Messenger Bag

“Wait…so you guys don’t meet the way my husband and I met? You know, like ‘Hi, my name is…’”

So, my boss (who is basically my second mother) said this to me yesterday as we discussed my love life (or lack thereof). And, by “you guys” she meant my generation. My wonderful, smart, well-read, completely not socially retarded, generation. Unfortunately my response to her went something like this:

“No, not really. We need a third party or something to help foster the connection.”

Take a moment and think back to your past flings, hookups, and relationships. How did they start? Do you remember some cute guy just coming up to you and introducing himself? (If so, you are in the minority and defying what this post is about so go away. Also, if this applies to you, ask yourself how inebriated you were at said encounter? Ok, cool, then it doesn’t count.) Or do you remember yourself telling one of your friends that so and so was cute and then that friend telling so and so?

While there are the exceptions when two strangers just happen to strike a conversation out of thin air and become lovers, these exceptions are rare. When I think back to my roller coaster of a love life, many of those interactions with my favorite species—men—have been facilitated by a mutual friend. Yeah…even I’m a punk sometimes.

Why? Because it is damn difficult to just strike up a conversation with someone when you have absolutely no common bond with them. It’s—my generation’s favorite word—awkward. And, it’s also far more likely to result in rejection than an in from a mutual friend.

Let’s use my California shenanigans for example. I visited my good friend in Cali, hoping to make a poor decision or two. And I made that poor decision…with a friend of hers who she could verify was not a complete sociopath. She says something to him and soon enough, I’m…well…you can fill in the blank.

That’s the thing also: at least if a friend knows the person, you can verify that you aren’t ending up with the next Craigslist killer.

Perhaps using a mutual friend is shallow or cowardly but let’s face it: it has its benefits. No shame in using a friend’s game.

Love freely,

ty

Ode to Crushes

Alright, this isn’t really gonna be an ode because it’s 1:40am and I don’t have the patience to be metaphoric and sing songy and all that.

But, I think it’s time to pay some respect to crushes.

We as human beings do not allow ourselves to have enough crushes. I’ve decided I’m a firm believer in this. We’re too wrapped up in getting serious and getting in relationships and getting our hearts broken and getting married and doing all of that shit that you just don’t have to do until later. We’re super focused on the serious stuff and we don’t allow ourselves to just be playful and have a good time.

You should face this fact: soon enough, your life will not be quite as fun as it is now (talking to my college people…my non-college people already know this reality.) Soon enough, the days will start to blend together like one big not-so-delicious protein shake and you will need something to break up the monotony of staring at the floor of your cubicle wondering what’s on TV for that night. And, well, crushes are just one of the things that do that.

I’m not suggesting you making flirting a hobby. Ew goodness no. I am suggesting you allow yourself to be open. Stop yourself from thinking ”Ugh, I would never…” and allow your mind to go to that place where you say, “Yeah, he’s cute in that weird way.” Forget everything you learned about having “a type” and if something about someone piques your interest, roll with it. Because here’s the thing about crushes: they’re ephemeral. Just because you think someone’s attractive or he has a great smile or he looks great in a blue polo doesn’t mean you’re trying to have his babies. Doesn’t mean you’re trying to have his last name. It means that he’s attractive or he has a great smile or he looks great in a blue polo. Sometimes it’s simple. We’re the idiots walking around making it more complicated.

It’s OK to give your mind some gum and give it something to chew on while it also focuses on other things. It’s OK to give your heart an excuse to pitter patter a wee bit faster for a few days. Sometimes I feel like the Joker, looking at people like “Why so serious?” Why the fuck are you so serious? It’s OK to be playful and flirty and throw yourself into something (or onto someone) who, in a day or a week or a month, you might not give two shits about. Live a little. I promise life will only reward you for doing so.

Leaving you with my current quote of the week (yes, I write those on my white board) and some Soledad O’Brien for that ass:

“There is opportunity-and sometimes joy-in chaos and the unknown.”

Love freely,

tY

Suicide Doors

If you are the average female between the ages of 18-24, you’ve heard this line from one of your girlfriends: “I’m over it.” Over it. Dunzo. Done. Some variation of that wording. And, well, if you haven’t heard it from a friend, just watch a little bit of America’s favorite television show, Jersey Shore. Then you will hear the “sweetest bitch you’ll ever meet” aka Sammi, say she’s done with Ronnie…about 100 times. (note: I am going to continue to make a Jersey Shore reference, as pathetic as that is. If you do not watch the show, hit up http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jersey_Shore_(TV_series. Or you can discontinue reading. But, that would be stupid because this blog is awesome.)

Sammi got a lot of backlash from her fellow bronze-covered roomies as well as girls everywhere who called her some unmentionable names. Let’s face it: she was an idiot. Ronnie destroyed her property, called her every name in the book, and constantly defecated on her, only to be forgiven usually 24 hours later.

