Blame Canada

I did it. I had a vacation! Two weeks. It was the most random, slutty trip ever.

The plan was a 4 night stay in Vegas for a convention featuring athletes such as myself who are ironically also incredibly heavy drinkers and hard partiers. During one of our all-nighters, we met a gaggle of bougie business types from New Jersey who were there celebrating their best friend's bachelor party. My friends and I were disasters. Sweaty, bruised up from practice and drinking, dressed quite ridiculously - in essence, we didn't fulfill ANY of the pre-req's for "getting in" to this hot spot. But after I exchanged a few ofcourse-eloquent and poised words with the security guard and nearly got the door guy fired, we were all in and treated like some sort of misfit royalty. And for some reason, the group of seemingly stuck up, snotty button-ups took to us. Long story short, I banged the tallest, best looking one. I woke up in a spectacular 5 bedroom suite at the MGM's top floor and had to make the grand entrance into a loud, bustling room of his friends who were already drinking for the next day.

So out I walked, hair a mess, clothing disheveled, phone missing, sans purse, and was myself. I sat down, joined the four robed friends, galavanting in what seemed to be some homo-erotic celebration of their masculinity and self-proclaimed awesomeness. What's funny is, I was embarrassed for them. Fuck my "walk of shame." I wanted to bitch slap the bitchy-ness out of these champagne-sipping pussies and go pound whiskey shots. I refrained from the violence, walked across the street to my party hotel and kept the riots going.

While in Vegas, I received a strange message on facebook: "You keep showing up on my news feed, but I have no idea who you are."

Upon quick inspection, it seemed this guy befriended me about a week prior and I did not accept or deny his friend request, since I had no clue who he was. And so I replied to his message so.

We wrote to each other over the course of 3 days - the messages getting longer, funnier and more in depth with each succession. We exchanged phone numbers and the drunk texting ensued. He wrote that I should go visit him since I was on vacation.

Long story short: He accidentally befriended me since he was looking for his guy friend with my nick name. He lives in Montreal but was visiting Vancouver for a wedding, and I flew to Vancouver to meet this stranger and his best friends.

Safe? Probably not. Fun? Fuck yes.

So off I went. I texted my two closest friends his name and contact info incase I disappeared, and a short message: "This Canadian accidentally befriended me on facebook. He's pretty funny. So I'm flying to Canada tomorrow morning. See you friday."

True to form, I met an amazing guy who it can never go anywhere with... My leading men seem to be growing farther and farther away. If this is any indication of my future in finding a husband, I might as well move to fucking Antarctica.

After three days in Vancouver with the Canadian and his friends, I flew straight to Chicago for my own reunion with a great group of friends. Needless to say, at this point, I had been drunk or hungover for about 10 days straight. Bad decisions left and right... and among them was hooking up with my best guy friend's roommate and good friend who he begged me not to hook up with as it would be awkward for him. I think no one noticed.

My liver is shot, my dignity is dwindling, my slutty phase has now peaked and heartbreak for the Canadian is on the forefront.

Why do guys get so attached to me so quickly when I don't want it? Or ateleast when I'm trying not to?

"Marry me" he says...
"I'm flying you to Montreal" he proclaims...
"I haven't felt this way about anyone in over 3 years" he insists....

No pressure, right?

I'm a mess.

Typical

As much as I claim I wish I'd find an awesome guy here, my trend of connecting with geographically unattainable men continues. I'm beginning to start to maybe, perhaps, kind of, plan to consider the idea that deep down, I don't want a relationship right now... because if I did, it would just happen in L.A., right?

As much as I defend this city I love so much, the dating scene is, needless to say, a fucking fiasco of lack-luster love and lust. A collection of continuous skits of predictable play-by-plays.

