Secret Agent Relationship

I could, in my spare time (if I had any), probably moonlight for the FBI as a search-analyst-thingy-whatsit. Case in point: When TGIS got a job offer that seemed a little too good to be true and asked me what to do, what was my snap judgement call? "Google the SHIT out of the company and the employer." It ended up being a scam, so it was a win for the home team all around, but still, the fact that I openly shared my love of Googling "the SHIT" out of people was probably not the most clever character trait reveal in the world, or in my relationship.

So note to self (and rest of female population), if you have the power: Looking up the ex-girlfriend is not completely heartening, yet you will always, always keep doing so, you silly little sucker for masochism. It's like we're playing an imaginary game of "Me versus Your Ex" with an invisible scoreboard and everything, but the only problem is, there is no umpire to tell us what's fair, and what are are fouls.

I know there's the whole "it's in the past and ended for a reason; who's with each other now?" argument, but really, when a woman gets into the information-gathering bend or starts thinking about The Women That Came Before, since when is sanity or logic ever heeded or considered a pertinent fact to listen to?

The other day, it came up that the ex of the guy I'm seeing got him possibly the best, most ingenious, most perfect thing he could ever receive for his birthday back in the day. I sat in stunned silence for a minute, thinking about any way I could ever top that, and drew a complete blank. I laid down my sword then and admitted defeat to her-- I can never and will never be or replace her, but I noted some other things, too: I may never be able to come up with such a great present as that was, but I did just randomly pick him up two shea butter shaving cream samples, just because, and I can and do buy him drinks when I'm flush to repay him for all the times he buys them for me, and give him random, because-I-feel-like-it-and-because-you-need-it massages, and will let his friends come over and hang out, and not once but twice this past week he told me how nice I was to him and how much he appreciates it. And I LET HIM USE MY INSTANT NETFLIX (that's when you know it's serious-- sharing Netflix's viewing suggestions). So, in other words, I must have some redeeming qualities for him to have some reason to want to be with me, even if my idea of the perfect gift is a a bottle of men's facial moisturizer so he stops using mine, or a trip down to Atlantic City to visit the craps tables on the casino floor.

Hey. We can't all be perfect. And when I start feeling particularly masochistic about the women in the past, I remember a few things that always make me feel better: Just like I probably have some habits that annoy the ever-living shit out of the guy I'm with, they probably had some habits that annoyed him even more; and, when in doubt, I could probably whup their asses at writing grammatically proper sentences, or when to use a comma versus a semi-colon. It's really the little wins in life.

XOXO

Do Nice Guys Really Finish Last?

Today, I was watching one of the the few male members of my Gender Comm. class out of sheer social interest when I realized there was something going on with him that I doubted few other people ever got tipped off about: He's running a tighter game than Mick Vick was this past season, and as an Eagles girl, let me tell you, the only thing tighter than Vick's game is his ass. But back to what was so interesting about my classmate-- He's got a few very good things going for him: He's attractive, fun, extremely easy to talk to, outgoing, bright, and taking a class on gender communications, which, you know, isn't a bad sign at all for someone who worries about being able to clearly communicate and be understood in a relationship. He's also unassuming and self-depreciating-- he knows he's not the "ideal man" type that girls are programmed to go for-- you know, tall, dark and handsome, with suavity like James Bond and an ass like Vick's (oh, wait, I mentioned that already...oh well,)-- but the fact that he's so vocal about this makes you want to prove him wrong. Girls gravitate to him because of all this, so he probably works to further cultivate it. He is, in short, no dumb bunny. "Cause and effect" theory at work, here, as in, "If I play the friendly, slightly geeky guy, girls aren't intimidated by me and want to be friends with me." I've watched his M.O for the past few weeks and seen it at work; I bet he's always got a lot of girls around him, but I also bet he gets friend-zoned a lot when girls meet and then go for a bad-boy type instead. There's the flaw in his game-- I know it, but I wonder, does he?

