Oh Jeez:

I am twenty years old. It is hot, the sort of humid that gets...

Sat, 18 Aug 2012 14:35:41 -0400

I am twenty years old. It is hot, the sort of humid that gets in your lungs and starts to drown you. We are making it worse by standing over a cast-iron skillet in my unairconditioned kitchen, making fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I lick my sticky fingers, you laugh.

-Sweets for the sweet.

You are corny, I like it. You’re standing very close to me, close enough to brush your fingers over my belt loops by accident, at least pretending it’s an accident. We haven’t kissed yet, but I have wanted to for three years, ever since I first saw you step behind a microphone, battered and beaten guitar in hand, and howl like some long lost Delta bluesman.

We eat standing up, faces smeared with jelly like a couple of toddlers. Rinsing off with the cool water from the tap feels heavenly. We retreat back upstairs. My mother is away, I have thehouse to myself. Thunder rumbles outside, a few flashes of lightning. There’s been a storm every day for a week. Tree limbs down, lost power, the sky looks ugly and painted with bruises during the day, before finally crashing down as soon as it gets dark.

- I want to play you a song.

You lie back with my guitar in your hands and begin to sing.Your voice is low, and smokey, and as you growl through the lyrics I feel lightheaded.

Rise and fall

Curtain call

Build around your heart a wall

That is exactly what I have done over the years leading up to this moment. I have build a wall around myself, the ivory tower of fear and heartache. I feel it melting away, not permanently, I know, but perhaps only for this moment.

You finish playing. We are lying on opposite ends of the bed, our heads meeting in the middle. I sit up, you sit up too, but in an instant we are lying down again, melting together, blending at the edges. We stay like that for a while, exercising three years of physical tension. Then we fall asleep, like children, with all our clothes and all the lights still on.

A few days later, you call.

-It was beautiful, but it won’t work.

I don’t mind.

Don't blame me

Tue, 29 May 2012 10:38:00 -0400

Bear and I invented a new way of talking. Exhausted (and probably dying of heat stroke, the east coast is murderous the past few days), we could only summon up three word phrases to summarize our frustrations while texting yesterday. Example:

Bear: Boyfriend: has unsatisfying life

Bear: Boyfriend: blames on me

Bee: Boyfriend: ditto ditto ditto

so on and so forth.

We are both facing a problem: our boyfriends don’t like their lives, no matter how much they may love us. On my end, Scientist has an extremely unsatisfying job in a coffee shop. He has to be at work at 5am, he works long hours, and he is currently in the middle of a stretch of working every day for 12 days straight. I understand his frustration, totally.

But I don’t understand why he has to take it out on me. We’ve been fighting constantly, over the stupidest things imagineable. He’s consistently sleeping on the floor. I feel us starting to just hate and resent each other.

But it’s over a job. Jobs can be quit. New Jobs can be gotten. Why are we letting it destroy us?

I think part of it comes from the fact that I’ve never been one to sacrifice my life goals for financial stability, and that is Scientist’s background completely. His family is wealthy — but not because they followed their individual dreams, per se. Their attitude is more, “make the money, then use it to do what you really want”.

I was raised more to believe that life is short, money is fleeting, and what is ultimately most important is to have lived a life you feel was satisfying.

I feel a little bad, like I’m unable to get off my high horse on this issue and just let Scientist live the way he wants to. But I can’t stand to see it tearing us apart.

How can you reconcile two different ways of looking at finances? And is this what being a grown up is like??

Seriously,

am I finally an adult,

Bee.

A rant on sexuality.

Thu, 26 Apr 2012 12:05:50 -0400

I’m thinking a lot about sexuality lately. What does it mean to be sexy right now? Is it about the way you present yourself, how you look, how you dress, how you act? All I know is its a lot of pressure. I’ve read some really insightful blog entries about sexuality, I’ve read some really frustrating articles, and I’ve seen advertisements that just make me want to barf and go cover up my boobs for the rest of my life.

Now, I know I’m not the “ideal” attractive woman (maybe if I lost 35 pounds, got tan and started wearing lots of bandeau bras and eye makeup. Also maybe if I looked like Penelope Cruz..oh Penelope). But I hope that the men I choose to surround myself with can see me as a strong, supportive, and okay I’ll say it, a sexy person. My current boyfriend has the sexiest eyebrows. He also has really attractive legs. And probably my favorite nose in the world (sometimes I just wanna bite it). I don’t know why I find these things sexy, but I do. He’s not just a culmination of those things, though. They don’t make or break why I’m dating him, why I find him attractive, what I like about him. He’s a really smart guy, he’s got these endearing silly moments and yes, sometimes he can turn into a frustrating bro-type. But, there are momentary lapses when I forget he’s just a person reacting to me as a person, and I feel like I need to look sexy, stay sexy, turn myself into an object that can be desired. I somehow feel like if I can just eclipse all his previous sexual encounters, maybe I’ll be worth keeping around.

Excuse my language, but where the fuck did I come up with that idea? Where did I suddenly decide to throw my great personality, insightful emotions, and ridiculously smart brain out the window? I attended an alternative school, for fucks sake, and I most definitely went to a boarding high school. I was taught everyone is beautiful in their own right, and if someone doesn’t like you, or something about you, its usually their own fault and you should a) move on, or b) forget about it and be confident in yourself.

So where is all of this crazy objectifying sexuality coming from? It doesn’t happen all the time. I am a wonderful woman, I am a great girlfriend, I have interests and I can talk to you about relevant intelligent things. I know how to spell and use proper grammar, I read all the time, and I know how to dress myself. Yet in the dark hours or brief seconds of doubt, objectification steps in. Facebook screams for us to put up the most attractive or trendy photo we can. My abs aren’t flat enough this season for a bikini, all the H&M models silently judge me in the dressing room. You know what? Who the hell cares? Who says I should constantly be tanned, toned and hairless all the fucking time? Deal with it. I get to, you should too. Boys are allowed to have a beer belly, weird playoff beards, what have you, and they still get laid all over the place. Where did this little insecure, neurotic consciousness come from?

