"Sophomore Bitties"

So, Google Analytics recently (and by recently, I mean over a month ago, but I'm finally getting around to addressing this,) teamed up with Blogger to provide readership stats to all blogs, a move which I highly condone. Why? Because this means that not only can I keep numerical track on how many people are viewing this blog per day, from different countries around the world (that's you, Burundi!), what other sites are leading you to my blog through links (thanks, Molly, at Smart, Pretty, and Awkward, for the masses of people who jump over here), but I can even view what browsers and operating systems you're using. It's 1984, after all. Big Sister is watchin'.

It's kind of creepy, yeah, but it's useful. I now know what keywords will get me more blog hits (better business practices); I know what times of the day more of you have time to browse the web, therefore giving me a better frame of time in which to update with new content for you; and what the most viewed posts are, which lends me better ideas of what you would like to read about. (Sadly, it's actually the post about skinny-dipping and Naked Tuesdays, just because of that fucking image.)

When we get to the fact that it also shows me what keywords people are using to search for this blog, or keywords used that show this blog as one of their results, it can go one of two ways: really disconcerting (consider a few of the words in the blog title and the proclivities of people searching for those things), or downright hilarious. Among the "downright hilarious" are my Top 5 Favorite Searched Keywords That Led You Here of All-Time:

1.) Champlain College is a joke

2.) Sophomore bitties (Whoever searched this-- hi, I'm single, and I love you.)

3.) Large British women having sex (I laugh because I have no idea how this got you here, and otherwise, I'd have to worry.)

4.) "I really fucked things up this time, didn't I, my dear." (These are lyrics to "Little Lion Man" by Mumford & Sons. I straight-up love the fact that I archived those lyrics so long ago that they show up among the top results when you search for the lyrics to that song. That's what I call personal accomplishment.)

5.) The perfect naked girl (Why, thank you!)

However, a lot of your spelling skills make me want to break down and cry. "College grils"? "Collage gurls?" "Sexii grls"? Really? Really? Hello, this is good grammar. Let me introduce the two of you. Hopefully, you'll hit it off as much as you hit it off with "sharp stiletto sex."

XOXO

Lessons In And Out Of Foreign Classrooms

Love is an eternal theme. Everyone wants it. If you told me today that I would never find love, today is the day that I would stop eating and start smoking every waking hour until I died. The idea of love and of being in love is so all-encompassing that we find we still question it as much, I believe, as they did centuries ago, from the age of the great philosophers who raised the intelligent questions, to the Renaissance, to the Romantic era, to today. Still, we find ourselves questioning—what is love? How do we know, either what it is, or when you find it?

It is often said that women tend to be more preoccupied with these questions and concepts then men, but men are, after all, still human. In a study-abroad program predominantly populated by young women (90% female, to 10% male participants), I was amused and interested to see that my Renaissance Theory of Love class has four men in it, a tremendously large and concentrated number for our small classes (they make up a third of that particular class). It makes me wonder—to what extent are men preoccupied with these questions?

The mere fact that so many signed up and showed up for a class such as this points to the fact that we are quick, as the female population, to assume that men aren’t as interested in these ideas as we are, when in fact, we know jack shit about how they really feel. I would feel safe in hypothesizing that although women are the ones doing the actual talking and external and internal agonizing and gossiping about it, men are just as invested in the subject as we are. After all, it takes two to make a pair, doesn’t it? And if we go back to that central idea what “everyone wants it,” that “everyone” includes men, too.

I need to start thinking and investigating how men approach the concepts of love. I’m exceedingly excited to see where in this class the similarities and differences in thinking lie.

In Plato’s “Symposium,” he discusses, through dialogue (a clever trick to contrast conflicting or agreeing arguments), how three philosophers of his time approached the idea of Love. Phaedrus, apparently an eternal optimist, points out that Love tends to bring out the best in people. He argues (in more words) that if someone is close to their lover or the object of their love and affection, they tend to feel as if they must act to a higher standard because of the proximity of someone whom they want to impress.