Take, for example, one of TGIS's best friends. I adore the kid and am very vocal about it-- TGIS knows it; my roommate agrees with me about the fact he's utterly lovable; and I'll talk about how great his friend is equally as much as I talk about how great TGIS is (if not his friend more). He's just the kind of guy who instantly puts women at ease, is really quiet and unassuming, yet knows how to have fun and will make sure to include you in conversation or anything he and the guys are doing. In fact, he's so nice that I often (somewhat) joke around that I'd leave TGIS for his friend in a hot minute just due to niceness, and TGIS is a pretty nice guy of his own accord, too. But one thing makes this a joke, and not something I would ever in a million years actually ever act on: He lacks the je-ne-sais-quoi bad-boy factor that TGIS does have that keeps women (myself included,) enthralled and guessing. And that's the flaw in Gen. Comm. Boy's little scheme-- nice guys never factor in the bad boys. But oh, how they should.

After dating for roughly the last three million years (give or take a century or so), I've dated a lot of guys. Short guys, lots of tall guys, fat guys, thin guys, muscular guys, athletic guys, nerdy guys, smart guys, dumb guys, sweet guys, but the majority of them have been one kind of guy in particular: bad boys. They're kind of a specialty of mine-- slightly fractured, emotionally needy, a little fucked up, and emotionally unattached. After all these eons of observation and the emotional train wrecks they leave behind them, I have come to one conclusion: There is only one kind of guy really worth dating who will ever really keep a woman's attention, especially if she has as short of a dating attention span as I do-- the nice guy with an edge, or, in less flowery terms, a reformed bad boy. Does this mean that he's entirely house- and relationship-trained and won't leave you broken and bleeding at the end? No, but it does mean that he might actually date you properly and take you out instead of just sending you packing the next morning and wait a little bit to have sex with you until he's sure he actually likes you, unlike his previous incarnation. See, he used to be a bad boy, but just like I used to be much more of a maneater than I am now, he too was burned by some of his past choices and reached a higher state of being, mainly called "Nirv-NotBeingACompleteAssholeAnymore," thus making him just about the most illusive and perfect creature a woman could ever track down and wrestle into bed and into dating.

So, in theory, while Gen. Comm. Boy may have his game (mostly) worked out, it's a shame that it really doesn't pay out for him, because when all the chips are down, he's a really nice guy, but we ladies are eternally preoccupied in less green, more shady pastures. We would be smarter if we chose men who liked us more than we liked them, like him, but that's never how it works. And the questioning and the emotional torment that comes with the bad boys, or even with the reformed bad boys sometimes, is the price that we pay for craving a bit of mystery and drama in our love-lives. That's really what it comes down to-- we'd rather not be bored, not that these men are boring, but a little bit of intrigue as toward how someone feels about you is the engine that seems to power our relationships. It's the butterflies-- we always want to have the butterflies. So I guess we have no one to blame but ourselves for our relationship drama and eternal questioning. Go figure. Do I win a Pulitzer for that stunning reveal now?

XOXO

All I Want For Christmas...Is To Get This Out Of My Mouth.

You know what's really not hot for the holidays? Being sick. And guess who just happened to come down with strep throat during the most romantic time of the year to be playing tongue hockey? That's right-- THIS GIRL.

Among all the things in the world, the image above is NOT something you want in your mouth.

Sunday night I was feeling great. The boy came into town; we watched a movie (NOT in the sense of what it meant in high school-- in the sense we ACTUALLY watched it, or, most of it); I was in high spirits. Monday morning, I woke up to clean the apartment before it was being shown and before I picked my mom up from the airport, and I noticed that my right lymph node on my neck was slightly swollen and a little painful. Now, my throat glands are the rough equivalent of Zac Efron-- they start breaking down if you even just look at them funny and they sure as hell can't take a punch. So I ignored it. Monday afternoon, I zonked out and took a nap like the dead for hours when my body commanded it. When I woke up, BOTH glands on the sides of my throat were swollen. Great. Well, I've got Aleve, and chloraseptic spray, and throat lozenges-- bring it on, bitch. I'm prepared.

