November 12, 2015.

I can now play the following songs on ukulele:

"Do You Swear To Tell the Truth, The Whole Truth, And Nothing But the Truth, So Help Your Black Ass," and "Map of Tasmania" by Amanda Palmer.

"A Beginning Song," "Grace Cathedral Hill," and "O Valencia!" all by the Decemberists.

"Take a Walk on the Wild Side" by Lou Reed.

"Ahead By a Century" by The Tragically Hip. (I really want to learn "Bobcaygeon" but the chords I'm finding online don't sound right to me. I don't know if that's the fault of me, the ukulele, or the transcribers. Not going to happen until I find the right ones, though.)

I can also play "Wicked Games" by the Weeknd but it just sounds weird on the uke. I also attempted "Hotline Bling" but the chords I found for that also don't sound right. Disappointing. I wanted to make a "Hotline Uke" video SO BADLY. And "Missed the Boat" by Modest Mouse. Really hard to do the fast chord changes without it sounding weird. 

But, all in all, not bad for owning it under a week and, you know, maintaining a life and working and commuting and dating and writing and such. Apparently I'm a natural. Slash all those years of musical training haven't completely left my brain. Basically I'm obsessed with Amanda; it's a ridiculous, all-consuming love. Yes my ukulele is named Amanda. I have no shame. I am a ridiculous human being.

Anyway, today I worked at tech trade show for my company. I've worked one other show in my time in tech, down in Pasadena. It was a bust of a show, and we were hardly busy. This time, however, was very different. This was a huge convention, well-attended and well-staffed. Quite impressive, actually. The thing that was annoying this time (beyond the typical annoyances of serving the public for 8 hours) was the sexism. Now, it wasn't rampant, per se, but Silicon Valley and the tech industry has a distinct lack of women. Our booth was different in that my company had two women and one man, and our co-sponsor in the booth was three women. The company across from us also had a woman staffing their booth. We were an anomaly in a sea of men. Going through the presentation list for the three-day event, there was over 150 presentations. In a scan-through, I see around a dozen women (almost all on panels) presenting. That's it. Out of 150 presentations, and probably a good 175 people to present over three days, only 12-15 were women. Isn't that outrageous?!

I got a weird mix of men talking to me because I'm a woman, and men who wouldn't talk to me because I'm a woman. Granted, I am the administrative assistant, and I don't have as much tech knowledge and experience as my coworkers (one was in marketing, one on our tech consulting team) but I know to ask them if I have questions, or to direct people to our website. Basically, I'm not a total idiot, but I am not a programmer/expert, by any means. There were lots of men who saw me standing there and then made a beeline for the booth, just so that I would have to talk to them. There was also a number of men who completely ignored me if I was free, even if I greeted them, and waited to talk to the only man working at our booth. 

I took a late lunch break. I got there around 10:40 so we could finish setting up, as the expo hall opened at 11. I took an email break around 1; then didn't take a lunch break until 3. By that point my feet hurt, I was very hungry, and just wanted to sit and be alone for a while. After overpaying for a pre-made crappy sandwich and some greasy (but actually sort of delicious) garlic fries, I wandered around until I found a place to sit. It was upstairs, off the escalators. There were three big 6-8 seater tables, two of which were already occupied by single men on their laptops. I sit down, start eating, grateful for solitude and greasy fries. I'm texting one of the men about how glad I am to have a few minutes alone when, and I shit you not, some random middle-aged man plops himself down at the table across from me and pulls out his laptop. Now, he didn't go to a table with a man at it. He didn't ask if he could sit there or even say, "Hey, you appear to be alone, I'm going to sit here. Cool?" At almost the exact same time, a different man went up to one of the solitary men and politely asked if he could sit at the table. My dude just kept making eye contact with me, as if I was going to spark up a convo and MPDG his white male life into meaning. Instead, I'm pretty sure I cut him into pieces with my stare of death and destruction. I was not. pleased. Yeah, okay, it was a large table. Yes, of course if he had come up and said, "Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?" I would have said he could. But no question, no politeness, just fucking sitting down across from me like it's the most normal thing in the world. RUDE. 

The other thing that kept happening today was that people (mostly men, but a small sprinkling of women) wanted things for free. We had samples of our hardware out on display and were raffling off some at the end of the day. The amount of people that came up and just grabbed them and said, "So I can have this?" is mindboggling to me. Or people just wanted free stuff. I get it. Swag is fun. I myself took home a fair amount of swag. There was also the men who tried to convince me to just give them things, with a wink and a little shrug. Sure, random man trying to charm me into giving you that $120 piece of hardware, that's TOTALLY going to work. I'm just a silly woman; pay attention to me and I'll give you anything. There was also the tried tactic of just complaining. "But I just want the t-shirt! Why do I have to register for your website?" Them's the rules. Don't like it? No shirt for you!! Yes I see other people giving away t-shirts willy-nilly, that's not how we do things here. It was a strange day, but I'm glad to have done it. I got to be out of the office and gain more experience in actual techland. 

Cons: rude people; grabby people; entitled men; aching feet and calves; general weariness; shitty lunch.

Pros: more experience; swag of all sorts (including a hat, a screwdriver with a built-in flashlight that I'm calling a sonic screwdriver, little brain teaser puzzles for my desk, and a plastic beer glass); seeing cool technology being demoed; meeting a hot Australian guy and giving him my business card because I'm just that smooth (I don't expect to hear from him but DAMN how could I NOT?!); free coffee from said Australian guy (he was demoing a fancy coffee maker that connects to WiFi and keeps track of the coffee stats); meeting the ladies in our partnership business who are super lovely and talented; a free beer at the end of the day. Oh and listening to Missy Elliot's new song on repeat for a good half hour on each way of my commute. Not ashamed; shit's fantastic. AND coming home to my ipsy makeup bag and two new Jeffree Star lipsticks (I'm obsessed with this stuff). 

I am good and properly tired. I will hopefully sleep well tonight, which is good because I have a long and busy weekend ahead of me. I'm so excited. I'm very happy. As annoying as parts of today was, life is damn good. Excuse me, Amanda is demanding my attention.

I am, in fact a, literate, privileged white person who loves the Decemberists.

Last night, I went on a date. I know, what, I’m actually writing about a date?! Well, one of the three men I was seeing ended up politely telling me that he’s too focused on his career right now and doesn’t want to date. I’m not upset; he was sweet but it was early on and we had only been out a few times. At least he was polite enough not to ghost like Swayze on me.