I think we can all agree this tends to true. Acting deplorably is usually the quickest way to turn someone off and drive them away, whereas we try to be as charming and winning and generally lovable as we can be, at least in the beginning stages of any relationship, platonic or otherwise. However, when distance is introduced between two people, static between who we really are and who we are trying to be often occurs. There are two popular contrasting phrases about this—“Distance makes the heart grow fonder,” and “Out of sight; out of mind.”

I am hesitant to jump onboard of either of these. Thousands of miles away from everything and everyone I know, I am fearful of the change that one of these phrases suggests, and skeptical of the other, seemingly too romantic, one. If the idea that being near to someone means that you try your hardest to inspire to someone else’s expectations and desires while still remaining true to yourself, but as soon as distance or other blocks are introduced, you return to your base instincts and engage in all sorts of less desirable and different behavior, what does this mean for the hopes or desires of both parties? What does it mean, in essence, for your relationship with the other person?

I have seen and lived this idea in action, both on the offended and offending sides. It’s not pretty, but it’s human. People are people. We are not infallible; we all make mistakes. We all give in to temptation and what is easy and settle for something at one point or another. I realize this. It’s natural. It’s millions of years of evolution and survival of the fittest. It’s something we should have figured out by now and reached some sort of conclusion on.

This being said, I still struggle with the idea. Having been there, I can only tell you this for logic—though I may not have followed through in physical action every time does not make me any less guilty. In my mind, I had already committed the crime. In my weakness and loneliness and sheer boredom, I was willing to do the same in that same situation. Is it the same? Is that how you justified it? Can you justify it? Can we ever justify what we do by who we are, or who we are by what we do, or is there someone, like a companion or lover or friend, we have to hold ourselves accountable to? Do we need someone to strive for, or should we be able to do it on our own, for ourselves and for the idea of being someone better? Though I am supposedly in Italy to figure out who I really am in the first place and how to relate myself and my desires and emotions to others, I shy at this idea of having to justify myself to anyone else. I remember, clearly, vividly, going back to that specific moment, considering carefully my two options, wondering if I would have to explain myself. Wondering if I would have to confess; if I could be able to confess. In a world where we are so used to only thinking about ourselves, I realized my shortcomings at this moment in which I realized that I wanted to be accountable only to myself, the gentlest audience, and not anyone else who I might want to be better for. From this, I realized I am weaker than you may be. I realized that where I was willing to sweep my indisgressions under the carpet and ignore them and pretend they did not exist, that I was as normal and flawed as I really am, it is the bigger person who acknowledges these causalities and faces them and explains them.

As we explored this idea in class, I realized that though I should only be worrying about me right now, in this strange city full of strange strangers, grappling with the strangeness that is getting to know the me inside of me, instead, I am worried about other people.

Normally confident, Italy has already chipped away at one hastily-plastered over façade of mine, and I find myself facing the first challenge to grapple with: I am not as sure of anything as I think I am.

In the same dialogue, Plato introduces through Aristophanes an old myth—once, there were three genders: male, female, and man-woman. These creatures were made of two distinct people, joined together at the back—four arms, four legs upon which they walked upright, one head on one neck with two symmetrical faces, separate sex organs, but all similar characteristics. These creatures were, as people tend to be, rather power-hungry, and because of their extreme strength and joint cunning, the gods grew worried that they would try to overthrow them, as the giants and Titans did. So after much consideration, Zeus came up with what seemed to him to be a reasonable solution: to cleave them in two, down the middle, severing their strength and capabilities by half. If they were still too much to handle after this, he was prepared to again sever them, rendering them to hopping beings with one leg and one arm.

The gods were shocked to find that after the cleaving, the formerly joined pairs clung together, and refused to eat or sleep or do anything of use, so grieved they were to be separated from each other, until one of them or both of them eventually died. If one of a pair died, the other would then go wandering, searching for a like half—if the creature had been originally man/man, they searched for another man. Women/women halves searched for another woman, and man/woman survivors searched for their other opposite gender half until they found that lost half that they then joined with, as closely as they could without being one entity anymore—two people, retaining their autonomy and independence, while still being part of a fully-functional couple. The ideal relationship.

