tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66067795484957941952024-03-21T05:14:25.852-07:00Bar Spielcheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-39454727169118414292014-11-05T01:23:00.001-08:002014-11-19T01:01:05.431-08:00Come to My Island<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This. Just. This. If there is only one entry you ever read, it probably should be this one.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
As you can see, below are screenshots of "conversations" with two different guys. I made the pictures extra large so you don't have to squint. You're welcome.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I really don't want to say too much, because it's gold all on it's own, but I will set this first one up real quick.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Ok. I tend to take Tinder conversations lightly. I assume, for the most part, that everyone is joking (because it's <i>fucking</i> Tinder) and that's cool, because I like to play along. It's a harmless distraction and some guy might say something clever enough to make me laugh out loud at my phone like an idiotic person who can't talk to people when I see them in real life.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Whatever. Point is, I like jokes.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So I match with this guy:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKN842J4ySrDdVaUxplcApxKStBAfa5fmkYbZKbuyuNJ4r83MOSIFROmYQP9CGlEVH6UpUoaUGWHQjxC45XRLpLQg6y6z71RAdQ9Wk1d0kNYAR3uJ5WlnAXoirYeAIie_w1_OLc9CQguCp/s1600/Screenshot_2014-10-18-19-17-06.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKN842J4ySrDdVaUxplcApxKStBAfa5fmkYbZKbuyuNJ4r83MOSIFROmYQP9CGlEVH6UpUoaUGWHQjxC45XRLpLQg6y6z71RAdQ9Wk1d0kNYAR3uJ5WlnAXoirYeAIie_w1_OLc9CQguCp/s1600/Screenshot_2014-10-18-19-17-06.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Kinda (<i>definitely</i>) douche looking, but every day that passes and I'm still on this asshole app, my standards drop. Read: <b>I no longer have any standards</b>.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Anyway, I'm sorry to say I don't have screenshots of the beginning of our conversation, so you just have to jump in here. I promise, you aren't missing anything. All you need to know is, initially, I didn't think he was being serious. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
As you may notice, some of the screenshots are cropped. I did not remove any part of the conversation, only made it so that you wouldn't have to re-read lines.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVUgA_tMjf2ORmMdaD_xuzTDhkLaOoOK1s0ABEA7nK1LDZV27QcDWiH2R2u15HtjAhyphenhyphenfFdyQsehvvdRmRqDQTOW7nuEwRTihXuZvSWJV7snTqOh_7VpvhDgKLSUKDMCcBLHGLEtH0PCQWw/s1600/2014-11-18+23.53.06.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVUgA_tMjf2ORmMdaD_xuzTDhkLaOoOK1s0ABEA7nK1LDZV27QcDWiH2R2u15HtjAhyphenhyphenfFdyQsehvvdRmRqDQTOW7nuEwRTihXuZvSWJV7snTqOh_7VpvhDgKLSUKDMCcBLHGLEtH0PCQWw/s1600/2014-11-18+23.53.06.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>Yes</b>. He just critiqued my Tinder pictures. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>No</b>. I did not change them.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCUzjN_n4N2eroYy0wQuPgqsieezDP78keo0A43sZm4lkHGS6eUglNntWeOn0pjtPB-LtQFMi9ZPII8U_gBdal3DTl_X8KK5drZWuK6CVswmyyzY6wLcTbMuUiyMSSqHY-FSuRGmn6kuI/s1600/Screenshot_2014-10-18-19-17-35.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCUzjN_n4N2eroYy0wQuPgqsieezDP78keo0A43sZm4lkHGS6eUglNntWeOn0pjtPB-LtQFMi9ZPII8U_gBdal3DTl_X8KK5drZWuK6CVswmyyzY6wLcTbMuUiyMSSqHY-FSuRGmn6kuI/s1600/Screenshot_2014-10-18-19-17-35.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Unfortunately for me, I sent him a text before reading the rest of the Tinder messages he sent after his number.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>Milk was a bad choice.</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Please enjoy the rest of this guy without any further interruption.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFdSrbf2N3Yxi8GKWekqiYDuyoaNsn3W0rXp4tidfrheqynAoslgwXHgm_3q3KGK9nnqavpEv0IRCTTtkM9D5zGK9IAjTaBlrs6Bcv5F2hQvGejKStm9dDQ0oz4fMzAyEQcpOEIWC_CKa/s1600/2014-11-18+23.47.12.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFdSrbf2N3Yxi8GKWekqiYDuyoaNsn3W0rXp4tidfrheqynAoslgwXHgm_3q3KGK9nnqavpEv0IRCTTtkM9D5zGK9IAjTaBlrs6Bcv5F2hQvGejKStm9dDQ0oz4fMzAyEQcpOEIWC_CKa/s1600/2014-11-18+23.47.12.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEimV12PpBcMMznaW8EW2fp6Zr7dDQo9WjxOHEVOWcC_aHXhy694vamMVmtuMORuu1TMOVQ0NzUWHNxrxpVBMSBgD5Nq0lMc89OvgSAQpAV1ForawZ_x3U3dYvXQ8O1yaxqgfMN9viwMWB/s1600/2014-11-18+23.46.43.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEimV12PpBcMMznaW8EW2fp6Zr7dDQo9WjxOHEVOWcC_aHXhy694vamMVmtuMORuu1TMOVQ0NzUWHNxrxpVBMSBgD5Nq0lMc89OvgSAQpAV1ForawZ_x3U3dYvXQ8O1yaxqgfMN9viwMWB/s1600/2014-11-18+23.46.43.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLz_ejZ8gS-nAeAIB7-ZXW2gw1b2pVkrdxFEDJYBsnCmkxiHJHmSXkVoSMKZsIaOTBbc3KvYYX1JbTBty33XcZED3tcjvG46vk4J5NinrANavWosTPYHgmAID8F0CNe9IgjntIhwEa5wqE/s1600/2014-11-18+23.46.20.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLz_ejZ8gS-nAeAIB7-ZXW2gw1b2pVkrdxFEDJYBsnCmkxiHJHmSXkVoSMKZsIaOTBbc3KvYYX1JbTBty33XcZED3tcjvG46vk4J5NinrANavWosTPYHgmAID8F0CNe9IgjntIhwEa5wqE/s1600/2014-11-18+23.46.20.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh6I_voPxDTu_ub3gCbN39ow1-qdwJ2yJt7Ndxg2Ve_PTJTVuIa6MsfLL-2KvUUxkCen37cVPb1XybApcPpbf7QX_C_Aq8AeS1REhG1K8F9ReYvHh0MvcrQ4qRn8ub9mZYnNOJX_F4ik5K/s1600/2014-11-18+23.45.52.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh6I_voPxDTu_ub3gCbN39ow1-qdwJ2yJt7Ndxg2Ve_PTJTVuIa6MsfLL-2KvUUxkCen37cVPb1XybApcPpbf7QX_C_Aq8AeS1REhG1K8F9ReYvHh0MvcrQ4qRn8ub9mZYnNOJX_F4ik5K/s1600/2014-11-18+23.45.52.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq2NUKsPpQYUE8S1uZ6LkbUpjrHr56wasRvJiAJOzSYDu_g1q8lGMsTtHKqXRDUd-SygjBSyJRNqFEKbjb8ItfCXtvrfiKxQPmgCTd4PlGdC_Jc1pTP5A_H8nSEIICJvfhYAVSZ-nzZTiA/s1600/2014-11-18+23.45.30.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq2NUKsPpQYUE8S1uZ6LkbUpjrHr56wasRvJiAJOzSYDu_g1q8lGMsTtHKqXRDUd-SygjBSyJRNqFEKbjb8ItfCXtvrfiKxQPmgCTd4PlGdC_Jc1pTP5A_H8nSEIICJvfhYAVSZ-nzZTiA/s1600/2014-11-18+23.45.30.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5K0a_u2KgU5_PxxfMXxigrmhfDweaTm1-snOkDJXWPcgX1u0MEOYQOybzuu-hq_eWi-TGBm5H_9hWUWm7uFYTglSROP6LJGtBvqztE5I8xLEpydwVunpXWCrkERS7MmGnFWK17QiueeZq/s1600/2014-11-18+23.45.03.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5K0a_u2KgU5_PxxfMXxigrmhfDweaTm1-snOkDJXWPcgX1u0MEOYQOybzuu-hq_eWi-TGBm5H_9hWUWm7uFYTglSROP6LJGtBvqztE5I8xLEpydwVunpXWCrkERS7MmGnFWK17QiueeZq/s1600/2014-11-18+23.45.03.png" height="640" width="426" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDOAZ2htGAjO4TVYq9Cx8bt-5422bYKBocsOssuBngatOJptxTP2NSpoCTC_IcgG8vrkcv8Jhae6njHG-Z8_V3-F47YYO2wLTtaTDGxsM1RC_jthuibJdG8Z4saw1lC593Y8GTYp-AsCkN/s1600/2014-11-18+23.44.26.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDOAZ2htGAjO4TVYq9Cx8bt-5422bYKBocsOssuBngatOJptxTP2NSpoCTC_IcgG8vrkcv8Jhae6njHG-Z8_V3-F47YYO2wLTtaTDGxsM1RC_jthuibJdG8Z4saw1lC593Y8GTYp-AsCkN/s1600/2014-11-18+23.44.26.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEr60K3_V-04oiVbCEw2ZdKEZn-W8S05lH5Af5C4FqOL6WRRWHmaVnahhIfas_TsJYzAvCYWZBio2kvzyJuun_Iu3NgxK159MVIutPjeEGvX6ulU2edamdaHRVRgHsPm-Gzw26yWi-T4C/s1600/2014-11-18+23.43.32.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEr60K3_V-04oiVbCEw2ZdKEZn-W8S05lH5Af5C4FqOL6WRRWHmaVnahhIfas_TsJYzAvCYWZBio2kvzyJuun_Iu3NgxK159MVIutPjeEGvX6ulU2edamdaHRVRgHsPm-Gzw26yWi-T4C/s1600/2014-11-18+23.43.32.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiChwKnVQM_dwG0aSRUike24mDMOIk75sWsgZJkwQkgn2L5s8wmr71QiYtG32LF8rAonWpCQa3_v8KLYmcOYC_USKyQDjS4TSr0hBRqjWLfcPWP_iJLRs1mSSzBjAzndVLgHwHoANHVQ4oj/s1600/2014-11-18+23.42.52.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiChwKnVQM_dwG0aSRUike24mDMOIk75sWsgZJkwQkgn2L5s8wmr71QiYtG32LF8rAonWpCQa3_v8KLYmcOYC_USKyQDjS4TSr0hBRqjWLfcPWP_iJLRs1mSSzBjAzndVLgHwHoANHVQ4oj/s1600/2014-11-18+23.42.52.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZfev3hRnMelTSZIWTwDKml6mSIb5UAunJC4tz2F-aSo7gU6pZSuZe7ocDSnh3G17QmaizGbquP49ntOLRTbHql33Nac1iAucr2sVQZDbF5S-qIOycjoGtmfcKxsioCfmSle3J_jeWxNo/s1600/2014-11-18+23.42.14.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZfev3hRnMelTSZIWTwDKml6mSIb5UAunJC4tz2F-aSo7gU6pZSuZe7ocDSnh3G17QmaizGbquP49ntOLRTbHql33Nac1iAucr2sVQZDbF5S-qIOycjoGtmfcKxsioCfmSle3J_jeWxNo/s1600/2014-11-18+23.42.14.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKpj4ETsO3NJXIt1S4JV6rXt2YA1oqFO8xqM_tx0QwR-SI7ZkYOv1J7Yhh479lsdItSO4eXEjpRAHH2ibXNvY6WRHQXowFfTlOvYatDgXoHxhPHxdRr23KfYZWk9yM9ZO9jSs-Me2eCRTx/s1600/2014-11-04+23.36.18.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKpj4ETsO3NJXIt1S4JV6rXt2YA1oqFO8xqM_tx0QwR-SI7ZkYOv1J7Yhh479lsdItSO4eXEjpRAHH2ibXNvY6WRHQXowFfTlOvYatDgXoHxhPHxdRr23KfYZWk9yM9ZO9jSs-Me2eCRTx/s1600/2014-11-04+23.36.18.png" height="243" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I mean... Yeah. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It's one of the most incredible streams of <i>something</i>-induced consciousness I have ever experienced. I really don't want to say too much about it because, well, I have no words...except, TINDER AGAINST HUMANITY FOR THE WIN!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>Crazy</b>, right?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
He immediately unmatched me. <i>Devastating</i> loss.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Large <b>sigh</b>.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Then, just this past weekend I made the mistake <b>AGAIN</b> of assuming! (But did not give him my number, point for me?)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Dear Cheryl, learn your damn lesson already. Not everyone is being snarky or sarcastic or joking. Some people are just plain <i>insane </i>(in the membrane...)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjF5pBUTFsa7ymReHbTE3F0fwjXN4LYgRcMopZTbaKwM4vV1Dp2ZQjJqe4tBnYUNnv_RM98ZaJTohJrFIoiaMeOVRmIy99VMaKwtApo-Aa4Gdzmihzn99QPsaCZwMG5fgEjCbaYGxmrrv4/s1600/2014-11-04+23.37.21.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjF5pBUTFsa7ymReHbTE3F0fwjXN4LYgRcMopZTbaKwM4vV1Dp2ZQjJqe4tBnYUNnv_RM98ZaJTohJrFIoiaMeOVRmIy99VMaKwtApo-Aa4Gdzmihzn99QPsaCZwMG5fgEjCbaYGxmrrv4/s1600/2014-11-04+23.37.21.png" height="400" width="260" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUw2E7aUw7jnYmsOJrJj5OCYEYnKzYvOBkYt5-w4kqNtK19nf1LxpeT5gnPINA1F9E1fpKsQeWgo1lbwyotVektGT_hfffFOY0pLSAVDzWhK21iZvx3LqPBfXT2uh1lcJZ2fAPzSclnhyphenhyphenR/s1600/Screenshot_2014-11-02-18-26-03-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUw2E7aUw7jnYmsOJrJj5OCYEYnKzYvOBkYt5-w4kqNtK19nf1LxpeT5gnPINA1F9E1fpKsQeWgo1lbwyotVektGT_hfffFOY0pLSAVDzWhK21iZvx3LqPBfXT2uh1lcJZ2fAPzSclnhyphenhyphenR/s1600/Screenshot_2014-11-02-18-26-03-1.png" height="400" width="291" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLjdi1ACQurljhmX6rA-geQR_BTAy-0sTYLVkFxr4RY_gR09v4D0NtISqQnGSUdGs0iD2VE9zSsPlVqsinEupt49CeM9KQxrBhCrfdNLxmbLV0FP73PkSUyL68I9vclww_PoQsiLVMbEv/s1600/Screenshot_2014-11-02-18-26-12.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLjdi1ACQurljhmX6rA-geQR_BTAy-0sTYLVkFxr4RY_gR09v4D0NtISqQnGSUdGs0iD2VE9zSsPlVqsinEupt49CeM9KQxrBhCrfdNLxmbLV0FP73PkSUyL68I9vclww_PoQsiLVMbEv/s1600/Screenshot_2014-11-02-18-26-12.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2lGJuFPFSAvJy4xn_hMaGgps4_t9x00rUrgNnilptOR93WSf_dJk5oCnB1DuSTgwjX0LKU3sP6iIA8GLPxJg2Nv8W0Ei5boygEG5HAhMiMOYgAtkADnNf7p6cAHN0eIHf5jZOD_ojMNB/s1600/Screenshot_2014-11-02-18-26-21.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2lGJuFPFSAvJy4xn_hMaGgps4_t9x00rUrgNnilptOR93WSf_dJk5oCnB1DuSTgwjX0LKU3sP6iIA8GLPxJg2Nv8W0Ei5boygEG5HAhMiMOYgAtkADnNf7p6cAHN0eIHf5jZOD_ojMNB/s1600/Screenshot_2014-11-02-18-26-21.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPw-Vn5IQVt2i4LoUtIfmjj-6ZqjpxTpFPNFv5xeQ369AvTF1ZUarcTQD8st3zuBDQIrpE4jH2f8oWR7vqwgiw-SLDxDs4F-c6bM4Klb2nG3TPTa9RAmUH35h3GdygCs5x5P3_p-spmp6/s1600/2014-11-19+00.28.58.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPw-Vn5IQVt2i4LoUtIfmjj-6ZqjpxTpFPNFv5xeQ369AvTF1ZUarcTQD8st3zuBDQIrpE4jH2f8oWR7vqwgiw-SLDxDs4F-c6bM4Klb2nG3TPTa9RAmUH35h3GdygCs5x5P3_p-spmp6/s1600/2014-11-19+00.28.58.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw3t_pi9nyaz6Ox2zMM3RzvJJBSG9URDF_fNz4Ea2wo6j9j_iKe_iyrq3t2XlpAn3skZs4I3QU8xTVbhPzyaKUbl3C3SHgYK4-2nylA1R_cN2_b6za_Q3XSjN9UPxrNS0300CXwC0b14lO/s1600/Screenshot_2014-11-05-00-52-03.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw3t_pi9nyaz6Ox2zMM3RzvJJBSG9URDF_fNz4Ea2wo6j9j_iKe_iyrq3t2XlpAn3skZs4I3QU8xTVbhPzyaKUbl3C3SHgYK4-2nylA1R_cN2_b6za_Q3XSjN9UPxrNS0300CXwC0b14lO/s1600/Screenshot_2014-11-05-00-52-03.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo3W4nWPAuneNMfuzOXVSXsMd3gIyfeGv1BRmOJ9QRviKcdK5oNzWsoQvC1-XhZNBnbhV8mIjB-450GsfvgeD-wvfQ8mFSBbzc4bShi8xUiEgc0uYfcTUX40tq_pSiQEvZJMRmaBFpWx8J/s1600/Screenshot_2014-11-02-18-26-51.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo3W4nWPAuneNMfuzOXVSXsMd3gIyfeGv1BRmOJ9QRviKcdK5oNzWsoQvC1-XhZNBnbhV8mIjB-450GsfvgeD-wvfQ8mFSBbzc4bShi8xUiEgc0uYfcTUX40tq_pSiQEvZJMRmaBFpWx8J/s1600/Screenshot_2014-11-02-18-26-51.png" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZP69ghMp5AVZ1oFL8oi0GSPS5NvDPZrB-NpMgt8oH8Na9E4BC6GAvflI3USb4y7AFJf71MEpjh-tBYucO5R8FkEWa_5X7PJzzYKn_ZfljWcaRcIp_e5YHzm7ho3oS6O1MQ82PSiXbztq6/s1600/2014-11-04+23.39.12.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZP69ghMp5AVZ1oFL8oi0GSPS5NvDPZrB-NpMgt8oH8Na9E4BC6GAvflI3USb4y7AFJf71MEpjh-tBYucO5R8FkEWa_5X7PJzzYKn_ZfljWcaRcIp_e5YHzm7ho3oS6O1MQ82PSiXbztq6/s1600/2014-11-04+23.39.12.png" height="400" width="326" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
You and me both, buddy. But not together. I don't want someone who was stabbed for a Galaxy S2 just last year. Maybe an S4.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>Just an idea</i> <b>SHRUG FACE</b>? Are you f'ing kidding me?!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I guess what I should have said was that I wasn't looking for a hookup and definitely wasn't going to marry a random any time soon. And by soon, I mean ever.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Anyway, there you go. I wanted to share those with you because people actually say this shit and it was too good to keep to myself.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Sharing is caring.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I'm really bummed I didn't eat any candy corn or candy pumpkins this year. Yes, I know it's all chemicals and sugar. What's your point?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLUzuo-Xbp6cZuYDzA1CkkCxGBRIX1raUniA_SHgcc6k4Eed6n7sjhEVoagOqNeXBOe10UgLCfJfedZSiuesQTdg4t54baDREWN03c4vs3Yws9J5P3m6PAdL6YR_i4jQhjOFqEvS1xSUU5/s1600/10384108_773843575436_1564572395822500745_n+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLUzuo-Xbp6cZuYDzA1CkkCxGBRIX1raUniA_SHgcc6k4Eed6n7sjhEVoagOqNeXBOe10UgLCfJfedZSiuesQTdg4t54baDREWN03c4vs3Yws9J5P3m6PAdL6YR_i4jQhjOFqEvS1xSUU5/s1600/10384108_773843575436_1564572395822500745_n+(1).jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-82556639173634227522014-10-11T03:00:00.001-07:002014-10-11T03:05:33.955-07:00Tinder, Of Course.Oh man you guys! So much has happened over the past year! I got new eyes! Moved into a new apartment walking distance from work! I got a new car! I found a dead fish on my floor thanks to the cat! And <i>yet</i>...so much is still the same.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div>
</div>
<div>
Quick sidebar before I jump right in. Guys - don't ever send your ex-girlfriend dick pics and videos while you're dating someone else. A bit of a mixed message, don't you think? Also makes you a complete fucking <b>douchebag</b>. Unless a disgustingly dishonest douchebag is what you're aiming for, then by all means, be my guest. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Moving on. Tinder, Tinder, Tinder. What am I going to do with you? I am almost embarrassed to admit exactly how many Tinder dates I've been on. Just kidding, if I hadn't lost track awhile ago, I would definitely tell you. It's as if Tinder has become my Pokemon and I <b>gotta catch 'em all</b>. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Except dating is the worst and I don't want a collection, I just want my Pikachu. <i>Groan</i>. I don't even know what that means.</div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw8IuXzZJKUO4gTdGrcWHNXS0Lh8mg5woGr3bsYW3LR4kTH-klFGjeEm3RyaSFGBEOJa4ENDQPiTDrhSFzRSIydhegjEiZVxKdlyTWdAydDUYw_KggK9qSNIVsxdYuw3Ay6LeZ8FdldGE_/s1600/2014-10-11+02.58.56.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw8IuXzZJKUO4gTdGrcWHNXS0Lh8mg5woGr3bsYW3LR4kTH-klFGjeEm3RyaSFGBEOJa4ENDQPiTDrhSFzRSIydhegjEiZVxKdlyTWdAydDUYw_KggK9qSNIVsxdYuw3Ay6LeZ8FdldGE_/s1600/2014-10-11+02.58.56.png" height="320" width="187" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm just going to run through some of the highlights, catch you up to speed. Ready? Go.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The first Tinder date that I really enjoyed was with Tyler from Ugly Betty. Go ahead, look up the actor. Yep. That guy. So easy on the eyes I wanted to melt. But, believe it or not, that's not why I enjoyed the date. Ok<i> fine</i>, that was part of the reason. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We went to CHVRCHES at the Wiltern, which was a great show, and then walked to a nearby bar. He had this mesmerizing way of telling stories, definitely a writer, and I'm a <b>sucker </b>for a guy who can use his words. They seem to be rare.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fast forward to this father and son sitting next to us inviting us to go to another bar. Fast forward to us getting in a random car with strangers. Fast forward to closing down a bar with them. Fast forward to him riding in a cab back to my place to drop me off. Fast forward to us texting back and forth after, but never again hanging out.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I loved this date because it was so atypical. (Besides the not hanging out again part.) It was spontaneous and fun. It was a unique experience and if more first dates were like that, this dating thing would be a lot more enjoyable.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Most of the guys have been lackluster. Nothing wrong with them, per se, but just flatline. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There was the guy who showed up drunk, knocked his first beer over, and tried to get me to go see a Grateful Dead cover band. Then told me about how he just stopped paying his rent and decided to live in a van because, who wouldn't want to?</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br />