I ended up bored at work yesterday, scrolling through Tinder and Bumble. I’ve had very few matches these days; I don’t know if it’s because I’m pickier because I’m pretty satisfied with my other two menfolk, or if I’m going through a drought period of matching. That actually happens; there will be weeks where I’m flooded with matches and people talking to me, and then weeks where I match with nobody. It’s been this way since I joined. Yesterday, I matched with precisely one person. In a strange twist, though, he actually messaged me and we started talking. Yes, I have to say, for the amount of matches I have on both apps, the amount of people I have talked to is quite low, and the amount I’ve met in person is even smaller. I get ignored a lot, honestly. It doesn’t bother me, it’s all part of the weird app dating scene. And again, at this point, it’s more out of curiosity than anything else. I’m quite satisfied with the man I’m seriously casually dating (that’s a thing), and my FWB. But, as there’s no monogamy happening at this point, why not scope around and see what’s going on?

So, he messaged me. In my profile there has always been, and will always be, a reference to  It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. At the bottom of my profile is this quote:

(Not the picture, obviously, although I should probably just put it in my pictures.)

I get a lot of response/questions about that quote. The FWB messaged me about it originally, saying, “My spaghetti policy is very strict: I don’t accept any impastas.” I knew we would get along. On my first date with casual-yet-serious, the line was brought up, and we ended up talking about It’s Always Sunny, which he didn’t know much of, but knew enough to converse and for me to try to convince him to watch some more of it at some point (still working on that). So, this gentleman, whom we will call Dan, started right in with It’s Always Sunny references. I was impressed/pleased. Awesome, this guy knows his stuff! We ended up talking for a bit, and he jokingly called me James Bond, and asked if I was free for a drink. Normally, I wait a while and talk to people for at least a couple days before I meet them. He works between Mountain View and Palo Alto, and suggested somewhere around there. Now, that’s a good 20-30 minutes in light traffic for me to drive further north towards the city, making my commute home longer. When I told him this, he suggested we meet down in Los Gatos, which is much closer to home for me. I figured, what the hell, and accepted. Plus, he wanted to meet at a place with funky pizza and fancy cocktails. Don’t think, just go. So I went.

Now, I will say, his profile said he preferred wine over beer (that’s a plus). Faulkner over Dickens (also a plus). And Magritte over Warhol (disagree entirely). I told him before I left that I love Warhol, so he was aware of this situation and my counter-stance. He also said he’s looking for a hiking buddy, and I’m not into that shit, and I also told him that. He didn’t mind. Dan was there before me, somehow, and I sat across from him at the table. We were talking casually at first. I ordered a fancy cocktail and he ordered the same one, even though he originally told me he was just going to have a glass of prosecco. He was not impressed with the drink, apparently. I, being the asshole I am, had to immediately ask him about why he’s anti-Warhol. Dan told me that he had gone to school in Pittsburgh, and so had been to the Warhol museum, and that he hates it. “It’s garbage. It’s not art.” I, of course, will not take that shit. This is pretty much how that conversation went:

“So, why do you consider Warhol and other pop art, NOT art?”

“Because it doesn’t take a long time! It’s not skilled; anyone could do it.”

“All art has to take a long time and be complicated to make in order for it to be classified as art?”

“No, of course not, but…”

“But that’s exactly what you just said. Is the fact that it’s taking everyday objects and turning them on their heads to show society how little we value things, is that what upsets you? The fact that it’s a representation of popular culture skewed?”

“Yeah, it’s not really art! It’s like, here’s a soup can, great. Anyone can do that.”

“But that’s the point!!”

“I don’t know, I just don’t like it. It’s not art to me.”

“But a painting of a pipe that says, ‘this is not a pipe’ underneath it is?”

“A man with an apple in front of his face? C’mon! Surrealism makes you think way more than Warhol ever could.”

“I disagree. I mean, I do like Magritte, and surrealism. But Warhol was right, too: ‘In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes.’ How else do you explain the Kardashians?”

“No, they’ve been around way longer than 15 minutes. And Kanye! That’s why.”

“They were popular before Kanye.”

“Yeah, but he’s like, extending their influence.”

Clearly this was not going anywhere. I get his points, on some level, but he was not budging at all. And, of course, neither was I. I can at least concede to liking Magritte and not putting down all surrealists; they’re just not my favorite. I recognize why they are artists and their contribution to the art world, because I’m not a total asshole.

So, I changed topics. “You like It’s Always Sunny, too? I love that show.”

“Yeah, I like it, but, I mean, I don’t know. There’s just no redeeming value to it.”

“Why does it need to have redeeming value? Can’t it just be a silly show for people to enjoy?”

“Well, yeah, it’s funny and everything, but it’s just a bunch of self-absorbed alcoholics getting into shenanigans.”

“Yes! Exactly! That’s the point!”

“Yeah, but, I don’t know…I like things with redeeming social values tied into them, that are like, re-affirming, somehow.”

Okay, that’s fair. But hi, contradiction, how you doing? Maybe the redeeming social value for me is the fact that it doesn’t have one. Maybe I enjoy a silly show that is nothing but silly and totally unrealistic and whacked out that makes me laugh and forget about things? Makes me forget all the bullshit and daily worries and anxieties that I host inside? That’s redeeming, in my opinion. But, it’s not HIS opinion, so fuck it. We kept talking about TV shows; he asked what other ones I watch. We had none in common except for Parks and Rec. We switched to music. He asked about my love of the Decemberists, which is deep and unending, and I admitted that. He said, “so, that makes you a literate privileged white person, you know?” Yes, yes, I’m aware. I asked about his favorite bands, which turned out to be Brand New and Death Cab for Cutie. I immediately pointed at him, incredulously, and said “Uh, so, you know you’re a literate, privileged white person as well, right?” He laughed and agreed. But seriously? You felt the need to call me out as a literate, privileged white person, when you are the exact same thing? Sorry, 25-year-old white male software engineer in Silicon Valley, I will not put up with that shit. I am aware of my white privilege. I recognize it. Please don’t shame me for my favorite band when your favorite bands are equally as based in nerdy white privilege, thanks.

For as much as we disagreed, it was kind of fun to have nerdy passionate banter about things. We got a second round of drinks and ordered pizzas. Everything was going along okay; at least we were laughing about the uncomfortableness and how we totally disagreed on nearly everything. We ate our pizza, kept talking and I gave him my theories on the differences between the Decemberists, Modest Mouse, Death Cab for Cutie, and Radiohead, along with the hardcore fans of each band. Basically I was just making broad, sweeping generalizations and judging people, but it was quite fun. I said I was an example of a typical Decemberists fan, and he is an example of a typical Death Cab fan. I’m not wrong on either one of these, by the way. He was wearing a hoodie and plastic Rivers Cuomo-style glasses, and a band t-shirt with jeans. He was coming from work. Hi there, Silicon Valley software engineer stereotype, nice to have a date with you. In fact, when I relayed this to my boss this morning, he said, “sounds like a Silicon Valley programmer: self-centered asshole.” We talked about books, and actually agreed on some literary topics. He hasn’t read any DFW but House of Leaves is on his bookshelf, waiting to be read. He also said some redeeming things about fighting the patriarchy, I will give him credit for those. I even told him straight-up, "Okay, you're not completely terrible. That just redeemed you."