Not only does this myth quite neatly sum up the idea that no matter what shape or form it comes in (heterosexual or homosexual or anything in between), Love is the same idea, it also brings us another popular phrase, explained. Your “other half.” The idea that someone, somewhere, will fit you as surely as if you were split down the middle from the same original form and sent on your separate ways until you find one another. That, I believe, is what Love really is. As a friend of mine once said, it is finding someone “who fills a part of you you never knew was empty before.”

“What’s it like to find someone who you can be comfortable with?” another friend of mine once asked.

“It’s using their same toothpaste and smoking their cigarettes,” I told her before even stopping to think about formulating an answer that actually makes sense. “It’s how one person can say to you, ‘We need to do this,’ and when you ask why, they give you 15 different answers, and not a single one makes sense, but when the right person says ‘We need to do this,’ and you ask them why, they give you one answer, and that’s the answer that makes sense to you, too. It’s finding someone who says out-loud to you what that little voice in your head is always telling you, but you don’t actually believe until you hear them say it.”

And that, also, it what makes us human, and makes up for out inherent weaknesses—the idea that we can, and would want to, somehow actually change and become a more solid person, for someone other than ourself.

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I’m finding my Pairing Food and Wine class to be an allegory for life: To be good at tasting, you have to have to have done lots of other eating and drinking and smelling and exploring. It’s important to have lived a full and diverse life before you try to put any of it to practical use. You must be wildly impractical and experimental and daring before you can start to build any sort of solid foundation that you would stake any sort of basis on. You must, through trial and error, find what works, and what does not. You must have someone first show you clearly what you are looking for or working to find, and then you must go after it with nearly suicidal tenacity until you find that you can realize it for yourself, by yourself. As my professor in this class, Giancarlo Russo, said, “Drinking is to do without thinking. To truly taste, you need to concentrate fully for at least one or two minutes on nothing else.”

This is what I am doing in Italy. I am eating and drinking and smelling and exploring, and concentrating fully on myself for three months. Like the wine we drink in that class, I am aging. I am tasting, and learning to trust my instincts and speak my mind, even if I am afraid that I am confusing the smell of white berries for that of pineapple, like I am finding the subtle nuances that I never knew existed within myself in the hopes that by the time I return to what it is I do know, I will know more about myself and where and how I fit in, or how I want or need to fit.

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The lines between reality and fiction are easily blended, especially for a writer. The fine point between the two was raised in my first Women in 20th Century Fiction class, and how we define “reality.”

It’s a tricky little question. One is tempted to say that reality is the action and experiences that one goes through in daily life; the world we live in. However, reality is different for every single person. You may share the same experience with someone, but the reality of the situation is interpreted differently by all involved. The interpretation tends to become the reality for someone, itself, which, I can tell you, is a Gemini’s curse. To a greater or lesser extent, we all tend to believe what we want out of a situation, and rely heavily on that belief to guide our thoughts or actions in regards to it. Reality, then, becomes the extents of what we think is possible.

Without the concept of “reality” like a rigid framework or cage around us, so much more would be possible—you would not have the previous concept or opinion that something is not “feasible”—that it is up to you to bend and stretch the frame of reality for yourself and see what you can actually accomplish if you don’t worry about where other people have failed before and staked the signpost of “impossible—it can’t or shouldn’t be done.” No one is an exception or a rule—we are all blissfully individual and unique, with different strengths, talents, fortes, and ambitions. Someone with less perseverance may have not been able to accomplish something, but if you have more fortitude, tenacity, cunning craftiness, or just sheer bull-headed stubbornness, you may blow away all previous expectations. As my professor said, “Words change the meaning of the world.” Your own definition of reality may shatter someone else’s.