When my boyfriend tries to be fake-sexy (yes, guys do it too. I’ve heard “Yeah baby, you like that don’t you?” from one too many suitors), I think its too funny. Sometimes it ruins the moment. I like those passionate, playful moments that just naturally happen. So why do we tell ourselves we need to be everything for an audience? Stop with being so FAKE. Stop these implants, these labia surgeries, stop with this porn-centered worldview, stop with these “i’m not skinny enough” moments. If you look like a breakable doll, if you look like someone in a magazine, they are just going to want and expect next-month’s issue out of you. To me, thats too much work. Go for sensual. Go for sexual too! (I love sexuality) but please do it in your own way. I don’t mean to criticize if you are doing this for medical reasons. By all means, get a breast reduction to improve your health. Just…be okay with being you. People will love you just the way you are, and you shouldn’t have to conform to looking a certain way to do it.

So here’s my reminder, my kick in the butt. I am funny, sweet, perky (yes, i’ll own that word), intelligent, caring and silly. Sometimes, usually when I don’t realize it, I’m being sexy. Guys like that. If they don’t, they’re not the right one. Lets hope the over-sexualization of our nation’s youngsters stops, or that more of them find the courage to stand up for their true personalities. For gods sake, if someone complains about your labia, they probably won’t make it happy anyway.

With love,

Bear

Dear you (an open letter to the 2nd boy that broke my heart)

Fri, 20 Jan 2012 19:05:14 -0500

Dear you,

I can’t believe that after nearly a year of not speaking I still miss you. I think about you all the time, not in the romantic way that I once did (no more wistful afternoons spent looking into the bottom of coffee cups and whispering “what ifs”), but in the way that I did when we first met, as friends. I see things I want to show you constantly. I want to text you and say “did you see that hardcore song that an 8 year old made about her dog?” because I know you’d love it. I want to tell you the strange things people say to me at work. I want to know how all the weird things you love are doing, all your strange research: what’s the weather in New Mexico, what sort of dog breed is most hypo-allergenic?

A few weeks ago, I was standing on a corner in Chicago in a snow flurry. I was wrapped up head to toe against the cold but I was determined to get my one night of sight-seeing in. I looked up at the buildings around me, chanted the names of architects under my breath. Hands in pockets, I kept fingering at the edges of my phone, always one second away from whipping it out to send you a quick picture-text: “look, a Mies Van Der Rohe!”, “The waterworks, I am really here and I am seeing it!”. It was always your dream to go there. In some of our more optimistic moments together, we used to plan a trip where we would both go, and I would look at art and you would collect all the silly data you love from historical societies, and then we would eat all the deep-dish pizza we could. He stood next to me, smiling, happy to see me happy. He looked over at me and said, “You want to send him a picture, don’t you?”. He’s so understanding. He is everything you couldn’t be for me, and I think you know that.

In some ways, I wish I had never kissed you. I wish I had just let myself believe you when you said we could never be together. But I’m stubborn, you know that. I thought I could convince you. Two years after that kiss, I am over you, and I can say that with absolution- I really am. I am in love, completely, and I honestly think this is the man I’ll end up marrying. In fact, I never even miss that kiss, I never relive it, I don’t dwell on it. What I miss is you. What I miss is our roundabout conversations, our secret language, our quiet understanding. How we could go for months without talking and then one night we’d find each other over the soft glow of computer screens and it would be like time had never passed from the last day we spoke. Jokes and memories and self-deprecative humor passed back and forth with ease.

I think sometimes that the reason you can’t talk to me now is because you know you can’t ever fall in love. I think that you considered me so similar to you that I couldn’t be in love either. That I was stunted in the same way you are. That what we had was the closest thing either of us would ever have to love. But that’s where you’re wrong- I can love. And I do love. And I loved you.

I hope someday we can talk again, when you are ready to forgive me for not being the person you thought I was; and when I can forgive you for attempting to stop me from trying to be.

With love,

Bee.

Ch-ch-changes

Sun, 18 Dec 2011 09:20:17 -0500

After stops, starts and stutters, soaring hopes, romantic weekends stolen from our “real lives”, sweaty sexy romps and gentle kisses, I told the Spaniard I just couldn’t see him or talk to him anymore. I need a break, and I need it to be real. No more “I’ll just see you in Boston” when we fall into each others naked arms for the weekend and come up needy. No more “maybe I’ll visit” that end in tears and talks of moving closer. No. More.

I’ve felt emotionally manipulated by him for awhile. Yes, in a moment of frailty I called him last week when I had a freakout - and I shouldn’t have. He dealt with it beautifully, swallowing his pride and letting me scream and cry until I fell asleep. Since then, I’ve felt guilty. He’s milked it for all it was worth “well I supported you, why can’t you just support me when I need you? I’m having a mental breakdown here.” He’s baited me, ensnared me, entrapped me into feeling like I’m the only thing that can save him, and its just too much pressure. I can barely save myself. I need to start seeing someone on the regular (therapy wise) to be able to sort through the fact I can’t figure out how to handle transitions, authority, changes and the real world. And you know what? Thats okay. I’ll work on it.

Its okay that I’m not grown up yet. All of the Spaniard’s hints about marriage and babies and the fact I’m the only girl he’s ever felt this way about (his words) make me sick to my stomach with fear. My mother (the sassy, crazy hippy) was engaged three times before she met my father. Her first husband was apparently extremely similar to the Spaniard. He was funny and sweet and attractive, but ultimately couldn’t get his shit together ever, and she left him. I don’t want my life to be spent supporting a man who is falling apart all over the place, only to end in heartbreak. I’m not going to start dating him again and let him move to DC so that I can keep supporting him for the rest of his life. I’m not going to commit to a relationship, because I can feel he’s in it for the long haul. I’m not. doing. that.

Upon telling him how I felt, it was like a giant weight was pulled out of my body, from my tiny cold toes to my wispy weird brain. The day after, I’m going to say I’m sad. Its okay. Sad is fine, melancholy is okay, but ultimately I don’t have to feel unhappy and unstable about committing to something I just cannot handle. I’m only 23, I’m only on my first job, I’m only dating and I’m totally okay with that. I don’t want to know who I’m going to end up with for the rest of my life. If I let him go and he doesn’t change, I’ve sidestepped an emotional freighter that was bound to wreck my own self-worth. Instead, I’ll let him travel where he needs to go to fix himself, and I will fix my own feelings and thoughts on my own.

There’s a different guy, Penguin, who isn’t too special. Actually, he might be, and I just haven’t let myself notice him yet. He’s intelligent, refers to himself as High-Bro (a bit high-brow but with a large foundation of bro that I can’t seem to squash out of him) he’s still growing, he’s interesting and he makes me giggle. He’s weird-looking, with a hawkish nose and an almost-Gosling demeanor, if only he was cuter. Lets just say he would have been my perfect highschool-boyfriend. A plus is he knows how to dress himself, and although sexually we’re not super compatible, I’m having a good time. He makes me feel worth it (whatever “it” is). I just need to make sure I’m not jumping into this so I feel supported by someone, during this time of being alone and being by myself. He’s said the typical “I like you.” and I’ve responded in a generally favorable and agreeable response, but I’m not going to commit just yet.