I told him my theory that, at heart, we are all garbage people just trying to be better every day, but that honestly, most people don't have their shit together and we are all secretly awful and just trying to get through the days. He told me he fundamentally disagreed, and that there are no bad people, not really, just people who have had bad experiences who then act out. I mean, that's so sweet and naive on the one hand. On the other, I had to again point-blank disagree, as I know people who have not experienced trauma who are total assholes, and people who have experienced horrible things who are gentle, loving souls. (The garbage people theory is mostly a joke and based on the fact that, at heart, I feel like I am a garbage person. Most people would disagree with that statement, but I feel that way a lot of the time.) I wish I could be that wide-eyed. Alas, I've been through too many fucked-up situations to be so trusting and naive. Maybe he's Anne Frank in disguise? I would love to believe that most people are truly good at heart, and in fact, a lot of them are. But there are so many people that I've known and had to interact with who are just awful individuals that I can't believe they were turned that way from bad experiences. I don't know. Human behavior is not one of my areas of expertise. Or maybe I really am a jaded, cynical bitch. Garbage person #1.

We had finished our second drinks and were winding down the evening when he looked at me very seriously. “Okay, now, we’ve talked about things important to you: books, movies, TV shows. I’m a foodie; food is my thing. Do you have any likes or dislikes?” Now, here’s the thing: I fucking love food. I eat a lot. I will eat a lot of things. For a long time I was a picky eater; but in the past few years my palate has broadened and there’s a short list of things I don’t eat, and even then I can be flexible if need be. I don’t like nuts, but I’ve eaten them in things recently and I didn’t die. I’m not a fan of fruit or things with seeds in them, honestly. Weirds me out and the texture of most of them is just gross to me. Minus peaches, oranges, lemons, limes, and cooked apples. Otherwise I probably won’t eat fruit. Maybe a bite or two of a banana or a blueberry or two. It’s my own thing; I get it. But I didn’t mention either of those things to him. I explained that I love all sorts of cuisine: Asian food of all varieties, sushi, Mexican, Thai, a good burger (bacon cheeseburger preferably). And then I admitted the three foods I actually hate and generally don’t eat: tomatoes, celery, and rosemary. He nearly had a heart attack. Now, I can handle tomato paste in, like, curry or if it’s not at the forefront of the food. I don’t like pizza sauce. I don’t like marinara. I don’t like tomatoes on my sandwiches. I barely use ketchup or hot sauce (minus Frank’s because I’m from Buffalo, you goon). Have I knowingly ingested tomatoes in the past few years? Yes of course I have. Do I prefer not to eat them? Yup. I hate the texture of celery and it tastes like wet dirt to me. A Bloody Mary is basically the most disgusting drink I can think of. I would rather die from a horrible hangover than drink that shit. Oh my god no no no no no DISGUSTING. Gimme a mimosa or a bellini, please, thank you. I will begrudgingly eat celery if it happens to be in some soup, but I will try my hardest to either pick it out or just eat around it. Otherwise, nope. And how do people eat rosemary?! It legitimately is a pine needle just fucking hanging out in your food. It makes as much sense to me as chopping up a pinecone and sprinkling it on your food. Just, why?! Ugh.

Dan, however, was not amused. “What?! Those are, like, the best foods! I feel like you just insulted my best friends.” Seriously. Because I apologized for insulting those foods, and he corrected me with, “No, not foods. Friends.” Urm. Right, then. He apparently worked in an Italian restaurant for almost two years, and instead of being disgusted at the sight of pasta sauce, was still deeply in love with it. Ok then. He politely walked me to my car, we hugged goodbye. I sent him a message thanking him again when I got home and admitting a Death Cab song came on while I was driving and that I do like some of their songs. I haven’t heard from him. I’m not expecting to. Cons: most of the date. Pros: a free meal and cocktails, a blog post, discovering a new restaurant that I can go to with someone who actually likes me. I think I win.

I just really needed a picture of Colin Meloy as a palate cleanser. That's the only reason for this picture. Although do we really NEED a reason to look at the most perfect man in the universe except for the fact that he is perfect and just the BEST ugh seriously stop that, Colin. You're too perfect.

MPDG Level: Expert

On Friday, I bought a ukulele. I am officially a Manic Pixie Dream Girl. I taught myself an Amanda Palmer song, realized I could play another one because it's only two chords, and now I'm working on a Decemberists song and a Beatles song. I don't fuck around. My fingertips are very, very mad at me.

And yes, I failed at my NaNoWriMo write every day challenge. Friday, I picked up my ukulele and played for about four hours straight to learn the Amanda Palmer song. I should've cleaned or written, but it was time well-spent as Saturday my winery had its annual blending party, and one of my gentleman friends came down and joined me from about 3PM Saturday to 3:30PM Sunday. We spent a solid 24 hours together and it was beyond lovely. But my boss had me play the ukulele for everyone last night. I did fuck it up a couple of times, but I recovered well, I think. According to the gentleman, "You're a star. Everyone here is in love with you. You were amazing." I can live with that.

I didn't sleep very well last night, though. It was the first time my own personal bed has been shared here in California, and I couldn't sleep. I must have for at least a little bit, but it felt like I was awake all night. I'm not mad; again, very (very very very very very) worth it. Consequently, I am quite sleepy. But I want to be awesome at ukulele, and therefore, I must practice. Also it's not even 6PM here; I can't go to bed quite yet. Make no mistake, though, if I'm not passed out by like 9:30 or 10 tonight, I will be shocked. My fingertips are pulsing and it hurts to type, but it also hurts to play, and I'm behind on my writing. My apologies. I've been out living my life! Shocking!

I pulled an old Moleskine calendar that I use as a notebook off my shelf to write down lyrics and chords in a easy way for me to memorize and practice the songs. I found a piece of writing from, oh geeze, a few years ago now. I forgot, before I blogged, whenever I had a need to emotionally vomit, I grabbed whatever was nearby and just wrote, stream of conscious, until I felt better. I'm sure I have hidden gems in tons of notebooks that have been thrown out or are wasting away in storage. This, though, seemed particularly relevant to me right now, however.