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“Sex” and the “College Girl”:

Interesting:
Oxford Dictionary’s definition of “sex”: “Condition of being male or female; gender. // Sexual intercourse.”

As you may have noted by now, the title of this blog is “Sex and the College Girl.” Not only is this a titillating marketing mechanism, as I’m sure some of you characters who stumbled your way here typing like-minded words into a search engine in aims of finding something quite different, but it also is almost stupidly apparent in its meaning of what the purpose of this blog is. On one hand, yes, I am a college girl, and yes, I do occasionally discuss sex and similar themes. But the other point to this blog is that I am exploring topics from the point of view of a specific gender—the condition of being a female college student and how my gender and station in life affects the situations I find myself in or explore. It’s an interesting little double-edged sword—cerebral one minute, smutty the next. I love the duality of it.

XOXO

Ciao, Bellas!

Special announcement.

This little college girl was just accepted to study abroad at the Scuola Lorenzo de' Medici in Florence, Italy, this coming Spring Semester.

"Sex and the College Girl" will be going international, babies!

Fantastica!

Men of the world, watch out!

XOXO

P.S-- I will also be in Montreal this weekend. So close, yet so far to Miss Sarah. By like, all of Canada. :( But really-- look-- legitimately international!

P.P.S-- Sooooo manyyy exclamation points...

Taking Back "Slut": Self-Marketing and Dating in the 21st Century

King of Couture Valentino once said, "I love sluts. They're some of the kindest people I know." I have to say, I'm rapidly gaining on appreciation of this quote. First, it was when my mother looked at my profile picture and said, "You're looking a little trampy again, dear." Then, it was when Alli looked at me the other day and said, "I don't get what you find appealing about being a slut." Am I? Am I a slut?

Webster's dictionary defines "slut" as, "a slovenly woman; a promiscuous girl; or a saucy girl." I decided to look up "slovenly," just to be clear-- it means "sloppy in appearance." I then looked up "promiscuous"-- "not restricted to one sexual partner."

Well, in this case: A.) Yes, some mornings, like yesterday, I do feel extremely sloppy in appearance. I do believe what I actually said about it was, "Wow, I feel like such a scrub today."
B.) Well, I have not been restricted to one sexual partner.
And C.) A saucy girl? Damn, you got me there!

So, I guess I am a slut. But in today's world, "slut" seems to be used synonymously for "whore," and this is where I put my foot down. I am not having enough sex to be considered as the modern version of a slut. I really wish I were, though. In fact, I am not having sex right now, period. I go through self-imposed dry spells far too often to be considered a slut. I'm also notoriously choosy about who I kiss, let alone sleep with. If you can please point me in the direction of all these men you think I am sleeping with, I would love to shake them by the hand and say "congratulations!" And also, possibly-- "do you want to make the rumors true?"

But if we take the attributes of a slut-- the provocative clothing, the bluntness of sexuality and a frankness in talking about it-- then yes, I might be what people would call a slut. Dating, relationships, and especially sex are important to me. Those are the things I find fascinating, but also find most people don't talk enough about truthfully, candidly, and personally. Sex is how the human race continues-- relationships and dating are what gets us there. (Most of the time.) (Unless you really are a big slut.) (I love you.) I can't tell you how many times people have said to me, "the same thing is happening to me" or "I'm so glad you said that because I never would, but I feel the same way." Furthermore, I write a blog called "Sex and the College Girl." Would you really take me seriously as someone who knew what she was talking about if I looked the same way I do on any given day in my profile picture, or is that same infamous picture that makes my mother cringe what helps give me my credibility? Is my cleavage helping you trust in me? Is my cleavage giving me credibility?

...That makes me giggle every time I write it. Obviously, I don't take myself too seriously. Another reason why I'm (for the most part) fine when someone calls me a slut.