Uh. <b>Pass</b>. I promise I can go through this life never having lived in a van and I won't feel like I missed out. <br />
<br />
I also like to shower.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There was the car salesman who just moved to LA a few months ago. When I asked him what he wanted to do now that he was out here he responded with, "I want to become friends with someone who is connected in the industry with celebrities because I want to get in with that crowd."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I laughed in his face and asked him if he thought that was superficial. I don't even remember his answer because I had already tuned him out. He might have a hard time making real friends out here. Just a guess.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The most Bachelor-esque date award goes to the guy who flew me up and down the coast in a private plane. That awesomeness aside, I was actually excited to meet him because we were both from Allentown and went to Penn State. Instant connection!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He warned me the day prior that he might be too hungover to fly. The day came, he said he was fine. We flew for about an hour, landed, and then he asked for a raincheck on dinner because he was feeling sick.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He totally bailed and never rescheduled. Now, I know what horrible conversation chemistry is like. We did not have horrible conversation chemistry. He was distracted half the time anyway because he was flying a <i>mother f'ing plane</i>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't know. I guess I made him feel like vomiting. Or my mascara had smudged all underneath my eyes. No one wants to talk to a raccoon. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Except for Clare on Bachelor in Paradise. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=btyCryCwGxA" target="_blank">(See here)</a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Sigh</i>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There have been a few guys that provoked genuine interested, one just last weekend, but my longest track record with a Tinder dude is 3 dates.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
3!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unfortunately, I am the common denominator, so what's going on? Do I just suck at dating? I've had so much practice you'd think I'd be a pro. But here I am on a Saturday night at 1 in the morning eating gluten free toast with butter and garlic powder typing about my Tinder failures. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am experiencing dating fatigue. It is a real thing. The getting ready, the meeting at a place, the telling of the same stories, the anticipation of hanging out again, the disappointment of that not happening.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>I. Am. Exhausted.</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Perhaps a break is in order. But I've just started talking to you again, and if I'm not dating, this conversation stops. So for your sake, I will push on.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But actually, I am really tired. I'm going to go blow my garlic breath in my cat's face, because that's the point of having a pet, right?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyWmmd6-4UeJmVr4CntlDsuwkIYs0Wi_btCDKnWU9EZMF19Irivia6ZNqq5-BZ-yWLh3P17qYIxOPPF1WPVK-z6N9Fv7aZfvr5CxWjggerSzx4JXIayo3LEpAwAFDol3GCd1Ykxy-EeqCD/s1600/IMG_20140319_134121.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyWmmd6-4UeJmVr4CntlDsuwkIYs0Wi_btCDKnWU9EZMF19Irivia6ZNqq5-BZ-yWLh3P17qYIxOPPF1WPVK-z6N9Fv7aZfvr5CxWjggerSzx4JXIayo3LEpAwAFDol3GCd1Ykxy-EeqCD/s1600/IMG_20140319_134121.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-43027896831811541432013-11-29T21:11:00.002-08:002013-11-29T21:15:17.712-08:002 ThingsThere are two things I want out of this life. A boyfriend is probably your first guess. Wrong. <br />
<div>
<a name='more'></a><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I mean, yes, but no. </div>
<div>
<br />
<div>
The first is to accomplish something that's truly amazing. <i><b>Amazing</b></i>. That word is so overused today that it has lost emphasis. But I'm talking about the amazing that fills one with honest emotion. It can captivate or leave an impact. Maybe it only lasts 5 minutes, or maybe it doesn't last at all. It's not really about leaving a mark or a legacy. It's about a feeling of great accomplishment. That feeling when you finish a half marathon, or something of the like, but magnified. More rewarding. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know I'm not alone. A lot of us want to do something BIG. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The saddest thing is, most of us never do. I realize that there is a great chance that I never will. Not because I don't want to, but because life may consume all of me before I'm able to make room for this <i>Thing</i>. And it breaks my heart. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Of course, accomplishments of the size to which I'm referring are usually bright enough to shine over time. There are 1,000s upon 1,000s of stories about people who accomplish great, inspiring things, but their initial goal wasn't to inspire. It was simply to do whatever it was that they did. When you factor in the "how" and the "why" with the end result, you get <u>inspiration</u>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The stories of my life so far...eh. Some are really funny. Some are good. Some are sad. I've overcome some challenges. I've lost some battles. But they are all short essays. I want to experience that life altering accomplishment that can write it's own novel. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And yes, I realize I'm always in the middle of a story. Story of my life. That's not what I'm talking about here.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Instead of writing about wanting to do it, I should just focus my energy into doing it. <b>Yes</b>. Except I don't know what "it" is. That's why you're reading this.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, the second thing seems to tie in with the first, though it is possible to have this without the above. I want to find that person who will be there with me throughout the process of accomplishing this <i>Thing.</i> Who swells with so much pride because they are standing next to me that they almost burst, and when I do finally accomplish <i>Thing, </i>they are running up to give me the biggest hug of my life almost before I'm even finished.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It would be great if I was also having sex with this person, but that isn't 100% necessary.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I truly hope I'm not offending any of my friends by saying I haven't found this person yet. I am so thankful for the incredible people in my life that it's overwhelming and I can't express my gratitude properly in words. But I don't feel as if I have found My Person.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
With my heart and mind, I believed Rhoades was it. This made it nearly impossible for me to let him go. I do think he wanted to be, but in his own way which never quite matched up with mine. I learned that it is possible to love something so much, you can kill it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Like over watering a plant or squeezing the life out of a hamster.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I worry that he was my <i>Great Love</i>. That I lost the best friend I'll ever have. That I will never feel the way I felt with him again.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But then I worry that I'm wasting my time worrying about all that.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I will always be a work in progress. I have learned more about myself in the past 2 years than I have in the previous 10. Much of it has required hard, painful work. I cry for the good I have lost, the good that I have, and the good I fear I will never experience.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But. I still get up in the morning. I create awesome shit at a job I love. I dance and laugh with friends. I dress up my cat in costumes. I read fantastic stories and I hope that perhaps one day I will write about my AMAZING accomplishment and my person will be there hugging me as I type "<b>The End.</b>"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
P.S. Tinder matches mean nothing.</div>
<div>
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;" /></div>
</div>
</div>
cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-74948973697449416252012-05-08T12:46:00.001-07:002012-05-08T12:52:22.767-07:00BoomIt completely blew up in my face. Though, I'll admit, I helped push the big red button. But maybe that needed to happen. Maybe the foundation of the building was flawed and the building was always doomed to collapse.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
So after the explosion, we walked away. No one wants to look at their own masterpiece crumbled into pieces at their feet.<br />
<br />
I have never felt so empty. So wrong. So lost.<br />
<br />
While I'm aware that just about everyone experiences the loss of love, it always feels so damn personal. <br />
<br />
Like no one understands what you had.<br />
<br />
You're convinced that you'll never find better. You'll never find that connection with someone again.<br />
<br />
You're positive that you should just tie a plastic bag around your head.<br />
<br />
And then, something happens. You start to feel bad about having the same conversation with everyone who will listen. You start making plans, doing what you want, with who you want, whenever the fuck you want. <br />
<br />
You put yourself first again, something you really never should have stopped doing to begin with.<br />
<br />
Next, you adopt a kitten.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-TZortvOWO8bq0-w2gKdFr47yJ1PIbak5CGYLauwEW9BlTjqYmLeIakvKrJkDmA7KnkuAuSvo0Be96oqy7yhq95PJbk6_2PU4-P7BqRt5h-bZerNePVb7YvfLCfOqNOd8qDjD1E_ugjg/s1600/IMAG0193-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-TZortvOWO8bq0-w2gKdFr47yJ1PIbak5CGYLauwEW9BlTjqYmLeIakvKrJkDmA7KnkuAuSvo0Be96oqy7yhq95PJbk6_2PU4-P7BqRt5h-bZerNePVb7YvfLCfOqNOd8qDjD1E_ugjg/s400/IMAG0193-1.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
And you fall in love all over again.<br />
<br />
The past few months have been more complicated, confusing, and painful than I can really convey, but I truly believe I am a stronger person for having gone through them. Cliche, I know.<br />
<br />
Live and learn they say. I have learned tremendously. I know what I want, what I don't want, what I'll never put myself through again. What's important. What's not. What it's like to be unhappy and in denial about it.<br />
<br />
While I was reflecting on the past, so was he. And we both came to the same conclusion. He fucked up and I wasn't completely crazy.<br />
<br />
I'm mean, it's not that black and white. I made mistakes, too. Let's just leave it at that.<br />
<br />
So, we're returning to the cracked foundation and fixing it. Or at least attempting to. While neither of us know if we can bring it to a point where it is strong enough to hold our lives together, he wants to try.<br />
<br />
So do I.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXBt2ssgE6jPT7W5RdU-ueeuOyt4PWLXRGoBHyitlrl3leGKMPxw12Ug5-jWm1RdaGq3Ejzckl2lp5I3c7W4TiG6HiQldzMs3jxQ37P1OxR0UqrbvNe1d5HE2RlH8JZoGdqmZaxhmBSGSD/s1600/IMAG0413-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXBt2ssgE6jPT7W5RdU-ueeuOyt4PWLXRGoBHyitlrl3leGKMPxw12Ug5-jWm1RdaGq3Ejzckl2lp5I3c7W4TiG6HiQldzMs3jxQ37P1OxR0UqrbvNe1d5HE2RlH8JZoGdqmZaxhmBSGSD/s640/IMAG0413-1.jpg" width="358" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-w9JFKKImPtIk7nBDhxsizjMwd8bwMVifCBxEhhWgcq0nukCfkAimUJg5-n1frD-6arQVusLxuGtBUnuhzgVhwt7IDSwseRC6LwM5cYsVxxeWY4PC4OY9ib9CWCjrLmF0JtC6nJdOT_RK/s1600/IMAG0418-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-w9JFKKImPtIk7nBDhxsizjMwd8bwMVifCBxEhhWgcq0nukCfkAimUJg5-n1frD-6arQVusLxuGtBUnuhzgVhwt7IDSwseRC6LwM5cYsVxxeWY4PC4OY9ib9CWCjrLmF0JtC6nJdOT_RK/s640/IMAG0418-1.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWWXpZ8joJIkpOZ4qyPnuNOJf3KnD7v48-3dfDqWBkBtJOIz85iGswx2i3cStsuTc0u1SOwxp2rYvlwru-SwY0NO3toAJsPuZtR2BO2pgtWStORtRMYeHoPP-WUvWfUAAskQ4Z9ts7106b/s1600/IMAG0420-1-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWWXpZ8joJIkpOZ4qyPnuNOJf3KnD7v48-3dfDqWBkBtJOIz85iGswx2i3cStsuTc0u1SOwxp2rYvlwru-SwY0NO3toAJsPuZtR2BO2pgtWStORtRMYeHoPP-WUvWfUAAskQ4Z9ts7106b/s400/IMAG0420-1-1.jpg" width="350" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-85734200518766475992011-08-16T00:46:00.000-07:002011-08-16T01:11:20.938-07:00LoveI've been hesitant to write the few weeks (months) because I'm not exactly sure what to write about. I think 3 words sum it up. Relationships are complicated.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div>
After years of dating and being serious with a few guys, it's a total game changer when you're actually with someone who <i>truly</i> makes you think, "Is this my forever person?"<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now, nothing is forever so really that question is just stupid. But you get the idea.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Can I live with this person? Can I raise children with this person? Can we compromise on issues that we strongly feel different about? Is love enough?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, I think it's safe to say the answer to that last question is a resounding "no." Now that every single fairytale just blew up in your face, go ahead and wash that glittery fuckdust off. All you need is love? I beg to differ. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's unfortunate. I <i>wholeheartedly</i> wish love was enough. But, love ultimately doesn't make a square peg fit into a round hole. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A saw does that.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So this is where I am. I am in love. I want everything with him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Will it happen? I don't know. We're asking each other the big questions that aren't simply answered. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sure, in time, we'll figure it out, one way or the other. God I wish I was patient.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It should be easy." <b>Shut. The. Fuck. Up.</b> Seriously. Think of all of your greatest accomplishments. Were they easy?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If they were, they probably aren't that great.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm not saying it should be forced, but seriously, if it's too easy, it's going to be boring.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There is no black and white, especially when the connection and emotions between two people are incredibly intense.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
No relationship is perfect because no individual is perfect. Both parties will get hurt. It's about taking the chance and having faith that the good will far outweigh the bad.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Of course, that faith could totally fuck you. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Next thing you know, you're at a "Welcome Back to the Dating World" party where you want to eat the whole tray of cupcakes because the thought of starting all over is entirely too depressing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sigh. I'm really not looking forward to that. But if there is a party, make sure the cupcakes are chocolate with cream cheese icing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thanks.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As I get older, I find I have to fight harder for the things I want. It's no longer about cds and new clothes for school. It's about the career and the amazing guy that I can proudly stand next to.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I think I've found the guy, but that doesn't mean I'll win the fight.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjBo_wMdI8kDxCOQ4itn2B7R56DVdWNvRRJTFSdk2ZUFKAY7mK7WXDeXatd62nFj0nDiralq7iQ_Fu0NSFdAZXQO4qkvkDqgacwGs7cyC3JLOkfm2JkQ6NIm0GjG-QgpIn18JUV7bNuFSI/s1600/mms_picture-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjBo_wMdI8kDxCOQ4itn2B7R56DVdWNvRRJTFSdk2ZUFKAY7mK7WXDeXatd62nFj0nDiralq7iQ_Fu0NSFdAZXQO4qkvkDqgacwGs7cyC3JLOkfm2JkQ6NIm0GjG-QgpIn18JUV7bNuFSI/s320/mms_picture-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-65875867254081999112011-06-14T01:31:00.000-07:002011-06-14T01:46:11.969-07:00Blowin' in the WindI've been promising my friend Dylan this post for awhile. He really has tried just about everything to get me to write about him. He deserves a lot of credit. <br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Unfortunately, his attempts will greatly decrease since he is leaving us for lovely Indiana, so I'm just going to give in. <i>This one time.</i><br />
<div><a name='more'></a></div><div><br />