"So do we ever really evolve from our 8th grade selves? I feel like I'm pretty much that same girl. A taller, bustier, slightly more secure girl, but not some drastically different person. I've experienced and grown, of course, that's what happens in life. But I'm fundamentally the same. Back then I was awkward and bullied but I managed to keep myself together and have a small group of friends. I've always been a combination of introvert and extrovert [now we call that an 'ambivert,' apparently], just as happy to be at home reading as I am to be on a stage performing. I still have migraines and an uncontrollable period. I still worry about things that are far beyond my control and understanding. My handwriting is still the same. I still love the Beatles. My mom still bothers me, but I still love her. Chocolate is still my favorite food. I'll always worry about if I'm pretty enough and how the outside world views me. I'm still not happy with the shape of my body. Back then I would've killed for boobs: huge, enormous ones you couldn't help but see. And I got them, and they are not even close to the blessing I thought they would be. I hated my lack of curves and now my desperately-wish-for figure seems like too much. I still feel like that little girl, but I'm no longer little. It happened so suddenly and I still don't feel like they're really mine. I'm waiting for the day I wake up and I'm 4'10" and late for school.
I still have to get up early during the week and go to a place I don't want to be for most of the day. I still don't have any money and I don't know who or what I want to be. There's still gossip and cattiness and girl fights and boys who ogle you and say rude, inappropriate things as you pass. There are those moments when you say the completely wrong thing. You let people down. People let you down. This is all pretty obvious to me, at least. It is also possible that I'm more mature than my age, which I've been told before. But then I feel like I am very immature, which makes me uneasy if I really am more mature than most people in my age group. Fuck. Middle school was hell. Being in your 20s is hell. Hell is other people. Hell is that voice in your head that speaks from a place of pure negativity and self-doubt."

That last line, tho. (I do want to talk about the rest of it, but right now, I'm so tired, it's just not going to happen. Stop trying to make it happen.) Hell is your own inner critic. It's that weird voice that tells you, yeah, sure, things are great NOW...but what about two months from now? Where will you be then, huh? How are you going to fuck everything up? You just had a great weekend, now reflect on every single little thing, overanalyze it, blow it out of proportion, and worry for no goddamn reason about where you'll be in three months, or next year. Watch that video of you playing ukulele and fixate on how fat you think you look, not the fact that you learned and played a song on a band new instrument with about 4 hours of practice and then performed it for 40 people. Or the fact that you had a lot of sex this weekend, so clearly your body does not turn anyone on and is repulsive. Obviously. Just awful. Life is so tough; you are surrounded by people who love you and support you so clearly you need to focus on everything that could possibly go wrong and how it's all your fault when it all will (oh it will). Why does this voice exist? Why do some of us have this voice so strongly and need to battle it at the most inopportune moments? Sigh. Nicole: things are great. Quit worrying and focusing on all of the bad things. Be grateful and enjoy the moments you are living. That's what you did all weekend until now, where you're being plaintive and self-critical for no reason. Calm the fuck down. Eat some food, play some ukulele, go to sleep early. Dream about the wonderful parts of your life (and there are many). I am, really, a very lucky lady.

The Middle Ground

Today was a tough day that I am still emotionally processing. Nearly 10% of the people at my big girl job were let go today, including five from my own department. I've never experienced anything like this before; it was emotionally draining, to say the least. I feel bad for the people let go (although most were happy or at least okay with the situation), and I feel a weird survivor's guilt for not being cut along with them. Why do I get to keep my job? I'm not special. A good handful of people outside of my department whom I really enjoyed talking to also lost their jobs today, and I don't know what it's going to be like without them in the office. Most of them had been with the company for years, and were established members long before I started temping there over a year ago. It's just so surreal.

As previously mentioned, I have abandonment issues. Or, at least, I think I do. I'm terrified of being left. Not left alone; I love being alone. I'm afraid of people leaving and never coming back, or just coming back when it's convenient for them/they need something from me. I'm not just around for your convenience; I am an actual human being with needs, wants, feelings. I have this problem with some female friends, but mostly, this is a problem I have always had with men.

I've been 'the other woman' more times than I would care to admit. I'm not proud of it. Back in high school, before I had even kissed anyone, girls would get jealous if I was around their boyfriends. I didn't have a boyfriend nor lose my virginity until college, but there was this overwhelming sense that I couldn't be trusted with their men. Really, though, I've never kissed a friend's boyfriend. Well, I did once, for a high school production of Calamity Jane, but I didn't have a choice in the matter. We were the leads, we had to kiss in the play! Otherwise, though, I wouldn't do that to a friend. I have, however, kissed men I knew were in relationships, and maybe even more than that. My first boyfriend left his girlfriend to be with me. We were friends, and one night, at the end of the first semester of freshman year of college, we went out to dinner with a few people. He ended up at my dorm room. We fooled around. Over winter break, he told me he loved me. Only problem was, he still had a girlfriend. He was waffling on breaking up with her; I forced him to, as it wasn't fair to her if he really was in love with me to still be dating her. He acquiesced; they broke up. We started officially dating. He was my first love.

In high school, I had sort of been dating one guy. He was older, my sister's coworker at Hollister (I know, I know). We met at one party at her apartment, where I ended up making out with his Ryan Cabrera-look-alike best friend drunkenly on the edge of the bathtub with his head in my lap (again, I know, I know). It was my first 'real' kiss with a guy and it shook me up. I couldn't find Cabrera on this new website I just joined, Facebook, but I did find his friend! We started talking. We got along really well. I didn't drive or have a car, but my friend, also named Nicole, did. She and I were going from our small town up to Buffalo to look at colleges. We met him at the mall and hung out for a while. Soon enough, the three of us started hanging out semi-regularly. We would go up to Buffalo or he would come down to our small town. I confessed to him one day that I had a crush on him, which he said was, "Cute" but it couldn't go further. But it did go further. He and I would flirtily text, which turned into actual sexting, even though I was a virgin and kind of making it up as I went. The three of us would go to the movies, and other Nicole would go to the bathroom, and we would make out while she was gone. The three of us would be hanging out, watching movies at my place. She would go home; we'd fool around on my couch. We never had sex, but we got close. He was the first man to see me naked, an honor I know now he did not deserve. On my 18th birthday, a few days before I left on a trip with my high school select choir, he went down on me. Again, first person to ever do that, which he DEFINITELY did not deserve. It made me uncomfortable at the time, and I made him stop.

