Adventures in Dating, Date #2

So. I remain unshattered.

Not that I expect to be, but that’s the fucking bar. So good luck, men of the world (read: New England?). I’ve had some great ones, so to “shatter me” would take some serious shit.

Date #2 (and 2.5) occurred over the last week, and I’m not even interested in writing about them because this whole dating thing is just dumb. What I *should* do is find someone fuckable and fuck him. Whenever I want to. Instead, I live in this weird-ass limbo place where I pretend like that’s what I’m doing, but I’m really looking for someone to hang out with who will also let me live my life the way I want to. I am legitimately the only person in the fucking universe who is looking for that. And it’s true, I don’t believe that, but I also don’t believe I’m going to find one of the other few that are also in my boat attractive. Or I think maybe I adopted this newfound mentality too goddamn late for the perfect possible “relationship.”

Fine, then, here’s the short story:

Date #2 was with a person I have pseudo-known for a year. It wasn’t until we went on a “date” that I turned into a not-date by going dutch at bill time that I realized I wasn’t down for the Drama (with a capital D). Once again, I’m not in the interest of spilling other dude’s deals into some silly blog, so I can’t say much more than that. What I can say is that I’m a therapist, and I probably have a radar for red flags, especially when they pertain to things I’ve dealt with in my professional career. I had also just watched “Better Things,” in particular the episode where Sam sees the couple that she pegged for being on their first date and intervened because she knew the guy’s life story but didn’t know a damn thing about the girl. Yeah. That’s this. I’m a great listener. But I get super bitter when the person I’m listening to isn’t ALSO a great listener.

Anyway, I heard a lot of shit that I remember half of because that’s the level of investment I have here. What I enjoyed most was going to The Pint after dinner and running into a co-worker and talking very meta about someone I’m apparently only FB friends with (but not necessarily friends with IRL because I said nothing when I realized he was one of the bartenders), and then getting asked to help someone with a stalled car and actually helping. My “date” was worried about it being a scam to get jumped and in that moment I realized what category of Worcesterite he belonged in. And I dare someone to defy my 2 categories. You’re high or you’re low and there’s no fucking middle. Well, guess what–I live in the middle of goddamn everything, so this just maybe isn’t the place for me. …but I wish it was. I really, really wish it was.

As for date #2.5 I stupidly told Kaðall Seahorse (of COURSE I made him a Viking Name!) where I would be and I’m pretty sure he showed up and waited around for me. He followed me around like a puppy dog and tried to convince me to forego work in favor of hanging out. Sorry, dude, strike 2. Work will ALWAYS win.

How do you tell someone you don’t want their Drama and maybe it’s best if they work that shit out and get back to you later?

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The Dating Game: an update

Well, thirteen followers, I know myself better than I think I know myself. I was so “sure” Órækja and I would see each other again, but I think we all know that when I “guess I’ll be seeing him again” was how I described it, I definitely wasn’t going to be seeing him again. I could choose to believe that he lost interest in me, but the truth is that neither of us really tried very hard to keep in touch. I think he gave it a solid 6 worth of effort and I probably gave it a 3. I honestly think there has to be some level of physical attraction for this kind of thing to work. Plus, he wasn’t too thrilled with my “only looking to date” goal and I wasn’t too thrilled with his “looking for a better half” goal.

That said, I did a thing I don’t typically do. I had a flash of a moment (no reference to this week’s The Flash episode intended) in which I thought about a guy who tried to date me back in like March. I turned him down because I really really really wasn’t into dating, which is pretty obvious based on the fact that I only just started two weeks ago. I can’t Viking-name him yet because I need to spend some time with him to get to know him so I can answer the questions on the Viking name-generator thing, but I assure you, I will. So anyway, I texted the dude. I said hey, I said how’s it going, I said we should catch up. He assumed I might be packing up to head back to wherever-I’m-from, which I was actually kind of impressed by his recalling. So now we have a date. I mean, we didn’t call it that. I try to avoid that word if I can (think of every time I write it here as an exercise in exposure therapy for me). But we definitely have a day and an activity planned. In town, which I kind of love because fuck the entire idea of driving to Boston to date someone.

So here’s my plea, Universe. Let this dude not suck. I’m already overlooking something that has essentially been a deal breaker for me from the inception of the thought about thinking about even considering dating (yes, that was intentionally extra-extra-meta), but look at me taking some Ciara-sized risks. Let him be relatively emotionally stable. Let him have slightly more than half a brain. Let him NOT be voting for Drumpf. Let him have at least 2-3 solid communication skills. Let him not be allergic to cats. And please, PLEASE, let him be independent. I’m hoping this former deal-breaker of a thing has helped him get to that point, but you never know.