Most of life today is about selling yourself as something-- in the workplace, in your education, in your personal and love lives. Self-marketing (to go back to the Chanel quote from the "Irreplaceable" post,) is what sets you apart. I've run into situations in life as a retail employee, as a student, and as a girl someone was dating in which self-marketing became a paramount focus. In dating itself, a woman has to market herself as many things, as Marilyn Monroe, Madonna, and Meredith Brooks all explored-- you must be virginal and farm-fresh when meeting parents; laid-back and boy-like yourself with chillin' with a significant other's buddies; and by turns ferocious or soft in the bedroom. Meeting your S.O's parents for the first time? All about self-marketing, because believe me, a good job selling yourself as "such a nice girl" does a lot to cancel out the fact that his mother knows you are also the girl sucking her baby boy's dick. Women, it appears, are marketing geniuses.

There are different levels to selling yourself, I have learned, and they can be used interchangeably between your professional and personal life. Meeting someone to talk face-to-face trumps any other way of communicating to get a point across, be it a raise, or asking the guy you're seeing what is going on between the two of you. It is much harder to be turned down in person-- this is true, and this is the A-bomb in your arsenal. No one likes to disappoint anyone to their face. If you want something from someone, you have to get in theirs. From there on, voice-on-voice interaction on the phone is personal. Tone carries. People get attached to certain voices. Text is good in a pinch because it's nearly instantaneous, but then, it's just your thumbs touching, or "thumbs fucking," as my same mother who despairs in my profile picture, calls it. (If she only knew how much literal "thumb fucking" Perfect and I have done via text...the text charges would make sense to her.) Email is the worst way to try to prove a point (or the grandparent of email-- letter writing,), because so much time can lapse between the events of it being written, and it actually getting read. And then, you are separated by time and place and distance. You will never know how the other person actually took it when they read it. Sometimes, seeing a person's eyebrows flash in the moment of reading will tell you more than the formal and well-thought-out response they will give you, if any at all. Instantaneous satisfaction and knowledge is the difference between vocal and written communication.

How do women market themselves, you ask? What is selling yourself in dating? (And no, I don't mean prostitution.) How can someone use marketing techniques to further their dating game? How does it apply?

Easily. Be the hottest commodity out there. Assess your competition (other women), the needs of your client (the man you're after), and then explore how you can fill those needs not offered. Dating itself is favorably marketing yourself. What services do you offer? What are the benefits of being with you? I'm not suggests you change yourself to become "more desirable" and become someone that who you're not-- instead, conduct a mental revenue list of what is so great about yourself that it draws men to you and makes them want to be with you. Work on improving areas you're not so hot in-- communication, for me. Work even harder in areas you already rock in so that you blow the rest of the competition out of the water, and possibly, even out of the scene.

The concept of selling yourself brings you back to the concept of being a slut. Maybe I am a slut for how well I market myself as a sex, love, and relationship columnist. Maybe I am a slut for how well I appeal to men-- not just as a girl to date, hook up with, and have sex with, but also a a friend. You can argue that any woman who markets herself as a favorable dating candidate or a successful business woman is a slut. If so, then I'm going to say it loud: I'M PROUD TO BE A SLUT.

XOXO

Open Letter to the Damned, AKA: Perfect, If You Find This Blog, Read This.

In the 1957 article in the Atlantic by Nora Johnson that this blog gets its title from, she states, “Promiscuity demands a certain amount of nerve.” So does writing things like this blog. I recently had to edit a past-post that included my full name after it was brought to my attention that when you Googled me, you came across my blog on the top of page 2. Now, it’s pushed back to the last page, and I really hope that, say, Perfect doesn’t have the time on his hands to Google-stalk me and find this.

But sometimes, I think if he were to, it would save me a lot of time with the explaining and having to do the whole “talk about my feelings and relationship” thing. I’m a writer by love, nature, and trade, obviously. It’s so much easier for me to write what I’m feeling than actually have to look at a person I have all these thoughts and emotions about, and in most cases, deeply care for and have to say hard things to them. So, I do things like this: I write open letters. Sometimes, I hope the people that they’re intended for find them. Other times, I’d be perfectly happy if they never saw the light of day in that person’s eyes. It’s just getting the words out there, somewhere, anywhere, that helps me to get it off my chest and out of my head.