My career has me traveling to much of the country for a few days at a time - instantaneous opportunity for hitting it and quitting it; A simple idea that for any man is a lascivious dream come true, but for a woman, puts her in a position of sexploration disguised as feminist prowess. Truth be told, these short stints in random cities are just an unapologetic course to slutting it up. From hoteliers in Chicago to Captain America in Boston, I've definitely enjoyed myself in my travels. It's all good and fun until one of them falls. And yes, there's always one. It's almost as though stating a blatant disinterest in any real commitment is the most promising way to gain such deflected interest. This paradox of rejection leading to more interest is yet another reason the male species will forever confuse me. But again, at least it's a simple theory - you say you don't want them and they want you. You say you do want them, and they "aren't wanting a relationship right now." Two plus two equals four, and running away makes them chase.

I was in Hawaii for a month for work. My boyfriend at the time had just moved to Los Angeles from the East coast, despite my very honest appeals to the move. I thought he would lose himself, crowd my space, resent me for leaving his home town, and I would feel suffocated. Two weeks in, I knew I was right and tried to break it off with this too-nice guy. He pathetically tried to hold on, but I was done in my head and heart. I was his muse - his escape - his excuse to run away... and I'm exhausted with trying to fulfill these lost boys with a hope and fantastical idea when really, I'm just looking for my own peace of mind.

Anyway, while in Hawaii, my fabulously gay associate and I stood at the bar and poked fun at the douchiest guy in the bar. Women were throwing themselves at him. I admit, he was one of the most attractive men I have ever seen, and under usual circumstances, I find this ultimately unattractive (shallow assholes). But, four Ketel Tonics later, he approaches me. And I did what any insecure, confused girl would do, I made fun of him. My dry humor and sarcasm were ill-diagnosed, as it actually turned him on and only made him pursue me more. Three more Ketel Tonics, a few shots and one heated political debate later, we were making out and headed to his place. We played all night long, me withholding actual sex so to maintain a false sense of modesty while he did all the work and loved every minute of it.

Waking up bleary-eyed, missing all my clothing and most of my dignity from the night before, I re-evaluated his sex appeal and was pleasantly surprised to learn he was indeed still hot. But as we spoke, I was shocked to see more and more of a personality that I would never be attracted to. He is a navy seal, sleeves of overly-masculine tattoos, a closet filled with Affliction, guns galore, heavy metal cd's, cheesy hot-chick posters... I started to become disgusted with the fact that I have joined the ranks and hooked up with a total frat boy. Shoot me.

The long drive home was breath-takingly beautiful. We spoke. I was wrong about him. For the first time ever, I was open minded about this "type" of person, and was genuinely shocked to learn of all his layers. He also explained he was shocked to be with a girl like me (big geeky glasses, quirky, strong, and just plain "different."). We transcended the typical Friends with Benefits ruleset  and it was beyond orgasmic. Sunsets on the Hawaiian coast, private yachts, long scenic drives, shooting rifles illegally; it was a full-fledged affair that we both enjoyed and gained from. But he seemed to think it was more. I received an email from him, proclaiming his undying love for me. Yes he "couldn't believe he was falling in love with me, but it happened." I never reciprocated and when I left, he explained his heartbreak to me in a final letter.

This one still confuses me. I couldn't get treatment or a reaction like that from a guy that there's actually potential with if my life depended on it. If anything, I learned to be open about the kind of guy I can see myself with (which for now is, just simply, someone not here). Awesome. So far, so good!

Yes, I've had some sort of proclamation of love after less than a week of friendship from men in Pennsylvania, Germany, Hawaii, Chicago, Atlanta, Oklahoma, New Jersey and Boston... but no one will compare to New York's experience. The connection was magnetic, the attraction immediate and the desires unmanageable. But I cut it off. I'm here. He's there. Why try? I'm still trying to convince myself that one wasn't a mistake.

New York I love you, but you're bringing me down.

It's still never happened in L.A. And I'm from here! At this point, I'm thinking that setting up camp in different state for the sole purpose of a dick hunt is the way to go. Some call it skepticism... I call it being a bitter bitch sick of trying.