NAWWWWWT. Tuesday, I woke up crying because it hurts so much to swallow no one should have to endure that sort of pain, not even Kim Jong-Il, Jack the Ripper, or the Jonas Brothers. Now, I'm a stoic bitch. I'm pretty used to pain. In fact, I'm kind of prone and partial to enjoying it-- if you think I'm faking, ask me about the bruises and welt on my forearms sometime. But, when I'm trying to breathe and swallow and talk, that is not the time to fuck with me about pain. So, after calling my mom and sobbing brokenly to her about it, I woke Alli up and had her drive me to the Fletcher Allen walk-in clinic. Insurance is a grand thing, but still, I spent $30 to have a doctor tell me that my rapid swab turned up negative for strep, and to go home, gargle with salt water (WHICH, by the way, is possibly my LEAST favorite remedy and something I'm sure is COMPLETE bullshit), and get some children's Benadryl and ibuprofen and wait it out. I do all of the above. I sleep a lot. I try to be a trooper. I cry a lot more than I'd like to admit to. I really just wanted some sort of antibiotic from that visit, that's all, and I DON'T think it was too much to ask for. That night, I call the clinic back as rasp at them that I've done everything they told me to as religiously as a pagan can, and if anything, the only things it's gotten me is A.) feeling worse, and B.) producing copious amounts of thick, viscous, slimy saliva that won't go past my engorged glands. Great. Now I'm slowly suffocating to death, and all that they'll tell me to do is wait it out to see if it's an abscess in my tonsils that will need to be DRAINED. Sounds like all the fun you want during your holiday break, right? "Sorry babe, this may not be a great week to come see me...I'm getting my tonsils drained of pus and shit. But you have a Merry Christmas, and we'll be kissing under the mistletoe soon enough?"

Now, I am not the sort of person to WebMD shit. I'm not a hypochondriac, or a germ freak, but mono HAS been going around, and though I had in once before in high school (before I even had ever kissed a guy; it was SUCH a bum deal) and was 95% sure that's not what I had this time, I went to the Mayo Clinic online, because my aunt works there and I trust it, and did some research on strep throat. Armed with a flashlight, the bathroom mirror (I was decidedly NOT the fairest in the land at that moment), and just enough knowledge to be considered dangerous, I looked into deep throat. Well. That's an angry red, and that's certainly swollen, and WAIT...ARE THOSE WHITE SPOTS? YES, THOSE ARE WHITE SPOTS! And wait! IS THAT MY TONSILS TOUCHING MY GLAND? YES, that would be my swollen tonsils touching my swollen, spotty gland. Excuse me, Fletcher Allen, what is going on here? I'm so needlephobic I faint after getting shots and have white-coat syndrome, and even I know strep when I'm staring down my throat at it.

Called my mom. Cried about it some more. Spit some more shit out because I couldn't swallow it. Wiped my running mascara off my cheeks. Was coerced into going home a day early to have real doctor's appointment at my primary care place. I mean, I was convinced I was going to lose my tonsils at this point if this tragic comedy of errors and misdiagnoses continued, so I was willing to brave the Home From Whence I Came for one extra night if it would get me some antibiotics, which Fletcher had made abundantly clear would not be happening there, save possible administration after I, I don't know, DIED.

After listening to my general list on complaints and doing a rapid check of my ears, nostrils, eyes, and throat, it was decided in my hometown doctor's office. "You're showing 3 of the 4 signs of strep, and the only one not there is the test result," Dr. Coombs told me. "At some point you have to put aside the test and start treating the patient." I felt my eyebrows raise, fo' sho', and made some sort of hands-out-shoulder-shrug in mute pantomime of "finally!" I got scripts for not only the antibiotic I so desperately wanted, but also for steroids to speed up the process, and Vicodin for the pain, which I aptly described as being "the worst in my life." I have had my arms broken more than 4 times. I dislocated my collar bone. I've been kicked in the chin by a horse wearing steel shoes who had just thrown me into the wall of the indoor arena. I've had sex with overly well-endowed men. And it's strep throat takes the cake for "Most Painful And Humiliating Moment Of My Life."

