girl night, the hook-up culture and how to survive it

Girl night.

Read that correctly. I'm not having a "Girls Night" ...I'm having a girl night. A night where I'm being a total girl about everything, including obsessing over my hair and what I'm going to where the next time I see a cute boy, bruting that I'm "too fat" and listening to depressing love songs. And thinking. Tons of that.

You know, I'm just not a giant fan of the hook-up culture that has seemed to develop. And being single and in my 20's in this day-and-age, it's hard to survive it. And for those of you who have no idea of what I'm talking about, it goes a little something like this:

Meet a guy. Probably through a mutual friend. Or at a party. Check him out. Wonder if he's checking you out. Check each other out. Do the eye thing. Do the flirting thing. Do the chatting thing. Do the "we should hang out sometime!" thing. Meet up with him again at a party or with mutual friends, in a group. Drink. Talk. Talk more. Drink more. Laugh. Repeat. Get to know each other. Exchange numbers.

Become immediately glued to your phone. Spend the whole weekend wondering if he'll call you. Debate calling him. Become impatient because he hasn't called yet. Get online. Feel your insides do a little dance when you see that he's friend requested you on Facebook. Accept it. Spend the next hour stalking him. Try to decide if he was dating any of the pretty girls in his profile pictures. Get angry because you realize how pathetic facebook stalking is. Realize that he still hasn't called. Sulk. Pout. Repeat.

Run into him at another party or eating out with friends or someplace. Wave. Hug. Talk about your week and how busy you've both been. Talk about how great the weekend will be when it finally comes. Hope that he'll make some kind of plans with you. Feel crushed when he doesn't. Continue waiting to hear from him. Continue facebook stalking. Continue pouting.

Finally get a text from him. Relax after the mini-heart attack is over. Read the text, he asks, "whats up??" Text back. You tell him whats up. He asks if you'll be at a party later. You say yes and make a plan to meet up. Spend the next 3 hours perfecting your outfit and makeup. Feel like puking from all the excitement.

Meet up with him. Hang out and talk. Laugh. Drink. Repeat. Get a little drunk. Get a little sloppy. Get kissed. Do an excited little dance (on the inside). Continue this routine of texting, partying, hooking up.

Start getting tired of the "walk of shame." Realize that you're pretty damn awesome and wonder why you're still single. Contemplate confronting him about why he's stupid for not realize how awesome you are. Scratch that idea. But think about it a lot. Decide that you're done with the hookup scene.

Drink. Hook up again. Drink and hook up again. Repeat.

Wonder how some hookups turn into relationships and how some don't. Watch some flourish and some fail. Freak out.

Occasionally hook up, but starting wanting more. Eventually start day dreaming about a different kind of guy. The kind that ask for your number right away. The kind that call you instead of text. The kind that don't rely on facebook to communicate with you.

A guy who tries to impress you with everything he's got. A guy who subtly asks about your favorite food and then takes you to a restaurant that serves it. Who tries to cook for you even though he doesn't know how. Asks about your favorite movies and then watches them so he can bring them up and sound cool. Listens to your favorite songs so he can sing along to them with you.

A guy who really tries to get to know you. A guy who listens to all of your stories and tells you all of his secrets. Who laughs even when you tell the joke wrong. Who insists that you look fine even when you're in sweats and your hair is a mess.

A guy who thinks you're beautiful, inside and out.

A guy who who thinks you're worth giving his heart to.

Finally, a guy who's worth the risk.

dictionary.com definitions and why my brain hurts tonight

Mistake. Noun. An error in action, calculation, opinion, or judgement caused by poor reasoning, carelessness, insufficient knowledge, etc. A misunderstanding or misconception. and impossible to predict.

Knowing the difference between what's best for you and what would make you happy. Because they can be two very different things. And a simple error in judgement can greatly affect both, and not necessarily in positive ways.

So much pressure.

I'm tired of thinking and contemplating.

Urination, Indians, and why I love Jessica in Leggings

1:30 a.m. Wide awake. Trying to find inspiration for a Beatles painting. Furiously angry at Mr. Darcy. Making small talk with randoms on FB chat. Desperately trying to finish reading this book that I don't even like. Confused, exhausted, anxious, awake, nervous, bored. This is my life. I have to pee.

Let me take this time to rant about this book that I'm reading. The Bend in the River by Susan Gibbs. I don't like it. I mean, it's interesting but sometimes it gets so ridiculous I feel like I'm reading an episode of Beverly Hills 90210. It's about this white chick that marries this Indian (excuse my socially unacceptable term) and they fall in love and live a harsh, persecuted life together. And seriously, EVERY man she meets falls in love with her (and she's totally a ginger, so you know how unbelievable that is) and then after all they go through (SPOILER ALERT).. he fucking dies. Seriously? I read 18 chapters worth of all hardships and survival, be it disease, gunshot wounds, broken bones, being hung.. and you somehow miraculously survive all of this and then you suddenly die of throat cancer... really Susan, really? And then he's on his death bed, confessing to Emma that he banged her best (and only) friend and she's just.. totally okay with it. Also, she's addicted to laudanum and gets attacked again by the same guy who raped her the first time.

And the book doesn't end when he dies. There's about 10 more chapters of this shit.

But enough about the book, I wanted to mention that I was tickled when a few of you asked me when I was going to write another blog. I was unaware that anyone else but me actually read my blogs. With that, I promise that I will start writing more often.

I'd like to make a shout out to my girl, because she definitely wore leggings as pants the other day and I loved every second of it.

Or maybe it was because her cute little butt was hanging out.

P.s. I hope that this embarrasses you.

The First Blog

I'd like to make several excuses as to why I'm blogging but we all know it's just because i'm narcissistic. I mean, I obviously think I'm interesting and that people want to read what I write, right? Otherwise this nonsense that is flowing from my brain to my fingers to the computer into your brain wouldn't be happening. And congratulations, my nonsense is in your head now, which makes us brain buddies.

So this is where you'll find me. Complaining about how auto-correction wants to replace the word "fuck" with "duck" and "Saginaw" to "vagina" and makes a big mess of communication in general. Expressing my amusement when I learn new funny things, like the fact that "tea-bagging" is sometimes referred to as "potato-sacking" depending on testicle size. Stating irrelevant things that hold absolutely-no-importance-to-you-but-you-might-find-it-interesting-maybe.

Whether it's giving advice that I wish I had known years before, writing a 'how to' guide on dealing with heartache or ranting about the importance of breaking the mental health misconception, this is the place where the stuff in my head gets translated into sentences and understandable concepts. And if you knew me at all, you'd understand what a big feat that is- making sense, I mean. Maybe it's because I've never seen Aladdin. Yes, it's true. I've never seen Aladdin. My childhood was probably lacking in something because of that, and that's probably the reason I am the way I am.

So read or don't read. Absorb or ignore. It makes little difference to me but if my ramblings and inappropriate word usage can brighten your day or make you feel a little less crazy because there's obviously crazier people in the world like me, then I have served my purpose.

I'd like to end this with a public announcement:

Girls, I don't care what you say, leggings can serve as pants if they want to and I am making the movement.

Guys, chilvary isn't fucking dead.

Mom & Dad, you really should've let me watch Aladdin.