I think about all the friends I've met in Los Angeles, a place where I initially knew not one soul, and I can't believe how fortunate I have been. The bonds that have been formed are nothing short of incredible and surrounding memories are everlasting.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7OzRIifejT9ffMcpctRi3ei3SY5Bpcj1-SMt4KZ-ptuSvHPus0l85HfSl5kv7slVvT5c1l882WQvVwIbVl2nol4GkZAzsytfIIKxhpHn3kl9RYLEO-gB1EwfW93bNAnsvq-QgKFIjtUnl/s1600/n505137417_1224442_9528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7OzRIifejT9ffMcpctRi3ei3SY5Bpcj1-SMt4KZ-ptuSvHPus0l85HfSl5kv7slVvT5c1l882WQvVwIbVl2nol4GkZAzsytfIIKxhpHn3kl9RYLEO-gB1EwfW93bNAnsvq-QgKFIjtUnl/s320/n505137417_1224442_9528.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>I don't really remember when Dylan was thrown into the mix. I probably said two words to him during the first few months just because that's how I am. But his constant presence at everything we did eventually wore me down, I'm sure.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Either that or one of the<i> hundreds</i> of pick up lines he's used on me.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Honestly, I don't think I've had one person be so persistant. Of course, I never really took him seriously.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I remember after he got his cast removed, for months I still expected to see him with it. It was like I didn't recognize him without it. That was weird.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEgPhQ3KbRIPnEz0eBeNpI7ynlWScRZzm14Fu5c19-YGa8WL03qjHLUyrLm_i-U-e4apdW9JprS7D2OqH6uWrKvFgbXAJbJwX96CCahZsS-j-ecI3gvRkhSgYyW1zRDBnop9TBV5GLDJuI/s1600/7328_143440112417_505137417_2526903_4837316_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEgPhQ3KbRIPnEz0eBeNpI7ynlWScRZzm14Fu5c19-YGa8WL03qjHLUyrLm_i-U-e4apdW9JprS7D2OqH6uWrKvFgbXAJbJwX96CCahZsS-j-ecI3gvRkhSgYyW1zRDBnop9TBV5GLDJuI/s320/7328_143440112417_505137417_2526903_4837316_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>I guess that's what it will be like seeing W.T. playing beer pong without Dylan.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Or beirut. <i>Whatever</i>. STFU.</div><div><br />
</div><div>This kinda sounds like Dylan is dead.</div><div><br />
</div><div>He currently is not.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgINHFJg31beS2Roq9TX1O-aVAaQHXW5S23T3CSkXe_InaKY36UYZ2o0thgkeqgc51AXQZu7q5i8Xot25Zf7BvQtp59_pOKGF-9qdXrCklT-kbY7Ec_3uumOApfDMWtcV1euE3blJuTCmcn/s1600/24262_383907032417_505137417_3736299_7271120_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgINHFJg31beS2Roq9TX1O-aVAaQHXW5S23T3CSkXe_InaKY36UYZ2o0thgkeqgc51AXQZu7q5i8Xot25Zf7BvQtp59_pOKGF-9qdXrCklT-kbY7Ec_3uumOApfDMWtcV1euE3blJuTCmcn/s320/24262_383907032417_505137417_3736299_7271120_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>Losing another dear friend to another state reenforced my realization of how often we take our friends for granted. A habit I'd really like to kick.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It started with Spurg leaving for Nashville. He was always there and then he wasn't. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Now, Dylan takes a bow.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I think it will hit the hardest when we all get together, notice he's not there, and know it's not just because he has to work or he's at another party. He won't be there because he'll be off meeting new people, making new memories, forming new bonds.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvGlTTPxK7TIuZRkAd23ZaNeS6loZvDD7GCfBDEtLl-dEDGqEzfnNE-lhrfb3c0v5fMtxaK_oCkB-sTwnH4NOyndrQTkGm7g6odESIkiS5EUVg0juEUCjKDtmGEf5VdIUAMHaiQUtO_ohq/s1600/7328_143439402417_505137417_2526888_3692847_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvGlTTPxK7TIuZRkAd23ZaNeS6loZvDD7GCfBDEtLl-dEDGqEzfnNE-lhrfb3c0v5fMtxaK_oCkB-sTwnH4NOyndrQTkGm7g6odESIkiS5EUVg0juEUCjKDtmGEf5VdIUAMHaiQUtO_ohq/s320/7328_143439402417_505137417_2526888_3692847_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>I feel like despite the disappointments, the break-ups, the moving on, and growing apart that naturally occurs between a large group of friends, by simply being a part of it at one time or another, you are forever a puzzle piece. <i> Forever connected</i>.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Like any puzzle that's kept for a long time, pieces are bound to be lost, but more than likely they are irreplaceable. That deserves to be acknowledged. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYuKTm_3q7y2mF9dl68FFMrJNLYzxVjaUyAV7Hq5VklIpDsZBC4gkKyCSzhwCRMAc_KzR_CIpT6940mrVztBfafDRmEwUOZqwu2CTB5Ass3B9Net8HRiaSX4NQHBoK_SBWDyP-NxxwnB9U/s1600/46807_587105474153_39200975_33864909_2362105_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYuKTm_3q7y2mF9dl68FFMrJNLYzxVjaUyAV7Hq5VklIpDsZBC4gkKyCSzhwCRMAc_KzR_CIpT6940mrVztBfafDRmEwUOZqwu2CTB5Ass3B9Net8HRiaSX4NQHBoK_SBWDyP-NxxwnB9U/s320/46807_587105474153_39200975_33864909_2362105_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>And who knows, when we least expect it, we may find a piece or two again one day.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I can't speak for anyone but myself, but Dylan, just like Spurg, you are an integral piece of <i>my</i> puzzle and it will be hard to ignore your absence.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6-JMAuifH8_kovGkxtdQfgJQbnPn9YUhSH4Ee13YIxqfVEnr3s8UsF1h6JUdyYEqvWf6ccHdCrjwH3NDeZFouJ2hFiNgxpbmU4ZdnGjiFDfA8CzFrAe5wKzXJe3jG-r5D8Y5fkRQI830z/s1600/166414_688722906658_4701889_38035803_7439094_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6-JMAuifH8_kovGkxtdQfgJQbnPn9YUhSH4Ee13YIxqfVEnr3s8UsF1h6JUdyYEqvWf6ccHdCrjwH3NDeZFouJ2hFiNgxpbmU4ZdnGjiFDfA8CzFrAe5wKzXJe3jG-r5D8Y5fkRQI830z/s320/166414_688722906658_4701889_38035803_7439094_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>I could tell you how amazingly sweet and caring and intelligent you are. </div><div><br />
</div><div><i>But I don't feel like it.</i></div><div><br />
</div><div>I should wish you the best of luck.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>But you don't need it.</i></div><div><br />
</div><div>I would hope you don't forget us.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>But you won't.</i> Pretty sure the internet will make that impossible.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtn6tgWZAHN9DR1weBHkyt91l1QCXkPuRji2p2fnSL-Q3Az3wsjLmm4HlXmzGVHtnujptxu_Z4foi2hfx7Y3eI4D0yt9X07lsV3zvbkL992hdF9uAS8d9u1VraC0zxq30IIk_R7EGdDl1o/s1600/IMG_2154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtn6tgWZAHN9DR1weBHkyt91l1QCXkPuRji2p2fnSL-Q3Az3wsjLmm4HlXmzGVHtnujptxu_Z4foi2hfx7Y3eI4D0yt9X07lsV3zvbkL992hdF9uAS8d9u1VraC0zxq30IIk_R7EGdDl1o/s320/IMG_2154.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div>I don't really know what else to say. There are only so many ways to express how much one will be missed and I'm not good with words.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Dylan, I hope there is a super hot smart girl waiting for you in the Midwest because you certainly are deserving.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I know you're still in town, but once you actually do fucking leave, please come back soon.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Love, </div><div>Cheryl</div>cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-83734091927378594832011-05-30T00:40:00.000-07:002011-05-30T00:48:20.299-07:00Dear Last NightTo all my friends who were at Bar Lubitsch last night, thank you and I'm sorry.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>First, it was just really fucking great to see all your faces. Second, I appreciate everyone following their "hello" with some version of "is your boyfriend here?" </div><div><a name='more'></a><br />
Seriously. I don't think any of you have ever known me to have a boyfriend, and it was heartwarming to know there was interest in meeting this significant new person in my life.</div><div><br />
</div><div>You like me, you really like me. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Or at least were curious to see what he looks like.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Third, I was drunk and unfortunately there's a chance I don't remember what I said to you and probably talked about some stupid boring shit that I thought was incredibly intriguing at the time. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I'm sorry. I haven't had much drinking practice in the past, oh, 3 years. </div><div><br />
</div><div>We'll get back to that.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So now you know that he exists and his name is Rhoades. Rhoades Rader. Real name. I asked.</div><div><br />
</div><div>By the time he showed up, no one was sober. I don't remember who I introduced him to and I'm sure the conversations were short, but he'll be around for awhile. <br />
<br />
Hopefully.</div><div><br />
</div><div>At least 3 of you guys threatened him, and for that I also thank you. DU was definitely the most adamant about it and pretty much made my night.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I have to admit, I was really excited to introduce him to the people I love the most in this city. Apparently, it was written all over my face because I didn't stop smiling. I couldn't help it. My friends make me happy and he makes me happy. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Being able to bring the two together, well that's just an explosion of happiness.</div><div><br />
</div><div>There was one hiccup, though. When I went outside to pull him out of line and bring him into the bar, I'm pretty sure that in some unknown word combination I told him I was in love with him.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>Oops</i>.</div><div><br />
</div><div>What did he say? Oh, I have no fucking idea. I <i>think</i> he was smiling?</div><div><br />
</div><div>Then, if that wasn't enough, I <i>reiterated</i> it while dancing with him. Again, no real idea of what I said. No clue what he said.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Maybe something like the feeling was mutual, but I could be totally making that up. I mean, I fell on my way to the bathroom, it was that kinda night.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So, yeah. <i>#winning</i></div><div><br />
</div><div>Then, like a champ, I spent over an hour in his bathroom with my head in the toilet. And him, like an awesome person, held my hair back and fed me ice cubes.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It was adorable. I would have taken a picture if I hadn't lost my camera at the bar.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So many reminders in just a few hours of why I don't really drink. I suck.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Thank you for making the introduction of Rhoades a pleasant experience. He'll be at the next march, so everyone there will be sober for at least the first five minutes.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'm sorry for being a drunken mess. My relationship with the toilet continued for a good part of the day. It was fun.</div><div><br />
</div><div>To all my friends - I like you, I really like you.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Or love, depends on how drunk you get me.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TEKWZk16N_w">U + Me</a></div><div><br />
</div>cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-5519331865972600332011-05-13T10:12:00.001-07:002011-05-13T11:05:50.434-07:00Official<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Welp. I have a boyfriend. And to all those who swear by "You'll find him when you least expect it" I call bullshit. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Sure, maybe you'll bump into some cute guy (girl) at Starbucks and accidentally spill some of your sugar with a hint of coffee drink on his (her) neatly pressed, light blue, eye matching shirt (dress) that cost him $199 dollars at Marc Jacobs for Men (Anthropologie), and he'll (she'll) just flash a dazzling smile, say it's fine and ask you to join him (her). </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>Sure.</i></div><a name='more'></a><br />
Let me be clear, in case it wasn't painfully obvious up until this point, I was looking. I had been looking for awhile. And you know what, if I hadn't spent all that time looking, I would have never figured out exactly what I wanted. All those awful or bland first dates were in no way a waste of time, they were learning experiences. Do you know what I would have learned if I hadn't been "looking?"<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>Nothing.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I'd still be a miserable bitch complaining about how I don't understand why I can't meet a nice guy.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">For the first time in, perhaps ever, I feel that in no way am I settling. There is no, "...but I wish he..." And for me, that's pretty incredible.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Remember my rant about "The Talk?" Here's how ours went:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Me: Blah blah blah blah</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Him: Blah blah blah</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Me: Blah blah (No mention of what we were doing, or where the two of us stood, or where was it going.)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Him: Just so you know, I have no interest in dating or sleeping with anyone else.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Me: Oh. Me neither.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Him: Then it's settled.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">How fucking <i>easy</i> was that? Seriously.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">That's how it should be.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">How long did we wait until we had sex? I know at least one of you dicks are wondering. A month.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">No, I did not have a date set and was keeping my legs closed until then. It was completely organic. It was about getting to know the person first. You know, like everyone says you should. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It was <i>amazing. </i>An unparalleled physical and emotional connection. Still is. Enough said.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">On Easter I met his parents. At first he gave me the choice to join them for dinner or not. After all, it had only been a month. <br />
<br />
"No" was my immediate mental response. <br />
<br />
Then, he said if I was going to say no because I'd feel awkward for no other reason than I'd be meeting them, I had to go, because no matter how long I would wait, I'd feel just as awkward.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Yep, he's got me pegged.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I <i>did not</i> want to go. I was nervous. I don't <i>really</i> like people.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">His dad noticed my knees were all black and blue (from playing catcher during softball) and he asked me if they were begging bruises.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I told him his son wasn't lucky enough, yet. I was able to breathe after that.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">So happily ever after? Uh, who knows. I'm pretty good at fucking things up.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But don't worry, I'll keep you posted.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And yes, he is aware of this blog, and that I may or may not write about him. <br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, I sent him one of my posts as an example. Then, I sent him the link in case he wanted full disclosure. His response:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I feel like this peels back a certain side of you that I want to get to know in context. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">That can't happen if I pour through your blog picking and choosing quotes that I file away in ways that may or may not be relevant to who We are...planting false seeds of doubt and unreal fantasies from your past along a lush path that we have yet to dance upon."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm a <i>bit</i> jaded and cynical, but I had to pause after reading that. I mean, mock me as you will, but it's pretty fantastic. I feel incredibly lucky to have met a guy who is able and willing to communicate. And is damn good at it.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I would say I've waited awhile for him. He would say we've waited awhile for each other.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Moral of the story - Put yourself out there. I don't mean sell yourself on the corner, but if you're really hurting for money, just be sure to slap a wrapper on it.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dylan, I did not forget about you, I'm just waiting for our weekend adventure.</span></div>cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-23720966615621915512011-04-07T03:44:00.000-07:002011-04-07T04:26:45.405-07:00One Word - Vegas.I recently revisited an old stomping ground, Vegas. The bar/club scene there is a little different than I've experienced elsewhere. Everyone seems to have one thing on their mind - the one night (or weekend) stand. <br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
I cannot claim to be above this mentality as it was where I had my first one night stand. Well, until it was technically voided because I continued sleeping with the guy for 3 months.<br />
<br />
<i>That's</i> how good it was.<br />
<br />
Since then, the novelty of random sex in Vegas has worn off. Now, hotel sex with someone I'm dating, that novelty never wears off. Let's not get the two confused.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi19kKD65nhA-FAYd2jfrQ-FcIqcTyqeH8dGowOlydELqNhkngOcn8ZmBgN7V_dCM93XEnd3Txn7oN-dnCELGnlLRPnm2tM3ci8hPkGugoPZBmXtW_ZuwjNwhDLtBzbEdL5YmZGQfJKMgAO/s1600/IMG_0461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi19kKD65nhA-FAYd2jfrQ-FcIqcTyqeH8dGowOlydELqNhkngOcn8ZmBgN7V_dCM93XEnd3Txn7oN-dnCELGnlLRPnm2tM3ci8hPkGugoPZBmXtW_ZuwjNwhDLtBzbEdL5YmZGQfJKMgAO/s320/IMG_0461.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>So how do you deal with the intoxicated guys who think all it takes is a few compliments and a thrust of their penis against your leg to get you to leave with them? Well, they will inevitably ask you where you are from and you simply answer: <b>Vegas</b>.<br />
<br />
This may be the most significant piece of knowledge I obtained while living there.<br />
<br />
As soon as a guy hears that you live in Vegas his whole demeanor changes. E.G. saw how effective this was first hand. It's wonderful.<br />
<br />
If they're not completely hammered, they're able to process that since you "live" in Vegas, the chances that you are out looking to get laid are much, <i>much</i> lower. The usual response is something like, "Oh, you live here? That's cool" as they try to figure out how to get away.<br />