In the past three months, I’ve noticed something. Its like a huge magnet is rolling around under us, realigning our thoughts, places and needs. There’s this huge upheaval in the universe. People are shifting, new places, new spaces, new boyfriends, new breakups. Something in the water, or the collective unconsciousness. We’re all looking for a change, and dammit we’re actually brave enough to throw caution to the wind and go for what we want.

Is this what growing up means?

With love,
Bear

Mom, could you not?

Fri, 25 Nov 2011 16:15:33 -0500

My mom. The woman who raised me essentially completely by herself. Who worked day and night to help me go to private high school and then college. The woman who gave me life.

The woman who is driving me crazy, at the moment.

My “Ex with a capital E”, The Big One, did not take our breakup well. He had been kicked out of his own home when we were seniors in high school, and had been living with my family for about two years when I ended our relationship. My mother generously offered to let him stay on until he found his own place, and since I was hundreds of miles away and wracked with guilt over the breakup, I was okay with that. After a month or so, he moved away to Seattle (and then turned up at my door three months later…a story for another time). My mom had always had a soft spot for TBO, since he was in some ways an orphan and in desperate need of a little love. She treated him like another kid, basically, and he really benefitted from it.

But after we broke up and he moved out, TBO turned to increasingly harder drugs, chain smoking, and rampant alcoholism to fill the hole that losing me & my family’s support had left. Whenever I would happen to see him or check on his Facebook, I would be heartbroken to see that he looked more and more like a skeleton that had risen from the grave and become addicted to Cocaine. But I kept my distance, because no matter how much I want to help him, I know one thing for certain: I can’t control myself around him. Every time we’ve seen each other in the years since we broke up, we’ve ended up furiously making out, telling each other we’re still in love, basically just acting insane. He is not healthy for me to be around.

My mother runs a small home and garden design business, and recently she has seen an increase in her number of clients and the size of her design jobs. In need of a little extra help, she decided to try and do a good deed and offered TBO a job helping on a few of the bigger jobs. This, obviously, was not my favorite solution to her problem. I told her politely that it made me uncomfortable to have him around regularly again. She said it didn’t seem like a problem since I am currently across the country. Problem? I’m returning to the east coast in a few short weeks and she has basically stated that she is going to keep giving the Big One a chance to work since he needs the money.

I am not sacrificing my relationship with the Scientist, or my own sanity, so that she can help pay for his drug habit. No sir. But what can I do? Every time I voice my discomfort with the situation, she makes me feel like I am being selfish, that the care she can give TBO through a job is more important than my feelings regarding the situation.

What can I do?

Open to your advice, followers!

Frustrated,

Bee

Grass is Green, Breakups Greener

Mon, 31 Oct 2011 22:17:32 -0400

The transitory period after a breakup is always odd. Do you think about him too much? Not enough? (Even after his favorite movie plays on TV)? Can you call just to say “hey” and check in, or do you not bother? When do formalities (“happy birthday anyway, did you enjoy the headphones I sent you a week before you broke up with me?”) become just formal, and unemotional?

The Spaniard and I are on weird terms. My request for SPACE was met with “I miss you” texts, “I still love you” warbles on my voicemail, and “when can I see you” captions on photos attached to late-night e-mails. “I made a mistake” was the first and oft repeated words out of his mouth. Promised grades, new jobs, therapy appointments, they all have seemed like (all too quick) steps in the right direction, but they HAPPENED, and damn does the boy move fast. Yet this closet romantic coupled with a “men can change for the right girl” adages have led me right back into a time warp. Helloooo last fall. Hello….mistakes?

The Spaniard showed up with all the right moves last weekend, after he pleaded for a chance to make it up to me. Two dozen (well, 25 to be precise) lavender roses showed up on my doorstep before work, and a weary and very nervous Spaniard greeted me with tears in his eyes when I picked him up from the Metro. A kiss on the forehead, a warm hand on the small of my back, and I remembered just why I loved him. He was comfort. He was flawed, but most importantly, he was honest about it. Words tumbled from his lips, and I ended up kissing them. A night spent together instead of in the spirit of a one-night stand, felt like a thousand years back to the right place when we woke up holding hands. His laziness erased for a day, a fresh start, was coupled with a love note on my pillow, wine in his hand, and a plaid-themed picnic. He chose the spot, and we breathed in each others company. Tired from the emotional turmoil, naps preceded an expensive (and delicious) french dinner. The one, perfect day.

He left the next morning, and his grumbles and grumps started up again. I got busy (and stressed) with my new job and early start time, but I miss the comfort. I miss just knowing he’s going to be on the other side of the phone if I need him. His love note re-read, his voicemails re-heard, my heart is extending tiny tendrils in his direction.

Then, therapy happened. I’m sure its smart, he’s not exactly dumb, just inconvenient. Friday I got the call, after a hermit-like few days. “I just don’t have the money, or the time, to give you what you deserve. I’m sorry we spent the most wonderful few days together, but its just not going to work”.

…ouch. When does a breakup hurt twice? When you give them another chance.
My heart feels numb, and my inner mantra “fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me” is sweeping my stable footing awry.

We’ll see if timing is ever good to us, but for now, lets let life unfold.

Happy halloween, love, you little trickster.

Bear

Domestic Goddess

Sun, 16 Oct 2011 14:46:05 -0400

Okay,

So we’ve established at length that I am something of a commitmentphobe. But let’s look at my other, non-relationship-related life choices to solidify that fact. I have moved four times, to four different cities, in the past four years. I have quit jobs and schools, switched majors, and generally never been able to make up my mind about exactly what I want ever since I graduated high school (and took a whole year off) five years ago. The past five years have consisted of building up relationships with the people I meet, then disappearing on them.

In spite of having co-habitated with a significant other before (though it was more out of a need to escape my mother’s house than a desire to build a future), I have really only ever thought seriously about “settling down” with one other boyfriend before The Scientist. That was, of course, the Big One. We had big plans- moving to Paris or Seattle or New York City (which of course I later did solo), living hand to mouth in some studio apartment while we “worked on our art”. Decorating the place was never even a discussion, it was going to be pure punk rock glory and milk-carton tables all the way.