I left a few days later on the trip. We flew to Colorado, then drove down to New Mexico on a big rented tour bus. I was so excited to go on the mini-tour. We had a competition in Colorado, and we were all nervous. The night before, I was texting him how scared I was. I didn't want to fuck up the competition; I wanted to WIN, dammit. He told me he was on his way to a party, and reassured me that I would be wonderful. I felt better. The next morning, in the hotel, I awoke to find drunken messages from him, the final one admitting that he thought he was in love with the other Nicole. I burst into sobs and just freaked the fuck out. My poor friends I was sharing the hotel room with didn't know what to do or say. I had this secret relationship (he didn't want me to tell anyone about us. I thought it was because he was over 18 and for the majority of it I, uh, was not) that I sobbingly admitted to my friends. I texted him numerous times; he didn't answer before the competition. I was heartbroken and felt sick. We didn't place in the competition. It was one of the worst days of my young adult life. We did this weird on-and-off thing via text and AIM for a few weeks, but didn't see each other in person again. Turns out, he was (of course) seeing her at the same time he was seeing me, and wanted to keep it secret so neither of us would find out. It fucking worked. They ended up dating. He told her I was just mad that they were dating because I had a crush on him and he turned me down. She believed him. She and I ended up at the same college. We tried to be friends, at first, when we didn't know anyone else, but that didn't last long. They dated for a few years, actually, but are no longer together.

Men are attracted to me. That's cool. But they seem to be attracted to the archetype I represent, and not the actual me. They see the busty, hourglass-shaped redhead and think, "Oh, Jessica Rabbit. Joan from Mad Men. Sexpot." Which, I will not deny, is definitely part of my personality. But there's so much more to me than that. I feel like, when certain men discover that, they can't handle it. They want me to fit one certain mold or ideal that they have, and I don't fit that all the time. So they just move on. They go for the other girls, the uncomplicated ones, or the ones who fit into whatever frame they project upon them. I will not fit into your frame. I will not bend and change my shape to fit whatever you think I should be. It used to really bother me and piss me off, and I guess it still does. But I would rather be my complicated, authentic self than to try to change who I am in order to correspond to what you wish I was.

Or, maybe the problem is, I'm exotic. I'm complicated and fun and sexy and complex and I seem like a fantastic escape from the mundane. Which I am. But not everyone wants that as their everyday experience. Which sucks for them. Thankfully, right now I am not in a super-monogamous headspace. After the two back-to-back serious long-term relationships, being classified as one person's girlfriend still seems choking and stifling. Being the escape for a few men (and likewise, they are also my escape) is finally working to my advantage. I'm taking control of it, reclaiming it, making it useful for myself. Will this work forever? No. Do I want it to? No. But taking ownership of my identity, whether it's real or just perceived, has been liberating work in its own right. I am far from comfortable with what I've done in the past, or this whole archetype bullshit. It's also not a central point of my identity, it's just a part of this larger, complex Nicole self that is shifting and reformulating. For now, though, I think I'm finding a balancing point, a comfortable middle ground in which to gather myself and reflect while still having fun.

I'm Pretty Boring, Actually.

I have this weird theory about well-known indie/alt bands. If you’re at all into the alternative music scene, I think you have one hardcore, dominant band that you love out of the following list: The Decemberists, Radiohead, Modest Mouse, Death Cab for Cutie. You may like a few songs from the other bands, yes, but you have one favorite and they are THE BEST and you don’t understand why everyone else doesn’t agree. I know lots of people who are hardcore Radiohead fans, or Death Cab fans, and they never intersect with being a hardcore Decemberists or Modest Mouse fan. This is all, of course, probably bullshit, but it’s based on my experience as a hardcore Decemberists fan who dated a hardcore Radiohead fan. He thought Thom Yorke was the greatest musical genius; I worship at the altar of Colin Meloy. I worship that man. He and RuPaul are the closest thing I have to religious idols. And David Foster Wallace, and Kathleen Hanna. And, of course, Amanda Palmer is quickly reaching sainthood. And Sylvia Plath. And David Bowie. And Flight of the Conchords. 

Okay I have a lot of favorites. I get really, insanely passionate about things I love. If you are important to me, you bet your sweet ass I will fight to the death for you. I will spread the gospel of how great you are to everyone and everything in my life. I am not a shy person.

Other things I love: cult TV shows (Freaks and Geeks, Six Feet Under, Party Down, The OC, It’s Always Sunny, Arrested Development, The Golden Girls); cult movies (John Waters movies, Empire Records, Drop Dead Gorgeous, Benny & Joon, Scott Pilgrim, Rocky Horror, Steel Magnolias, Labyrinth, Clue, every Wes Anderson movie but especially Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums); food (I will go on streaks where I will crave the same food, constantly, and then I’ll never want to eat it again after a few days/weeks/months); coffee; wine (alcohol of any sort, really); books (all the books. Give me your books); flowers; colors; GLITTER (there will never not be glitter on my person); sex; chocolate; Halloween; cats; shopping; dancing; singing; lists of random things.

Not that I don’t like Modest Mouse or Death Cab or Radiohead. There’s a good six Radiohead songs I enjoy and know some of the lyrics to. Oh well. We all have our things.

You know when you’re younger and you hate things so vehemently and you think to yourself, “I will never like/eat/do/think that” and then you grow up and like/eat/do/think those things? Isn’t that hilarious? Things I use to hate that I now love: driving (I didn’t get my license until I was 21. Seriously.); onions; broccoli; leggings; Nicki Minaj; dating more than one person at once/polyamory or whatever the fuck you wanna call what I’m doing with my love life now; runny egg yolk (or really eggs in any form as I used to only eat them whence scrambled); red wine; rare beef; salads; spinach. Yes my life mostly revolves around food.

I wrote all of the preceding during some downtime at work today. Now, I'm not quite sure where to go with all of this nonsense, these lists of random information. I think I'm just going to keep listing random shit; keep it light and breezy for today's post.

Books I'm currently reading (I have always read more than one book at a time; I keep them on rotation): 1Q84; The Art of Asking; Consider the Lobster and Other Essays; An Untamed State; Wildwood; No one belongs here more than you; and about a chapter left of Heroines.

Books to be read: far too many to list. I'm dozens of books behind. I will try to keep better track of what I'm reading, though. I've also found that reading before bed makes me happier and I sleep much better than if I don't read. I used to always read before bed. Then again, I used to always just be reading. I didn't have to think about it; it wasn't, "Oh! I should read something before I sleep!" I was just reading all the time. Now it takes a little reminder, sometimes, to get off the internet or off of Netflix, to take that 15 minutes and read a chapter or a short story. The past few nights, I've read before bed, and I've slept more soundly than I have in weeks. But, I've also been writing every night. Which one is more beneficial? Or do they work in tandem? I couldn't say, at this point. No matter what, though, I'm sleeping better, and I've been feeling less stressed during the day. I'm also so looking forward to this weekend. One of my men-agerie is coming down to see me, for once, and I have so much planned. The winery I work at is having a blending party on Saturday, and he's coming to participate and hang out and explore my little city with me on Sunday. We've had it planned for about a month now; I hope it lives up to the hype I've built up in my mind. I just want to have fun. I think it will be amazing.