<br />
It's almost too easy.<br />
<br />
If, for some reason, I find you interesting enough to let you talk to me while at a club (I mean, come on, I hear music and <b>all I want to do is dance</b>) don't occupy me for 45 minutes without offering to go to the bar for a drink refill. I'm not even saying the guy has to pay for it, just make sure I have some alcohol in my hand or you're going to get annoying real quick.<br />
<br />
During these wasted 45 minutes the guy informed me that he had tried 3 times to engage me in conversation and that each time my response was equivalent to that of a 5th graders.<br />
<br />
This spawned the greatest comment <i>never</i> said by E.G. "That's probably because you're boring."<br />
<br />
Clearly I needed to spell it out to him like <i>he</i> was a 5th grader. N.O.T. I.N.T.E.R.E.S.T.E.D. <br />
<br />
We were just being nice because he was a friend of a friend. Time to go to the bathroom.<br />
<br />
A.k.a. ditch your ass. Sorry.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioomXd3HPjPf7g8Gult7vdx5p7m6_9XoW-GW3LbRUtPFmJZG3szxC9zOX9iu4nzhF8NCX2uQudaZIknRkbdxA46PeCf3OMOMFi9f-9oBH_rQAPzUa1Xd1DXu6WNCJW7kPKSAgCN8oGNqJc/s1600/lacme+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioomXd3HPjPf7g8Gult7vdx5p7m6_9XoW-GW3LbRUtPFmJZG3szxC9zOX9iu4nzhF8NCX2uQudaZIknRkbdxA46PeCf3OMOMFi9f-9oBH_rQAPzUa1Xd1DXu6WNCJW7kPKSAgCN8oGNqJc/s320/lacme+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>While in Sin City I was able to catch up with my first West Coast friend, L.J. We got around to talking about guys and relationships, of course, and the main theme was how do you know? <br />
<br />
Yes, just like that movie with Reese Witherspoon.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaQXtGuLflkt1OtpYJAxSuAyZ-9lZgPF_87KdOhlGZkLhzlNlUlPNFu-BHxN_EzDUWc_Q5ecBUVTVazuAMI_1wpode84ekX2kVRKFRD3tr9vpXYrKPvnhbSBlIAzK7br1hUt62dnbd1OJy/s1600/how-do-you-know-movie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaQXtGuLflkt1OtpYJAxSuAyZ-9lZgPF_87KdOhlGZkLhzlNlUlPNFu-BHxN_EzDUWc_Q5ecBUVTVazuAMI_1wpode84ekX2kVRKFRD3tr9vpXYrKPvnhbSBlIAzK7br1hUt62dnbd1OJy/s320/how-do-you-know-movie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>When asked about love at first sight, the Beatles' respond with "Yes I'm certain that it happens all the time." I believe they were being a bit facetious.<br />
<br />
There was that one time in Lake Havasu when a guy walked into the bar and I instantly thought, "there's my future husband."<br />
<br />
<i>That was retarded</i>. But, I did briefly date him, in case you were wondering.<br />
<br />
Seriously though, how do you know when it's right and he's (she's) the one? So many people seem to answer this question with, "You just know." Really? <i>Really?</i> <br />
<br />
Personally, I only want to get married once. So to think that there's no certain answer when it comes to how do you know, well that's quite scary. And yet, a little invigorating. <br />
<br />
To have body and mind pull toward a person so much that you know you want to spend the rest of your life with them, that's incredible.<br />
<br />
If that's what happens anyway. <br />
<br />
TBD.<br />
<br />
As for Gun Guy, he's still making me smile and it's intoxicating.<br />
<br />
Look at how many adjectives I can use that begin with the letter I. It's almost inspiring.<br />
<br />
I know, you're gagging. I'll stop.<br />
<br />
Hey Dylan, what are you up to Friday night? Next post is all you, buddy.cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-5219585088584398872011-03-20T16:31:00.000-07:002011-04-07T04:10:00.916-07:00God and GunsSo a lapsed Catholic and a Pastor walk into a coffee shop. The beginning of a politically incorrect joke? <br />
<br />
Probably. But in this case, it's just another day in my dating world.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
We met at a little place called Stir Crazy on Melrose. I ordered my usual - hot chocolate. It basically came in a pot and it was delicious. The little cafe was filled with people and their macs but more cozy than pretentious.<br />
<br />
This guy was definitely the hottest pastor I have ever met. I don't really know what that says, but he was cute. Even the pierced eyebrow didn't bother me. It was the "what do you think of my bro, Jesus?" that kinda caught me off guard.<br />
<br />
I pointed out that he has a big month coming up.<br />
<br />
Pastor was incredibly nice with good taste in music, but I was so self conscious about what I was saying that I didn't <i>really</i> feel like I could be myself.<br />
<br />
Am I allowed to curse? Is he going to ask me when was the last time I went to church? Should I keep the coat hanger jokes to myself?<br />
<br />
So then I started to over compensate. I talked <i>way</i> too much. This time it was me who was vomiting words. I knew what I was doing and I just couldn't stop.<br />
<br />
I want to go back in time and duct tape my mouth shut. Oh well, moving on.<br />
<br />
This weekend I went bar hopping in Downtown LA for the first time. Initially, the idea was to go and test out some theories on how to get a guy to approach you. E.G., S.T., and myself were particularly interested in testing out the positioning, mirroring, and staring (actually holding eye contact) methods.<br />
<br />
Turns out, we had an addition of some lovely friends including a few guys, and as we know, it's usually more difficult to pick up guys when you're with a bunch of them. So we just stuck to drinking.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I was definitely looking, but honestly, there really wasn't much to look at.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSVNbhkgW7Bu2S9f1vJZjkUj6nt7_Bu5zzNVuIzzJeIVKylgZJakmv1DJP5W-e1fYLMpIMxTtqGNsZRGo0UEwHAaIqxyV5h6cAxjHoX81L_MylwhJUV0vIcl5-8GflSKx060o81slt9GO/s1600/IMG_1965.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSVNbhkgW7Bu2S9f1vJZjkUj6nt7_Bu5zzNVuIzzJeIVKylgZJakmv1DJP5W-e1fYLMpIMxTtqGNsZRGo0UEwHAaIqxyV5h6cAxjHoX81L_MylwhJUV0vIcl5-8GflSKx060o81slt9GO/s320/IMG_1965.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>We started at Bar Centro in Beverly Hills for some sea salt air and cotton candy mixed with our alcohol. Old, plastic, and possibly transgendered is the best way I can think to describe that experience.<br />
<br />
Then we jumped in the car and headed east. First bar we actually made it into was the Library Bar. It was a bit on the smaller side but had couches and bookshelves with real, removable books!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLJHis3SuHV8t-t0tA6VXtQY3Bs1rAtPlsJsMMPHYElcoRjl49a0pgCznyUKZZhYQ4TINrOS7Bd-pnV-zYaCfurcd3dVKZqFesr5HO9FFoCJS6cjf6ZngU8CnB3FbdY-ZWYB1QHi_FhS6_/s1600/IMG_1968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLJHis3SuHV8t-t0tA6VXtQY3Bs1rAtPlsJsMMPHYElcoRjl49a0pgCznyUKZZhYQ4TINrOS7Bd-pnV-zYaCfurcd3dVKZqFesr5HO9FFoCJS6cjf6ZngU8CnB3FbdY-ZWYB1QHi_FhS6_/s320/IMG_1968.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">From there we went to Public School which had menus in the style of composition books. I tried to step out of my comfort zone with a dark coconut, vanilla, coffee beer. It would have taken me two hours to finish it, I had to take such little sips. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So much for experimenting.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8bIHRbIBiRnKM2hedbYWZawNGhX44YPSBYDuZEwv1DT6M3vqyIp090H_zNldbbPu3h3MjCDxq2ygDn-4W00_wzxRS1y63Egq9z9enGbn4k_JCgWXqXXSAtGuzc1sSoSaV93AfKg0p4Af/s1600/IMG_1970.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8bIHRbIBiRnKM2hedbYWZawNGhX44YPSBYDuZEwv1DT6M3vqyIp090H_zNldbbPu3h3MjCDxq2ygDn-4W00_wzxRS1y63Egq9z9enGbn4k_JCgWXqXXSAtGuzc1sSoSaV93AfKg0p4Af/s320/IMG_1970.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We ended the night at The Association, an unmarked bar next to Cole's on 6th street. Loud, decent music. A bit more swanky than the previous bars. Probably would have been the best place to test out our theories had we been there earlier and sans male friends.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I have to admit that even if we were able to do a little boy scouting, I was distracted. Earlier that day, I had experienced quite possibly the Best. Date. Ever.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was a second date which was planned during our first date. I give him credit, that was an impressive move. Fuck the 3 day waiting game. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">During our first date he asked me if I wrote. I told him I kinda wrote a dating blog. He laughed and asked, "Is that was this is?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">No, no, no. Unless you're a retard. Then yes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I told him that I really only write about the more negative of my experiences. He asked why and I said that the positive experiences were less entertaining.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He said, "Or just more romantic."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I wanted to laugh and make some sarcastic remark, but I stopped myself, looked at him, genuinely smiled, and said, "or just more romantic."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A week later he picked me up and we went to LA Gun Club. This was a huge first for me, I was <i>so</i> nervous and it was <i>so</i> obvious. He was amazingly patient when teaching me how to load and shoot.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Hint hint - guys, this is a great idea for a date. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As long as the girl isn't a pussy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At first I jumped every time a gun went off, then I was just blinking for every shot. My first shot went right through the middle of the target's throat. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Suck it! Oh wait, you can't, I just fucked up your throat, bitch.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That was pretty awesome. My new goal is to become a marksman.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When we were done, he asked me if I wanted to accompany him to a dog's birthday party. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yeah, his guess was as good as mine. This was a first for both of us. It was as ridiculous as it sounds. Like a Discovery Zone for dogs.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Apparently, I was able to contain some of my social awkwardness because a third date was planned before the end of the day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It feels different with him. Maybe because he is a few years older. He's got his shit together. The perfect mix of intelligence and humor, of maturity and immaturity. In only two dates he's already picked up on so many of my idiosyncrasies and isn't intimidated.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yet.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He touches my hand and I stop breathing. I can't think about him without smiling or my stomach tightening.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Could this go up in flames? Hell yeah. But isn't this the part, right here, that dating is all about? The excitement and anticipation of getting to know someone? Saying goodbye and already looking forward to seeing them again? I think so.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I wouldn't exactly call this romantic yet, but it sure is positive.</div>cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-4272886961117099252011-02-14T17:35:00.000-08:002011-02-14T17:39:26.729-08:00VD for MA<div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Happy Valentine's Day kids! If you're not already reading <a href="http://tomyhusband.tumblr.com/">http://tomyhusband.tumblr.com/</a>, do so. Why? Page 8. "Valentine's Day - I don't care. No, really. It's a bullshit Hallmark holiday. There's no need for candy, flowers, or anything cheesy. Just make me cum that night."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Enough said.</div><a name='more'></a><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
You follow that rule and I'll get down on my knees and take you there. Don't worry about tomorrow, I just want to use your love tonight.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I spend a lot of time talking to my friends about sex. Heaven help me, it's a true interest of mine. I'd make it a hobby, but then I'd just be a whore. For a good time call...</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">So what does a single girl do? I mean, I basically have two options. Well, <i>technically</i> three.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">1: Go out, pick up randoms, add a bunch of notches to my bed post.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">2: Continue to have sex with a guy that I've been hooking up with on and off for the past 2+ years.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">3: Stay abstinent until the book of love opens up and lets me in. <b>Go fuck yourself</b>.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Every now and then I get a little bit lonely, so I have to evaluate my options. And, while option 2 may or may not involve an asshole, it's still the choice I keep reverting to. With 2, I can be sober, feel comfortable, and <i>really</i> enjoy what's going on.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The problem is, if it becomes too consistent it turns into a mind fuck. My brain knows it's just sex, but my lame ass girl emotions start jumping up and down and it suddenly becomes sticky.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Not literally, I swallow.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">So, while 2 is far more pleasurable than the other option(s), eventually I get caught up in circles, and that confusion is nothing new.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Is it worth it?</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I don't know. But I will always pick 2 over 1.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I mean, if I'm sober enough to make that choice.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuIqmPRrj808C1llvNhhjeVSXipv16lJNU0k9bBeMj8NuoyL7cS5D4hQa1Bbnj7_PzFuVTi3MDXFbWKkH_D9cCat5GsfiQFrBr3Gr7epkepihlqGHQdL_Ni0MLX1lRvNjW2W86GPnzXeKh/s1600/IMG_1871.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuIqmPRrj808C1llvNhhjeVSXipv16lJNU0k9bBeMj8NuoyL7cS5D4hQa1Bbnj7_PzFuVTi3MDXFbWKkH_D9cCat5GsfiQFrBr3Gr7epkepihlqGHQdL_Ni0MLX1lRvNjW2W86GPnzXeKh/s200/IMG_1871.JPG" width="156" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I'm classy. </div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">With that said, I've been on a couple dates in the past week. Good thing I'm not 22 anymore, apparently one doesn't date girls that age, you basically just fuck them.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; clear: left; color: black; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Hm, or <i>do</i> I wish I was 22 again...?</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">No. Definitely not. </div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Both dates were tolerable. Date one (Shepard) talked way too much and didn't seem to have a filter. He wasn't inappropriate, but he talked about things that led me to one word responses. </div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Boring.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Another one bites the dust.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Date two (Val) was a little better, but I'm not yet fully convinced. We're having dinner this week, so I'll have a better idea after that I suppose.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">He started excitedly talking about the Meisner Method for acting and I looked up at the clock. Yay for being passionate.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I guess.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">He also plays drums in a band. Probably why I said yes to dinner.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It's not exactly fair to instantly write off wanna-be actors. I know this much is true, one of my favorite people in LA is an actor and he's wonderful. But, <i>maybe</i> I'm biased towards him because I know how good he is in bed.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The devil's in the details.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Over the weekend my friend introduced me to his friend, a Ginger. After the swapping of names he decided Ginger and I were a perfect match and shared that realization with us.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Great, now talking to Ginger is<i> immediately</i> awkward. Then Ginger's first question was my most hated.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"What do you do?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"You mean when I'm not dress up as a referee?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I quickly told him my position and he wanted to launch into a discussion about Final Cut.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Calm down. We're at the first bar on a 3 mile march to the sea. Let's not talk about work. You clearly aren't drinking fast enough.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The guy was very nice though, and, incredibly smart. So in the end, what was wrong?</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b>HE'S A GINGER</b>.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I mean, <i>on fire</i>. And not the awesome NBA Jam "on fire," more like the kind of fire I can't put out.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Is that absolutely horrible?</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Yes. But, hey, love is a battlefield.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Someone once said that the owner of a lonely heart is much better than the owner of a broken heart. I suppose that may feel true at some point.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I'm glad I don't have either at the moment. Mine's just pretty much stone cold.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Oh well, at least I don't look my age. Forever young.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2gUPeODj6eIT1NqkyAKJWJEl658kLJ1sB6JcTZqQrTCu9X80F2a8eWnTV7JH7U6nSHni82kohXVzPGs4rbCB-36dl-s01qj8PL1pbqi8c5ngGvOFlkmUF5glg87Y0hjt-Omq2nXNGcDq4/s1600/Foo+Fighters+02.08.11+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2gUPeODj6eIT1NqkyAKJWJEl658kLJ1sB6JcTZqQrTCu9X80F2a8eWnTV7JH7U6nSHni82kohXVzPGs4rbCB-36dl-s01qj8PL1pbqi8c5ngGvOFlkmUF5glg87Y0hjt-Omq2nXNGcDq4/s320/Foo+Fighters+02.08.11+5.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">P.S. I saw the Foo Fighters last week along with 250 other incredibly lucky people and it blew my fucking mind. Also, this post is littered with 80s lyrics, in case you were too clueless to figure that shit out.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Good luck getting laid tonight.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div>cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-48767340389993633302011-01-23T23:40:00.000-08:002011-01-23T23:51:49.154-08:00Let's Talk<div>I will begin by saying that on this New Year's Eve in San Diego, I was poked with a frozen sausage and that was the most action I got. I see that as an improvement from last year.</div><div><br />