Well, I was seventeen then. Now that I am an old maid in my twenties (one foot in the grave, so to speak), I have…matured a little. I’ve realized that maybe I like having a well furnished home to walk in to at the end of the day. I like my matching robin’s egg blue plates. I like my tasteful-yet-inexpensive Ikea bedframe. I like my stable, kind, generous, grown-up boyfriend.

And I like googling wedding dresses. This, to me, is the nail in the coffin. Since being invited to the website Pinterest by dear Bear, I now spend hours a night just oggling other people’s weddings. In a botanical garden? So elegant. Cookies and milk at the reception? adorable! Anthropologie’s new BHLDN collection? Can I wear more than one dress?

Add to that recipes, interior decor, BABY CLOTHES, and any other number of glossy images Pinterest has to give me, and I’m a goner. I may as well buy a minivan and start scrapbooking.

But in a way, I think this is healthy. I think it indicates me moving towards a new kind of fantasy- not, for once, one where I get to gaze at other men and think about how I could win them (except Ryan Gosling, of course, but the Scientist and I have an arrangement); but instead one where I look for happiness in beauty and living an aesthetically pleasing life with the man I have.

So bring on the puppy photos, Pinterest. Do your worst.

With love and a strange sense of assurance,

Bee

I want a man, who

Thu, 29 Sep 2011 23:14:00 -0400

I want to find a man, who, if Ryan Gosling magically showed up and asked me to marry him, would make me think twice about it, and decline.

C’mon true love,

Bear

New People and the Problems They Present

Mon, 19 Sep 2011 17:11:06 -0400

The Scientist and I recently relocated from the east to the west, in what was a sort of half-thought-out declaration of twenty-something independence. I decided that I wanted to try the west coast scene for my career of choice, and he, experiencing the general post-college malaise of our generation, decided to accompany me- what else did he have to do with an essentially useless degree and no job but to throw it all away for love? At first, all was well. We were playing house, going to movies, feeling invincible.

It is my opinion that the early stages- up the first year, even - of relationships exist inside a bubble. You are just so enamored with each other that the thought of other human beings existing never even crosses your mind. You’re all the company you’ll ever need. However, over time, you start to realize that not only are you going stir-crazy cooped up together, but that the outside prospects are starting to sneak into your happy little compound. And that is when the jealousy starts.

The Scientist, unable to find any jobs using his actual degree, recently took up work in a coffee shop. A coffee shop, that as far as I can tell, is staffed entirely by attractive, perfect, blond, hipstery women. The Scientist is an affable, clumsy-in-a-cute-way, scruffy beard having, plaid shirt wearing, hipster girl fantasy. He’s that charmingly shy barista you ogle over your morning latte. He’s the co-worker/friend that you value platonically but secretly want to bone. I know this, why do you think I’m dating the kid? He’s great! But apparently now his new lady-friend coworkers are starting to catch on. The other night, he comes home and asks if I mind if he goes for a drink with a few friends from his work. I say “No, who?” and he lists some names, all female. I ask him why all girls, he says that’s just who he works with. I must have pulled a face without realizing it, because he’s suddenly all “why are you being weird?” and then I’m all “because I don’t really dig that idea of you going out with strange women but it’s okay I know I’m being irrational” and that is when the little argument starts. Then a few days later, it’s an invitation from his friend to go to a show - “it’s like, her BOYFRIEND’S band!”- and that’s when the big fight starts.

I, however, am not without guilt in this situation. I made a friend on my first day at the new school, scruffy, tattoos, charmingly scene-ish in a 2008 sort of way, whom we shall refer to henceforth as the Transfer. Transfer is, thus far, literally the only person I know by name in my entire new school. Transfer is very, very obviously interested in yours truly, and for some reason I can’t bring myself to talk about my boyfriend in front of him. Is it fear of being alone and friendless in a new environment? the affirmation of an attractive boy pursuing me? The need to hear things like “I looked at your website and your art is so great”?

The Scientist clearly has mixed feelings about my friendship with the Transfer, much the way I do about his relationship with the Coffee Shop Vixens. But, because we both know we’re probably vaguely guilty of a little innocent flirtation, we can’t talk about it without blowing up at each other and falling asleep so far apart on the bed we’re almost falling off.

Thing is, I know I love the Scientist and would never ruin that by any physical dalliance with the Transfer- or any other boy. And I trust that he feels and would act the same. It will surely blow over as time passes and the new people become old people. But that doesn’t stop it from being icky.

With green eyes and jealousy,

Bee

Obligatory Breakup Post (on Sad, or Maybe Not)

Thu, 15 Sep 2011 11:45:09 -0400

I wish I could be that romantic, wistful girl who is mysterious and beautiful in a heartbreaking story of love. The one who, when left, waifs around the fresh food section of an open air market, crying because the smell of fresh pecans or the sight of perfectly rounded grapes reminds her of feeding her loved one in bed while he twirled her hair through his strong fingers.

I wish I could be so deliriously heartbroken that I can’t eat, throwing my hands up in despair as my friends and family flock around me and coo and cluck and hug, and let me rest.

Instead this seems almost worse. I am a crazed young adult, not quite a young professional (just need the job), who doesn’t know whether I’m sad, or fine. I’ve gone two days with happy thoughts in my head, a series of “good luck but good riddance” adages on my tongue as I think of all of our differences. But one sight of a luscious beard in a crowd sends me spiraling into a pit of doom, where I cry my eyes out. Only to emerge, instead of a teary wisp of a girl who everyone can nod at and say “oh, she was in LOVE, what a tragedy”, no, instead I rather resemble a rotten tomato. Squishy red face, with some odd hard places, and that feeling you get saying “oh, if I had only gotten to her yesterday she would have been great.”

No, I had to walk boldly into a love I was not confident of. I picked the opposite personality of what made sense, a complaining, selfish, loud, small-town guy who shook me up and let me spend all the money I could on the relationship out of love. He tested my patience, sapped my emotions, and now I am almost too sick of taking care of him, to take care of myself in the time I most need it.

What happens when the wrong guy still has your heart? I don’t see prince charming vaulting over pews up the wedding isle to grab my hand and take me away. Instead, I see the wrong guy knowing that maybe later we would have worked, but for now its too hard. I see him leaving my sorry ass crying in bed as he tells me, its just not working for him either.

