Tag Archives: rihanna

65. James Stays the Same if You Do the Same

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How many times can I write a blog about dating?

I tried it all again; I put myself out there. First I told all my friends that I was looking and to set me up if they knew any eligible, drug-free bachelors. Then I consulted my mother…

Mom: I just feel like you need to date a doctor. Or a lawyer…
Me: Got it, Ma. Loud and clear. Totally agree. Though, quick side note, it’s not like I’m turning down offers left and right from lawyer-doctors. I promise if they come along, I’ll give them a chance.

Then I downloaded a dating app to find a man for my mother…ahem, excuse, to find a man my mother would approve of. I chose to go with OkCupid, because my Facebook survey showed that it had the LEAST amount of fuckboys. So I created a brilliantly eccentric profile that was described by my friends as an “accurate depiction of who James is” and “intimidating”. I decided to go with the screen name “Asskitty”. It felt equal parts fun and daring. I created a profile with excessive use of CAPS  lock and Fetty Wap references, all brought to you by COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE. But I had some pretty good luck! I went on dates with some really awesome people, and I was pretty honest whenever I wasn’t interested except for one specific person, and I apologized. Not perfect, but I tried. All in all, it ended up working out NOT A BIT for me. To oversimplify my dating woes, I met someone and the interest to pursue a romantic relationship wasn’t mutual. Yes, it was all more complex than that, and it ended in a mature, amicable manner. But I couldn’t help but ask him, “Honestly, is it something about me? Was it something I did? You can tell me.” He kindly assured me that it had nothing to do with me, and I know he meant it. But that didn’t stop that insidious thought from continually detonating in my mind: “What did I do wrong? What did I do wrong? WhatdidIdowrongWhatdidIdowrongWhatdididowrongwhatdididowrongwhtdddwrng?”

The following week, a friend of mine experienced the same thing: they were interested in something serious with someone who was NOT looking for the same thing.We were texting about it, and they texted me: “This always happens to me. What am I doing wrong?”

Nothing. You’re doing nothing wrong. It’s not you.

Then I had ANOTHER friend go through the same thing. And they said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why is this happening to me??

I said…

“Nothing! There’s nothing wrong with you! How can you put this all on yourself? Dating takes more than one person’s effort. If the success of a relationship depended on just one person’s solo effort, you would be fucking married by now! But you can’t take full responsibility for the dissolution of the relationship. They have to meet you halfway, and you can’t convince someone to want to try; they have to come into the relationship with the desire to make something work. And it’s not your fault that they weren’t inspired to give a shit. You can’t say to yourself, “Oh, if I had been more interesting, they would’ve wanted to date me. Or if I had been prettier or funnier or more self-assured or more laid-back or this or this or this. It’s not your fault. This isn’t on you. Sometimes it’s just not a good match, and that’s real-life, sucky-ass adulthood. Sometimes you don’t mesh; you’re looking for different things. That’s okay. It’s not personal even though nothing could FEEL more personal. It’s just life. So stop beating yourself up. You did your best. You showed who you were and you were honest about your feelings. As far as I’m concerned, you succeeded on your half. And if they weren’t prepared for something serious, it’s not your job to wait around for them to be ready for you. Their fear of commitment isn’t your fault; they were that way before you came along. You can’t MAKE someone emotionally available. That’s not on you. And it’s not your job to fix the parts of them that need healing. You’re not Bob the Builder; this isn’t a Coldplay song; fix yo damn self! We all need to recognize our baggage, address how it’s holding us back, and then move forward. We’re not going to get anywhere sitting around feeling bad for ourselves, and there isn’t a Prince Charming who is going to come along and fix you UNLESS your therapist just happens to be called Prince Charming which is equal parts fucked up and amazingly cool. Not everyone needs to be ready for the heavy, serious, committed relationship. But those same people also don’t need to be Hurricane Hot Mess, sucking in other people in and hoping to feel something. You won’t absorb wholeness from someone else. Don’t take my others down with you. Because if you’re the Titanic, I will NOT go down with this ship #Dido ! I will be Miss Rose and I will cling to that floating door with my dear life and I won’t save NOBODY, not even no god damn purple Leonardo DiCaprio. BYE GIRL. GETCHO FLOATIES AND DOGGY PADDLE, BISH!

(Wow, James/Asskitty really uses CAPS lock a lot, he sure is intimidating but oddly…dare I say, sexy?)

