ll feel or how the other characters will feel or the look on their face when they die or do they come back as a ghost or will it be hilarious or painful or victorious or mysterious or touching or nonsensical or all of the above.
Spoiler alert:
We’re all gonna die.
That doesn’t make my life any less exciting to live.
Although hopefully that day doesn’t come too soon (again, careful on the roads, people). I got too much shit I wanna do.
A psychology major friend once asked me to take a personality test reputed to be uncannily accurate. I said ok, if it doesn’t fuckin take forever, and was told to imagine the following (definitely incorrectly paraphrased) scenario.
You’re out on a grassy field. There’s a tree, a horse, and a cube.
That’s it?
Yup. Describe the cube.
Easy. It’s floating a few inches off the ground on one of its corners, rotating like the Cube at Michigan.
What’s it made of?
I dunno. Light, I guess. It’s a rainbow hologram outline of a Cube.
Interesting. The density of the material you imagine represents your level of openness and transparency.
Hm. Guess that checks out, as someone who published a public blog post about how many dudes I’ve slept with.
How many flowers are on the field?
A bunch. The whole field is covered in flowers.
That symbolizes how many children you wanna have.
…The fuck.
I told that bitch she was crazy and this test was a sham.
I don’t fuckin want kids. Gross.
But over the years, I’ve come to realize that may not be entirely true.
It’s just that, instead of raising a kid in LA, I could sponsor an entire field of orphans in India. Or China. Or Kentucky.
Bonus: I wouldn’t have to go to any kids birthday parties. I can continue to spend my Saturdays drunk watching football in my underwear.
Double bonus: I’m fighting climate change by literally doing nothing.
Don’t you ever get lonely?
Honestly, not often. During pandemic lockdown I unwittingly became best friends with myself.
Sad? Maybe.
But better than being best friends with Lamp or Roomba.
I’m lying. I don’t have a Roomba.
All in all, I highly recommend it. Being best friends with yourself, I mean. Not the Roomba. I wouldn’t know.
I wake up every morning, look in the mirror and say (in my head, cuz you can do that when you’re talking to yourself), “Good morning, beautiful!!!! I love you sooooooo much!! Thanks for being the best partner in the entire world! How would you like to start off our day today?”
Then Me and Also Me decide whether we’d like to do some yoga and meditation, a little cardio with weights, or sit in bed sipping coffee and reading the news.
On the rare occasion that I do feel lonely, untouched, and desperate for 30-60 minutes of companionship with no attachment, I’ll hop on an app and see if anybody out there’ll pay me a few bucks to walk their dog.
Or blow them.
Just kidding.
Better puppy cuddles than returning to dating. My rationale is this: Any big life change is likely to affect perceived levels of stress, chaos, and happiness, which together (among other factors), help determine overall quality of life.
My life as structured is very low in stress, very low in chaos, and pretty high in happiness. What are the odds my effort on the apps will lead to meeting someone who manages to add incremental happiness without simultaneously spiking levels of stress and chaos? Pretty much zero.
Damn you, diminishing returns.
But I do support my friends’ romantic pursuits! Even if they cause them to disappear for a while.
Back home in Oakland County, the night before Halloween was Devil’s Night. Teenagers would TP peoples’ houses. Knock over mailboxes. Run over peoples’ lawns.
It was like a super lame version of the Purge.
In the movie, the point of the Purge was, in a twisted way, a type of rebirth. It’s an interesting concept to me cuz it seems to suggest that nothing’s ever lost, it just comes back to you in another way at a later date.
These past 18 months, lost in-person interaction found its way back in the form of newfound self-friendship.
Lost sex drive comes back as gained free time to do…any number of non-sex-related activities (I need a new birth control).
In my experience, even friends who drop off for relationships have a way of coming back into your life.
You’ll be out somewhere months or years later, having not thought about this person in forever, and you’ll randomly receive a text.
Just one word.
“Hey.”
And with those three letters, nothing more needs to be said, explained, or justified.
Welcome back to the single life, bro!
Me and Also Me have missed you.
No Money Mo Problems 