More to come, I imagine.

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Adventures in Dating: Date #1

Approximately 1-2 times per year I become “interested” in someone. Which is not to say that I want to do anything other than get to know them better (as was the case for one dude this year), or have lots and lots of sex with them (as was the case for the other dude this year), but regardless, these guys that showed up in my life told me something. They told me that I’m “not quiet dead yet!” (Monty Python reference, kids); they sent me the message that my cold, dead heart may be cold and dead, but it still likes to have a good time and connect with people that might also be good to sleep with. Too blunt? …don’t care. Because let’s be real, folks. I was never that kid that planned her wedding when she was 5, or 9, or 12, or whenever the fuck little white, suburban, stereotypical girls planned their horror show of an overly expensive party. A party for two people signing a piece of paper to say “yeah, let’s do exactly what we would do without this piece of paper, but for a ridiculous amount of money in front of our fiends and family, whose loyalty we’ll then test by asking them to give us a bunch of money toward our big party, so we can start the next day by being broke as fuck and see how we manage it.” Maybe my logical mind was winning back then, too. Or maybe there are good reasons to have a big wedding too; most of my friends seem to think they’re great, so let’s just agree to disagree.

My main point is this: I think relationships are fluid. I wouldn’t mind if someone came along that made me believe differently, but I don’t have much faith in that, and I’m completely okay with it. So a year ago, when I moved to this wasteland of a city, a colleague/new friend told me about an app she had been using to meet new people to date (I’m not advertising for it, so I feel no need to share what it is, but I assure you it’s not Tinder or Bumble). At the time I figured that I was stuck here a year (joke’s on me), so why not check out this app. So I did. And it was pretty disappointing. I think over the course of the year, I talked to maybe six people. I told myself if I found someone that was attractive and also in my field (psychology, psychiatry, social work, etc.), that I would “like” them, and try to subsequently be “matched” with them. (I imagine that requirement had to do with the utter lack of comfort with emotions and communication in my last relationship and I figured that was a good way to mitigate that happening again.) And then I found someone that matched that description.

Órækja Elkcatcher, as we’ll call him (I did a Viking name translator for funsies), was, for lack of a better descriptor, a good date. We talked for 6 hours, covered a lot of ground, history, likes, sexual preferences (I’m still a little amazed at how fantastic Órækja was at communicating). I had to ask him to back off a little, which he respected and which also reinforced my ability to tell someone what I’m actually thinking (a skill that’s always been work in progress–thanks, dad!). My friend’s fiancee nailed it when he described it as something that should be so awesome for me — I get to show up and not pay for anything and then decide how it goes and what happens next. It really was inadvertently the best way to frame it for my brain. So Órækja and I had a few drinks and some delicious pork nachos. He even tried to enter the wonderful world of scotch/whisky/bourbon for me, which was adorbs. I ordered a Macallan 12 yr because I just couldn’t stomach a Glenlivit and I wasn’t going to make him pay for a Lagavulin. He had some bourbon that tasted like death fire. The venue was even cool, and he picked it because he thought it would be a good match for me after flipping through a few of my pictures and trying to gather a sense of my personality. I’m just excited that someone did that. I put a variety of pictures of me up (in a beach setting, in my Chucks, out dancing, hippied out) to let people know that’s my thing–all of the things. It’s cool he observed it. The band played island-style music, the room glowed purple, the door to the bathroom was hangy bead-rope-like things; totally my jam.

So I didn’t go home with Órækja because I don’t want to be that thirsty thot anymore (sick alliteration, amirite?). I mean, I guess if I think there’s absolutely zero chance I’ll ever want to actually hang out with someone again but they’d be fun to fuck, I would do that. I’ve done that. I wish he’d get the picture, but I’ve done it. And I guess that means I’d like to see Órækja again. He was a pretty great first date after not being on one in a long fucking time. I’m trying not to describe things about him here, because that’s unfair; he’s a person and he has a public image to maintain and I’m not trying to jeopardize that. So the drawback is…that I wasn’t overtly physically attracted to him. I understand that that’s not always a thing that has to be there, and his personality may ultimately make him incredibly attractive to me, so there’s the likely reason I’d like to keep seeing him. Our conversation makes me think he’d be a good lay, and at the same time I know that he’s not looking for that (though who’s going to fucking turn it down when offered, seriously?).