…Then I realized I should probably take my own advice.

Someone once told me that in the initial stages of dating, you should just see if you could even be friends with this person. Because essentially a boyfriend would be my best friend that penetrates me. Currently, my best friends penetrate my soul with their kindness but unfortunately they don’t penetrate my anally with their wangs. So in the meantime, I’m looking for a male best friend to love me and STICK IT IN.

Therefore, if I start treating a prospective boyfriend like a new friend, I start looking at everything differently. Usually when I’m dating someone new and learning things about them that don’t mesh well with my personal values I ask myself, “Hm, is this something I can deal with? Should I just sacrifice little pieces of me to make us fit together better?” But my friends would never DREAM of making me do that. NEVER. My friends wouldn’t ask me to change. Kelley hates my fashion sense and she REALLY hates when I say the word “pussy”, but she still loves me. (PUSSY!) Caity rolls her eyes every time I yell, “IT’S BUTT O’CLOCK,” but she wouldn’t have me any other way. Friends see you as the cuckoo daddy-mess that you are and LOVE you that way. My mother gave me the best advice when I was in middle school. She said, “Wipe front to back James; you’re getting shit all over your balls!” I’m just kidding. She never told me that; I STILL get shit all over my balls. But she DID say, “James, your friends are who they are. Don’t try to change them. You need to decide if their personality traits are something you can deal with or if they’re deal-breakers.” Dating should be the same way. When I meet someone new I need to say to myself, “Wow, this quality of theirs irks me. Is it a deal-breaker or is it something I can accept?” For example, I can deal with someone who doesn’t love flossing or someone who asks too many questions during movies or someone who loves Halloween or someone who wasn’t valedictorian. But I CAN’T date someone who likes punting babies or someone who’s racist or someone who’s an alcoholic or someone who hates men in heels because of deep-seeded latent homophobia which also leads to crippling sexism or someone who uses #gayboy on Instagram for the gratification of likes from an absolute stranger. You shouldn’t change to accommodate someone else, and you shouldn’t ask that of them either. You HAVE to take someone at face value. No person is a fixer-upper. You can’t go into a relationship thinking, “Well I would really like them IF they changed this thing about themselves. But we’ll work on that. They’ll change.” No. That’s not how it works. You take who you get when you get them. It is extremely damaging to tell someone you love them ONLY under specific conditions. That’s selfish, and love isn’t just about your needs. Conditionally love ain’t real love, booboo.

And when it isn’t a good fit you have to walk away. You acknowledge your irreconcilable differences, you shake hands and you cartwheel away. For me, every time a relationship ends it feels like someone just took a sledgehammer to a ten-foot tall Jenga tower. It takes me a while to regroup. I know there’s nothing wrong with me, but the sting of rejection never loses its punch. So I need to lick my wounds for a bit before I jump back into the Dick Party. So I go home and tell my friends I want to be left alone for the night. And then they all come over anyway, because they’re a bunch of soggy assholes who don’t listen. I cry while they listen intently, blow raspberries on my belly, poke me in the penis and repeatedly flash their waxed vagina at me. And I hate them for making me laugh when I’m so determined to be devastated, but I lay in bed that night thanking Whoever-The-Fuck-Is-Listening for sending me this whorey handful of people who genuinely care about me. And I know that they, my Chosen Family, have set the standard of what to expect from a boyfriend. They tell me not to change. They encourage me to be my true self, even when my true self wakes up at 7 AM hyper AS FUCK, starts speaking flirtatiously to the closet door and then humps said closet door because the chemistry was just ELECTRIFYING. They pay attention when I tell them my shame stories, and they tell me, “I’m sorry that happened to you, but one bad action doesn’t define you. This does not make you a bad person.” They lie on my bed before I go on a date and tell me how gorgeous I am, and then I flounce down the street with the MOST inflated self-esteem, the MOST offensive coffee breath and a STRONG panty line. But most importantly, when our relationship isn’t working, we talk about it. I can say, “Hey, you’re hurting my feelings,” and we work through it. I can ask for the things I need and receive them, because they know I would do the same for them. My Chosen Family is the ULTIMATE boyfriend. I have found these incredibly functional relationships with HIGHLY dysfunctional people that I plan on spending my whole life with. And I know in my heart that these will be the most meaningful and fulfilling relationships I will ever have. These relationships shouldn’t be discounted or ignored while I’m sifting through clearance piles of fuckboys in search of a boyfriend who will one day call me HIS TRAP QUEEN. #ZOOGANG. Because these people will always be there, no matter how many times I fuck up. And if my best friends have displayed such beautifully imperfect examples of what a relationship can be, WHY would I settle for anything less from a boy just because he’s hot and he got MAD fingerbangin’ skills? Why, James? Why?