I guess not every post this month will be dramatic and secret-revealing. Such is the pity of general, day-to-day real-life blogging. I promise we can get back to dramatic, telenovela-style life secrets and dating misadventures shortly. It's just getting late here in the ol' PST, and I am losing steam and have to be to work early tomorrow for what will surely be a long and exhausting day at the office. Such excite. Much adult. Aren't you glad you read all this? You're very welcome. I love you, too.

Skin Deep

My thoughts are all aswarm tonight. Spotify put an old Jimmy Eat World song on my weekly discovery playlist, and I had forgotten how much I loved that band back in the day, and how much this song resonated with me as a teen:

Of course, at the time, "I wanna fall in love tonight," meant literally, I wanted to fall in love with someone. I hadn't experienced real relationship love yet, and I desperately wanted to. Cut me some slack, I was like 13. Now, however, that lyric is more about falling in love with the whole world, not just a specific person. Or, maybe it's about how I should fall more in love with myself. That's corny as fuck, but maybe it's true.

Over the past few weeks, and particularly the past 48 hours, I've fallen in love with Amanda Palmer. I don't know why it took so long for me to really seek her out, but she has finally gotten into my life, and I'm super crazyinlove. I started listening to the audio book of The Art of Asking on Monday on a whim, still emotionally hungover from Sunday and my dramatic, honest blog post. Her voice was instantly soothing during my long, rainy commute to work. I cried several times on that hour-long drive. I felt like she was speaking right to my soul. After work, I drove back down to my favorite local bookstore, and bought the paperback version of the book. When I'm finished with the audiobook, my plan is to physically read the book, and highlight and annotate the fuck out of it. Her opening chapters about art, and needing to create art, and how a lot of people who are artists don't consider themselves artists, struck a deep chord within me. Maybe I am an artist, I thought. Maybe I am a writer. Maybe I should stop being worried and just go for it. Which was the other catalyst behind my decision to write every single day this month. Oh, Amanda. You beautiful soul. Thank you for the creative affirmation; you're helping me through this weird transitional experience I am having.

I have commitment issues. I have abandonment issues. I detest being ignored. I hate when people leave cabinets open, or hang out in doorways in crowded areas. People who chew with their mouth open drive me insane. I think chewing gum is the grossest thing on the planet, along with people who constantly spit. Something about other people's saliva condensed just grosses me the fuck out. I don't like tomatoes or tomato sauce; I'm even wavering off of ketchup at this point in my life. I have panic attacks in grocery stores. Those started a few years ago, the panic attacks. I had milder forms of them throughout my life, but the real, heavy-duty, oh-fuck-I-can't-breathe-nothing-is-okay attacks started when my ex and I were together, so between 4-5 years ago, I think. Has it been that long? It feels like the blink of an eye, and also like a lifetime has passed. They occur randomly and without warning, but often in grocery stores. I think it's because, during undergrad, I had to read White Noise and I wrote a paper about grocery stores representing death. I got an A. Maybe I was onto something.

My last really bad panic attack was a few months ago, driving home from work. It lasted for over twenty minutes, as I could calm myself down enough to keep driving over the mountain pass I was smack in the middle of, the panic simmering calmly, steadily beneath my calm surface. Whenever I could take a second, though, I sobbed. I got into town, drove up towards UCSC campus, found a random parking lot, and called my mom. I tried to tell her through strangled sobs that I was panicking, felt like I was going to die or just lose my mind. She, having been trained as a yoga instructor who also practices regularly (she has a yoga room in her house), calmly talked me down, as she has so many times before. I call her when I'm severely panicking, and she can always relax me off the cliff, back down to reality. I don't call her over the minor ones, though; the grocery stores or mini moments of terror whilst making my insane commute. Those are different. Talking with her on the phone, I got to see a doe and some tiny fawns wandering the hillside of the UCSC campus. It was a beautiful moment with the sun setting, deer wandering, my mom reminding me that I am totally fine, just need to relax and take deep breaths...I felt that cliched connection to the universe and to life itself around me, the opposite of a panic attack. I balanced out. I don't live in fear of the next big panic attack; I assume it will happen at some point when I'm not suspecting it. Although the actual attack is terrifying, the balance and restoration I feel afterward is very relaxing, and I usually sleep very well post-panic. They have also stopped happening quite so frequently, and I will gladly hold out hope that maybe, eventually, they will just stop.

I haven't had the urge to hurt myself in years; but honestly, since writing it up on Sunday, I almost want to. I called up the memories. What would it feel like, now? But I know better. I won't do it. And, let me clarify what I did. I was too chicken to use a razor blade. I contemplated scissors. I'm not afraid of blood, but my pain threshold is fairly low. Plus, those methods leave very noticeable scars. I have almost none, because of my chosen method. I also didn't really want to die, per se. Well, I did when I was about 12, and contemplated all the ways I could go. I didn't actively try anything, but I did call a suicide prevention hotline once. They pretty much laughed at my pain, actually, but I was too afraid of death to attempt anything. I realized my own actual mortality at a young age, probably around 11; I'm quite aware that I will die someday, and it scares the shit out of me. Razors and scissors could cut too deeply, but I wanted the pain. I wanted to hurt myself. So, I scratched myself. Deeply. I just attacked my arms and legs with my own nails. We always had at least one cat I could use as a scapegoat if need be. It was very personal; I was using my own body to inflict pain on myself. I didn't want to die, but I didn't feel like I was worth anything. I had so much inner anguish that I had to let it out somehow. Sometimes, I wouldn't scratch for a while. Then, and I kid you not, I would wake up the next day and found that I had clawed my arms in my sleep. I would wake up with scratches on my body that I didn't remember scratching. Just writing this is making me itch, forcing me to (lightly) scratch my skin or rub the area until the feeling goes away. But I'm not drawing blood right now. I'm not making myself feel intense, self-inflicted pain.

Do you think less of me, now? Is my self-harming less impressive now that you know I didn't have a stash of razors under my pillowcase? Since I don't have (many) scars to show you the abuse I inflicted upon myself? Because I was a coward? Because sometimes when I itch, there's a tiny part of me that just wants to keep going until that area is raw and bloody? How I remember crying in the shower, tearing at myself, feeling so inadequate...I couldn't even use a goddamn sharp object on myself. What a fucking wimp.