So at the end of all of that, two good things have transpired: 1. I guess I’m “dating”Órækja now. I’m sure we’ll continue to talk and we’ll probably get together again and see how that goes, the way dating works and all that. And 2. I’ve since decided that dating might be fun. I found a way to be completely honest (e.g., I don’t think relationships work…), but remain likable (…but I’m always happy to be proven wrong). Since this date, I’ve basically broadened my search to others outside of my field. I don’t think that I ever had that experience of just dating different people (at the same time?!?!) and making determinations about my own likes and dislikes from that. So I may be late to the game, but I think I’m going to do it.

At least, that’s my plan today. Tomorrow may be a whole ‘nother story. And we shall see!

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A Saturday of the most bizarre kind.

What starts with a trip to a homegoods store, evolves into a museum visit, a hip hop concert, a Pride parade, and ends running through the streets of Lake Worth at 5 a.m.? My life, that’s what. Reflectively, my day/night was awesome. In the moment? It was (in order): mundane, exciting and fun, and terrifying. I don’t realize how much I rely on holding my switchblade and/or mace in my pocket until I don’t have the option to do that.

Anyway, where to begin? Since this vacay’s inception, I have been getting up later and later each day, choosing not to give any fucks…which was true of Saturday as well. I made myself a tasty sausage omelet (this is of importance being the one of the very few times I ate all day) and strolled out to tackle the days self-planned events. I picked up a cabinet for my hosts and was subsequently called a “brave girl” for carrying it to the car myself. I couldn’t help but think of Arya Stark, but I’m pretty sure she’d laugh in my face if I told her she was a “brave girl” for carrying a fucking cabinet to the car in the parking lot. Anyway, it’s still cool to impress the weaklings that have settled in the flat, never-ending red lights, golf-infested state of Florida. It’s also kind of fun being able to relate to just about anyone here, as someone who has lived in NY, Philly, and Mass. Chances are everyone I encounter is either from there or has a friend/family member who is.

But back to this story–I went to the Flagler Museum first, on recommendation. The Flagler museum is unique to this area and the dude totally played his cards right. I wonder if this 71-year-old’s  34-year-bride was just a gold digger. They “floated around the same social circles” — the only way that’s happening is if she’s a whore or he’s a creepy old dude. Fine fine fine, Mary does her thing and I do mine.

So as to not miss what was affectionately referred to as “Summer Fest” on Facebook, I nixed the art museum I was planning to visit and headed across the water, where I could not-so-faintly hear “The Wobble” being played. I somehow knew I had found summer fest without having tried, and I was correct. What I didn’t realize was that it was essentially a hip-hop festival and I was one of maybe a dozen white people in a much larger crowd of black people. Again, fine. My giant ass fits in and I love me some southern BBQ. Okay, so I didn’t feel like I fit in, but I did my best to be as chill as possible, because, really I am kind of chill. While sitting on the grass under the trees, one of the only other few white people comes up and tells me I’m beautiful and asks to buy me a drink. I maybe would have entertained the idea if he was younger than 60, but alas. I procured some sick ribs (meal #2/final for the day), taught the booth bartenders what a “dark and stormy” was, and headed to the next thing, which happened to be Pride in Ft. Lauderdale.

I once again felt as though I didn’t belong with the crowd, but I didn’t let that stop me. LOVE is LOVE, right? So I did what I do best and nosed my way into other people’s lives. If I hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t have had the spot I did close to the parade line and I never would have jumped into the parade to help carry the incredibly long rainbow flag whose length I’ve yet to even try to guess. But I walked for blocks carrying my little piece of history and when it was over, I doubled back and danced my solo ass off at one of the bandshell/stages for a little while before deciding I was starving and too far from “home” to comfortably continue drinking…also, my phone was at 6%, so there’s that.

