“And everyone’s competing for a love they won’t receive/’Cause what this palace wants is release.” – Lorde
Yesterday turned out to be an entirely unplanned Sunday Funday, which resulted in a lot of drinking (read: Bloody Marys with breakfast, a liquid lunch, a stop at my house where there was whiskey, dinner where there was beer, and then a cider-nightcap). How my liver doesn’t absolutely hate me right now, I… don’t know, but maybe it’s because the universe is happy that I have friends?
The night ended by me realizing that I was locked out of my apartment (it seems to be a specialty of mine, really), except I actually had keys, and – despite drinking like it was my birthright – I wasn’t drunk, just really tired. Somehow, a lock I never lock decided to be like, “FUCK THIS!” annnnd locked itself (this is the only plausible explanation, because I don’t have keys for it. Unless I have ghosts. I probably have ghosts). I went around the back and tried in vain to get the chain lock off the door, and when THAT didn’t happen, my friend broke it with pliers. So. Um. That’s what happens when you drink all day, kids. You end up breaking into your own apartment. (Have I mentioned lately that life is so, SO good?)
In other news, I’ve been engaging in conversation with a guy online who 1) seems nice but 2) has the personality of a sheet of paper. And as much as I wish I wasn’t THAT girl (because Lord knows, I am not an expert grammarian and I make up words and I say “like” almost as much as I say “fuck”), he can’t type a sentence either. Fizzle, fizzle, fizzle.
I don’t understand it. My predicament seems to be that a) you’re interesting, but you’re an asshole b) you’re interesting, but sometimes when you speak, I die a little inside, or c) you’re nice. and boring. and destined for not-greatness.
I know. I KNOW. I feel bad for sitting atop this pedestal. It is not a good pedestal! It’s poorly crafted! But I don’t get WHY I can’t seem to make a good man-choice to save my life! And honestly, I don’t know that I can even ask the universe to do me a favor on this one, because I almost feel as if my ideal might as well be fuckin’ mythical (especially when I am not perfect. Like, I’m special. What kind of special, I have no fucking clue, but I’m special). Is it too much to ask, though, that I get paired up with someone who is genuine, and ALSO funny, and ALSO not an asshole, and ALSO has the smarts? My list, unfortunately, goes on… but that’s because I feel all the things, all the time. How is it possible to sum up YOUR SOULMATE? (Eh. In an effort to weed out my usual pickings, I think I actually summed it up best on the other dating site that I am on [yeah. I’m signed up for two. One paid. One free. I’m a fan of vapid compliments]: “You should message me if: You are not a dick… and you have healthy relationships with your friends and family.”)
Perhaps life was easier when I wasn’t doing this. (…This is why I wasn’t doing this. I am snobby and shallow and have the demands of a toothpick-skinny-blonde when I’m clearly not. It’s okay. I have a mirror. I can see.)
And yet. I need to do this. To be exactly here, and exactly now, and to deal with these things, even though that’s how they go.
And maybe, with a little bit of effort (and some luck. Eh, universe? Eh?), things will go the way that is super-optimal for me.
Have a good night, everyone. Be kind to yourselves. Read a fucking book.