When it Rains it Pours

I feel like this always happens... dry spell... no guys... no lovin'... no NOTHIN'... And then, all the Ex's reach out in some strange, pathetic act of wondrous reminiscence of what could have been between us. In two nights I got a text from Concert Ex (which I transcribed in the last post), Nice Guy Ex, Married Ex, Hipster Ex, Pretty Dumb Ex and even, First Love Ex.

Ah yes... I haven't heard from Pretty Dumb Ex in quite sometime, close to a year now. He is a hot one, in the most typical kind of way; chiseled jawline, dreamy eyes, impeccable physique, flirty smile, tattoos that show he is both a badass and a momma's boy with a spiritual side. He is in fact the most perfect example of how beauty can overshadow imperfections in all other vital qualities a partner should have... say, like, a personality. And thus, it never turned into more than purely physical - usually only when I was buzzed enough to alleviate my physical inferiority to his well-advertised and widely-recieved good looks. I remember the last time we had sex... I woke up (on his air mattress that cleverly posed as an actual queen-size mattress - did we actually function on that thing last night)? Anyway...

I woke up to the sensual strokes of his wandering hands and couldn't bare the taste of sour Jameson and stale beer in my mouth, so I rolled over him (nearly flipping over the whole "bed"), slipped on his sweats and a hoodie and stumbled into his bathroom. As I splashed water onto last night's made-up face, I tried to remember what had happened, and giggled at the remembrance of our heated rendezvous. I stood up, bleary-eyed from the running mascara and noticed something was blocking my view of what was sure to be a horrible site in the mirror... What's this? A photo? I lean closer and see a girl. I yell to Ken Doll on the bed, "Hey (name)?" He answers in a raspy, sexy voice "Yeah babe?" ... I ask, ever curious... "Who's this in the photo?"

"Oh. That's my Girlfriend."

I stare closer at the plain girl in the wet photo, notice my awful appearence poking from behind it, realize I'm far too hungover to process anything, and hurry to grab my things and leave. Casually. Almost as casually as he revealed that he is in a very serious relationship then kissed me goodbye: "You know how it is... Let's do this again, sometime. Soon."

I ignored his calls after that. He asked for his sweats and hoodie that I left with that morning for a solid 2 months after that.

Pretty Boys...

I mean really...

This is just ridiculous... this whole "dating" or "finding the one" thing. This ever-looming pressure that has grown over the last 2 years from being a hopeful goal for the future to a blatant "what the fuck is wrong with me" feeling. No gray. Just black.

I mean, don't get me wrong... I'm not an irrationally bitter or jaded 20 something who has given up on dating... but I am more perplexed than ever and am beginning to think that with age, I become even more confused about the complexities of guys and what they want.. well actually, what I want. Because as much as I don't want to admit it, guys are simple. I am not.

So much has happened in my (lack of) love life and (intricately loose) sex life in the past year alone that I've decided to keep this blog... almost out of necessity. I'd like to avoid the ridiculousness of my past by keeping tabs on these mistakes, heartbreaks and fantasies in hopes of clearing out the path I'm facing and closing the one behind me... no matter how blatantly apparent its scars may be.

I guess I should introduce myself. I'm 26 years old, born and raised all over L.A. - from Hollywood to Downtown, to Korea Town, to Northridge to Sherman Oaks, to Silverlake to Westwood - a short Jaunt to NY - and now in Hollywood. Yes, I'm actually from L.A. I'd like to give a shout out to all the star-gazing, fame-hungry transplants who have taken over so much of the city I love so dearly and thus contributed to the stereotype of L.A. shallow bastards. I'm attractive enough to get some attention from guys and smart enough to make them turn away after the first conversation. I've been told I have great style, I think i just dress weird. I drink like a fat sailor and sometimes curse like one too. I'm successful beyond my years and love music, art, traveling, laughing and loving...

I'd like to share my very honest stories with other girls like me... and those who aren't...

let's laugh, cry and cringe together, because let's face it... Dating in L.A. is quite the feat. And at this point, I feel like a fucking warrior, never prepared for the battle, but always ready for war.