But my heart, that vicious, fickle asshole, decides it has already run away to try and live with him, dreaming about him every day so every day I have to go and get it back. I think my ass-heart already convinced my lips all they need is to kiss his, and everything will be fixed, because they refuse to bad-mouth him or the situation.

So what happens when half your body believes its still living a fairytale, and your brain pipes up and tells you to quit it?

Maybe its like an addiction. If I go cold turkey, I’ll be okay. But looking at his pictures on my phone, listening to the saved voicemails…I slip into a zombie-like state of neurotic crying and shaking, then lethargic lounging while every movie I try to watch I turn off before it ends. Who cares? I don’t. Ends are for losers. That means either he loves you, or he doesn’t. and I can’t deal with that right now.

WIth grumpy crying and the inability to lose weight even when depressed,

Bear

This is not about boys.

Fri, 24 Jun 2011 18:49:11 -0400

okay, well, it sort of is. But it’s not about my interactions with boys. I am stepping back from my severe narcissism to write about a friend of mine. In the end it actually still has to do with me, but….you know what, whatever, I am just gonna go ahead and start telling the actual story.

A few years ago, when I was living in the south and attending my first college, I became very good friends with a girl from Vermont. Let’s call her Granola Girl (which is actually mostly what I called her). She was very different from me- a total hippie, very quiet and serious, didn’t drink, went to bed at like, 8pm….but somehow, we became friends. Better than friends! We were inseparable. I had a terrible bigoted roommate, and Granola Girl let me move in on her floor. She took care of me when I was too drunk and cooked me hangover food in the mornings. We talked about Harry Potter and I introduced her to the finer points of indie music and gin and tonics.

After I left the college, we kept in close contact (she transferred elsewhere as well). We’d talk on the phone once a day, email each other constantly, and were constantly connected to the goings on in each other’s lives. I’ve never been one to keep close female friends (as I’ve mentioned, and of course with the exclusion of Bear), and I found that I sort of liked having that person in my life to gossip with over the long distance line. We visited each other when we had the time and money, and at first, that was great.

Then a boy happened. During one of her visits, Granola Girl was introduced to an old buddy of mine, Hercules. They hit it off instantly. Hercules was and is a really fun guy and a friend, but had a notoriously bad track record with relationships and was something of a serial cheater. I warned Granola Girl, who had only ever had one other boyfriend, that he might not be the best choice for her. But she decided to plow ahead and the two began a long-distance relationship.

After they started dating, I noticed that Granola Girl began to slowly fade out from my life. Emails went unanswered, calls became sporadic and short. She never came to visit anymore, instead opting to fly out to where he was in med school in Canada. Eventually, it came to light that she had told him some very personal things I had confided in her, and in a moment of rage I declared that she had become a “shitty friend” and I wanted her out of my life. My feelings were extremely hurt. I held a grudge for years, when I was never someone to do that before.

Now Granola Girl and Hercules are going to be in town for the week, and she wants to spend some time together. I am wary, but part of me feels bad- I flipped out at the girl for having a boyfriend. Their relationship isn’t particularly healthy- she doesn’t interact with anyone but him, gave up her own dreams in order to move where he lives, and shunned her family in favor of her boyfriend. But I can’t say I’ve been much wiser when it comes to men. Should I forget my past hurt and attempt to rekindle the friendship? Can things ever really be the same?

All I know is that this is bothering me on some core level that I’m having trouble even acknowledging. Can it ever truly be ovaries before bro-varies?

With mild confusion and a distaste for girl problems,

Bee

Oh, just go away.

Tue, 07 Jun 2011 22:35:26 -0400

JUST because I happen to wear a skirt to work, in order to look cute for a co-worker, does NOT give you (yes, you, every man who works at Staples) the right to whistle, ogle, and ask me for my number three times in a row.

Sheesh. You think it would be four times too small, rather than two sizes too big.

Bear

Meet the Parents...or don't

Sun, 05 Jun 2011 18:01:23 -0400

I’ve done a bang up job of not meeting my significant others’ parental units. Generally, the relationships don’t really last long enough for me to meet them, but when I have, it hasn’t always gone as smoothly as it could. I have an honest-to-goodness-doctor-diagnosed social anxiety disorder, which tends to make me have freaky panic attacks at the thought of stressful social interaction (such as impressing the parents of your beau), and coupled with my catastrophic and often comical bad luck, well, things just tend to fall apart.

Often, it is just that for some unexplainable reason, the parents don’t like me. My first boyfriend’s parents were Scientologists, divorced, and both lived in weird secluded compounds in the woods. His father was nice - too nice, if you catch my drift (I didn’t need a backrub every time I saw him, thanks) - and his mother hated me and actually accused me of being in a cult. Pot calling the kettle black, much? The Big One’s father was an absentee junkie who turned up only to terrorize him occasionally, so he resented me for defending his son. His mother was a prison psychologist who thought I was a good case for hospitalization and actually called me mean nicknames to my face and tried to set my boyfriend up with other girls while I was in the room.

If it’s not the fact that they are certifiable nutjobs, then its some weird awkward accident that I have no control over. Twice, I have had boyfriend’s parents walk up to the wrong girl and ask if they are the “Bee we’ve heard so much about” only to be informed of their mistake and cast their eyes over to me, standing there, warm friendly expression fading to one of semi-disgust. About a week after Shorty and I broke up, his parents flew into town from California to visit him, and I had to sit through an entire awkward dinner with them because he had neglected to tell them we split (decided to save his pride rather than spare me the crippling anxiety).

Next week, I am supposed to travel to the Scientist’s hometown for the first time and meet his parents. I am already pacing in nervous circles around my house trying to figure out what clothes to pack, what to say, how to avoid awkwardness. This boy could be the one. I can actually see a future to this relationship (I know, right?), and I don’t want to have to live potentially the rest of my life trying to atone for some miserable social ineptitude I perform the first time I ever set foot in their house. The Scientist claims they are going to love me - “They know I love you, so they already love you!” - but I can’t help but think next week is going to be a nonstop series of foot-in-mouth, nausea-from-nerves, one-glass-of-wine-too-many, “i’m-sorry-but-I-don’t-eat-meat” awkwardness.

Here’s to hope!

Wish me luck,

Bee

GrrrrrRRRRRRrrrrrr

Mon, 09 May 2011 11:54:11 -0400

Lovely readers, I am grumpy. Allow me to elaborate on my reasons.