</div>Now, I've come to realize through repeated experiences that girls dislike conversations which are prefaced with some variation of "We need to talk..." just as much as guys. When a conversation starts in such a fashion it is very rare that both parties will walk away happy.<br />
<a name='more'></a>I think I could go the rest of my life without hearing or speaking those words and be quite content.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Girl: "Can we talk?"</div><div><br />
</div><div><b>What she's really saying:</b> Do you like me because I like you and we're hanging out all the time and we talk a lot and I think you're cute and since we're having sex my emotions are going crazy 'cause I love having sex with you and I'm probably confusing lust with love but I still want to make sure you're not sleeping with anyone else 'cause I'll go batshit crazy wondering if you are sleeping with another girl so what I'm really asking is can we be mutually exclusive? </div><div><br />
</div><div><i>Commitment.</i></div><div><br />
</div><div>Guy: "Can we talk?"</div><div><br />
</div><div><b>What he's really saying:</b> You're awesome. I'd fuck you. I have no interest in dating you.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>Friends.</i></div><div><br />
</div><div>See? </div><div><br />
</div><div>Both suck. And not in a wet, tongue-twirling kind of way.</div><div><br />
</div><div><b>Thank God for friends.</b> <i>Seriously</i>.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'm lucky to go out on weekends surrounded by a bunch of good looking guys who are willing to be my wingmen in a second.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Have you met Ted (Cheryl)?</div><div><br />
</div><div>And, if there is no one who catches my interest, that's ok. I just stare at my hot friends who make me laugh.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'm just as lucky to have even better looking girl friends.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Last weekend I went to Big Foot West with J.C. and J.B. If you remember, the guy to girl ratio here is very favorable to the females. With a low douchebag count, the vibe in general is very chill.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT8GEpFuFK-_h6YGtv5Es1p-iRTdnv_JE9VUfto7GTkiOvHCgsmDeBgqWztWb5St27WPo19VSjV3Pkp6vHUPPNBQtmEkeO71Bx6q6xjkhyFj22L1w8b5cexP0K6UrsNMN39H2Lkh_RoN-L/s1600/IMG_1855.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT8GEpFuFK-_h6YGtv5Es1p-iRTdnv_JE9VUfto7GTkiOvHCgsmDeBgqWztWb5St27WPo19VSjV3Pkp6vHUPPNBQtmEkeO71Bx6q6xjkhyFj22L1w8b5cexP0K6UrsNMN39H2Lkh_RoN-L/s320/IMG_1855.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Plus, they have this toasted marshmallow drink that I want to swim in and consume at the same time. Divine. But I digress.</div><div><br />
</div><div>J.C. asked me to tell her who I wanted to talk to so she could go up and grab them for me.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I just smiled. Had I pointed someone out, she totally would have done it, and for that I love her.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But just the thought of her pulling a guy and dragging him over to me makes my face turn shades of red.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I <i>really</i> wish that didn't happen. So annoying.</div><div><br />
</div><div>There's got to be a better way. Right?</div><div><br />
</div><div>Well, this weekend I found out that if you are visibly injured, as I was with an ankle brace and a limp, that gives guys the perfect conversation starter.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And it's not, "Can we talk."</div><div><br />
</div><div>This makes their approach easier and more likely.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I think I will wear a dress with an ankle brace accessory all the time.</div><div><br />
</div><div>That or Fuck Me boots. Those work too, apparently.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Over these past few weeks I have fallen in love with my friends all over again. It's a consistent affair and one I wish never to end.</div><div><br />
</div><div>One day, what I know I should do with guy and what I want to do with him will match up.</div><div><br />
</div><div>There will be no need for that <i>fucking</i> "The Talk" conversation.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The words will shine through the eyes, be written on the smile, and float through the chemistry.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Well, in some fantasy theory anyway.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I will look back at all the shit I tried to turn into flowers and laugh at how silly I was.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Until then, I will order some personal business cards and hand them out randomly. It's all about the numbers, right?<br />
<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkqttUz9-L3osEU2bcWtdLgOc3cip2QThixwYiKzZpV5uBst7xDZmlE20jpWt0Z5F3MpYnLHs6fijuLW1QaYrbIKEDsfr9rw5e-IECEpGFanltgSbT1GbdjrBvwJ63HORrx-9aOQmuEl3J/s1600/card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkqttUz9-L3osEU2bcWtdLgOc3cip2QThixwYiKzZpV5uBst7xDZmlE20jpWt0Z5F3MpYnLHs6fijuLW1QaYrbIKEDsfr9rw5e-IECEpGFanltgSbT1GbdjrBvwJ63HORrx-9aOQmuEl3J/s320/card.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-5553973827396869642010-12-28T01:28:00.000-08:002010-12-28T02:09:02.562-08:00New YearI think it's safe to say that we're all ready to move on from 2010, some maybe a little more than others. Fortunately, I escaped this year with very little drama. THANK GOD last New Year's Eve didn't set the tone for the rest of the year, then I would have been screwed. I'm talking "'just the tip' turns into a fist full of thunder beads up the ass" screwed.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Not that that happened. I swear.<br />
<br />
For NYE this year, I'm headed back to San Diego and with no intention of repeating last year's events. Though, I'm sure I didn't have those intentions then either. Oh well, live, learn, and then tell the embarrassing stories.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLXcyG0N9ErbxT4LRTRBFuVSAB_XCSrG9vvFS6iLYkmoRclVEfJ3P1Xc2O4hXSvcJlamedWs5vF2PfLl3r8Zm5FJdlEEIp3h4EZY5upQBTIX_7n2RvMNaT8ZtUAOf5lmig8NLJIiotK_b_/s1600/nye2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLXcyG0N9ErbxT4LRTRBFuVSAB_XCSrG9vvFS6iLYkmoRclVEfJ3P1Xc2O4hXSvcJlamedWs5vF2PfLl3r8Zm5FJdlEEIp3h4EZY5upQBTIX_7n2RvMNaT8ZtUAOf5lmig8NLJIiotK_b_/s320/nye2010.jpg" width="263" /></a></div>I promised updates, so here we go. Thomas, the guy from the Mandrake, was nice. Nothing particularly wrong with him, but I felt no connection. It was <i>really awesome</i> when I went to hug him goodbye and he forced a kiss instead. I didn't kiss back. Uh, it was weird. Like if your brother tried to kiss you on the lips or something.<br />
<br />
<b>Not that that has happened to me either.</b><br />
<br />
He introduced me to Bigfoot West. Ladies, the guy to girl ratio here is <i>incredible</i>. Just passing that knowledge along.<br />
<br />
For the next couple days he would text me, but not until after 11:30pm. So great, you're interested, but hi, there's a whole 14 hours before that when attempted communication would seem more appropriate.<br />
<br />
It gave me a better excuse to ignore him.<br />
<br />
Now another guy, Brian, was a bit more interesting. Extremely sarcastic so we got along just fine. Well, that is until I realized he was sarcastic 98% of the time. It seemed like he was so afraid to say something that I might not like that he decided not to say anything real at all.<br />
<br />
Where's the fun in agreeing with someone all the time? A couple should have interesting debates over different view points once in awhile. <br />
<br />
It leads to intense sex. So I hear.<br />
<br />
After this realization, it was really hard for me to talk to him. I mean, I <i>love</i> sarcasm. But not when its overuse keeps me from getting to know anything about someone.<br />
<br />
And go figure, the kid is a total loner. <br />
<br />
I need someone who has their own thing going so I don't have to supply all the entertainment. The only reason I would have dated him is because I felt sorry for him.<br />
<br />
<i>Brilliant.</i><br />
<br />
That goodbye was even more fantastic than the one with Thomas. I drove Brian to his car. We hugged and then I moved all the way against my door and waited for him to get out. He started to lean toward me again and then backed off saying, "Is that all I'm going to get."<br />
<br />
<b>Yep.</b><br />
<br />
The saving grace of the date was that we ate at the Library Alehouse. Jerk chicken with mango salsa, fried plantains, and sweet potato fries. Delicious. So glad that thinking about it has now made me hungry at 1:30am.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx1nbNesMnJ3fYCPHOMZArRQmg1ysP1FTlNx-CxF8ThBBiujvTk9PUfjTi2YjSZEmV4MMYFyvpS0b7AmTMP5Ul9aDHKi0WheyKvYU6pUDenhGE1Yegk7jJ87aI0EjBUO6KcAaNR7wEZmnv/s1600/plantains.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx1nbNesMnJ3fYCPHOMZArRQmg1ysP1FTlNx-CxF8ThBBiujvTk9PUfjTi2YjSZEmV4MMYFyvpS0b7AmTMP5Ul9aDHKi0WheyKvYU6pUDenhGE1Yegk7jJ87aI0EjBUO6KcAaNR7wEZmnv/s200/plantains.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Dear male friends, this is a great place for a date, especially if you sit in the back patio area. Trust me.<br />
<br />
Last, and probably least, there was Brandon. An incredibly wealthy and accomplished doctor who wanted to take to me Koi on our first date. <br />
<br />
Maybe I'm retarded, but the thought of meeting someone for the first time at a relatively expensive restaurant makes me <i>incredibly</i> uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
I don't want to feel obligated to like someone just because they dropped over $100 on our first night out.<br />
<br />
Then, using a little thing called the internet, I did some research and found out the guy "misrepresented" his age and appearance.<br />
<br />
Why do guys (and girls) on dating sites do this? <br />
<br />
Do they enjoy catching that flash of disappointment from their date when she (he) sees that the person definitely used their most flattering pictures from 10 years ago?<br />
<br />
<b>I. Don't. Get. It.</b><br />
<br />
I cancelled on him faster than it takes me to say yes to hot chocolate. ??<br />
<br />
So with 2011 just a few days away, I've decided to set my expectations for the year low.<br />
<br />
I want to play paintball for the first time. I want to camp at Yosemite. I want to improve my 1/2 marathon time. <br />
<br />
I want to be able to play most Rock Band songs on hard. I want to go fishing. I want to read more books. <br />
<br />
I want to finally get my glasses fixed so they actually stay on my face. I want to eat from all the awesome food trucks.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgixlW5CQZXLF0_LYNOPc7C0jd0-4ezMjGMWlfyBl2-WSF_AfS-cIlBDWAh3uKOLXNyn6DfO4c7nH1YVXNuigUEDalZ_JNqwjA467cf5kkIwUxP9Shrj4IdcpMldMssEofWWEN1dgu1tQbY/s1600/trucks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgixlW5CQZXLF0_LYNOPc7C0jd0-4ezMjGMWlfyBl2-WSF_AfS-cIlBDWAh3uKOLXNyn6DfO4c7nH1YVXNuigUEDalZ_JNqwjA467cf5kkIwUxP9Shrj4IdcpMldMssEofWWEN1dgu1tQbY/s320/trucks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I want to strengthen relationships with friends and family, even if I have to bribe with bacon.<br />
<br />
I want to know if I should lease another VW or just buy the one I have now.<br />
<br />
Off-topic.<br />
<br />
I want to have fun, learn, grow, forget what I learned, fuck up, laugh, hug, and smile.<br />
<br />
Damn, the expectations bar is already too high. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMl_2izT5BE2z69HYQhSZdeJUCC1ijvIv_7PH1vfnQITGhq3iTD8XB4CZ31kW5tSD-5ZMxvb-T0GQveMJnLPpmewZ-AmsR35YWoKcT0Mto3ELFykSCxQpt9cNnQdk4HnKtkzdAtH2v-vYc/s1600/expect.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMl_2izT5BE2z69HYQhSZdeJUCC1ijvIv_7PH1vfnQITGhq3iTD8XB4CZ31kW5tSD-5ZMxvb-T0GQveMJnLPpmewZ-AmsR35YWoKcT0Mto3ELFykSCxQpt9cNnQdk4HnKtkzdAtH2v-vYc/s400/expect.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Happy 2011!cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-48644263351667212072010-12-05T23:28:00.000-08:002010-12-05T23:45:20.180-08:00ClicheIf you're looking to meet a bunch of sloppy drunk guys who have convinced themselves they're intelligent, I suggest you check out a bar that hosts Trivia on Sunday nights. But I warn you, it's really hard to be sober and harbor any attraction for the men, even the hot ones. They've spent their entire day downing beers while watching football. Now their eyes are red, they smell like stale cigarettes, and think it's appropriate to talk to you with their face just three inches away from yours.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this before, but I'll say it again.<br />
<br />
<b>I have an issue with personal space.</b><br />
<br />
There's a scene in Dirty Dancing where Swayze is trying to teach the girl with the big nose how to dance and he says, "This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don't go into yours, you don't go into mine." <br />
<div><br />
</div><div>For me it's more like, "This is my life space, stay out of it unless you're invited in."<br />
<div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBf0am_rxBn3RqW0E-yvFpZUzHA-qKq3hQnzm_NmuTvxo2LXdRvRAJdvsRboU1xOG6Vbr5D9mfLjKjsuXFve7s7go5ZSjrvy6yyZ69zsRbhITmpY5U0LrDFa3QLnlkAg5MhECrtGM_Fywo/s1600/patrick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBf0am_rxBn3RqW0E-yvFpZUzHA-qKq3hQnzm_NmuTvxo2LXdRvRAJdvsRboU1xOG6Vbr5D9mfLjKjsuXFve7s7go5ZSjrvy6yyZ69zsRbhITmpY5U0LrDFa3QLnlkAg5MhECrtGM_Fywo/s320/patrick.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Side note: I totally would have invited in the young and healthy Swayze version. Not so much the old dead one.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So anyway, two guys come up to our table of three girls. One sits down next to L.G. and the other stands at the edge. Standing Guy is the one who thinks I won't be able to hear him unless our noses are practically touching. He's in the middle of talking nonsense when Sitting Guy burps into the face of L.G. and then looks out into space completely unaware of his disgusting act. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We can't help but laugh at the idiot and then he asks, in all seriousness, why we're laughing. No one bothered explaining.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Standing Guy proceeds to relay his earlier experience of watching a guy stroke the hair and neck of another guy. He's considerably homophobic. In describing the scene he proceeds to re-enact the gestures on me, but without actually touching me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I felt like I was in the middle of a horrible "no touching" game. I was bracing myself for impact the whole time and I'm pretty sure it was clearly written on my face.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then it happened. He touched the back of my neck and I basically jumped out of my seat. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Hey! Spaghetti Arms! Reel 'em back in. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then we all just kinda of stared at each other awkwardly hoping they would get the point, but drunk guys <i>never</i> do. So we got up and left.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5q68ttVybfQsflcK6tuo2R0h-7KeyPTDv_L5CtmzJWXsprVHqGEfG2nUOb-Jwo5S_M5v2ayfRvGWIYhX6uePOfxpeOzkA0TzB981OiIDIbh3urSBjztiN9Pyc3sBJnKUmbLzBJCCywzTU/s1600/IMG_1735.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5q68ttVybfQsflcK6tuo2R0h-7KeyPTDv_L5CtmzJWXsprVHqGEfG2nUOb-Jwo5S_M5v2ayfRvGWIYhX6uePOfxpeOzkA0TzB981OiIDIbh3urSBjztiN9Pyc3sBJnKUmbLzBJCCywzTU/s320/IMG_1735.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This past weekend was full of birthdays and dancing. A first time visit to the enjoyable hipster-ish Mandrake and reunion with the reliable V Lounge. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">White guys can get away with dancing to the 50s music spinning at the Mandrake <i>way</i> more than they can get away with trying to grind to Katy Perry at the V Lounge.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Just saying.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So every time I see a guy that I'm attracted to the same thing happens. A stupid grin flashes briefly across my face and I <i>immediately</i> blush. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I haven't even made eye contact with him yet and I'm already a mess. <b>It's awful!</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then I proceed to stare at him until he's no longer there. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Every. Time.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is exactly what happened at the Mandrake. I can't even picture the guy without thinking, "Damn, he was hot."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So he left (sigh) and I found myself talking to another guy. He was cute and a little awkward which is perfect for me. At the end of the night he asked me if I had a card. I said no, but I have a number.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Giving a guy at a bar my number? I'm rarely so cliche. There must have been something in the water.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He called the next night. At 12:30am. <i>Come on.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But, points for calling over sending a text, and honestly, he left a nice message. He figured I'd be out, hoped I was having fun, wants to take me to dinner.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So I called him back, got voicemail, asked him why exactly he thought calling at 12:30am was a good idea and instructed him to call me back. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was just being sassy, but he may now think I'm just a bitch. Very possible as it's a common misunderstanding. We'll find out I guess.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Until the update, I'll leave you with this remark I made to my roommate not too long ago.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Remember that game where you held a fishing pole with a magnet on the end and you tried to grab fish out of the circle as they moved around, opening and shutting their jaw? Dating in this city is 1000x harder than that. No one wants to open their mouth unless it's to be filled with pussy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_2QHehOpNcHoSEteJgvX9v5Dpk_NmPiIq-7zlgz0iIeAPBwD6dsASeHcScXWXtUWX7Qesut9VttJUZgGv3zA6vzPx8yU36K8FD_rBndMk4XknwjnjzBtS0ea0_yxwagKCoQh4qgCdphBa/s1600/fishing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_2QHehOpNcHoSEteJgvX9v5Dpk_NmPiIq-7zlgz0iIeAPBwD6dsASeHcScXWXtUWX7Qesut9VttJUZgGv3zA6vzPx8yU36K8FD_rBndMk4XknwjnjzBtS0ea0_yxwagKCoQh4qgCdphBa/s200/fishing.jpg" width="200" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I think that's a fair assessment.</div></div>cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-20342799177817821952010-11-04T01:21:00.000-07:002011-04-07T02:23:46.157-07:00Different and the SameThis post requires me to start with a short story from the book of Cheryl. <br />