And, while it’s easy to see Sammi’s idiocy, her tactics aren’t that dissimilar from what so many of us ladies do everyday. We’re constantly battling our heads and our hearts; what we should do and what we want to do…and trust, those two things are in conflict a lot. There have been many times when I’ve told myself it was time to stop hanging out with a person, stop putting up with somebody’s bull…and then a week later, I’m in their apartment and then in their room and then…well, you know how that story ends.

I actually wrote about this awhile ago. Here’s a little bit of poetry for that ass.

 And, how much of the blame do you even really deserve? After all, I’m the one who had the nerve and now I’m Chris Stokes style getting served. “I’m not looking for a relationship.” Yet, I keep coming back for more and Russian Roulette is more risky than the game before yet somehow my favorite pair of black panties keeps ending up on your floor.

The question is posed in my poetic flow: how much of the blame does the guy deserve? The answer: after the first time he messes up and you stumble back to him in a love drunk stupor, absolutely none. If he screws up again and again, you have to be willing to swallow the pill and take full responsibility for what happens. By going back to a situation you’re unhappy with, whether it’s a screwed up ex or a hookup that has run its course or that guy who just wants to be friends, you are putting the ball in his court. But, at the same time, you’re putting the gun in your hand and getting ready to self-destruct. Whoa, that was morbid. But, sometimes I gotta be morbid to drive the point home.

Listen, women are amazing. That’s why I write this blog because women are amazing and I write this for those women (s/o to my male followers, too, though.) This blog is empowerment and wit and power. It’s about embracing your inner biatch and taking control of the love in your life, whether that’s romantic love or friends or family or whatever. (Did Free Love just get a mission statement? Whoa, now.) So, yes, women are amazing. But, we do some of the dumbest shit I have ever seen. The only redeeming thing is that when a woman is done, when she’s really given it her all and decides to close the door and keep walking, oh my god is she done. She is out of there like a bat out of hell and she is never, ever, coming back.

So, be that woman. Be done. You don’t have to shoot yourself 5 times before you learn. You can walk away without the self-induced scars. You smart cookie, you.

Love freely,

tY

Single Girl’s Manifesto

I like manifestos. Mantras. Quotes. Words are my religion. And, after two consecutive days of lying in bed watching the NBA playoffs and Sex and the City (this combination of television speaks true to who I am more than anything else), I’ve decided it’s time to write my single girl manifesto. I think it’s only fitting to move Free Love into her new home by properly declaring in the boldest way possible that I’m single and that may skew everything on this blog.

Let’s set the record straight: yes, I am single. Single is not synonymous with bitter, lonely, or psychopathic. Single is single. It means that I enjoy staying in bed all day on a Sunday unshowered watching too much Bravo TV and eating oreos for breakfast and cheetos for lunch. I don’t like sharing. This refers to my remote control, my bed, my food, my space, and my radio. Touch the dial and you risk death unless you kindly ask first. A date for me consists of donning leggings and Converses to a movie with my best friend.

Yes, I am single. Not to be confused with “I hate men.” I love men, I love the poor decisions I make with them, and I love my mother which is why I will not elaborate on this here blog about my personal activities. Fill in the blanks.

Yes, I am single. I come home solo after nights spent dancing in my favorite red 40 dollar heels and I fall asleep to Chelsea Lately. I’m that person who laughs when I see a couple arguing in public because they’re making everyone else feel awkward so it’s my job to bring it to their attention that everyone around them feels awkward. I’m that girl whose skin has to keep itself from spontaneously bursting into flames when I hear girls say their only dream is to be a mom.

Yes, I am single. I’m selfish. I’m 21 and what do you expect? My goals and my plans are going to be more important than anybody else’s right now and I’m not the least bit sorry about it. My bookshelf is inundateed with power bitch books such as “Secrets of Six Figure Women” and “Nice Girls Don’t Get the Corner Office.” You may think I’m a bitch but I just think I like success. I don’t like cooking; I like Noodles & Company. I don’t work out; I write. And, above all else, I don’t cuddle; I sleep. Like normal human beings. I don’t want your arm wrapped around me while I try to get into REM mode because my body is 98.6 degrees and your body is 98.6 degrees and, let’s face it: 197.2 degrees is just too hot and sweaty.

Yes, I am single. Please do not hold my hands because ever since I can remember, they’ve been sweaty and clammy for absolutely no damn reason and are therefore not “holdable.” I am a control freak who will drive to 95.29% of the places I go to in order to avoid having someone else dictate when it’s time to leave so, please, don’t pick me up for our date.

Yes, I am single. I’m a conglomeration of observations. My circulatory system is stitched together by scars left from him, memories dropped off by another him, and mistakes and lessons learned from him, too.

Yes, I am single. Not to be confused with bitter, lonely, or psychopathic.You may think I’m pathetic but that’s probably why you and I are not friends. I still smile when I see old couples, I adore my roommate and her boyfriend together, and I do think for every person in this world, there is a perfect counterpart. But, for now, this is my life, I will love it for the mess it is, this is my moment, and yes, I am single.

Love freely,

tY