Having had missed checking out “downtown” Lake Worth, and seeing as it was on my way home, I decided to stop there. Downtown LW is about four blocks long and has about seven choices of establishments, most of which were packed with the Saturday night “crowd,” if it could even be called that. I chose a little German place called “Little Munich,” mostly because there were approximately 5 patrons and one of them had a plate in front of them. Food, yes! …until I asked and they were no longer serving anything other than a plate of ‘wursts with a pretzel. I chose to stay for a beer, because I’m not a rude asshole, but that ultimately led to the cook (who was clearly no longer working and clearly had been drinking for the better part of his worknight), named Hagen, hitting on me…incessantly. Now, I’m not really complaining, because that doesn’t happen nearly enough anymore, but the older I get the creepier the dudes get. I was told he was “harmless” though, so I trusted the locals. Other contenders for my attention, as the only female in the bar, were a 51 year old golf club bartender (and I assure you he looked the part), and a 36 year old FL transplant from Pittsburgh tutor. We all know where I went with this situation….

The brief backstory: I questioned whether I wanted to hook up with someone on this trip, mostly because it has been FOREVER and I’m not interested in hooking up with most of the dudes in Worcester because one of us winds up interested in the other and FUCK that bullshit. But for one moment in time I could be 24-year-old Linda and just hook up with someone I met at a bar…like low-self-esteem style. Also, someone back “home” that I was partially interested in dating was dealing with some ex-girlfriend stuff and I wasn’t having ANY thoughts about it this night…not to mention it was officially Father’s Day by the time I made any dumb choices and I am an emotionally fragile chick during a few days of the year, this being one of them. So I did the two shots of fireball provided by Hagen, drank the beer purchased by Golf Bartender, and enjoyed my “Cheap Thrill” (thanks, Sia!). Golf Bartender gave up eventually and left, leaving only me and Tutor to close out the bar. I’d had two shots and two beers over three hours, so I was about 72% in my right mind when I made the choice to walk home with Tutor, who promised to be a “perfect gentleman” and sleep on the couch–LOL. Turns out Tutor didn’t walk to the bar, he drove–and spend a ridiculous amount of time trying to find his car, and I began to freak out when I realized someone who was very drunk was going to drive us somewhere, even if it was only “16 blocks.” Fortunately at 2:30 a.m. there were very few people out and we made it safely to his place. I continued to freak out, verbally, because I was in a city(?) I’d never been to, unaware of where my vehicle (safety?) was, and entirely too sober to make really bad choices. I tried the vodka cran he made us, steered the conversation away from last names, and let Tutor kiss me. Things were going well until they weren’t. Until grown-up Linda cared more about her ultimate health than a lying stranger. The bottom line became “no condom = no sex” and although Tutor was pouty, he accepted the terms. I wanted to leave, but 16 blocks seemed like a long walk and he petitioned for sleep, so we tried that…until he was pretty consistent with trying again…and again…to get me to drop my morals, I guess? Finally I gave up, fully clothed myself, and asked him to point me in the direction of the place we met. He did a wonderful job of balancing his distaste for the situation and his belief that maybe if he did right by me I’d be like, “screw it, let’s have unsafe sex!” He offered to drive me NEAR the bar because he wasn’t a fan of driving in whatever part of the city(?) we were in. Ignoring that that statement made absolutely no sense except that he’s on the run or involved in a turf war, I insisted that I was not interested in making him drive drunk again. (Plus, my phone was now at 5% and I figured that was enough to get me to the car.) The need to escape clouded all of the anxious questions that arose once I felt as though I had, indeed, escaped. Like what the fuck was I doing at 4:50 a.m. walking down dark, deserted streets in a city(?) in South Florida I knew nothing about? His warning/attempt to get me in the car was that it was dangerous, and I brushed that off as some tactic to keep me a little longer, but it began to hit me as a reality that I was unarmed in an unknown place. Typically I’d have at least a switchblade and some mace in my hand in my pocket, but I couldn’t take either on the plane and so I thought about them sitting so safely and ineffectively in my apartment back in MA. I situated my keys in my hand in a way that provided a false sense of security, and knowing this, took off in a jog. I started doing the math: if I can run a 5k in 33 minutes, then I can jog this mile in 11 minutes and be at my car in no time. The difference is when you’re wearing flats, carrying a bag, and in one of the most humid states in the fucking country. When I saw people walking down the same dark street I was on ahead of me, I hopped over to a more populated highway-like street, but that had its dangers too. Not only did someone honk at me every few minutes, but a dude on a bicycle cruised by me asking if I was into any of the hard drugs. Wondering WTF I had gotten myself into, and what the lesser of the two street-based evils were, I hopped back over to the side street. Until a car rolled past me slowly and crawled to a stop about a block up. As I watched from behind a pickup truck, someone got out, got back in, and the car went up another block, turned the corner and stopped. I backtracked a block and once again chose the more populated street. I couldn’t really jog there (for some reason I didn’t feel comfortable showing the world how uncomfortable I was–I felt as though I needed to demonstrate an air of confidence), but I walked quickly and checked my phone often. As its battery life fell from 5% to 4% to 3%, the time to my car also decreased from 24 minutes to 16 minutes to 11 minutes to 8 minutes…and I refused to let myself feel comforted by the minimal amount of time I had left. I could only imagine relaxing with only 4 minutes to go and that being the time I missed something and was captured. I thought of my acquaintance in NOLA who was captured and brutally raped and assaulted after parking her car and walking to her apartment. The farther along I got on my walk, the more my mind conjured dangerous situations.

