tired of dating

i think i am going to become a hare krishna so that i don't have to worry about dating. i'll have my spiritual guide set me up with whomever he or she believes is right for me and, after a month or so, we'll be sealed for eternity. a friend of a friend did that, and now he's got a wife and three kids and gets to cheat on her all the time with whatever hot babe comes his way, apparently. so, my life wouldn't be any different than it is now, except for the fact that i'd have someone to come home to every night, which is exactly what i want, anyway.

what became so difficult in the last few years? why does it seem impossible just to find someone to like, hitch my trailer up to his truck, and ride off into the sunset together? now everyone's got baggage, three jobs, twelve hobbies, a chip on his shoulder, a torch he's carrying for his ex-girlfriend, and too many friends to even give me the time of month, let alone the time of day. i'm sorry that hanging out with me is cutting into the time you normally spend preparing for your animal reiki session/vegan-cuban culinary class/m.m.a.-jai alia-lacrosse fusion league, but you're in your early thirties. aren't you even remotely concerned with dying alone in a dilapidated, out-of-the-way rest home? i mean, i'm twenty-six and i obsess over such major events that might happen within the next sixty years of my life.

i met this guy and i thought i was making all the right dating moves. i didn't act crazy, i let him take me out on dates, i was more than obliging with his busy schedule. sure, things got exciting quickly, but not overly passionate or romance novelesque. anyhow, this morning he tells me how much he likes me and how i'm one of the raddest girls he's ever met and blahblahblah, but he's freaking out over how quickly things are moving. i tell him "don't sweat it. whenever you're ready call me," and left it at that. but wtf? when i'm crazy, guys don't want me. when i'm standoffish, guys don't want me. when i'm cool as a cucumber, guys don't want me. when i'm friendly and understanding, guys. don't. want. me. i can obviously be one of the coolest broads on the planet, according to this most recent rejector, and guess what? guys still don't want me. i give up.

i even cut all my other dating strings for this one dude--thinking i was making the mistake of having my finger in one too many pots and perhaps that was the reason i wasn't finding anything substantial--and now i'm back to square one, kind of. i still have my one old faithful--you know, the guy who doesn't want anything serious but is a total babe and is fun to hang out with, even though he gets a little old after awhile--and he wants to hang out tonight. but my best girlfriends are back in town as of today, and it's ladies' night. dilemmas dilemmas! what would you do, dear diary?

this must be the place

second place in the human race. elvis costello, anyone? anyhow, i just came back onto blogger.com to find that my account no longer exists, so here it goes again. yes, folks, it's three in the morning and i'm having a bedtime cocktail. and no, i'm not making some desperate faux-bukowski attempt to seem edgy or scumbaggishly bohemian (wow, i'm drinking past bar hours. by myself. and writing. i'm suuuuuch a maverick. i bet i'm smoking cigarettes, too, except that i don't smoke, which makes me even more of a maverick, because, like, you can't pigeonhole me into the box of hipsterdom, man. i'm totally an individual, except for the fact that i freak out any time i find out that people are saying negative things about me behind my back, because i'm actually secretly obsessed with what people think of me. well, i wouldn't say obsessed, but i do try to be all things to all people, and it just wears me thin as taffy. there is somewhat of a narcissistic mind frame in one who actually thinks she has everyone fooled into thinking she's a good person--nay, an exceptional individual. here's the thing: i know i'm crazy, i know i've fucked a lot of dudes, done a lot of drugs, cheated a lot of people out of things they deserved, and lied my way through it all to seem like i was in the right, like i was the victim, whatever. the truth of the matter is, i know i'm crazy. normal people don't agonize over whether they should tell someone they've been dating a week that they think he's the one for eternity. normal people don't have sex for sport. normal people don't listen to pop and punk and see the infinite parallels between the two. normal people don't take eight years to finish college, don't hate bob marley, don't bring flasks on a first date, and definitely don't not shower every day. i get it, i'm off. i don't blame mom, dad, stepdad, first cousin, the media, george w. bush, or anyone else for my neuroses but me. but don't be the person who's just as headraped as i am and call me crazy. calling me crazy is about as insulting as saying i have red hair. i bleed out of my vagina for a good six days out of every month; i think i'm allowed to harangue the checker at my local grocery store about the ludicrousness of inconsistency in avocado quality. i'll be as crazy as i want. you keep drinking yourself to bed every night next to the fiancee who you know doesn't really love you, and i'll be mindful, party of one), i actually just got off work and am having an unwinder before i hit the hay--you know, what most of you do at 7pm on a tuesday, only i work graveyards at a shithole diner in beautiful (?) seal beach, california, so my day ends at around two in the morning. well, more tomorrow. i'm feeling slightly stagnant.