“Nobody touch me ya not righteous.”
~”Work” by Rihanna (feat. Drake)

#CHOSENFAMILY

65

#DONTGIVEUP

JAMES

33. James Has Secrets He’d Rather Die With

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Everyone has secrets. Some of them: you can’t wait to share with someone. Some of them: you would rather give a blumpkin than admit them to someone. That’s OK. That’s life. You make mistakes, but you move on. But when you see those happy couples who say, “Oh, we’re so close; we share everything.” Maybe that works for them. But that isn’t a steadfast rule.

I used to think that intimacy meant not keeping secrets. I thought that if you truly wanted to be as close to someone as you could, you should tell them everything. But I’m not sure that’s true. Because not every secret will bring you closer together. There are harmless secrets like this: “Once when I was cooking dinner for my family, I drooled into the pan. My mom told me not to tell any of my other family members. So I didn’t. They ate the meal. They thought it was delicious. No one knew that I drooled.”

Harmless.

But there are secrets that are less lighthearted and way less funny. Maybe, if you’re alive, you have royally f*cked up once or twice. Hopefully you learned something. Maybe you regret it big time. You don’t need to tell that secret to anyone. Anyone. Not your family, not your cat, not your pillow, not God, not a stranger, not your significant other, not your other cat, NO ONE. No one deserves to know your secrets. No one is entitled to know your secrets. Because if your Terrible Awful is something that is TOTALLY out of character, if it’s something you would never do again, if it’s something you can’t really believe you did in the first place, if it’s something that you told yourself, ‘If I tell no one then maybe the thing never happened,’ then you don’t have to tell anyone. And maybe you shouldn’t. The only exception I can make is a therapist. Because if you’re guilting yourself to death over something and you need professional help, then by all means be honest with your therapist. Because they’re getting paid mucho (Canadian) dollars not to judge you. And who knows, maybe your therapist has some naughty doorknob fetish that she’s never told anyone. But BACK TO THE POINT, JAMES! Maybe your Terrible Awful makes you sound like someone you don’t want to be; it portrays an image that doesn’t currently match the one you  are striving to embody; it doesn’t represent the best you. You don’t need to tell anyone. I’m not saying you shouldn’t. But you should never feel like you have to, like it’s required of you.

You have a right to your privacy. No matter your status: dead, alive, single, taken, possessed, repossessed, zombified, mortified, ashamed, proud, ambivalent, drunk. It’s your choice.

Here’s an example: your number. You know, your NUMBER. Wink wink. Like. How many people you’ve stuck it to. In the butt or other orifice.  Maybe your number is high. Hypothetically, if you tell someone that you’ve had sex with 10 people in 8 years, they might think you’re skanky because their PeopleFucked to YearsPassed ratio is smaller than yours. But they don’t know your circumstances. Perhaps once was a drunken mistake. Perhaps one was a friend with benefits. Perhaps you have been with so many people because you’re not willing to settle.

Maybe you’re me. I’ve dated a lot of people. A lot. And I’ve had sex with some of them. And maybe some people think my number is high. But I think that’s a judgement. I mean, high compared to what? Yes, I’ve had more sex compared to zero. But that doesn’t mean anything. Me? I’m just looking for the right guy. And sometimes I’m with the wrong guy for too long, and I figure it out too late. Maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I was lazy. Maybe I stayed in relationships too long. Maybe I jumped out of them too fast. But the bottom line is I’m not settling. So why do I have a “high” number (if you’re a virgin)? Because I’m looking for the One. If I had found the One, my number would stop climbing. Hm. So here are my options: have a low number by making it work with just anyone, regardless of my happiness, regardless of our compatibility. OR. Have a “high” number by looking for someone who will treat me right, make me laugh and have a good heart.

Listen, bitches, I’d rather be a f*cking slut than die miserable.

“I’ve asked about you, and they’ve told me things. But my mind didn’t change; I still feel the same. What’s a life with no fun? Please don’t be ashamed. I’ve had mine, you’ve had yours, we both know. We know.”
~”Take Care” by Drake feat. Rihanna

JAMES