But ultimately, I made it. I only breathed a sigh of relief after I had been in the car long enough for the doors to automatically lock. It was 5:18 a.m. and I had survived a scary thing. Maybe there was no real threat, but I’d rather have treated it like one than not. Did I learn a lesson about going home with strangers? Maybe. I wasn’t a huge fan in the first place, but I also half wished I was still that person that would do it without a second thought. I partially miss NOT thinking things through, but I *am* ultimately glad that  I did.

So like Kajal says: Men. You’re looking for a Jon Snow, and end up with a Ramsay. #Survival


And here’s Tutor, who started out as a kinda chill dude but ended up being a little creepy, weird, entirely too touchy of a drunk, and almost definitely a liar :


Because if you give me your first name and pretty much ANY information about you, I can find you on the internet.

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Oh, hello.

Miss me, readers I don’t have? Nah, it’s cool, I get it. This is more for me than anything else anyway. If I don’t chronicle my life it’s like it didn’t happen.

For that reason I’ve chosen not to write about dudes all that much right now. Sometimes I forget why I enjoy being single and I am reminded when on vacation by myself, choosing to do whatever the fuck I want whenever the fuck I want or I remember when I have conversations with other singles who say they’d just like to live their life however and want it to work with someone else’s…but of course then I’m like, “OMFGWTFBBQ LET’S TRY IT!” Derp.

I have noticed that when I go a little girl-cray over a boy all I really need is a few weeks and then BAM! My early-onset Alzheimer’s kicks in and I’m like, “who? Oh yeah, I kinda remember that dude.” Trying to use this shitty memory to my advantage, and so far so good. I hope this doesn’t come back to bite me.

SO I’m having an awesome day/night and I want to remember it. I got a ride from my almost-not-anymore roommate at 5:30 a.m. to Boston Logan airport, which I’d never been to before, and hopped on a plane to West Palm Beach to stay at Barbara & Chris’ place in Lake Worth. Got to check my bag at the gate for free, which was SUPER helpful since my doc told me to actually use my words and ask someone to put my luggage in the overhead bin (lifting things over my head will not help my back heal). Everything went relatively smoothly–uneventful flight, in-flight wi-fi, got a little work done, actually stopped myself from getting an alcoholic beverage on the flight (little girl is growing up so fast!), and the only hitch was, of course, the excruciating pain in my ears and residual hearing loss. I raced to baggage claim but grabbed my rental car first, which was smarter than I realized because everyone else did it in the opposite order and I heard the line was ridic. So now I get to cruise around in the LOWEST CAR TO THE GROUND EVER MADE– I’m sorry, I mean a Mazda 3–for mad cheap (thanks, Costco!). Anyway, I hit up the Publix on my way to the house and was pretty stocked with groceries and beer by the time I got here. Cracked a Shock Top and jumped in the pool for a quick “hell yes, pool!” swim and then came back in to settle in. I noticed they got one of those Amazon Alexa things, so I asked her to play pop music and she immediately opened with “The Lazy Song” by Bruno Mars (“Today I don’t feel like doing anything…”), which totally lifted my already-soaring mood even higher. That makes today pretty much about chillaxin’. I ate most of the “all-dressed” chips (P.S. WTF?! I thought this was a Canada only thing–SCORE!) and drank four beers. I swam/lounged for a few hours. I tried to figure out how to steal the neighbor’s “Drumpf” sign. I passed the fuck out (from the beer? from the fact that I only had 4 hours of sleep last night? who cares?) and when I awoke (to a phone call I didn’t answer from my father’s (ex?)bff), I watched Netflix and scrolled through local Facebook events that I might want to go to (Orlando vigils, food truck events, spoken word stuff, etc.).