I have mentioned a few times that I’ve been seeing someone new lately and have chosen not to disclose too much on this person because it is that special to me and I feel mildly weird talking about him on my creepy-anonymous-internet-confession-blog. However, recent events lead me to talk a little about this boy - henceforth referred to as the Scientist.

You all recall the story of the “Bestie”, my hot/cold on/off best friend/lover/mortal enemy, that I broke into two separate entries because the drama and complexity of the whole thing was too much for just one. The Scientist and I would never have met if not for the aforementioned douchetastic actions of the Bestie. We were introduced because he was the Bestie’s roommate, and on that ill-fated visit where I discovered my dear ol’ Bestie had a secret girlfriend (and chose to tell me by making out with her in front of me) I ended up spending a lot of time with him out of necessity. The Scientist was cute, funny, smart, dorky, and completely likeable. Unfortunately, due to his slightly effeminate personality and predilection for throw pillows, I thought he was gay. Had I spent any time at all really paying attention to the fact that he was obviously falling head over heels for me in the most blatant display of puppy-love ever, I would probably not have come to that conclusion- but I was distracted by blind rage and heartbreak at the time. After two more confusing, drunken days in their apartment, I set off for home; assuming I would never hear from the Bestie or the Scientist again.

But this wasn’t so. While the Bestie periodically appeared and disappeared (his typical pattern of behavior), the Scientist kept in constant contact. Soon, we were talking every day. And through two years of me being in and out of ill-fated relationships, still fighting with the Bestie, and going through tons of changes in my life in general, he was my constant companion - a text message away if I was ever lonely waiting for the train, always around to Skype with me into the long hours of the night when I couldn’t sleep. He listened without judgement, he told me funny stories, we sent each other the weirdest youtube videos we could find. In spite of the purely technological nature of our relationship, in many ways he became my best and most consistent friend.

The Bestie, of course, hated this. He would constantly attempt to undermine the blossoming friendship his roommate and I were developing. Telling me embarrassing stories about the Scientist, further questioning his sexual orientation, keeping me forever on my toes about the nature of our relationship (any time he sensed me pulling away he would start hatching ill-conceived plans to visit). And so when he eventually learned that I had finally stopped being an idiot and told the Scientist I was in love with him, he had what I have referred to in casual conversation as a “tiny baby snapout”. He told me he didn’t want to hear about the relationship, that he was worried I would “break” the Scientist’s kind nature the way I had destroyed my other relationships, intimated that I was “settling” because I couldn’t have him- in short, he was a giant, unrelenting, unforgiveable asshole.

Sadly for me, they continue to be roommates. So this past weekend, when I decided to come visit my dear Scientist and a few other friends, I had to face the Bestie in person - for the first time since we had our last huge falling out a year ago and since I had started dating his roommate. At first, he simply avoided me; a full 24 hours passed before I actually saw him with my eyes. And then he pulled a complete 180 - the first thing he did was pull me into an awkwardly extended and intense hug and tell me how much he’d missed me and how often he’d thought of me. Later that evening, I encountered him completely intoxicated at a party (I was stone sober), and he immediately pressed himself to my side, tried to clutch at my hand, whispered weird inside jokes in my ear - while the Scientist, not only my boyfriend but his friend and roommate, stood a few feet away with an uncomfortable expression on his face. I broke away from the Bestie and attempted to put some distance between us, but he kept managing to end up close to me, brush against me, touch my hair. He began telling loud stories to the Scientist (and anyone in earshot) about how well he knew me, how long he’d known me, how close we were. The Scientist, being not only incredibly sweet but also sort of meek, stood helpless as the Bestie made every attempt to act like our relationship was a farce.

Towards the end of the evening, the Bestie started berating me for it directly - telling me I was “never going to see him again” because of my “new boyfriend” (to me, this is the worst part: acting like he doesn’t know the Scientist’s name in spite of their friendship. Just championship assholery right there). And that was my breaking point - I told him to shut up. No wit, no class, no elaboration. Just the words “Bestie, you need to shut up.” And after that, he vanished. He didn’t speak to me for the rest of the evening, didn’t return to their apartment that night, and didn’t say goodbye to me the next morning.

While it is mildly heartbreaking to think of years of emotional connection being suddenly severed, I am perfectly okay with it. I made the right choice, and the Scientist is almost literally the perfect boyfriend, and I love him completely. The Bestie made his own choice- many times over- to give me up. He can’t be mad that someone else was willing to the make the effort he never could bring himself to.

Endings are always bittersweet, ain’t they?

With hope for a brighter tomorrow,

Bee

Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from penis.

Sat, 23 Apr 2011 20:55:43 -0400

At the cusp of diving headfirst into a happy relationship, I’m being wishy washy and stupid. The Spaniard, who I’ve been sporting as Official Boyfriend since December, is fantastic. I just got back from a week at his house and have been sunshine and rainbows ever since. I, for the first time since Nudge three and a half years ago, am madly in love with someone who actually feels the same way about me.

The Spaniard is just needy enough to calm the fears in my heart about how his attractiveness must get him all the ladies and—since he lives in Boston—our long-distance love could be pockmarked with infidelity and secrets. But, it seems I am the only fickle one in this union.

Yet, here is what I’ve been looking for since Nudge broke my heart, and I’m feeling…unsure. A friend said I’m looking for reasons to ruin it, after I drunkenly confessed to her I felt I needed to break it off with him since I like him so much.

Its Charles. I have known Charles for about…six years. He started as a friend of a dumb-boyfriend, progressed to an occasional date when he or I had any time for each other, and has since skyrocketed into occasional hookup territory slash best friends who pretend to hate each other… he and I both being massive bar-flirts. He’s one of those guys I am watching build an empire around him of adoring fans, thinking, ‘why did I not go out with him before?’

Oh, thats why. Did I mention I’m terrified of his junk?

I previously have been fearless. Tall, short, large, skinny, give me a man who wants to kiss me, and I will find something to love about him, opening my heart and eventually my bed. (boo, you whore). Yet, Charles and I have been dancing around each other for years without actually doing the deed. After confessing his love to me one night, he turned around and made out with a dumb slut at a party. I got drunk and slapped him, leaving his friends to hate me, and my friends to pick up the pieces.

Bee calls me fickle, and I agree. If Charles gets a lady at a bar, I go home fuming, but every kiss of ours ended in uncertainty and weird feelings…what if I have to deal with his hefty manparts!? Now that the Spaniard is in my life, I have a good reason to keep Charles at bay, and I try. But last night was his 25th birthday, something I wouldn’t miss for the world. J.K. and I packed ourselves into a car and drove into the city, something we barely do. But Philly is a delight when you have three great men who love to dance waiting for some ladies to pal around with… so saying no was not an option.