But, that time is over. I can only remind myself that, hey, it's been almost 10 years since you stopped doing that to yourself. Be fucking proud. Congratulations, Nicole, you don't do that anymore. And it's okay that you did. We are all human; we all make mistakes. Just don't do it again. Learn and grow and accept and make a mistake then learn and grow and accept, and so on. So it goes.

Express Yourself

Books have been an escape mechanism for me my entire life. I started reading sometime around 3 or 4 years old, and I've inhaled literature since those tender years. The first book I ever read was called Elmo Gets Homesick, wherein Elmo goes to visit his grandparents and misses his family, but ends up having a fantastic time doing things like baking cookies and picking apples with his grandparents. I had my mom read it to me every night for weeks; then, one night, I told her I could read it myself. I proceeded to read the book to her in its entirety; but as she quickly found out, I couldn't actually read. Rather, I had just memorized the entire little story and recited it to her. Silly tiny tot Nicole, flipping the pages at the wrong times! I got my first library card at the age of 5 (I think, sometime around then), when I could barely write (but I still signed my own name, dammit; I remember my father insisting, one of a handful of awesome things he's done for me in my life). At that point it was mostly books on tape with accompanying paper books, but I quickly progressed to actual short story books and then young adult novels, and thenceforth.

I was reading far beyond my years from a young age. I was about 9 when I first read Shakespeare. Yes, 9ish. My godmother was over visiting with my mom (they've been friends forever), and she mentioned something about Macbeth. My godmother is a huge literary nerd; she's the head reference librarian at a community college now. I don't remember why they were talking Shakespeare; all I know is that I proudly announced to them, "I could read that." I'm fairly certain they laughed in my face, and understandably so. I went to the bookshelf and found a copy of Macbeth. In the following few days, I read the play. When she was visiting next, I proudly announced that I had, indeed, read Macbeth. She said, "Well, maybe you read it, but you didn't understand it." I had her quiz me. I had, indeed, read and understood Macbeth. She was aghast, and told me a lot of people find Shakespeare challenging. My smug little 9 year-old self just ate that shit up. 

My parents separated when I was young; I think I had just turned 6. My first ever memory is of them having a terrible fight. Actually, that's bullshit; my first ever memory is my mother sitting at our kitchen table, sobbing, while my father screamed at her. At the time, I remember feeling bad for my father, because obviously my mom must have really deserved to be punished! Clearly she fucked up badly. I still feel guilt over that; but children don't have the capacity to process that scene beyond what they've been taught: if you're bad, you get yelled at. My mom was getting her ass handed to her; clearly she deserved it. I'm so sorry, mom. It took me a long time to admit that was my first memory, even to myself. I had to be about 3 years old. That's probably not a coincidence with when I decided to myself, fuck this shit, escape into another world. Look at the shelves full of worlds around you! My mother had already been reading to me regularly at that point (I'm sure my dad read to me then, too, but I have no memories of that). I remember her reading The Hobbit to my sisters and me on car rides. I remember Elmo. I remember my dad taking us to the library a lot, particularly after they separated, back when he was cool dad. I will say this for him: he encouraged my reading. He had a rule that he would always buy us books, no matter what. And he did. There was many a night spent with my dad and sister(s) at those big chain bookstores, where I ran around like a glutton, reading short books in the store and making my dad buy me at least five books at a time. And I would read them all, usually alone in my room at my dad's place, or in the room I shared with my sister at my mom's place. Until my other older sister had to go to the home for troubled teens about an hour away; then I had the room to myself.

I remember going to visit her and bringing her books, because I thought, if they comforted me, they must comfort her, right? Even though she was 15 or 16 and I was 7 or 8; Little House on the Prairie is for everyone, yes? It's okay that she had left me alone that day when she was supposed to babysit me; I had had books to read until my frantic mother showed up from work to call the police and find my runaway sister. I distinctly remember that day. When I realized I was home alone, I ate a bunch of Oreos before I called my mom to say she wasn't there. I felt so free! Look at me, eating cookies at 10AM! Who cares if I'm alone; COOKIES!! And then I read until my other sister and my mom came home, and then the police, and my eldest sister.

My mother is an amazing poet. She's also dyslexic, and not much of a reader. But somehow she is a gigantic Tolkien nerd. I love that about her; I think that's where my innate love of Harry Potter came from. My father is a big reader. Neither of my sisters were big into reading or writing. I'm just a natural-born nerd. I was always envious of my mother's poetry. My mother went back to get her Associate's Degree when I was still quite young; I used to go to daycare at the community college. I had my first boyfriend there, Phillip. We would lie on cots next to each other and hold hands. We would whisper through naptime. On more than one occasion, two bratty girls tattled on us and we had to end naptime early, because we were talking. I wonder if he remembers me. My mother had her poetry published in the school's newspaper and literary journals on multiple occasions. I'm still envious of that. I thought she was famous.

What I'm trying to say is that I've never thought of myself as a writer. I've always been a reader; a devourer; someone soaking up the information around them and using it to try to organize the ridiculous day-to-day situations they were living. I've never had a story or novel idea kicking in the back of my brain. My ex was a writer. He wrote poetry, short stories, had ideas for novels, etc. He tried to write every day. I just consumed as many books and magazines as I could get my hands on. When I was in high school wondering what to do with my life, what to study in college, my sister told me that I could study books. What?! Please! When I was about 8, I was in a talent show as part of my summer recreation program. We just called it Rec. What was my talent? Reading. I read a story to everyone, like Mother Fucking Goose. I'm a reader, a consumptive. 

So why am I now feeling this burning, intense desire to write? The first poetry I ever wrote was during high school. Fueled by the first guy to ever break my heart, I wrote feverish, angry poetry that I published on Myspace. I took a school day to write one long poem that I cleverly titled, "One School Day." I entered some poetry into competitions; I think one got published on some random poetry site. But I'm not a writer. I don't view myself as an artist or writer or particularly fantastically talented person. Or, rather, I'm a writer when that passion flares in my chest; when the heat takes over me and if I don't put words down and out into the universe I feel as if my heart will actually stop beating, or my limbs will fall off, or my head will explode like I shoved it in the microwave. (Yes I said microwave; read Infinite Jest, please.)

So, I'm writing. November is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month); but, as mentioned, I do not have a novel. What I do have are thoughts, feelings, and a lot of crazy shit to work out from my life. I also have a blog. Yes, I know, originally this started as a "whoa listen to my crazy dating stories" feelgood funtime happypants blog. It will still contain those stories. As you may have noticed, though, the title of my blog has now changed. It's now Nicole In Tinderland (And Other Adventures Of A Modern Mermaid). Thank you, Ashera, for that perfect new title. In lieu of a novel, I will be writing on here. Every day. About whatever the fuck I feel like. There will be more dating posts; there will be posts about books; there will be angry feminist rants; there will be posts about nothing; there will be posts about family, friends, lovers. Whatever the fuck I feel like saying, I will be saying. I still don't feel like I'm a writer; but I'm writing anyway.