I’ve got two such letters today. One is short and not so sweet, born out of frustration and the fact that I can’t seem to tell the people that I love when I’ve had enough. The other has more depth, as it’s written for a character in my life who we all know, and some of us love, who just can’t seem to find a time to get close enough to breathe the same air in the same space I am so I can say this to him. As of today, and a failed trip to Worcester, I’m at my wit’s end, and really starting to consider writing this and somehow getting it to him if he doesn’t get that fine ass of his to Burlington within the next, oh, WEEK. Summer’s ending—he’s leaving, I’m going to be getting busy with my jobs at school, and there are still things left very, very unsaid between us. What do you think? Do I write him the sort of letter that he, in his helplessly, lovably narcissistic way would probably keep for the rest of his life, and his grandchildren would find years and years from now and be like, “woah, Grandpa, you were a lady-killer! You put this bitch through the ringer!” (Yes. His grandchildren would speak exactly like that, smoke a pack of Camels a day, and die early in ATV- and too many Pabst Blue Ribbon -related accidents. Actually, we may be talking about my potential future grandchildren. His would never use the word “bitch” to describe a woman. His would wear plaid and flannel and denim and be musical and unfailingly polite and everyone would love them, just like him.)

To certain girls who have perfectly lovely boyfriends who they constantly can’t seem to help but make drama with and then complain about said drama to me: “I don’t want to hear it any more, really. You’re a great friend, and I love you to bits and pieces, but I just can’t handle listening to you bitch and moan about things that half the time are your doing. At least you HAVE a boyfriend. At least you’re not totally, hopelessly, foolishly crushed over a guy who doesn’t seem to want you back.”

To the boy who made me so very, very happy, and then, so very, very confused with good chances of happiness-showers to break up the gray days: “My only regret is ever letting you go, letting the time and the distance get in the way of the words that I wanted to say to you, but never seemed to get the chance. Well, here they are. Some things, you cannot avoid forever, no matter how hard you try. I can’t avoid saying this, and you can’t avoid hearing it.

You know what? It was scary for me, too. I’ve never brought a guy home. And I’ve never let them stay the night at my place. And I certainly haven’t let them come back and spend hours and make themselves so comfortable as you did. And after you left, I had a panic attack about it, about how happy you were and how comfortable and natural it seemed. And you know what I did? I thought about it, about why it scared me, and then I got over it and said, “hey, whatever happens, happens. I know the way I feel, and I shouldn’t let fear and worry and the past and stupid stubborn independence get in the way of that.” I got over my scares. Which is why it just kills me that you let yours get to you.

I was willing to work. I was willing to put time and energy and gas and money and emotions and sweat and tears and laughter and joy and sadness and pain and maybe even after time, love, into this, and I don’t think you know that. I don’t think you know that I’m not the type of girl to just give up when you hand me an obstacle. I don’t think you know that challenges are what excite me, and finding a way through them is something I consider crucial to life. You’re willing to risk life and limb for the adrenaline rush—diving, biking, traveling, whatever—but you seem unwilling to try when you see the potential for pain emotionally. I, on the other hand, can’t fathom any good reason for taking the risk to hurt myself for fun and entertainment, but when it comes to emotions, I am reckless in them and how and where and to whom I hand them out, and I think I live a better life because of it. You cannot live always worrying about getting hurt; it stunts your growth and opportunities. And it drives me absolutely CRAZY that you can live your physical life one way, but be so cautious emotionally. I’ve been hurt, too. I’ve been cheated on and literally abandoned by the man I loved and never heard the words “I love you” in return, but I’m still here, playing the game, asking for more. If you’ve already lost so much, what do you have but more to gain? Yes, you’re going away soon, and yes, life will be changing for you, but that doesn’t mean you have to lose all of what you used to have or have now. You’re going to find that there are some things worth taking with you, some things you never want to lose, and some things that are willing to work with or for you to make things happen. “Change” doesn’t have to mean “let go.” Change can be mutable, fluid, and accommodating. I was more than willing to change with you, let you test things out, and see what would happen. Yes, you were right—it would hurt less to end it now than in the fall if things didn’t work out, but it still hurt. We still lost things—a summer of fun, the chance for something, weeks and days and hours. What did we gain by ending? We had a great month—then, what?

