Stress test

I'm tired. Literally. I'm exhausted and even 9 hours of sleep didn't get me my catch-up rest for the week. Ever since the start of the academic year my weeks have been rushing by and the day runs out fast. In a way it's fascinating, but more often it's tiring.

What makes it even more tiring is the fact that all aspects of my life have become relatively fast-paced. This is what I signed up for, but I think that I'm missing out on a number of things.

For instance, I treat a lot of things as though they were tiny agendas on my daily planner--friends and appointments collectively. That was probably not very smart. It should have been a red flag when I realized I was penciling in time with my friends the way I would a waxing appointment or a lab meeting. But no, I was a little too excited to use my pink planner... which later evolved into two more planners (a big one in front of my computer and Google Calendar, not to mention the other miscellaneous appointments I log onto my cell phone).

The speed of things keeps me from settling down and taking a lot of things seriously. This would unfortunately include people. I convinced myself that I was too busy to take anybody seriously and I was too busy to "deal" with feelings. Keeping the boys like toys kept me out of trouble. For a little while, at least...

I was about 95% convinced that getting serious would just "ruin everything." The 5% came along the other day.

Though not a toy, this boy is definitely a lot of fun. It's not even fun like that, by the way. By closing off the seriousness and the emotions associated with my interpersonal relationships, I closed off a lot of opportunities for personal growth and maybe even finding someone who makes me happy. The rest of my life is fleeting and busy and almost chaotic--it would be nice to have something stable, something that's constant in my planner.

I don't have to settle for the nuisance or the asshole to get a fix or to get a dose of entertainment. I could take them seriously if I wanted to, just not if they displayed any of the aforementioned traits. Because really, an asshole or nuisance of a fuck buddy, even, would get old after a while. The guy loses his appeal and you lose your appetite.

This girl would like to get serious. She means business.

I don't need Prince Charming or Mr. Right. But I don't want Mr. Right Now or a Mr. Later Tonight. I'd like to call him by his name for a change.

omgstfu

I just want to say something. If you think it's inappropriate for me to blab about the new "toy" I want to get or about my weekend exploits (characters nameless, of course)--then don't drag on and on with the minutia of your boring and stagnant cat and mouse game you call your romantic relationship. If you're allowed to make me uncomfortable with all your mushy talk and frivolous details (from the cologne he was wearing to how he said "Hello") then I'm allowed to make you uncomfortable by explaining to you exactly how the Sybian works.

I am sick of prudish girls who can't listen to vulgar talk but would rather talk my ear off about the same scenario again and again: "Do you think he'll call? I mean... he texted me last night and told me he was tired. Then he said he was really busy. But he called me, 'Babe,' so that means something right?"

NO.

First, he calls you "Babe" so he doesn't have to keep track of names. Trust me, it's embarrassing to yell out the wrong name at the right time. Referencing all the women in his life to a little pet name like "Babe" makes the job much easier. An added bonus is that you think he's being affectionate. In my world, affection comes in two forms: really good voluntary oral or post-coital cuddling (both very nice but more like crème brûlée: it's sweet but you could just as easily have coffee after your meal). Yeah... check that link I added in there. I cannot wait to eat that soon...

Second, his busy schedule is an excuse. If you like someone, you talk to them. About any old thing. Usually... I suppose I'm an exception to this rule (but maybe this is just me being very conceited). I don't like talking to people if I don't have anything to say. Ask any of my friends. I'm not one to call and ask "What's up?" Really. I find that shit annoying. Don't fucking waste my time to tell me you're just "chilling." If you have something to say, call. If you have something to ask, call. If you want to see me, call. If you just wanted to say "not much, at home chillin, wts up wt u?" Just don't dial.
Expanding on that, I don't really call people just because. If I have specific things to ask or say, then there will be a call to your phone. Otherwise I am not going to waste your time and minutes just to hear your voice. Fuck that. A sexy voice isn't going to get me off over the phone--the whole voice thing only works when he's behind me spooning.
BUT! To bring myself to my point: if he wanted to see you or talk to you (get to know you, in this case) he would call, or at the very least bombard your inbox with a million cute, Ipecac-mimicking text messages.