Halfway through the night, Charles and I were sufficiently drunk enough that dancing with each other stopped being fun and started meaning something .You know. Like, the words you hear means what you’re thinking in your head. Yet, I couldn’t figure out if I should pay attention to his exaggerated “fuck you”s and references to the fact I’ll only love him when he has money. I got the hint I should step out of it when he had girls flocking to his side via his dance moves, yet Charles pulled me close, kissed my cheek and said it again.

I love you.

Now, I care for him. I, okay, I’ll say it, I love him. I want him to succeed and have someone to support and care for him and part of me had always wanted to be that person, but not now. I want to be that bestie, that person who can watch him succeed and lend a hand and talk to him about how dumb the bitches are he hates, while thinking that about the ones he dates.

But I want the chance with my boy, the one who didn’t hesitate to step up and say ‘I like you’. The one who called me every night for nine months. The one who loves me for all the little things I do…the one who lies and says he has trouble falling asleep when he can’t hear me snore.

I’ll figure it out someday, right?

Bear

How to be a commitmentphobe in 5 easy steps

Fri, 22 Apr 2011 14:27:45 -0400

1. Have divorced parents who hate each other -Pretty self explanatory, I think. My parents were never meant to be together, and really only got married because my mom got knocked up. Even as a little kid I knew that they might like each other alright, but they were never in love. Or, more accurately: that my father, in spite of his notorious emotional coldness, loved my mom the best he could love anything, and she didn’t return the sentiment. and when they split- well, let’s just say it’s a wonder I’m not more messed up than I already am. Talk about catastrophe.

2. Grow up too fast - recently, I was in a cab with my lady-mentor, a successful photographer and editor here in New York. She said to me, “Bee, don’t grow up too fast. Or you’ll end up afraid of commitment like me”. I replied with a “too late” and a nervous laugh, knowing that it was true. Forced into early adulthood by the nuclear meltdown that was my parents’ divorce, I learned rational thinking and cold logic far too early. I became staunchly self-reliant, and as a result have never been able to fully trust another person to take care of me. Always lookin’ out for #1, you know.

3. Have your first boyfriend be 4 years older than you - I started dating early. I was barely 13 when I started seeing my first boyfriend, a 17 year old high school junior. Admittedly, I went to a “hippie” school, where grades K-12 mingled freely, and to see an older student becoming close with a younger one was not totally unusual or particularly frowned upon. But as a child of recent divorce, and something of a late bloomer, the fast progress from “first kiss” to “let’s do sex to each other” was a little too much for me to bear. The relationship became controlling and borderline emotionally abusive. While I did manage to keep my virginity, I lost my trust in the decency of people.

4. Date an emotional wreck for 5 years - I have touched briefly on the Big One in the past, and alluded to his troubled home life. He had issues, and not just the normal teenagery ones. The Big One was in need of serious psychiatric help, but instead of seeking it, he came to rely entirely on me for support. In turn, I threw all of my misguided love into him, devoting myself to him completely. And so every time he left me, cheated on me, lied to me - all the times we broke up and got back together in 5 years time - twisted the knife a bit in my heart, further damaged my trust in men and my faith in love.

5. Jump from short-term relationship to short-term relationship - Keeping one foot poised to run and my eye always on the door, I launched directly from my final breakup with the Big One into a series of poorly decided and extremely rushed relationships. Each lasted between 4 and 8 months - Triple X, Bird Boy, Shorty, and the Prince, each one was someone I barely knew, an attraction I desperately wanted to turn into love. I would try so hard to cling to these relationships for the stability they provided, but at the same time I was constantly looking out, waiting for the plane to crash, knowing in my heart that the relationship was doomed from the onset. I remain good friends with two of them, something I count myself extremely lucky for, have drifted completely away from one, and am totally hated by another. I look back at them all with a mixture of guilt and affection, knowing that they were all good guys in their own right and that I had no place bringing my destructive personality to their doorstep.

Forgive the bleakness of this post, but I find myself in a position now where I am at a split within myself- I have found someone I want to commit to. I don’t get that old familiar feeling, the desperate need to shout about how great the relationship is, how this is THE ONE NO SERIOUSLY GUYS THIS IS THE LAST ONE I SWEAR. It’s quiet, it’s comfortable, it’s with someone I’ve known for years, someone who understands me and accepts me for me, faults and all. But I worry I can’t fight my nature - the one who can’t commit, who is ready to tear and slash at things in order to protect herself from the possibility of hurt. And I don’t think I could handle it if things went that way with this boy.

Guess it’s time for ol’ Bee to shape up.

with strangeness and deep affection,

Bee

Here's To The Moms

Sun, 27 Mar 2011 01:51:47 -0400

You ever sit in on a Saturday night, not because you don’t have things to do, but because you have this worry or regret which makes you feel inadequate to the rest of humanity? Thus, making no point to go out, because even if no one knows about this little regret, they will feel you have it and suddenly avoid you like the plague?

Well, I mistakenly got into an argument with the Spaniard today, about his mother.

(I know, why the fuck would I ever let myself do that? Rule number 1 of girlfriend-dom: don’t ever bash the boy’s Ma, even if she’s a controlling, harsh, critical Momster. Even if he bashes her first.) So, why did I let myself get sucked into a pity-party, and cry about the fact that she’s the first M.O.B. (Mother-Of-Boyfriend) that hasn’t wrapped her arms around me and shit rainbows?

Because the hardest thing, apparently, about letting go of my 3-year-long highschool romance with Nudge, didn’t have anything to do with Nudge himself. It has to do with his family.

You see, they’re perfect. They’ve churned out three delightfully quirky boys who all can boast skills in the arts, literature, and sports. And even in spite of that perfection, Nudge’s mom has always treated me like the second coming of Jesus, as well as if I were her own long-lost little sister. When you practically get a standing ovation every time you walk into your boyfriend’s house, you tend to place a lot of care into getting to know the family. I’m not even counting his dad, who is an attractive, athletic, artistic, sociable man who once shook my hand for taking Nudge’s v-card. The house (and their additional vacation home) is filled with art, laughter, and lots of really well-cooked food. It didn’t kill me that Nudge and I grew apart…what killed me was losing what I came to consider my second family. They were there through all the college applications, the college decisions, the late night ice-cream runs, sledding, pillow forts (that included all five of them) and huge road-trips to Canada.

