Chronicle I: The Heartbreak Cure and Dog Poo

Today was a bad day. My heart is broken and I stepped in dog poo. Out of all days to step in dog poo, why did I have to step in it today? Why couldn’t I step in dog poo on a good day? At least then I could laugh it off because I’d have so many amazing things going on in my life that stepping in dog poo would just be a laughing matter. But unfortunately that is not the case. First of all, the only reason I even realized that I stepped in dog poo was because my cousin texted me saying. “Check the bottom of your shoes, I think you stepped in Simba’s shit.” Lo and behold, the bottom of my shoes were covered in the shitty mess. I had to clean the dog poo off of the driving pedal, my floor, and my ballet flats. Yeah, I wasn’t even wearing sturdy shoes, I was wearing ballet flats for Pete’s sake.

Now, I’m not going to get into the heartbreak part of my day, because I already wasted enough of my sweet, sweet time whining about my heart in the last two posts (lucky you, not only do you get to read about a broken heart, but you also get to read about dog poo). Any way, as bothered as I was by the dog poo, I could never get mad at the dog. Dogs are cute, innocent, and loyal, so if they get shit on your shoes every so often it’s not a major deal when you look at the big picture. With that said, wanna know what my heart break cures are?

1. Looking at pictures of small animals- It makes me feel better knowing that despite my heart being broken, there’s still cute, fluffy, puppies roaming around, just looking for a human (like myself) to cuddle with.
2. Eating Popcorners- It’s a chip and popcorn in one. There are no words that can adequately describe how incredibly delectable these little triangles of goodness truly are. I can easily finish three large bags of these babies in less than 24 hours. I’m not trying to advertise food as a coping mechanism, I’m just saying that if you’re heart is broken, these are a great temporary fix. Okay, I know that a “temporary fix” isn’t any better than a coping mechanism but. . .oh, whatever.
3. Listening to “Hurt” by Johnny Cash- It’s not a happy song (hence the title), but it’s a great venting song. Maybe it’s just me, but there’s something about Johnny Cash’s music that is so real. You get a true sense of pain in his voice, and it helps you realize that pain is a universal feeling.
4. Driving with your windows down while listening to loud music- Just cause it’s fun at any age, and don’t lie, you love it when you’re at a red light and the guy next to you is laughing because you’re singing/dancing like a lunatic.
5. Blogging- Or just writing in general, but I personally like that a blog is more interactive. I love when people tell me that they are in a similar situation as mine. I know I say this too much, but it’s nice knowing I’m not alone.
6. Going out- Disclaimer: I am in no way advocating alcohol as a way to cope. With that said, it’s totally O.K. to go out, have a few drinks, dance, and flirt with the really cute bartender. C’mon, your heart is broken, get off of your couch, stop gorging down the Popcorners, and go have fun.

   

   
   

   
   

Chronicle I: Drunken Venting

Okay. I’m slightly obliterated right now, so I apologize if this post is merely one of drunken, whiny, venting.

Tonight I sat in my backyard with my best friend, drank a few glasses of Moscato, and talked about things like duvet covers and why I’ve never  been in a relationship. I love sitting outside. There is something about the rhythmic noises of the crickets, and the dim, flickering lights of the fireflies that makes me feel less alone. Perhaps it’s because no matter how bad things are, no matter how much I cry and how much I wish I could turn back time, the crickets never stop singing and the fireflies never stop lighting up. I guess, in a way, they give me hope.

Any who, back to the best friend discussion. We covered the whole “maybe I don’t have a boyfriend because I’m annoying, fat, and prude.” I’ve been told that giving a guy a blowjob on the second date is normal, but if I do that then how will I know if he likes me for me or for the blowjobs I give him, right? We decided that none of those reasons were valid. Remember in an earlier post when I told you that I’m not the kind of girl who waits by her phone for a guy to call her? Yeah. Well I’m not that girl, I’m trying so hard not to be that girl. . .but it’s difficult. Because when I wrote that I didn’t have feelings for him. I was in control. I wasn’t giving into his charming little remarks. But then he started talking to me more, and telling me about his life. My weakness is when guys get personal, so falling for him was kind of inevitable and totally his fault.

I mean, him and I would never work out, anyway. He’s a huge partier, and I, well, I’m not. I enjoy the occasional drunken night out (occasional meaning at most twice a month), but I am quite far from a party girl, the closest I’ve been to gambling is playing craps with my family on Thanksgiving, and I’ve tried a cigarette twice in my entire life  (I will never ever try one again). So, you see, we are different. Guys like him don’t go for girls like me, and girls like me certainly don’t go for guys like him. I don’t quite understand why this had to happen in the first place. I tried so hard to stay away. I knew that nothing good could come out of this.