Furthermore: if he texted you saying he was tired, take the hint. He is not that tired (tired enough to text you and let you know before you could probe him with more mundane questions about his day? Really? Get fucking real). He does not want to talk to you.

So. Now that we've sorted out your hopeless situation, let me talk about the crap that you think about but are too concerned to verbalize because others might just judge you. It's sex, it's masturbation, it's all these awful taboo things of which we all are knowledgeable. I hate these game-playing tactics, especially when one has to pretend to be coy and secretive when it comes to knowing things about what feels good. If people were as prude about copulating as others are now, I don't know if the human race could have survived. Think of it this way: because I am sharing with you pertinent evolutionary information, you might be helping the human race survive. Do you think people kept the secrets of reproductive success to themselves? No, you motherfucking prude. People go out and fuck. And then eat. Not necessarily in that order. And if you're skilled, you do both simultaneously (not a dirty joke).

It's life: live with it and stop telling me I'm crazy. STFU and listen.

I miss you

Angel: if there were a place we know nothing of, and there,

on some unsayable carpet, lovers revealed

what here they could never master, their high daring

figures of heart’s flight,

their towers of desire, their ladders,

long since standing where there was no ground, leaning,

trembling, on each other – and mastered them,

in front of the circle of watchers, the countless, soundless dead:

Would these not fling their last, ever-saved,

ever-hidden, unknown to us, eternally

valid coins of happiness in front of the finally

truly smiling pair on the silent

carpet?

-Excerpt from The Fifth Elegy, Rainer Maria Rilke

If the shoe fits...

As amusing as this might look, I'm awake on a Sunday morning, dressed in my matching flannel pajamas and my never-worn Nine West Begin pumps. It's the animal print shoe with a gold buckle. You know, the kind that is oh, so irresistible in the store but would never be at all useful in real life. My real life, at least, does not involve an animal-printed 4-inch stiletto during my 1 hour commute downtown. Anyway, I have to do the ritual of breaking in a new pair of shoes; it's hard work getting your feet used to the 5.5 cradle.

Such a pretty, pretty cradle...

Told you so! And I got it on sale--clap, clap for me because I have not bought a full-priced shoe in a very, very long time. Maybe not since November.

The shoes are killing me actually. I think there's something about the shape of this pointed toe that makes the breaking in cycle a little more challenging. I've walked around the living room, in the kitchen, lifted a few things... and my feet are screaming.

I put myself through this rigorous pattern of squeezing myself to fit into something that I will probably tire of in a couple of months. Sounds familiar, no?

How are these boyfriends, playdates, fuck buddies, or friends with benefits that different from a pair of shoes that I scour at the mall? They're all so appealing in the fluorescent lighting (as weird as that might sound), I make excuses for why I would need them--when I really just want them, and then I convince myself that because they're not that hard to get (swipe of a credit card... it's on clearance with an extra 30% off the final sale price...) that it'd be just fine to take them home.

Start breaking in.

So I try them on with a bunch of outfits, I walk around the house in them on Sunday mornings when nobody else is up, and I check myself out in almost every reflective surface, convinced that I look good with them. They hurt like hell. I can only really wear them once in a while and honestly, who puts that much value to a shoe that was 30% off and was in a paper bag in 15 minutes?

Another one replaces it the next payday.

But what about the shoe I was spying on for a good few months--the kind you wait to go on sale, or even more, wait for during the Semi-Annual sale? What about that pair? Or how about the pair you've toyed around with for so long? Those patent leather pumps? They're all sorts of nice. And they're always in style. But there's always something better out there, no? And in some instances, the black patent leather is just completely inappropriate and unreliable.

I know it's going to take a while before I settle with a pair of Manolos or Louboutins so I wait. I wait and I try on and purchase the different varieties of shoes that seemingly go well with me. Goodness knows I am not dropping down to a pair of Birks for the sole comfort of not going through a breaking in pattern. No thanks, I'll stick to the painful and the beautiful--it's not like they take up that much time anyway.