I guess instead of dreaming about marrying Nudge, I was dreaming about what would happen after —mainly the weekends we would spend with our kids at the grandparents house. I couldn’t wait for the future, because as long as Nudge’s family (lets call them the Walks) was in the picture, I knew we would be happy.

Lets just say, getting to know new families has been…a bit of a letdown. But I’ve been optimistic. It might take awhile, but I was hell-bent on impressing the Spaniard’s fiery Momma-bear. But after a weekend in Boston full of criticism and arguments (not that I was helping the situation), I’ve had to hold back tears too many times to keep it from bothering me.

They say you never forget your first love…I think I have, but I’ll never forget his mom.

With love and hope for better in-laws,

Bear

Why I Can't Have Hookup Buddies (a lament)

Mon, 28 Feb 2011 15:41:26 -0500

Two months have passed since I ended things with the Prince, and my life is finally evening out. I’m moving past the feelings of guilt and jealousy, I am regaining the confidence I lost. I’ve been making a concerted effort to leave my house and socialize more, which has actually gone much better than expected - reconnecting with old friends I distanced myself from during my relationship, and making new ones who I’m finding I really like.

Which is how I met Twiggy. Twiggy is one of those friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend types who you see around occasionally but never really talk to. Then one day, you bump into them unexpectedly, start up a conversation, and then part ways. Then a few days later you run into them again at a party and that’s when you realize- the universe is pushing you together for the sole purpose of sloppy makeouts.

So, for the second time ever in my life, I have been doing physical things with a person I am not in a relationship with. At first, it was liberating- dizzying, exciting. I felt like I was doing something NORMAL for a recently single twenty-something. But slowly, over the course of the week this has been going on, I have been developing this feeling in the pit of my stomach…you guessed it, the good ol’ Bee-brand GUILT.

The guilt is twofold:

1. I don’t really like Twiggy. I do not want to date him. I find him mildly irritating, to be honest. But he is skinny and well-dressed and has good hair and paid attention to me. Sometimes that’s enough. Unfortunately, he seems to be getting slightly more attached than I had anticipated, so I feel guilty knowing that I definitely don’t share the emotion.

2. Remember all those nice guys? the nerdy ones I dismiss? Well, recently I have sort of let one of them into my life a bit more than I normally would. He is cute and attentive and I find myself sort of wishing he lived nearer to me. I am not making any noises about starting a relationship - I know the timing is bad and also the idea of starting something over the internet/phone is ridiculous, as well as not really knowing what my feelings on the situation are - but for some reason I keep thinking of him when I should be focusing on Twiggy. And boy howdy, does that make me feel bad on a couple different levels. Also, this feeling is sort of shared with a little leftover guilt from the Prince.

Well, there’s not much more of a turnoff that soul sucking regret, so I am not into it anymore. I know I need to tell Twiggy that while being sex-friends has been fun, it’s not what I need or want at the moment, especially if he’s looking for it to go further. I think I’ve come to accept that I just can’t “hook up” like the rest of my peers- it inevitably turns into something larger that absorbs all my time and energy. Three cheers for social abnormality!

With sexy mistakes,

Bee

There's no winning

Tue, 01 Feb 2011 10:25:01 -0500

I’m a boy’s girl. A dude’s lady. The token gal-pal in any group of guys. That’s what I’ve always been told (One of my closest male friends tells me often that I “don’t count” as a girl). I listen to obscure punk and hip-hop (the two dude-iest genres), I play video games like a CHAMP, I love horror movies with lots of extra blood and gore. Zombie Survival Handbook? Bitch, I wrote it.

All this probably comes from the fact that I have a very nerdy older brother who spent a good portion of his teenage years babysitting me and making me watch “Half a Loaf of Kung Fu” and “Dawn of the Dead”. No matter the real cause, my interests and general demeanor have lead me to have a LOT of guy friends. I mean, I essentially only have dude-friends, I can count on one hand the meaningful relationships I’ve had with women. As a rule, women do not like me; and I’ve never been sure if it’s because of my aforementioned nerdy interests, or because those interests make me a threat to their relationships with their boyfriends- I can be the pal-around buddy and the cute girlfriend.

Unfortunately, because I am also in many ways a stereotypical girl, I never have any romantic interest in the nice, nerdy guys I surround myself. No, I always go for the “bad boy”, the talented, emotionally unstable loner who finds my geekdom “cute” but not an essential part of my personality; and who is much more interested in how my boobs look in that tight-fitting robots vs. zombies t-shirt I’m wearing than the fact that it has a totally awesome robot/zombie fight going down on it. Meanwhile, there is always some nice, geeky, certainly attractive-but-not-in-the-way-I-want guy that genuinely loves me for who I am sitting idly by watching and weeping into their D&D character sheet.

Last year, right after moving to New York, I met a guy that seemed to merge these two worlds. Shorty was a nerd, for sure- we first met standing outside my new apartment building, introduced by a mutual friend, and we talked late into the night about Star Wars, Lycanthropy, and how we were both trying to get jobs at the largest comic book store in NYC. Shorty dressed like a Brooklynite hipster, with messy curly hair and the right amount of scruffy beard and thick plastic frame glasses from some upscale designer. He was from California and well-versed in all the political nonsense I hold dear to my heart. But he was short. Like, three or four inches taller than me, and I am tiny. I had never dated a guy shorter than six foot, prior, and honestly, it was a little bit of a dealbreaker. There was something that stopped me from really finding him attractive. Also, as I later found out, it also gave him an insufferable Napoleon complex that caused him to behave loudly and obnoxiously 90% of the time, much to my continued embarrassment.

Shorty and I would have made great friends. I genuinely liked him as a person, and we definitely had fun- reading comics and eating candy in bed, watching hours of Venture Brothers and MST3k. But something about our relationship just didn’t click. We were constantly at each other’s throats, I was non-committed, he was married to his work and couldn’t understand why it bothered me when he called me at 2am to say he was finally free and could hang out. His aforementioned loud behavior disagreed with my naturally quiet personality, and I never wanted to bring him anywhere with me. We broke up after 5 months and tried to remain friends, which didn’t really work.

I am on hiatus from relationships right now, the foreseeable future will see me spending more time with my girls ‘n gays, working on my schoolwork and at my job. And maybe somewhere in there, I’ll be able to settle the two worlds in my head- and eventually find a guy that can be part of both.

With loveeeeeeee,

Bee