<br />
I moved to Vegas a month after initially moving to California. Why I moved is an entirely different short story for another time. While living in Sin City, I somehow managed to stick with working production gigs, none of which involved porn. <i>I know you were thinking it.</i><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
I was lucky enough to work on a little film called Rocky Balboa aka Rocky VI. That's when I met Brian. He wasn't spectacularly attractive, but he was super confident and that's what got me hooked. Fast forward a few months and I'm temporarily staying at his place in Santa Monica.<br />
<br />
It was the closest I ever got to sleeping my way to the top.<br />
<br />
I'm not proud of it. I didn't get very far.<br />
<br />
There were issues. His penis complex, mainly. Like many guys, he was worried that he wasn't big enough. But he was more than worried, he was obsessed. <br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure his consistent viewing of black on white porn didn't help either.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6HmrbNxGEK9CrFONdhP7gCZ7Z5ukMTDDtBhKgKwJ205UIyRcRnqEouNVl4Pj0yOR0vM8YOapijxS0bui06e5L1jigQSxJAtXtv3axTrrDY5g4bw1zg8US_YDHQrvFUgh3uGPXVJlsOhBT/s1600/Heidi_Klum_and_Seal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6HmrbNxGEK9CrFONdhP7gCZ7Z5ukMTDDtBhKgKwJ205UIyRcRnqEouNVl4Pj0yOR0vM8YOapijxS0bui06e5L1jigQSxJAtXtv3axTrrDY5g4bw1zg8US_YDHQrvFUgh3uGPXVJlsOhBT/s320/Heidi_Klum_and_Seal.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Now, was he small? You bet. But that wasn't the problem, it was his lack of confidence in bed, on the floor, wherever, that made this glorious thing called sex absolutely <i>awful</i>.<br />
<br />
I realized that he acted incredibly confident and built himself up outside of the sack because he felt he fell short inside of it.<br />
<br />
Literally.<br />
<br />
So I found my own place and peaced out.<br />
<br />
We still kept in contact, but after a few more months I moved back to Vegas and we faded into our separate lives.<br />
<br />
Well, sort of.<br />
<br />
For the past two years, and no, I am not exaggerating, he has been trying to take me to lunch. I consistently blew him off until today.<br />
<br />
I don't have a good reason as to why I didn't want to see him. But I think I knew how the encounter would go, and I was right.<br />
<br />
<b>Some. People. Never. Change.</b><br />
<br />
I met him four years ago. If you knew me four years ago, you've watched me evolve, at least a little.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUqRgaTfItg0dRmkML3CpZQXuN0GaBYiuUW6mFZuyyBojJgaYqK7p8NlF8QKfRvjnr_bnpwfqMwCEia4l8PDdZtQ1N8ILQ6m_ic9053pVbq1kd7Jx3TVsHHZB1IOLgg0ARNt30_9sa0qN/s1600/bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUqRgaTfItg0dRmkML3CpZQXuN0GaBYiuUW6mFZuyyBojJgaYqK7p8NlF8QKfRvjnr_bnpwfqMwCEia4l8PDdZtQ1N8ILQ6m_ic9053pVbq1kd7Jx3TVsHHZB1IOLgg0ARNt30_9sa0qN/s320/bed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
He's in his early 30s now. Tonight he had a date with a 21 year old. Wonderful. How did he talk her up?<br />
<br />
She's got a super hot body.<br />
<br />
<i>Of course.</i><br />
<br />
She makes money.<br />
<br />
<i>Congratulations</i>. She apparently passed the two most important requirements.<br />
<br />
I had to laugh at him. <i>He's ridiculous.</i><br />
<br />
But the sad part is, the joke is on me because he represents about 95% of the guys in L.A.<br />
<br />
On the plus side, he got fat. That was pretty awesome.<br />
<br />
My requirements? <br />
<br />
<b>Must be taller than me</b>. Come on, it's not hard.<br />
<br />
<b>Have a sense of humor.</b> I know every girl says this, but I <i>fucking</i> mean it. You have to be quick. I will be snarky. Give it right back. I like to play.<br />
<br />
<b>Be assertive.</b> <b>Seriously.</b> If I'm interested, I'll make sure you know it, but then the ball is in your court. I was the school girl kicking boys in the shins, not chasing them around. Once we make it to the bed, then we can switch it up.<br />
<br />
Nice teeth are pretty important too. I would love a boy with an accent, but they so rarely come with a well maintained mouth.<br />
<br />
Sigh. It <i>really</i> shouldn't be so difficult. I'm not asking for a millionaire or a completely chiseled body. <br />
<br />
Laugh, hold my hand, and pretend to like my friends.<br />
<br />
Have a huge dick.<br />
<br />
Kidding. Just be really good in bed.cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-85240821523312433442010-10-21T14:11:00.000-07:002010-10-21T14:18:54.506-07:00Football, Music, and Water.This post is going to be a bit of a hodgepodge, but aren't they all? It goes from a Penn State bar in the South Bay, to the wonderful world of Nashville, then back to L.A. with a stop at the Grove. Bonus - there's an actual date thrown in there.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
The Penn State bar is really called Pockets and it's in Manhattan Beach. Pretty sure at one point it use to be a strip club because it is a huge open space and there are absolutely no windows. They have removed the poles though, if there were any, I looked around.<br />
<br />
The reason I was excited to check this place out was because I wanted to watch the game of course, but I wanted to watch it in the company of fellow East coasters. I've briefly touched on my fondness of the East Coast boy in previous posts, but I just can't escape it. Not sure what it is. Maybe they just look more mature?<br />
<br />
Doesn't mean they actually are, <i>obviously</i>. It's probably just the scruffy face so many of them sport. I'm a sucker for that shit. It's just a way they present themselves.<br />
<br />
At least until they open their mouth.<br />
<br />
Also, knowing they probably went to Penn State makes me slightly biased, I'm sure.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, as pointed out by E.G., no matter where they are from, they can quickly go from cute to drunk.<br />
<br />
That's where they lose us.<br />
<br />
I <i>completely</i> melted when the most adorable boy in the bar came over, put his hand on my knee, and beamed the brightest smile.<br />
<br />
He was two.<br />
<br />
His dad said he was teaching him how to flirt. That boy is going to be a heart-breaker.<br />
<br />
Nashville allowed me to spend some time around the Southern gentlemen. The only problem was I found it difficult to take the whole tucked flannel shirt, boots, and cowboy hat look seriously.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4UrXrRFzHCLN1XRIla7dHp6vXTLT056jEbmr3xv7v8B2sLxsoalwMkg8e4QP283pi3DbTi11UoBIoULEAi9dhIl34DNCtGoNNqXWP3fk5qSacCoVLy4w15y-rQhsHwkusEBSqchj7xkAD/s1600/IMG_1515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4UrXrRFzHCLN1XRIla7dHp6vXTLT056jEbmr3xv7v8B2sLxsoalwMkg8e4QP283pi3DbTi11UoBIoULEAi9dhIl34DNCtGoNNqXWP3fk5qSacCoVLy4w15y-rQhsHwkusEBSqchj7xkAD/s320/IMG_1515.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I never felt farther away from L.A. than when a large dude wearing a Bud Light Nascar jacket decided to throw the "n" word out there while singing karaoke. Now, the entire bar was filled with white people, except for one. <i>And boy was he pissed.</i><br />
<br />
Not gonna lie, I was kinda hoping for a brawl.<br />
<br />
Minus that douche and the only guy singing Maroon 5 in a country bar, it was quickly decided that men who can sing automatically add one, or two, (or 5) points to their scale of attractiveness.<br />
<br />
Superficial whaaaaat...?<br />
<br />
It also became clear that there is no escaping assholes. E.G, S.D., and I were sitting at a table at a crowded bar talking about shit.<br />
<br />
Literally.<br />
<br />
A guy comes over, sits down next to me, takes my drink and gulps some down.<br />
<br />
Uh, I'm not a huge fan of germs. I'm a bit annoyed.<br />
<br />
He can't even form sentences. Another army guy thinking he's impressive solely because he's in the military. I got flashbacks of the army douches in San Diego.<br />
<br />
S.D eventually asks him to leave our table. His response - "You leave my table."<br />
<br />
<i>Are you fucking for real?</i><br />
<br />
Enter the bouncer. Exit the tool.<br />
<br />
I quickly noticed how beer and country music go hand in hand. You know what follows that? The gut. It is so easy to forget that L.A. is such a poor representation of fitness for the rest of the country. It's almost depressing how living in this city has exponentially raised my standards of attractiveness.<br />
<br />
But who am I kidding, that guy with the beer gut is probably way more sweet and caring than the asshole running along the beach, gleaming as the sun hits the sweat on his defined chest.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0S2ubFZIEFuprL1gzG7QedJtk6FM-qzA3CyAYDuZsookvWkwoLrLExzlkNHKPVhv5CyWhnbdMhuIir14mQa9bdQWtK3pNavQQKQHfWiBYjF7FX_U-b_NgEUzEARQSCHgjGONldtqbwmUx/s1600/gal_workout_mcconaughey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0S2ubFZIEFuprL1gzG7QedJtk6FM-qzA3CyAYDuZsookvWkwoLrLExzlkNHKPVhv5CyWhnbdMhuIir14mQa9bdQWtK3pNavQQKQHfWiBYjF7FX_U-b_NgEUzEARQSCHgjGONldtqbwmUx/s320/gal_workout_mcconaughey.jpg" width="222" /></a></div>And that brings me to a dating experience.<br />
<br />
Full circle, did you see that?<br />
<br />
We met at the Grove and within 30 seconds I knew that all I wanted was a water.<br />
<br />
Really, it all comes down to things you should <i>not</i> talk about when first meeting someone.<br />
<br />
You probably won't impress me by telling me you've been fired a few times for an attitude problem. Take "probably" out. You <i>definitely</i> won't impress me.<br />
<br />
Repeatedly referring to yourself as a loser also isn't going to score points. I can tell you're only half kidding when you say it and what am I suppose to do. Laugh? Agree with you? <br />
<br />
At this point, I'm inclined to agree.<br />
<br />
Self-deprecating humor walks a fine line. We all do it at some point. But most of the time we know it's self-deprecating and we don't actually believe it, we say it because it's funny. We also tend to say it around people we know because <i>they'll get it</i>.<br />
<br />
If I don't know you, which clearly I don't since we're just meeting for the first time, constantly putting yourself down is not a good idea. If <i>you</i> don't want to spend time with you, why would<i> I</i> want to spend time with you?<br />
<br />
Nope, I'd rather just hang out with my friends.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wVbZZaHJ8nI/TMCptMCarsI/AAAAAAAAAD8/uQNzMHg0aWE/s1600/IMG_1546bw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wVbZZaHJ8nI/TMCptMCarsI/AAAAAAAAAD8/uQNzMHg0aWE/s320/IMG_1546bw.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-81407140392216760922010-09-22T15:00:00.000-07:002010-09-24T09:54:41.459-07:00Ménage à TroisI realize I'm constantly making excuses for being a slacker and not going out like I should, but I work nights and I'm a slave to my friends on the weekends.<br />
<br />
This month has been a bit crazy between birthdays and my brother being in town.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QTGUeljcBNU-l9j9lalp25VWzCbXcKp5JHtz-cb3spr8_l0SZnsZkGeGenrTpr1xtA_KiBYunkpklzLdwU2Hg892RSHEgdu1I00Zek_NN_srkCmdhvoQR51kKiEoymkFZm9_uWVszCEc/s1600/buzz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QTGUeljcBNU-l9j9lalp25VWzCbXcKp5JHtz-cb3spr8_l0SZnsZkGeGenrTpr1xtA_KiBYunkpklzLdwU2Hg892RSHEgdu1I00Zek_NN_srkCmdhvoQR51kKiEoymkFZm9_uWVszCEc/s320/buzz.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Consequently, this post is more a potpourri of moments experienced throughout the month.<br />
<br />
First, let's acknowledge the "Woo Girls."<br />
<a name='more'></a>For those of you who are smart enough to watch How I Met Your Mother, no explanation is needed. For the rest of you, here's an example.<br />
<br />
E.G. and I were out at a club, scouting it for the joint birthday party, and we happened to be standing next to a group of girls. They're chatting away, laughing, dancing, the usual. Then "Single Ladies" by Beyonce pops on.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt0herMwwI6LwcZt74HwaeY8wIVx9QYGEGWLIpqlmBe9OzkBDyShEEsqt6GapuF4Y0IT3EM888Jtf6lxL1fB9fvZNb8pKK0RSyAL70Jbeiny0Ms5mFAQYEZEwHxkY4MiBaEPa3ffIT50kr/s1600/woogirlsshobroh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt0herMwwI6LwcZt74HwaeY8wIVx9QYGEGWLIpqlmBe9OzkBDyShEEsqt6GapuF4Y0IT3EM888Jtf6lxL1fB9fvZNb8pKK0RSyAL70Jbeiny0Ms5mFAQYEZEwHxkY4MiBaEPa3ffIT50kr/s320/woogirlsshobroh.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>As if on cue, they all raise their hands in the air and scream.<br />
<br />
Clearly they are all single.<br />
<br />
I understand that reaction when "Livin' on a Prayer" begins to play. That's a classic. <br />
<br />
But to have the 'Woo Girl' reaction to <i>that</i> song?<br />
<br />
Pretty sure they're now all going to leave single as well.<br />
<br />
And please, I'm sure most of them would give anything to have a ring on it.<br />
<br />
The club we were scouting that night turned out the be the place where J.L. (<a href="http://www.petbearsounds.com/">http://www.petbearsounds.com/</a>) and I ended up having our birthday party.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure the night could have been more perfect.<br />
<br />
What I could have done without is the creepy guys on the dance floor who come up from behind and start grinding. I'm sure I've expressed this complaint before.<br />
<br />
If I've never seen your face, what makes you think that your penis on my ass is a great first impression?<br />
<br />
Seriously.<br />
<br />
Is it because you know that once I see your face I'm going to do everything I can to make sure you and your penis come no where close to me?<br />
<br />
Probably.<br />
<br />
If you happen to be dancing <i>near</i> me but think you're really dancing <i>with</i> me, I can guarantee that you aren't. If I want to dance with you, you'll know it.<br />
<br />
Then if a song in French comes on and you proceed to tell me it's ok because you're French, I'm going to wonder two things.<br />
<br />
What exactly is 'ok?'<br />
<br />
And why would I give a fuck that you're French?<br />
<br />
Then I'm going to walk away.<br />
<br />
Also, if you're a guy, <i>never</i> talk to a girl you just met about having "old money."<br />
<br />
<i>Who does that?!</i><br />
<br />
Just a few minor inconveniences in an otherwise stellar evening.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigHi6IfH-6Tm02ICgFOapM-Gsw0coOOfyx7TYdtEMoeHBbr5h5_vhUFeJBWmo-stv04kjxhChpSuA8RLzJIpixrKRGxiSmPcXoAPU2OZCjEOwuiYPMBU2oHp7FqAhu1ro_bRyPjkIfVDYO/s1600/IMG_1384.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigHi6IfH-6Tm02ICgFOapM-Gsw0coOOfyx7TYdtEMoeHBbr5h5_vhUFeJBWmo-stv04kjxhChpSuA8RLzJIpixrKRGxiSmPcXoAPU2OZCjEOwuiYPMBU2oHp7FqAhu1ro_bRyPjkIfVDYO/s320/IMG_1384.JPG" /></a></div>I had decided, with the help of a few friends, that the best way to end the night would be with a ménage à trois.<br />
<br />
Myself, one guy to fuck me into oblivion, and one guy to cuddle and talk with afterward. Of course, ideally, I'd like to find a guy capable of doing all of the above, but that has yet to happen.<br />
<br />
The two girls, one guy can happen for someone else's birthday.<br />
<br />
If I haven't entertained you enough, which I'm sure is the case, here are two articles that I have found relatively amusing.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size: 13px;"><b><a href="http://artofmanliness.com/2009/05/13/ask-wayne-man-wants-to-be-friends-with-her-after-the-breakup/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Staying Friends After a Breakup</span></a></b></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size: 13px;"><a href="http://www.laddertheory.com/">The Ladder Theory</a></span></span>cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-67129624878195809392010-08-25T23:49:00.000-07:002010-08-26T10:28:24.281-07:00Napkins and MilkFriday night we re-visited The Room. Within 10 minutes of walking in I decided I was going to give one of the bartenders my number.<br />
<br />
What?! <br />
<br />
I know.<br />
<br />