Reading has always been my escape. It will always be my go-to. I still think books are better than people; because, in my experience, books have always been there for me when people mostly have not. I do take some blame for that, as I would rather shut down and enter a different world than deal with the one in front of me. Whenever we were being yelled at, usually by our stepdad, my sisters would yell and fight and scream and curse. I would completely shutdown. I just sat, eyes unfocused, trying to imagine I was anywhere else in the world. When I heard fighting but wasn't directly involved, I just stayed in my bed and read until my eyes couldn't focus and I had to sleep. When I didn't have many friends because I didn't know how to express myself, I read. When I didn't have many friends because I didn't want them to come to my house and see/hear what I lived with, I read. Alternate realities are so much easier to deal with than actual reality. Maybe now is the time I face the facts and deal with my actual realities, instead of escaping. Maybe now, although I will still consume voraciously, maybe now I'll actually let some things out. Maybe I finally have enough confidence in myself and in my voice that I won't be afraid to speak. I won't just withdraw into myself, fall into that emotional vomit pit. No more bottling up. I'm writing.

I'm In a Glass Case of Emotion

I'm sitting in the middle of my floor, my bed is covered in crap, I have so much to organize and clean but all I feel like doing is writing. So I'm going to write. This is not your typical date post. It's not funny and lighthearted. Serious Nicole is here.

I'm currently dating three people. Well, sort of. It's all very casual and thus, very complicated. This is my first time ever being in this sort of multiple-people-dating, polyamorous, fluid space. Mostly, it's amazing. I feel so powerful and sexy and happy; three (!!) men are at my beck-and-call. But it's not that simple. It's all open, and that requires a lot of communication and honesty, which can lead to hurt feelings, particularly when this is a new arena for at least one party involved (namely, me). Plus they're grown men with lives; they're not really willing or able to drop everything to be with me. And I'm a grown woman with a life, too. I would rather be up-front about my anger or sadness, though, and communicate openly instead of holding grudges or pretending everything is fantastic when it's not. That is something that is improving with this whole new relationship sphere; if I get pissed off or something is wrong, I tell them, and, we have to talk about it, because holding grudges in any relationship is unhealthy; but, in these kinds of situations, it makes it even worse. It is not an easy thing to do, this weird multi-dating/polyamory/slutty triad I find myself in. And before you ask, yes, they're all aware that I see other people. Yes, they all see other people as well. Don't worry, safety is our #1 priority for all involved. No need to lecture me on that front.

Tonight, though, is a sad one. I struggle with anxiety and depression, and sometimes, no matter how happy you were earlier, life overwhelms you and throws you back into a black pit of anxiousness that makes you want to vomit. That's where I am right now, the vomit pit. I'm choosing wordvomit instead of actual vomit. I thought that maybe going through and doing some cleaning would help me. I did a closet clean-out and reorganization last week, and I thought tonight I would clean out the old bucket storage shelf I have next to my bed. I found a lot of garbage, and a lot of wonderful memories that made me cry. I found a picture of me at 14, holding my young nephew. I'm tan, thin, gorgeous. At the time, though, I felt so poorly about myself. I was self-harming, though I didn't tell anyone about it for a few more years. That little boy gave me so much hope and happiness. Now he is 14 and a total sweetheart, despite having a rough life of his own. I love that kid, and I miss him terribly. I can't believe he's a teenager, and I'm nearly in my 30s. I found a necklace given to me by my beloved pseudo-grandfather George, who passed away earlier this summer. Tucked into the pouch with the necklace was a post-it note that made me burst into tears.

Picture it: November 24th, 2005. Buffalo, NY. A beautiful young girl (who doesn't know she's beautiful) is staying overnight with her sister in the apartment her sister and her boyfriend share. It's just after a Thanksgiving celebration with the girl's stepmother's family. After the sister and her boyfriend have gone to bed, the girl uses the computer and signs on to AIM, and proceeds to have an hours-long, incredibly intense conversation with her high school crush. They talked about everything in the world, and he said something so magnificent to her, she wrote it down on a post-it and saved it to this day. That girl was me. And the boy, was Pablo Picasso. Okay, it wasn't Picasso. 

We never ended up dating; although he did lots of nice things for me and we were good friends (he even wrote a song for me, swear to RuPaul). But that night, and what he said, I will hold in my heart forever. It was one of the first times a guy was truly nice to me. I had a rough childhood, to put it mildly. Yes, I was still self-harming at this point; yes, I continued to do so until almost the end of high school. I confessed it to a friend one particularly bad day and she made me stop. I think I only ended up doing it once or twice after that point, and I haven't for years. I've never mentioned it to anyone else, but I think it's time I put it out into the world that I used to hurt myself, because I did. I'm not proud, but I'm not ashamed. Sometimes we need to be reminded of what we've been through and how far we've come, and how far we still have to go. Sometimes we forget our value, or place all our value onto what someone else thinks of us. It's not about other people. We forget that others' actions towards us often have nothing to do with ourselves and everything to do with that person and what they are going through at that moment. I am sensitive and hurt easily, but I pretend to be otherwise; as such, though, I feel very deeply, which is both a blessing and a curse. When I'm happy, I am HAPPY. EVERYTHING IS PERFECT. But when I am sad, I get very depressed, and it can be hard to see the way out. Which is why we have to remember our inherent value and worth. It doesn't matter if other people can see it or not. If they don't, well, that's terrible for them, but it doesn't diminish who I am. This is why friends are so important, those people who always see the good in you no matter how far you have sunk in the emotional vomit pit. I am lucky enough to have some of the most incredible people in the world on my side. I have an army of female (and a few male) friends who are always there and always supportive. They are the people I need to remember and focus on. Romantic relationships are secondary; although mostly fun, they are a horse of a different color. Particularly when dealing with casual romantic relationships, I need to remember that my life does not revolve around those people. Because it doesn't. No offense, dudes.

I'm going to write the contents of that post-it here, now. Not because of the man who said them to me (although I'll always have a soft spot in my heart because, awe sweetness), but because they have been echoed in various ways to me by friends and lovers alike in the subsequent ten years so often that they must be true, and I need to remember them. For myself.

"Not only are you talented and smart, you're also beautiful and unique. You're funny, and yet you're profound. Furthermore, I don't know what word to use the quality you possess to be open with people, but you obviously can see that you've touched me in the course of three days or so. I've been more open with you in three days than anyone in my life. And if that's not something that's amazing about you, I don't know what is. And did I ever tell you you have gorgeous hair?"