So, moral of the story? I paid a $30 dollar co-pay, and $15 worth of bullshit medications to be told nothing was wrong with me and for things that did absolutely nothing for me. And then we paid a $20 co-pay, and under $20 for what I am throughly convinced are the best drugs in the world (I really do NOT understand how steroids and Vicodin can be less than what it costs for a g of greenery), and I feel if not like a million bucks already, but at least like 500,000 grand. I now understand not only why people love Vicodin enough to become addicted to using it recreationally, but also while I was a little confused at first when the doctor said that while the steroids can make me "zingy" and more of an insomniac, the Vicodin might knock me out, now I get it. I promptly went fucking off my rocker, and then passed out on the couch. Euuuuuphooooria.

While I know that this subject matter isn't quite what you're used to if you're a devout reader of SATCG, I feel like it's an important story nonetheless. Moral of the story in more clear, blog-themed wording? Sometimes you don't get what you pay for-- sometimes, it's the less expensive things that have the most effect. Which I think is a really valid point as we come up on Christmas. I.E-- Don't get me jewelry-- get me a new wristband to add to my tatty collection, and I'll wear it every day until it falls off. The end.

XOXO

Sidenote: Steroids make me ridiculously horny? What is this? Why? Aren't they supposed to do the reverse? Or is it because I have no balls to shrink that if affects me the other way? Does anyone have an answer for this?

Sex with an Ex: Distressed, or Progress?

Over an extremely rare burger and extremely good beer out with friends tonight, I got a text from one of my exes. He was not, shall we say, one of the prominent exes in my life; rather, a guy I was with for the last month of my freshman year of college, just before he graduated and fell off the face of the Earth, never to be heard from again, until the next time he happened to come back to Burlington, and every time he stopped in again after that. He is, of course, the resident ghost of "Night of the Living Undead Relationship", and since I wrote that, has re-orbited around from the wild blue yonder twice, neither of which time did I see him. We'll see if we really meet up to discuss life post Firenze this Saturday or not. One way or another, it's still a bit shocking every time it happens.

But it got me thinking, as I pulled a surprised face when I saw his name on my phone's screen and showed it to my incredulous roommate beside me, about your relationships with your exes. Some of them I like to pretend don't exist anymore. Some of them are perfectly nice people with whom we both had bad judgement in dating and it just didn't work out, and we still are friends are periodically hang out in large groups with our mutual friends or chat for a good 15 minutes when we run into each other on the street and part with a hug, no harm, and no foul. And some of them are still around, (or, at least, cycle around periodically like this Space Cowboy) and defy both definition or a close to a relationship.

While I may not be doing anything other than having coffee and speaking Italian with this ex, there are other things you can be doing with your exes than meeting up with the crew for brews or occasionally catching up via Facebook chat or Skype or when you go home for the holidays. How bad is sex with an ex, really? Cosmo seems to want us to believe that after re-joining your genitals, you promptly go up in flames of shame and defeat. "It's hot, it's naughty...oh yeah, and it's a really stupid idea. You know it's unhealthy, and that's precisely what makes it so damn good."

I can get behind this state of mind, and I have in the past: It's basically admitting you haven't met any better men, which is depressing at best, and degrading at worst. I even used to think that "you could always do better than yesterday's old news." Believe me. Some of my past "issues" are more fit to line hamster cages than anything else, and I still feel this same way about them. But not all of them are equally horrendous.