I never actually ordered a drink or talked to a bartender the whole night. But I wrote my number on a napkin and kept it in my pocket until it was time to go.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Did I want the bartender to call me? I don't know, I never talked to him. He had a nice smile.<br />
<br />
It was more about the action of me handing him the napkin. A self-proposed challenge. I've <i>never</i> given my number out like that before.<br />
<br />
We're walking out and 90% of me wanted to leave without actually giving him the napkin. E.G. stepped up and pretty much yelled at me. <br />
<br />
<i>Do it!</i> He's right there! Do it now!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcoWaWB3GDEKRtYkFHxfTLSFaHNcHDLXdrCEelbHeG_GFiKnaRuwtJ6ziFWBxM57GXtIf5G6AvNvZVOC1LreUsm32ZFkkPVkkpZkpFIkr5atZ_H8EKNBoAijp6UduV9V6Zl3SmRrrM66JO/s1600/number.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcoWaWB3GDEKRtYkFHxfTLSFaHNcHDLXdrCEelbHeG_GFiKnaRuwtJ6ziFWBxM57GXtIf5G6AvNvZVOC1LreUsm32ZFkkPVkkpZkpFIkr5atZ_H8EKNBoAijp6UduV9V6Zl3SmRrrM66JO/s320/number.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>It took me a good 5 or 6 minutes of standing at the bar whining until I forced myself to do it.<br />
<br />
He flashed his adorable smile at me and I shot one back before walking out.<br />
<br />
I survived. Now I can never go back there again.<br />
<br />
Saturday I jumped down to Huntington and experienced the beach boy scene.<br />
<br />
Um, the people watching down there is fantastic. I'd go back for that alone.<br />
<br />
A few guys approached me, the most notable being a guy who grabbed my hand, kissed it, and then asked me if I wanted a drink.<br />
<br />
No thanks.<br />
<br />
How about a mineral water?<br />
<br />
No, I'm good, thank you.<br />
<br />
Milk?<br />
<br />
There's where I lost it. Laughing, I turned to my friend to inform her that this dude just asked me if I wanted milk. <i>In a bar.</i><br />
<br />
Time to leave. We relocated to a friend's apartment to finish out the night. Hello second hand high.<br />
<br />
On the way there I said I'd take it anywhere I could get it.<br />
<br />
Pretty much sums up my current state of mind.cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-36665436232438558142010-08-19T01:14:00.000-07:002010-08-19T01:18:50.948-07:00First DateWith my reoccurring failures at the bars, you may wonder if I ever make it to a first date.<br />
<br />
For better or worse, I do.<br />
<br />
The other night I met a guy, Chris, at a bar in Santa Monica.<br />
<br />
Don't worry, that's his <i>actual</i> name.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>We were set up by a co-worker of mine, as Chris is also an editor. He works for an advertising agency. He says it's very much like Mad Men.<br />
<br />
Ok.<br />
<br />
So he's waiting outside the bar when I get there. He's tall, attractive, well dressed...off to a good start.<br />
<br />
The bar is closed.<br />
<br />
He suggests we walk to the Promenade and we end up at Cabo Cantina. He orders us a massive margarita to share.<br />
<br />
<b>Ugh.</b><br />
<br />
I don't like sharing things with people I don't know. Especially when we both have to lean in to suck on straws that are three inches apart from each other.<br />
<br />
I had four sips.<br />
<br />
It was <i>the most</i> textbook first date I've ever been on. <br />
<br />
What kind of sports do you like? Music? Movies? Books? We hit every. bullet. point.<br />
<br />
He doesn't really like watching sports. I can't wait for college football to start.<br />
<br />
He loves line dancing. I love getting sweaty to some hip hop.<br />
<br />
He wants to spend forty minutes talking about Lynch and Aronofsky. I want to spend forty minutes quoting Elf and I Love You Man.<br />
<br />
Get my point? Though, I do give him credit for knowing his literature, that was impressive.<br />
<br />
We nerded out about Final Cut Pro for a minute, but I was over it much sooner than he was.<br />
<br />
I knew I wasn't really into it after an internal groan when he ordered dinner. He asked if I was hungry.<br />
<br />
<b>No!</b> I signed up for drinks only, thanks.<br />
<br />
This was about the time I zoned out and started looking around. Poor guy was oblivious.<br />
<br />
<i>Finally</i>, we were walking back to our cars. Every time we stopped at a light he would get ridiculously close. I felt if I looked at him, he would kiss me. I avoided eye contact at all costs.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes after saying goodbye, I received a text: I was delighted tonight - thank you Cheryl.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
So this guy is pretty decent on paper - good looking, intelligent, stable career, thoughtful...but there were two issues.<br />
<br />
The first - he didn't really make me laugh. That's key. You make me laugh, I can relax and be my sarcastic self. Otherwise, I don't know what the fuck to say to you. If you can make me smile, I'm pretty much putty in your hands.<br />
<br />
The second - I knew within the first minute of meeting him that I had almost no interest in dropping my pants for him.<br />
<br />
Not that I'm looking to slut myself out. Quite the opposite really. But, I do find extreme pleasure in sex.<br />
<br />
The build in sexual tension. Kisses turning from slow to aggressive as hands start to explore. The anticipation of entry. That moment of ecstasy as it first slides in.<br />
<br />
<i>Yeah...</i><br />
<br />
There's little potential with someone I can't consider sleeping with.<br />
<br />
Still, part of me feels like I should give him a second chance. Maybe he's just as bad with first impressions as I am.<br />
<br />
Unfortunate for him.<br />
<br />
Plus, I know I'm difficult to read, therefore difficult to date.<br />
<br />
You know, I can't wait until I'm having consistent sex again. I'd much rather write about that.cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-44510726763851347162010-08-04T23:55:00.000-07:002010-08-05T00:11:12.695-07:00Frozen Grenade Anyone?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">For the record, I'm not the asshole who stands there texting while you talk to me. I'm the asshole who stands there taking notes on all the b.s. coming from your mouth.</span></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">There's a difference. At least I'm listening.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">I had pleasure of having a friend in town for the weekend. She's hot and married, hence the perfect wingman. Within hours of her arrival she witnessed me get ridiculously excited when I heard two guys were moving into the apartment above mine.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Is he cute? Is he brown? Would he like to join us for a cocktail? Is he polite? Is he clean?</i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i></i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a>Turns out it's only one guy. I haven't been able to stare at him yet, but from the quick glimpse I got, I don't think we'll be having any sleepovers.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">My friend and I started the night with a movie (Airplane!) at the Hollywood Forever cemetery. Great flick to see in that type of environment. Everyone eating, drinking, and being merry. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnT2XKgh9hKy7sRU2SAAX7v9qlLaaDbaVvRNq_h2wGdxNekWp6gx4vBkb2S_-wE7xJLVyNDU5fSDYkCYt6xM1Q4Ma2IlQs3TPFgTAiAW_H5tx3lv7yvogHUck10c0InR1AOU4ymy9hp5a/s1600/IMG_1135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnT2XKgh9hKy7sRU2SAAX7v9qlLaaDbaVvRNq_h2wGdxNekWp6gx4vBkb2S_-wE7xJLVyNDU5fSDYkCYt6xM1Q4Ma2IlQs3TPFgTAiAW_H5tx3lv7yvogHUck10c0InR1AOU4ymy9hp5a/s320/IMG_1135.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">I had a beer bottle and my friends tried to get me to ask a random guy to open it, but the surrounding options I had weren't really appealing.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Just open the damn bottle and pass me a Red Vine</i>. Thanks.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">After the movie we headed to Three Clubs. It would have been a chill spot had it not been Speed Metal night.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">A lot of black clothes, tattoos, and long hair.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Pass.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Next we checked out The Cat and the Fiddle. I really dig the outside patio at this place. Little trees, soft lights, plenty of tables, and all around unpretentious. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">So we're standing there letting our eyes wander and boom! He walks in. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Target locked.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Him and his friend stood about 6 feet away from us. My friend positioned herself with her back towards them so that I could look at her and glance at him.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">You know the setup.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">She tries to teach me the "sexy straw trick." I don't even attempt.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">I try that shit and chances are the straw ends up in my eye or flies across the room.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">So she tells me just make eye contact and smile. Simple.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Except, not. I couldn't do it. I <i>froze</i>, looking everywhere but at him.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>God, it was painful.</i> Especially since I was well aware of how ridiculous I was being.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">My friend pointed out that they might be intimidated. My target's friend was not attractive. She said that she'd jump on the "grenade" for me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Then it hit.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><b><i>What if I'm the grenade!?!</i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">What a terrifying realization.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">She attempted to reassure me that I wasn't. I'm still partially unconvinced.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">A friend of a friend came up to us and we eventually told him what we were up to. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">"Guys don't flock to you?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Ha.</i> <b>No</b>. But you are now my new best friend.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Needless to say, I failed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Our last stop was the Beauty Bar. I like the one in Vegas much better. This place smelled.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4vbsg2oJZWNzypUCGX2N49uCrrBtccI04C2fGSolCq31ix5WE_8eoBTJo1A2hmgGNRff5h3LXP_2mm283KRAWBaQHAizDvy9_XwTB0K9U0aNCF6Dz4Hs9ZzzeUEus0GtKdjfwt9EyhjCW/s1600/IMG_1144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4vbsg2oJZWNzypUCGX2N49uCrrBtccI04C2fGSolCq31ix5WE_8eoBTJo1A2hmgGNRff5h3LXP_2mm283KRAWBaQHAizDvy9_XwTB0K9U0aNCF6Dz4Hs9ZzzeUEus0GtKdjfwt9EyhjCW/s320/IMG_1144.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">It was the only bar we had been to all night that had dance music. A guy came up to us and said his friend wanted to know if we would dance with him.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Ok. I know girls do this every once in awhile but, guys should not. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;"><i>Ever.</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Grow a fucking pair.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Shortly after, two guys approached, also asking us to dance. My friend politely declined. Being married is the best excuse. She followed up the flash of her ring by telling them that I was spoken for also. Then they asked if her and I were together.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">They were not straight.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Sigh.</i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">By this point my feet hurt, my eyes were tired, and my motivation had deflated. Game over.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">A redeeming moment came when I walked into work on Monday and one of the guys asked if I'd like to join him on a private jet to Vegas.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">I hesitate because, while the experience would be pure gold, you know what they say - d</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">on't shit where you eat.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Maybe I should just stop eating.</span></span></div>cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-23344618683591972242010-07-26T15:53:00.000-07:002010-07-27T17:05:12.286-07:00Two for OneI'd say you're getting a great deal with this post, a bonus if you will, but I'm not saving you any money, just wasting more of your time. Sorry.<br />
<br />
Friday night I found myself headed downtown to The Standard with my cohort, EG. It was her co-worker's 30th birthday and she had never been to the rooftop bar. New people in a new place, perfect. First thing on my agenda was to make the parking attendant sitting in a lawn chair think I was going to hit him with my car.<br />
<br />
Check.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>This bar is beautiful: the pool, the views, the decor. Most of the time we try to avoid the downtown area, but it was nice to embrace it for a change.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjkaCLXPjBgH8EHhNnKbM9xbwYDKODw7ivXR6jqsI18hj5_M4hdceeoBgE5ewJ4_252Zd25_lPGhOwGLtIG3Bgw6d6MVlxNtkbyY3jUcw_tB5-sDOXd4Fz_-FkpaVCJOaXRKcsK279Ksh_/s1600/IMG_1087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjkaCLXPjBgH8EHhNnKbM9xbwYDKODw7ivXR6jqsI18hj5_M4hdceeoBgE5ewJ4_252Zd25_lPGhOwGLtIG3Bgw6d6MVlxNtkbyY3jUcw_tB5-sDOXd4Fz_-FkpaVCJOaXRKcsK279Ksh_/s320/IMG_1087.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Everyone that was there for the birthday was way ahead of us with alcohol consumption. It didn't take long before EG and I were caught in a conversation with a 42 year old woman who was dating her ex-husband. She said the <i>12th</i> time was a charm.<br />
<br />
I <b><i>immediately</i></b> started to pray that I would never end up like her.<br />
<br />
Before getting too depressed, we decided it was time to walk around and peruse the merchandise. After a couple minutes, I turned to EG and asked her what she noticed.<br />
<br />
EG: Hats, a lot of hats.<br />
(pause)<br />
What else?<br />
<br />
EG: A lot short people.<br />
(longer pause)<br />
Ok...what else?<br />
<br />
Her eyes widened as the light bulb clicked on.<br />
<br />
EG: Oh!! They're all Mexican!<br />
Well yeah, and Asian.<br />
<br />
It was remarkable, really. Not that I have anything against either, I mean, I have a bit of 'spanic in me myself, but they're just not my type. It required some effort to find white guys. But then there they were, on the dance floor. Probably the last place they <i>should</i> have been. One was even ambitious enough to attempt the robot.<br />
<br />
Shockingly original.<br />
<br />
We stayed away. <br />
<br />
Another girl showed up and joined our staring adventure. EG left to take a shot with the birthday boy and a man in his 40s approached the new girl and I. He asked us what we were celebrating and then jumped right to having us try to guess what his job was.<br />
<br />
<i>Because that's an exciting game to play</i>.<br />
<br />
The other girl guessed a vet. He told her she was close. I was not about to encourage him. Then his friend popped up and made some joke about the guy being gay.<br />
<br />
Not funny.<br />
<br />
He turned to me and asked me what I did.<br />
<br />
<i>Really?</i> This is just getting ridiculous. And, now I'm trapped.<br />
<br />
Before I could even answer he asked if I was a teacher.<br />
<br />
I paused, probably made a weird face, and asked him why he thought that.<br />
<br />
He said he got a "maternal" vibe from me.<br />
<br />
<i>Are. You. Kidding. Me. </i><br />
<br />
Is my clock screaming so loud that random people walking by can hear it? If so, I wish it would shut the fuck up.<br />
<br />
Then he notices I'm wearing a ring on my right ring finger. He tells me that there's a reason I chose to wear it on that finger and it's because I'm torn between stability and chaos.<br />
<br />
Really. <i>Who isn't?</i> I'm pretty sure the reason I put it on that finger is because that's where it fits.<br />
<br />
EG comes back to take us down to the suite. Rescued!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMD3-y05kiDxvT9iAkIVkC8pnFJgY0BnpRqxyWyNuF7BO-KBiJ2fMccSXu0QcBTxt5TMcDWuDbFEwYILcCDy9hLYv_bgfayOlQNoILd2nsErsu2doebO2UwjascCZbDqldkVkYF59jrG7L/s1600/IMG_1091.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMD3-y05kiDxvT9iAkIVkC8pnFJgY0BnpRqxyWyNuF7BO-KBiJ2fMccSXu0QcBTxt5TMcDWuDbFEwYILcCDy9hLYv_bgfayOlQNoILd2nsErsu2doebO2UwjascCZbDqldkVkYF59jrG7L/s320/IMG_1091.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Can't say a whole lot happened in the room besides some lines in the bathroom and one's discovery of hipstimatic. It was time for bed.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Saturday night EG and I met up with over 30 people to hike Griffith. It was timed perfectly so that we would reach the top for sunset, eat while watching the city lights slowly flicker on, and then hike down with the almost full moon as our flashlight.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh5h3VGlwFfsWoxal-LPFNOwpbEGFtqkM5aLgXxbJRD_fBtON3vK8c2wDPwJkpccmCemc5lFNhuJGwMN-4dq-veIxdUkWs5jyiehQigsV99T8ExzuAExP8QBOFxM5_94LdRRM7IGrtSPQS/s1600/IMG_1101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh5h3VGlwFfsWoxal-LPFNOwpbEGFtqkM5aLgXxbJRD_fBtON3vK8c2wDPwJkpccmCemc5lFNhuJGwMN-4dq-veIxdUkWs5jyiehQigsV99T8ExzuAExP8QBOFxM5_94LdRRM7IGrtSPQS/s320/IMG_1101.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
To be honest, EG and I were so caught up in the beauty that we ended up in our own worlds and weren't as social as we could have been. But don't worry, we still met yet another guy who couldn't pass up the opportunity to talk about his job in the "industry."<br />
<br />