My intention tonight is to get a rough idea of the weather and what I might try to tackle each day I’m here (e.g., DEFINITELY Jupiter on Father’s Day–because that’s where my dad got arrested–do you think they’ll let me thank the JPD?) and watch more Netflix and drink more beer (or some of Chris’ stashed liquor) and eat more snacks. And maybe play some video games. And who knows, maybe I’ll even go for a midnight swim. This is so kickass. And now it lives as long as WordPress’ servers remain active. 😉

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A little seminar sidetrack.

(Copied from handwritten notes at a seminar I went to yesterday for professional development.)

So, I’m noticing my own behavior in this moment. My gaze inadvertently shifted to an individual to a tall, dark, and similar-to-Mr. Wonderful looking individual on the other side of the room. He has a ring on, which I had just finished patting myself on the metaphorical back for turning my attention from someone I found attractive but was donning a ring. So what happened when I saw fake Mr. W? My heart quite obviously skipped a beat. This just reaffirms my suspicion that I’m not really over that whole (little) thing. What the hell is it about this that’s killing me? Is it the lack of knowing? Is it the feeling of rejection? Is it my own inability to speak up and “assertively” take charge & make something happen? UGH.

…and thank you for looking directly at me, dude — you have a huuuuuge head, and you look wholly miserable. The only time you so much as half-smiled was when I bitched about always getting a break five minutes after I go to the bathroom. No, thanks. Crush/freakout over!


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Me, Myself, & I

Earlier today I posted on Facebook asking others what things they do alone that are typically done in pairs or groups. Initially, I was going to start by listing the things that I do alone: eat at diners / restaurants / bars, go to the movies, get tattoos, hang out at the park, go for rides, take day trips, etc., but surprisingly I didn’t. I was immediately satisfied with the decision because it gave some of the people I know the chance to be proud of their solo accomplishments. And of course it added to the confidence I had already built up to help give me the push I needed to do more things on my own. You see, Steven Wright is doing stand-up nearby next month and I bought two tickets, but I haven’t really thought of anyone I’d want to go with…well, except one person, but I would want it to be as friends and I’m pretty sure he would see it as a date. Therefore I may not even ask. So when I found out that the (remaining) Monkees were going to do a 50th Anniversary tour and would be in Boston in May, I originally went for the two tickets. When my cart’s balance was upwards of $200, I thought again. Could I do this thing by myself? Would I have a better time if someone were accompanying me? It took me three days to finally answer the question, but the truth is: this is a personal thing for me. The Monkees were the first concert I’d ever been to. Davy Jones was my imaginary (boy/best)friend when I was 8 years old. I learned how to play Monkees songs on my guitar when I was younger. I couldn’t watch Idiocracy without thinking of Peter Tork and his failed job interview with the machine that replaced a human. I had to get a picture of myself with the Monkeemobile when it was at the NJ Balloon Festival the day my last relationship ended. So this event is for me. Now The Monkees will be my first concert ever (Jones Beach in 1987 when I was five), but it will also be my first solo concert (2016 at age 34). I know it may not even be what is typically considered a “concert,” but that’s probably better– a transitional event, if you will. I have to say, I’m excited. I’m my favorite date and I’ve yet to let myself down on any of my solo adventures. I’m forever grateful that I don’t have another person. My friends and my roommate and my acquaintances around Worcester are all great to have when I get lonely and then magically disappear when I’m done with them. It’s the exact same reason I’m perfectly happy working with children all day and coming home to a cat (which, ideally will be a dog one day). I’m going to be 34 years old and I haven’t yet been bitten by the “OMG I NEED A BABY GIVE ME ONE RIGHT NOW I AM RUNNING OUT OF TIIIIIIME!” bug, so fingers crossed things don’t change. Because I love me. I love going out with me. I love planning extended weekend trips with my favorite people, I love choosing to book a visit to Ice Castles on a Thursday for that Sunday (tomorrow, can’t wait!), I love not having to clear anyone else’s schedule unless I want to, I love that I could go to the movies with a chill person (Nunez, today, so great!), or by myself (Star Wars–twice!).  And I love that I have friends who also do these things and are clearly happy with their choices and encourage me to think about why I choose not to do things at times and to push myself.

I truly have the greatest support system ever. And yes, some of them are through the internet, but they’re all people I have or do or will spend time with in real life, so my father’s previous claim that I am a sad, lonely person whose only friends were on the Internet can echo in his awful, shitty-person ears. I have never been happier with my “people,” and I think I’m only becoming better so I know the people around me will too.

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