78% of Glamour readers also say that sex with an ex is a bad idea. Shanna Moakler, otherwise known as Travis Barker of Blink-182's on-again, off-again wife stands as the one lone vocal supporter of it: "As long as you go into it with a clear mind-set—knowing it’s complicated, knowing you have issues and knowing the relationship can’t go forward—I say yes! Do it! All of the pressure is off, and you can just enjoy each other as friends and lovers. [We’re] exes, but there’s still that substance there, that history."

Sure, this is still someone who you care a lot about. That's perfectly fine. You've spent a lot of time together. You know each other intimately. It's only right that you want to see the best for them. What I've come to realize is that you don't ever "get over" someone you were at one time in love with-- you just fall back out of love with them, gradually and almost unknowingly. The history and comfort that you have with each other can gleam in high contrast to the awkwardness of the mornings after or the futility of trying to meet new people who you like as much, if not more. But only if you have moved on enough in your own life that you don't still want to "be" with them can sleeping with them again really be called "safe." And even then, we can be back-stabbed by our very own brains, who believe that the release of oxytocin released during orgasm means LuV 4EvA, hehehe! So do yourself a favor so you don't find yourself back-sliding: DISAPPEAR.

Take a few days, a week-- whatever-- after the event and go all Witness Protection Program. There should be, at this point, nothing else that you need to talk about, so don't. Don't make excuses for it, and don't hang around. Go, enjoy your post-orgasmic bliss, and invest your energy and happiness somewhere else. (I hope by now you've learned that you can't depend on them as your sole source of happiness. It's all about YOU, sister.) Wait until you actually DO have a reason to talk to them to reappear. And no, "I'm horny again" is not a valid reason. Something like, "Hey, can I pick up the shoe I left there, and have you happened to find my car keys?" is. But then again, you have more than that one pair of shoes (I SINCERELY hope,) and you don't really need to drive anywhere for a few days. So give it some chill time. Do whatever it is you need to do to keep yourself balanced-- when I get lonely at night, I borrow my neighbor's amiable huge mutt Mason, who likes to spoon just like a human man (something I may or may not be coming around to), and give of just as much, if not more, heat. Mason, however, doesn't snore. As much.

Also, I find it really handy, when you are feeling a little weak, to remind yourself of all the hugely dickish moves they made. This is especially helpful in keeping you clear-headed if they're STILL occasionally slipping up and making the dickish move. In that case, I would almost be inclined to say thank them for making your life easier.

But strangely, it was Marie Claire's male blogger Rich Santos who encapsulated the whole ex-mystique thing so fully: "These days, I'm undecided on whether it's best to take someone back or swear them off after they've messed up. A lot of it depends on why they left your life or how they messed up... If you take someone back, they may think they can get away with treating you badly and they'll take advantage of you. When you have that familiarity with each other, it's so easy to fall into bad habits. For example, I've gotten back together with many women as a temporary Band-Aid for our mutual loneliness (which usually plays itself out in the form of sex with no real relationship). Usually, your heart is wrong and your head is right, but your heart wins out. Sometimes it's impossible to say "no," and that's OK." Or, as he then points out, it could be better than it ever was. Not being fully together anymore takes a lot of the pressure of a bona-fide relationship off-- my favorite part is that I am no longer obligated to answer to my exes. Problem is, that also means that they are no longer obligated to answer to you. See? Even out of a relationship, you can never win.

All in all, there's something to be said about your exes who are still current in your life. Whether or not you're into sex with an ex or not, get on with your bad self. Seeing my orbiting ex again always makes me realize how much I've matured and changed from when I was in love with him, and carrying on other relationships with exes teaches a delicate sort of teeter-totter between intimacy and friendship that you'll never learn any other way. I really think that the relationships you have with your exes AFTER the end of your "relationship" is the NEW relationship of the 21st century. It's your grown-up "we're all people here who have issues and needs" relationship. So embrace the ex. It's just up to you how full you decide you want that embrace to be.