He fed his ego bragging about his travels and his corporate credit card as he fed his face with a Lunchables.<br />
<br />
I wonder if I would have brought him a bigger meal, would he have talked less. Doubtful.<br />
<br />
The great part about being on a hike is that you can easily walk away from people you don't want to talk to so that you can "take pictures." So that's exactly what we did. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_ZK-X2JVa1e1jREfxfz3FYPm3NOcATw9ylil2ZyGYoOAlkqWSIhsuX_BO6HLehfOiycYWZe40pp1MbmQpsIZtS79uxrR93MPEJKzUesFJcW9rB7OH3TjZo9Ws2Z7HsoYqgWgtsq1e8ci/s1600/IMG_1128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_ZK-X2JVa1e1jREfxfz3FYPm3NOcATw9ylil2ZyGYoOAlkqWSIhsuX_BO6HLehfOiycYWZe40pp1MbmQpsIZtS79uxrR93MPEJKzUesFJcW9rB7OH3TjZo9Ws2Z7HsoYqgWgtsq1e8ci/s320/IMG_1128.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
It was really refreshing to swap alcohol for a little exercise and great scenery. Maybe next time we'll have a better selection of men as an added bonus.<br />
<br />
Fingers crossed.cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-27150232469894419322010-07-11T03:38:00.001-07:002010-07-11T11:06:50.814-07:00Observation DeckWell, what was suppose to <i>finally</i> be a girl's night out in Los Angeles turned into another group date. Not that I'm complaining, it was a nice little high school reunion, but when I heard the destination was the W in Hollywood I'm pretty sure I audibly groaned. I walked away from the night with many observations, the most important being if you want to kiss a girl, trick her.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Combine Virgo tendencies with a dose of social anxiety and you get me. If I'm going somewhere I've never been, I like to do some research before hand.<br />
<br />
Will there be a line? Cover charge? Parking? <br />
<br />
Fire exits?<br />
<br />
Maybe this over-thinking has a bit to do with my years spent as a production assistant where I learned it was better to know too many details going into something than not enough.<br />
<br />
Maybe.<br />
<br />
Luckily, the fine gentlemen were kind enough to drive us. Parking crisis averted. That's about where the luck ran out.<br />
<br />
Not surprisingly, there's a huge line to get into the W. But wait! Somebody knows somebody who has a connection!<br />
<br />
Please. I've lived in L.A. and Vegas too long to know that this very <i>rarely</i> pans out. Unless you're guests of Mrs. Wynn, which definitely happened.<br />
<br />
After standing around for far too long wondering what keeps those super short dresses from rising that extra inch, our "connection" informs us that the guy he knows who <i>usually </i>works the door isn't there tonight. Go figure.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixc8dI4VsEP9IDPEt3caJOMobwkqjnZ27v6pb8vzxvv5ynq0HyEaalSjJC7Q7R-IBRDWPqjSw7Mypk7ckGjT4iVB5ASP3v6wLGIvn4pzWqIV-gTcd9FzkaxvlxpDupiVG2-BOe8_vFlNmu/s1600/IMG_1060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixc8dI4VsEP9IDPEt3caJOMobwkqjnZ27v6pb8vzxvv5ynq0HyEaalSjJC7Q7R-IBRDWPqjSw7Mypk7ckGjT4iVB5ASP3v6wLGIvn4pzWqIV-gTcd9FzkaxvlxpDupiVG2-BOe8_vFlNmu/s320/IMG_1060.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
There's an Irish pub across the street so we step in there. A decent mix of sub-par guys, though two of the more attractive ones looked very similar to some actual friends. I should have taken pictures with each of them, but I just stared instead. I told my wingman to just drag me into doing things next time.<br />
<br />
In her defense, she was conversationally engaged with one the most ridiculous guys ever. In my opinion, not hers. To quote:<br />
<br />
"Girls like boobs. (Long enough pause for it to be awkward)...But not as much as guys."<br />
<br />
"I wish I had boobs, I'd never leave the house."<br />
<br />
So actually I've heard a lot of guys say something similar to that last line. <br />
<br />
But what the fuck are you doing continuously talking about boobs with some chick you just met? It's not like my friend was excitedly talking about the subject with him.<br />
<br />
Hearing him word vomit with no one attempting to clean up his mess was painful. When he wasn't talking about fatty tissue he was going on about the details of his job. Snooze.<br />
<br />
I got tapped on the shoulder and instantly became the photographer of a bros. photo shoot. That was fun for a minute.<br />
<br />
Then another guy tapped me on the shoulder. His opening line: "What do you do?" I wanted to fucking scream.<br />
<br />
If a guy approached me at a bar and was able to provide interesting conversation, I'd probably marry him right there. You know, if he had all his limbs and there was a minister.<br />
<br />
I feel like the guys who might pass the conversation test are the ones too shy to make the initial approach. I know you're staring at me as I wait to order my drink. I'll make eye contact. I'll even pause before walking away just to give you that extra second. But I will not come to you.<br />
<br />
Unless I'm hammered. <br />
<br />
Even then, probably not.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry that as a guy you initially have to do all the work. Don't worry, I'll make up for it in bed. Or against the wall.<br />
<br />
Saying goodbye to my friends was probably the most interesting part of the night. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ll9jGxEUFqLrnpAhPce-zLPh6qhuAs7mev6f2qgLrcItQSshdBAQIlJvXTI4j2RkeMVaRcWBJR6NnA_bZBn1Vcvn0qZdd0200TY2v7CpgpYeAEe3pqUpxEzEd9jTo8Z7wzOPS5t_n9qG/s1600/IMG_1058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ll9jGxEUFqLrnpAhPce-zLPh6qhuAs7mev6f2qgLrcItQSshdBAQIlJvXTI4j2RkeMVaRcWBJR6NnA_bZBn1Vcvn0qZdd0200TY2v7CpgpYeAEe3pqUpxEzEd9jTo8Z7wzOPS5t_n9qG/s320/IMG_1058.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Who needs conversation anyway?cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-59354892137293390342010-06-23T21:44:00.000-07:002010-06-23T21:49:20.167-07:00East v WestI've done some bar hopping since I've been back in the Lehigh Valley and let me tell you, it's a bit different than the L.A. scene. Not that anyone would be surprised, but I tend to forget there's a whole other world outside of California. <br />
<br />
Now, I haven't gone to these bars with the intention of talking to "men" because I've been in the company of all my guy friends. I don't have any douchebag quotes or awkward situations to share, which is unfortunate for both you and me, but give me next weekend back in L.A. and I'm sure I'll have something for you.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
I have to be honest, it was nice to be around "average" people. I don't mean this in an offensive way, though I'm pretty sure that's how it comes across. <br />
<br />
Oh well, deal. <br />
<br />
I could throw on jeans and a shirt and not wonder if I'm appropriately dressed. Leave your pretension at the door. It didn't matter which one of the guys I was sitting with at the bar, I was comfortable. <br />
<br />
The clothing, purse, shoes, car, label, label, label competition is practically non-existent and it's <b><i>so fucking refreshing</i></b>. Bartenders take the time to talk to <i>everyone</i> because they are interested in stories, not your designer jacket.<br />
<br />
I realize I'm making a lot of blanket statements. I'm sure there are <i>some</i> good guys hiding out in L.A. and there are definitely assholes in Allentown, but the proportions are just a tad different. <br />
<br />
If only cities could draft and trade single men like the NFL.<br />
<br />
My nights with the east coast guys reminded me to spend my time with those who are worth it and those who appreciate it.<br />
<br />
Wasting my time with the wrong guys at a bar on a Saturday night may still be acceptable for entertainment purposes, but in "real life" I'm cutting that shit out.<br />
<br />
I lied, there was one awkward situation. I shared my New Years Eve story with the boys while at the diner one night. Pretty sure they never expected to hear anything like it out of my mouth, but I love them for not looking at me differently. Sigh. Saying goodbye to them always breaks my heart.<br />
<br />
This weekend I head to Penn State for an amazing wedding. As a single maid of honor, this could be interesting. Or not. I'm flipping a coin.cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-7118633026437854592010-06-03T14:46:00.000-07:002010-06-03T15:11:27.152-07:00(Un)Exciting.Lately I've had the curse of having too many friends and they all demand some sort of social group gathering. This has thwarted my efforts to attack guys at bars for the past few weeks. There were a few moments that appeared somewhat worth mentioning, but I'll allow you to determine their actual value.<br />
<a name='more'></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsDoFMQIacAVOuQCK-VdzavGMw-M-G5p1Dj4JiA3NmiQxBbz16C4FeebZ_Ug5ZVqS_vmbJgtR-7_ZaTXey9_MR7spnpdtPDfy7MkBPj6HycRLwizGYzQJbTFPLxA8nAOHJiJ9-eAPX3BY/s1600/IMG_0797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsDoFMQIacAVOuQCK-VdzavGMw-M-G5p1Dj4JiA3NmiQxBbz16C4FeebZ_Ug5ZVqS_vmbJgtR-7_ZaTXey9_MR7spnpdtPDfy7MkBPj6HycRLwizGYzQJbTFPLxA8nAOHJiJ9-eAPX3BY/s320/IMG_0797.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I visited The Dresden for the first time and really dug the atmosphere. Definitely a place suited for a group of merry friends. Besides the curious relationship between the tattooed, pierced, Affliction t-shirt wearing dude and the 60 something hippie singing with the band, there was one comment that stood out over all the rest.<br />
<br />
One of the guys said to the waitress that she was looking to be "vali<i>dated</i>." I'm pretty sure he didn't mean to emphasize "dated" and the comment was made in jest to begin with, but I liked the new meaning he gave to the word.<br />
<br />
The following weekend I found myself dancing the night away with the usual suspects. I think it's safe to say that, for the most part, guys have <b>no </b>idea how to approach girls. If I'm surrounded by a bunch of my girlfriends dancing so hard that you can visibly see the water weight dripping off my body, don't try to start a conversation with me.<br />
<br />
Is using some common sense too much to ask? Clearly.<br />
<br />
This was the same weekend I attempted to bake some Maple Bacon Cupcakes for my bacon loving friends. Everyone who tried one is still alive. Success!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgnrGX8OtjsMn5emh1cT2m3IxE_xtFz4rGyyJB7d2s8TteXgJmpqHHVVC8ZG1YTgoMbtmVPUg9lirwc7tx6GAVyf2_VKBx2pv7ndxCo13-ibSNDvULqQZZekcBygLwDwROnpfQgHz7yGpI/s1600/IMG_0806.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgnrGX8OtjsMn5emh1cT2m3IxE_xtFz4rGyyJB7d2s8TteXgJmpqHHVVC8ZG1YTgoMbtmVPUg9lirwc7tx6GAVyf2_VKBx2pv7ndxCo13-ibSNDvULqQZZekcBygLwDwROnpfQgHz7yGpI/s320/IMG_0806.JPG" /></a></div>I split my holiday weekend between the Tennis Channel and San Diego. While the French Open has been <i>très intéressant</i> (Humbert anyone?) I more so enjoyed my time in the Whale's Vagina.<br />
<br />
There are 2 things guys should know if they don't already. First, <i>never</i> talk about a girl who is standing within ear shot. Especially if she is sober and you're talking about how to finagle a hook up with her. This may come as a surprise, but that's a <b>huge</b> fucking turn off. Not that there was ever a chance to begin with.<br />
<br />
Second, learn to <i>take a hint</i>. If you put my arm around my waist and I take a step to the right to release myself from you, <b>don't</b> put your arm around me again. I started on the right side of my friend when a guy put his arm around me. By the end of our little "dance" I was on the left side of her. Every time I stepped out of his grasp, he just followed and threw his arm around me again. It was like rinse and repeat. I wanted to cut his arm off. Stop fucking touching me.<br />
<br />
Also, most girls don't like when some guy just starts grinding up behind them. We can't see you, so we have no idea if we know you or not. And even if we do know you, there's a good chance we still don't appreciate feeling your dick on our ass. P.S. Just because I met you 90 minutes ago <i>doesn't</i> mean I know you. Step off.<br />
<br />
I did get one girl's night while down there. We kept it low key however and went to a bar called Bare Back where it wasn't very busy. While sitting on the balcony, judging people as they walked by, two guys smiled up at us and said, "Hi ladies."<br />
<br />
They looked 12.<br />
<br />
My friend commented that with just our luck, they would be the only guys to talk to us and they looked like they were probably in a Tosh.0 video where they kicked each other in the balls.<br />
<br />
They weren't the only ones who talked to us, but everything else was very unexciting. Not that any of this can be classified as exciting to being with.<br />
<br />
As a bonus, while standing outside a bar, some old Mexican guy came up to me, patted me on the head, said something foreign and walked away. Having no clue what words just spewed from his mouth, I took it as a compliment.<br />
<br />
June is a crazy month, and to be honest, I don't know if I'll get to bar hopping with just the girls until July. But until then I'm sure I'll be out, guys will be annoying, and I will be unforgiving.cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6606779548495794195.post-25491437327540795182010-05-12T02:10:00.000-07:002010-05-12T02:35:51.996-07:00Baby StepsSo it begins. I'm getting my head out of the clouds, my ass off the bench and jumping into the game, right wing preferably. There was a slight change of plans and instead of Q's I found myself at Double Deuce in the Gaslamp Quarter, San Diego. I dressed appropriately in some knee high brown boots and a jean skirt as the DD is a country western bar. My boots made that sweet sound when hitting the wood floor during my line dancing routine. Yee-haw!<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ32rbJVdih3EXYf7WWFWhbYyL9X4WpiwOtd7MzXSht2vhjJOeKKQE_XGoM0COYBlmur_DvTf0gq4D4_kRLkEz1JDhI92LZoyUwmsLWAVhtdqd1kVz85ZxQj-hbI3AxM0x_8eD_WQNvljT/s1600/IMG_0792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ32rbJVdih3EXYf7WWFWhbYyL9X4WpiwOtd7MzXSht2vhjJOeKKQE_XGoM0COYBlmur_DvTf0gq4D4_kRLkEz1JDhI92LZoyUwmsLWAVhtdqd1kVz85ZxQj-hbI3AxM0x_8eD_WQNvljT/s320/IMG_0792.JPG" /></a></div>Right. Like I went up on stage and line danced. Baby steps people, <b>baby steps</b>.<br />
<br />
While I'm not afraid of country, I'm pretty sure my friends were embarrassed to be there, but we had a hook up and the drinks came free all night long. That makes just about any bar tolerable. Plus, they had a mechanical bull and a stripper pole.<br />
<br />
We never discussed the possible use of the stripper pole, but I was told that friends don't let friends ride the bull. I was wearing a skirt so I thought I was in the clear. Oh, don't worry, the bar has that covered though. They have a nice large pair of overalls you can just slip on over your clothes so that the pervs standing outside the bar watching don't catch a glimpse of your beaver while you're bouncing on the bull. 2 shots of Patron and I was holding on to that bull for dear life.<br />
<br />
Yeah...that didn't happen either. <br />
<br />
So what <i>did </i>I do while I was there? Well, I do-si-doed to Cotton-Eye Joe, partook in a boob grabbing frenzy, and belted the lyrics to Just a Friend along with Biz Markie. I also found out that I may have a type. Ding, ding, ding. Type A for Asshole. Surprise!<br />
<br />
I'm standing outside in the smoking section with my friends who enjoy slowly killing themselves and this boy starts talking to me. Tells me that his brother is riding the bull, and when he says brother, he means his <i>military </i>brother. Game time, here we go! <br />
<br />
There is nothing about this drunk boy that interests me, his friend however, is extremely cute. So we had a little back and forth but I could tell that I wasn't really helping the conversation along. It was like I was purposely running into defenders so I wouldn't get close enough to the goal to take an actual shot.<br />
<br />
Then the guy says they've just been transfered from Philly and they are shipping out in a week. Philly!?! I say Allentown and they're both shaking my hand. Now I have cute guy's attention. Drunk guy keeps talking about how they are going to Iraq and then throws out that his buddy (cute guy) has had 13 kills and he's had 9. <br />
<br />
<b><i>What?!</i></b> <br />
<br />
You don't talk about that shit with your wife, let alone throw that out at a bar. Cute guy says nothing, but he's not exactly telling his friend to <i>shut the fuck up</i>. I call them out. Drunk guy plays it off, but I'm not stupid, I don't just eat bullshit like it's candy.<br />
<br />
Cute guy tells me he's going to ride the bull, but he's had a few to drink so it might be interesting. I point out he's already making excuses for why he's going to suck. His reply, "What about me makes you think I'd fail at anything?" Wow. He was serious. <br />
<br />
I was <b>speechless</b>.<br />
<br />
That was pretty much the end of my interaction with them, we went back inside shortly after. Maybe it was the buzz I had going, but all I could think about was how attractive "cute guy" was and that I wanted a picture with him. I saw him around the bar a couple times before we left, but never had the nerve to go back up to him.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmqO-YrokbduaTOgyMaiMAcsH9_Tihp5J4Ckg_0NugBLNwPA-IZhMP4utsMGLV-0FmksEfWWLKDq5f491A45576_IfyeyxnMEQ7xfjzkT9ulFhGdnqdGMoGAsJ2X-IXfEkWG6d8UQ3jfjy/s1600/girlsinsd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmqO-YrokbduaTOgyMaiMAcsH9_Tihp5J4Ckg_0NugBLNwPA-IZhMP4utsMGLV-0FmksEfWWLKDq5f491A45576_IfyeyxnMEQ7xfjzkT9ulFhGdnqdGMoGAsJ2X-IXfEkWG6d8UQ3jfjy/s320/girlsinsd.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Later that night, I told my friends I was annoyed for not pushing myself to go back up to him like I had wanted to. They all looked at me in disbelief and almost simultaneously yelled about what an asshole he was. <br />
<br />
I couldn't argue with them, but this is an exercise in stepping out of my comfort zone and I felt like I failed, just a little.<br />
<br />
There's always next time.cheryl annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12190254316197854821noreply@blogger.com3