But no matter how much I try to convince myself that he is not for me, I just want to see him again. And rest my head on his chest while listening to his heart beat in unison with mine. Help.

Chronicle I: All the Women Who Independent, Throw Your Hands Up at Me

When did it become O.K. for women to become the towel that men use to wipe the sweat off of their foreheads after a long, hard night of partying?

Someone asked me to see a movie tonight. A really good looking someone. We met  earlier this summer, and I usually decline his late night requests to hangout. But I think he may have realized that I’m not a booty call kind of girl, hence why he asked me to see a movie tonight. But that was was over two hours ago, and at the time, he said he would call me ”a little later.” What if he doesn’t call?

I hate being that girl. The one that sits by her phone and waits for it to ring. You know who she is. And when the phone finally rings at 3 in the morning, she answers in an instant and runs out to “spend time with him” because, after all, he did call, right? Wrong. I’m not that girl, I never have been.

For my entire life, people, especially guys, always tell me one thing, and then do something else. So I’ve (subconsciously) trained myself to lower my expectations and never fully believe anything people (guys) say. I know that’s not exactly healthy, to expect the worst, but it’s my way of protecting myself. Anyway, I actually like the way I look tonight. I feel pretty, and I don’t say that very often. My wavy blonde hair is daintily falling against my bare, sun kissed shoulders, I have doe eyes that they are especially yellow tonight, and my cheeks are pink and dewy. Plus, my size fours are becoming a little looser. That’s my cherry on top.

A part of me wants to ask him if we are still going, but I don’t want to come across as desperate. However, I don’t want to sit around and wait for his call. Like I said, I’m not that girl. What should I do? Why did he even have to ask me in the first place? If he wouldn’t have asked me, this all would have been avoided. Whenever I am content with being single, guys fall to my feet like sick puppies. This summer for instance, I had a plan. My plan was to enjoy my alone time. I was going to write everyday, paint everyday, workout everyday. . .get to know myself. And I was excited about that, I wasn’t looking for summer love or anything of the sort. But this ended up being the summer where there was a plethora of guys. Not one, not two, but a plethora. I know why, of course, because it is when we are not looking for something that we find it. The whole concept just baffles me, though.

I texted him and asked if we’re still going. I don’t wait around, so I rather know than not know, ya know? Too many knows, I know. His response to me was that he was having people over instead and he invited me to come. I declined. He told me one thing and then did something else. What’s new, eh? Of course, I got the “oh you don’t want to see me” and the “don’t be like this.” But as much as I did want to see him, I was a bit bothered, to be completely honest. Plus, I knew that my reason for wanting to see him was one of aching lust. He asked to see me tomorrow, and I told him if he asked at a decent hour then he could see me . He “promised” me he would. I’m not holding him to it, however. I have no problem letting guys know what I want. Granted, it took me a while to become confident enough to do so, but now that I have, it’s like second nature to me. It’s not that I’m demanding, but like I said earlier, I’m not a booty call, and I deserve to be treated properly. As insecure as I am regarding my tics and my legs, I still have self worth. Thank God for that.

 So, I sit here now feeling rather pleased with myself because I know that I am not a sweaty towel, I am a woman: hear me roar.

Chronicle I: Metamorphosis

Me? I’m a college student, a new-found PR intern in Manhattan, and a go-getter. But the insecure side of myself says that I’m an awkward, fat-legged, obsessive compulsive girl that will never get a boyfriend.

So who am I? Am I the fat-legged girl with anxiety problems, or am I the beautiful, wide-eyed, girl with a thirst for adventure and a heart that has an endless capability to love?

Gosh, I don’t even know who I am, but I suppose for my age that’s normal. Speaking of age, I’m not going to tell you my age. For blogging purposes, all you have to know is that I’m GB, and that I am a new intern at a PR firm in Manhattan. Although I’ve lived in New York for my entire life, I’ve never experienced New York City on my own, so this internship is my opportunity to do that. As many of you may know, anything can happen in New York. Anything. With that said, I’d like to invite you to join me in my metamorphosis from an insecure college girl to a sophisticated PR intern in New York City. So you’re thinking, “What makes your story so special?” My answer to you is: there is never a dull moment in my life, I give some kick-ass advice, and I’m funny (only if obnoxious is your style, though). All of those qualities plus New York City equal a recipe for fun. A lot of it.