So, what do you think? Ever been burned (a second time) by the same person? Are you one of the 78% against knocking some familiar boots, or are you one of the cool 22 who think there's something to be said for it? (Namely being, y'all know the bells and whistles {and emotional hang-ups} already.)

XOXO

What Have You Got To Offer?

The other night, I was engaged in a cathartic conversation with another person in which the things that drive us crazy about the other were pointed out. It got me thinking about how important it is to be self-aware and have an honest-to-God list of your shortcomings, limitations, and triumphs. You know, really figure out what makes you "you"-- why people either should love you, or possibly, can't stand you. God, that sounded so Zen I nearly can't stand it. Anyway... So here's my list of the Good, the Bad, and the Downright Innuendo-filled Ugly:

Why I'm A Great Person:

I'm a pretty relaxed, undemanding, and calm individual. Until I'm not anymore.

My self-esteem is not lacking.

I would totally help my friends bury a body or rob a bank. And you'd better believe I'd never snitch.

My sense of humor seems to go over well with most people. I already know that were life to become a sitcom, "Stuck In The Middle With You" would be the theme song.

I've got really big blue eyes.

My measurements are 36-25-36, which, coincidentally, is startlingly close to Carmen Electra's, given that she has one inch on me, and more of a dedication to the gym and about 3 more abs than I sport.

I read.

I'm pretty blunt. Believe it or not, this is a good thing, because I will tell you exactly how I feel about you, if you're making an ass out of yourself, or what you really need to do to get your life in order.

I give great...

...massages.

I also have great lung capacity for someone who was a childhood asthmatic.

I speak 3 languages, and am fluent in one. Yes. It's English.

I practice daily hygiene. Which is more than can be said for some people.

...Can you tell I'm really struggling for these good attributes?

I am strangely charismatic. I say "strangely" because I really wish I know how it worked, because then I would exploit it to my full advantage and actually do really well with sane men. As is, I skip classes, don't hand in work, and am a chronically late Dean's List student. Also, I generally feel the need to have this conversation when middle-aged men stare at me in public: "I have a very happy complicated sex life. Please go away." I don't know what about me is all Lolita to the 40-somethings. However, it could be worse. I could be Alli, and have all the octogenarians all over me.

I can get people to do what I want, 85% of the time.

...But when you hold out on me, it kinda turns me on. Even though indulging me is your direct line to God.

I am faithful. I am hopelessly monogamous. If I love you, I would move the world for you. And I totally would have your back in a fight with a mean right hook.

I have been told I make interesting, sparkling conversation. Also, that I'd be a great person to provide entertainment on a two-week-long drive across the country.

You know that phrase, "You must be a maid in the house, an angel in the kitchen, and a whore in the bedroom?" Well. I cook like Julie Child minted me, and I have OCD when it comes to cleanliness and where things go.

...I have purposefully left you out in the dark about that third one.

I have varied interests, from Batman comics to shoes to organ meat to Star Wars to diamonds to football to collecting unique ashtrays.

I appreciate the finer things in life. Like good beef jerky. (I actually really love good jerked meat.)

On a good day, I'm cute, witty, out-going, intelligent, kind, sensitive, well-dressed, well-heeled, well-mannered, and charming.

I've got a pretty decent singing voice and a broad range. I'll serenade you, if you let me choose the song, and have enough alcohol in me.

I can dance. Oh, but I can dance.

I don't take myself too seriously.

...Just don't fuck around with my medium-rare cooked meats.

Cases for Institutionalizing Me:

Actually, I can be pretty demanding. I just want YOU to be the best you can be, dammit!

I have an uncommonly skewed image of myself.

My self-esteem is rather inflated.

I hate it when people either don't hear me, or pretend not to hear me. Which leads to me repeating things numerous times until I feel it has sufficiently landed on Planet You. I think we all know how annoying this habit is.

I always want to have the last word.