When we last talked like this, you told me what you thought would work. I agreed that your logic was sound, and to try it. (You are such a logical and methodic and thoughtful person, and I am not. I am illogical and spontaneous and challenging and blunt.) Now I’m telling you, bluntly, that it’s not working. I’m not happy. This, whatever this is between us, or more to the point, whatever is not going on between us isn’t working for me. I’m finding that despite time, and distance, and our agreement to be friends, that I still miss you, and how things were.

I’ve met a lot of people since we ended; hot guys, smart guys, nice guys, funny guys. Guys who cooked. Guys who spoke French. Guys taller than you. Guys who complimented me. But none of them were quite you. None of them seemed to be what I wanted, or what I needed. And every time I met a new guy, I found myself missing you a little more.

I miss you waking me up on the morning on your way into work, and I miss how I used to not have to debate with myself if it was ok to send you a text or call you or not. I miss your voice and your hands and your smile and your laugh and your heat. I even miss the way you made yourself so comfortable dislodging pillows on my bed; your hair, and your dog’s hair that I still find in my sheets; the thought of you being there for me when I needed you for anything from a bad day and the blues to a friend’s pregnancy. I miss the way you talked so easily with my friends, and the way you would look at me as we laid side-by-side in my bed, ridiculously tiny for the two of us, yet somehow never cramped. I miss rolling over in the night to face-plant in your underarm hair that I could braid, and the way you looked mortified and then chuckled as I rolled back over quickly. I miss you steaming up my car in the rain so I had to turn the defrosters on and kiddingly berated you for your metabolism. I miss watching how much you could possibly eat, and how you can eat a cupcake in just two bites. I miss your kisses and your stellar hugs and the feeling of being safe tucked in close to your chest. Obviously, there’s a lot I miss about you. This isn’t even the half of it.

(It also kills me that drunk sex with me is the only sex you know with me. Um, there is no delicate way to put this, but I am much, much, MUCH better than that. I have tricks that have tricks, and that night I was so loaded that I forgot to lip-nibble! I FORGOT TO LIP-NIBBLE! That is beginner’s stuff! That is, like, the foundation on which they built the pyramid of Good Making Out! Let’s not even get into what personal favorites of mine I forgot to bring out and play during sex…you get the point. You’re wandering around the world thinking that that is how I have sex, and I’m telling you right now—it’s not. Please, let’s go for a ride again. You owe me four shots of vodka and mutual orgasms, anyway, before I consider us even. I do not RSVP to a party and then not come.)

Basically, what I’m trying to say here is that I worked with you once to reach a conclusion that suited you. (Personally, that was unfair. I would do almost anything you ask me to, including putting on flippers and diving into the sea to pretend I was a mermaid for the rest of my life. Just saying.) Now, I’m asking you to work with me and possibly re-work something to suit both of us. Awhile ago, I was told that you still had feelings for me. Granted, it’s been a long time since then, but I tried my hardest to get to you; it just never worked. If you still have those feelings, or even a shadow of them, I want to try again. This time, With Feeling. You taught me so much in such a short time—how to open up and trust someone; how and why I would want to be honest with someone; how to talk about what I felt or needed; what a good relationship should look, feel, sound and even taste like; that I don’t, and shouldn’t, have to settle for the guys who either won’t or can’t give me those things; and what it feels like to be with someone who actually cares about you. I never had my doubts, just so you know. I may have been by turn jealous or suspicious or had low self-confidence or was confused, or doubted myself, but I never doubted either your feelings for me, or if you were doing right by me. You always, even still, do right by me. I couldn’t, and I don’t, ask for more than that.