I find bickering not only a great form of mental exercise and fun, but also, sexy. Others find this either off-putting, or get downright defensive.

I have issues with money.

For me, the thrill is not only in the chase-- it's in getting away with shit. Really. Anything from picking pockets to tricking people into situations that are not mutually beneficial. For them.

My morals and ethics may be considered "questionable" by anyone other than Long John Silver, Columbus, or Kim Jong-il.

I am slightly masochistic, and don't understand when other people don't feel the same way.

I coddle some individuals I should more fittingly throw under a rampant city bus. My taste in men doesn't quite match my taste in wine and beer, unfortunately.

When it's loud, or when I get overly excited, I am loud. As in, Helen-Keller-and-I-might-have-something-in-common loud. And yes, I did just go there. Which leads to...

...I am not the most politically correct person you know. I spend a large amount of time talking in double-entendres around the issues of "eating like a fat kid," fried chicken, everything South of the Mason-Dixon line (and hey, my Mom's side of the family has roots in Mississippi), and blatantly, carelessly, lumping all men together and making broad statements about how they're all the same and then objectifying them as sex objects.

...Women's Lib, baby. It works both ways.

I have quite an impressive shirt and hoodie collection, liberated from the closets of the men I've had relationships with. Some people call them "sexual souvenirs." I call them "comfortable."

While asked at the end of a recent job interview, "Other than writing, what is it that you do?" I had a brief moment of panic when I realized that I do exactly do much other than writing. It kind of defines me. Take it away, and I'm just another petite blonde with too much to say.

On a bad day, I'm too lazy to shower, snarky, anti-social, use my powers for evil, take advantage of others, am impervious to pain, dress in either sweats and Uggs or in Hell's Angel girlfriend attire, make jokes at other people's expense and bring up inappropriate conversation topics, appeal to neither man, woman, child, or beast, and skin kittens alive.

I am hair-racist when it comes to other women. If you're a brunette, good luck winning over my trust, and if you're a brown-eyed blonde, I'm pretty sure you're a freak of nature.

I've always loved prepping raw meat.

...I swear to God, I don't have a meat fetish. It's not like I'm going to go all Lady Gaga on Rolling Stone's cover anytime soon. I'm just...really far away from ever becoming a soulless vegetarian.

Not only am I temperamental, I'm judgmental.

I am what is cutely referred to as "sassy," "feisty," or less attractively, argumentative. But in a totally sexy way. Most of the time. I mean, at least I try. A woman with an opinion is hot, right?

I have a great habit of saying the most inappropriate thing by accident in just the setting I really shouldn't have said anything like that quite so loudly when the music suddenly stopped.

I get really red in the face and warm when I smoke and drink too much. This may be the only time I create body heat for myself.

...Because of this, I think it's totally appropriate for me to stick my freezing cold toes behind someone else's warm, unguarded, innocent knee. And that's really bad. It sucks, I know. But I still do it. I'm a bad, bad girl.

I'm extremely guarded. Fiercely independent. Also, jaded.

See? I know my shortcomings.

XOXO

The Aftermath of Sicilia: Sunburn and S&M

Hindsight and nerve endings being 20/20, this, to the left, may not have been the best choice.

Rubbing lotion in tiny, gentle baby circles on my chest with my fingertips hurts like a bitch that sends me gasping for air.

It's worse than sadomasochism.

There's a pretty good chance that when I get home, I'll be peeling most awe-inspiringly. Like, the sort of awe that you get when you see a burn victim on the streets panhandling for change, compared as to the sort of awe that you get when you see a really great piece of art or drink a perfectly made Cosmopolitan, 1 part Triple Sec, 1 part cranberry juice, and 2 parts premium vodka.

Said Cosmopolitan costs 10 Euro. Said sunburn was absolutely free after round-trip airfare and a hitched bus ride.

Even if you can peel the skin off the back of my thighs and shoulders and write on it like Hannibal's own parchment, will you still love me when I get home?

XOXO