Why can’t we meet in the middle? How can we fix, mend, repair, or re-start what was lost? If we can’t, if it’s over, and you’re done with it, then just know—I do miss you, and I do still want to be a part of your life and have you be a part of mine, and I thank you, so much, for both showing me a good time and what was possible. I had fun, killer.”

In other, non-related news, I just saw a porn in which a girl got ejaculated on her tramp stamp. I don’t think they were going for irony, but they achieved it. God bless American couples with video cameras and a desire for self-voyeurism, a bad break-up, and a vindictive ex-boyfriend. (Another reason why if you do decide to make a video, there should only be one copy, which the woman gets to keep possession of.)

So, I’m a little loathe to post pictures of Perfect here for obvious reasons, like, using his image without his consent, or him finding this blog. (Somehow, I think it would be worse if he found it with pictures of him rather than just, you know, with all these posts and posts and posts about him…I don’t really get the logic behind that thinking either; I’m just weird like that.) Anyway. I’ve found this ( http://www.jercoons.com/?s=media ) guy, who is, funnily enough, like a version of Perfect 1.5. (If you were wondering, the real Perfect is version 2.0.) They look similar enough—same hair, similar smile, similar eyebrows, both from Vermont, both musically inclined. The real different is that one of them plays shows and tours, and one of them does not. (I found the stay-at-home version.) Just give Jer a bass instead of a guitar, a deeper speaking voice, longer eyelashes, another, like, fifty pounds and biceps that could be nicknamed Thunder and Lightning, and (you’re going to have to trust me on this one,) make him a little more rugged and handsome, his music a little less pop-y and more brooding, and you have Perfect. I really debated adding a link to Perfect’s band’s page, buttttt…again, maybe a little too close for comfort.

I’d really like you to hear Perfect’s music, because that boy has the voice of an angel. Really. Me, Miss Not-In-Touch-With-My-Emotions; Miss Keep-It-Bottled-Up, Please; Miss I-Love-Hip-Hop-And-Alternative-Rock—I get a little gooey every time I hear him sing. Ok. So maybe not a little. Maybe like, a lot. Maybe like a puddle of girl on the floor, seeping through the cracks. Maybe like, he wrecks me. I’ll admit it. Once he played one of his songs for me in bed one night and sang along to me, that was it. I was done. I listen to it every night now—it’s become my lullaby. It instantly transports me back to that night, and how warm and bubbly and safe and comfortable and happy and, yes, drunk I felt. Once you’ve had an experience like that, there’s just no going back. I've been sleeping the best of my life since then, lulled to sleep by that song. (It's "Breakdown", if you really want to know, and the part that Perfect says he hates the most is possibly my favorite part of the song.)

If anyone really wants the link, ask for it personally, and I’ll give it to you. I can’t let you doubt Perfect’s musical integrity after listening to someone I tout as him, but a lesser version. Also, I don’t want any of you dying from curiosity. Also, I’d love to in an off-hand way get his band more coverage, because as I told him when we were together, it’s virtually a sin that they don’t plays gigs and don’t actively record more. And John, my Knight in Shining Honda Armor, is his absolutely amazing self-taught guitarist. Adorable and talented John, and perfect Perfect together. Who could resist that? Can I please consider this both Doing A Good Deed and Helping A Friend Out? Please?

Now, I have a cake to go have and eat it, too. Isn’t life grand?

XOXO

P.S-- Oh, ohohohohohh, I have to admit: I've been having the most crazy-realistic dreams lately. Even if I may not be getting a lot of action lately, my subconcious is. I had dreams about Perfect and sex with Perfect two nights in a row, so detailed that I could feel his hands on mine, the smoothness and softness of his skin and hair, his body-heat and sweat and weight on me, and then last night, a dream about-- surprise, surprise! Talk about a blast from the (not-so) past!-- Jersey Blunt, and let me tell you, the feel of his package did not disappoint. Here's hoping for more such dreams tonight, whoo-hoo!