Local Woman Ruins Everything

Remember when I was blogging super late two nights ago because I'd been on a crazily long date in front of a closed Starbucks with Bumble Trader Joe? 

Well.

Yesterday BTJ mentioned hanging out when he got off work tonight, and while I was making dinner, he text me to say hi and ask if I still wanted to hang out. Since before asking that, he'd said that work was pretty awful and he couldn't wait to leave, I told him yes, but that since he was having such a bad day, I wouldn't be upset at all if he didn't want to, to which he replied, Wouldn't sex make a bad day better? which got him an offer of pumpkin chocolate chip pancakes in return. The two of us went back and forth for a few minutes, his texts being all about sex and mine being all about pancakes with the outcome being that he would consider the pancakes and message me in a little bit because he was about to have to go back to work from lunch. 

About fifteen or twenty minutes later, I was texting a good friend who I always talk about boys with, told her what BTJ had text, and sent her a screenshot of the initial proposal. She commented on it, I replied, So I said...,  I took two more screenshots of the rest of the pancake/sex conversation between me and BTJ and immediately sent them right back to BTJ instead of my friend.

That's right, people who read my blog. I screenshotted our questionable conversation and sent it right to the fucking guy I'd been texting. 

Can you say, want to die?

I mean, I don't even know how to begin telling you about the horror I felt when I saw that I sent those photos not to my friend but to BTJ instead (and it was right as I pressed send). I started shaking and I could feel myself turning red and I could feel the blood draining from my head and I was dizzy and all I could think was no no no no no omg no omg no no omg omg omg no no no and I frantically typed out a text saying something about how I'm crazy and for him to please ignore the fact that I just sent him pictures of our texts and then I sat there in agony, horrified, oh my god, so horrifically horrified, until he text me back twenty-two minutes later seeming to not care, saying Lol mean to message someone else those screenshots? Awkward lol, but, well, it's 10:57, and here I am and here he's not, and no, I didn't plan to have sex with him, and yes, the whole exchange was a little bit eww, but that's neither here nor there; what's here and what's there is that I am an absolute bumbling fool.  

I Brought My Pencil

Fetish definitely isn't the right word because I haven't ever found an instance of this to be to an abnormal degree, so instead we'll call it a thing, but did you guys know that an inordinate number of grown men have a teacher thing? I only ask whether or not you were aware because until recently I had absolutely no idea, and I've been a teacher for 20 years. It wasn't until maybe the last year when I started meeting so many people that what I at first thought was super weird and super rare actually isn't rare at all. 

(But I still think it's super weird.)

So I think it's super weird and the whole thing is nearly impossible for me to conceive because unless it was Sebastian Bach or Bret Michaels or Tom Keifer or Mike Tramp or a member of Motley Crue that wasn't Mick Mars, I would never ever have had any interest in a guy significantly older than me, and this thing is obviously rooted in some past incident grown men had when they were younger and in school. Well, I use the word obviously, but it's really not obvious at all. I know not one single thing about the human mind and something being obvious to me doesn't mean a thing. But I can still speculate.

In addition to speculating, I can also compare and come to realizations. One of the things I realized is that this teacher thing is very similar to what a lot of people call fetishizing but actually is not. As of late, I've seen a lot of people talking about how disgusting it is that X type of person is fetishized. What I can think about off the top of my head is how when a non-black girl at a recent gun march in Washington D.C. was holding a sign with a picture of Michael B. Jordan in a muscle shirt and written on the sign was something along the lines of These are the only guns I need, people on Twitter went insane. The fetishization of black men needs to stop was the theme amidst the craziness in which one camp claimed it was fetishization and one claimed it was not. Well, with all the wisdom I possess in my wisdom-filled brain, I'm here to tell you it was not. I'm also here to tell you that maybe that was a bad example because even though people called it fetishizing and it's not, that it's just liking a super cute guy's super nice arms, and Jesus Christ, why can't someone like the arms of a person who's another race without fetishizing going on, it's not really the same. Closer to the teacher thing would be someone who often likes Asian people or red heads or Asian people or bald guys or Asian people or super tall guys or Asian people or itty bitty girls or, I don't know, Asian people are in there somewhere. 

So I think about the teacher thing, and I think about people who like people of a particular race or weight or whatever specific thing, and I ask myself because in this case, them = me: Does this bother me? Does it bother me that while it won't make someone who has the teacher thing but has no interest in me at all suddenly my slave, it's definitely a source of sway? That it makes people who had a modicum of interest suddenly think that I'm hot? That because I'm a teacher guys I've gone out with have talked about classrooms and discipline and staying after school? I ask myself those things and I answer, and the answer is no, and lest you think I'm fine with it because I want people to want me, most people don't like to be objectified, not even me (if you're friends with me on Facebook you might remember when I stopped talking to a guy because he said I'm "smoking hot"). 

I'm fine with it because--well, you know what, I'm fine with it because, and that's just going to have to do. I'm fine with it because it's human nature to like certain things more than others, and despite the evidence to the contrary everywhere we turn, people do not have to look for reasons to get insulted or offended every single second of the fucking day, and goddammit if a guy wants to picture me with an Expo marker in one hand and an eraser in the other, is it really that horrible a thing? 

(No, the answer is no. But it's still super fucking weird.)

There, There

Disclaimer: It's 12:54 on a school night that I'm finishing this post, and I still have to brush my teeth, wash my face, and carry on some correspondence. It will not be proofread.

I had a well thought out plan to write about something specific, but since I'm sitting outside of a Starbucks closed for diversity training waiting for an impromptu date, I'm amending my plan. The should-a-person-end-a-relationship-just-over-sex post will have to wait; you get a holy-fuck-I'm-systematically-ruining-all-the-places-I-normally-go-as-I-date-every-guy-in-a-five-mile-radius post instead.

The description, I suppose, is self-explanatory, enough so that I probably could end this post right now, but I think everyone who knows me knows I always have more than necessary to say, and actually, because the last part of this sentence (the part I'm writing right now) is being written almost six hours later than the first half and a really long date later, my post has actually evolved a little, enough so that the description no longer accurately describes everything I have to say.

The first thing I want to talk about is these people close in proximity that I've been talking to as of late and how it's been affecting my life. First, there's Bumble, which works based on distance. I've been talking to a guy a lot--like a lot a lot--who I met a week and a half ago on Bumble, though we haven't really met. He mentioned once going to the gym and like an idiot I asked him where he went. Since it seems like everyone who lives close to me goes to the same gym (he lives a mere mile away) I knew what the answer was going to be before he even said it: my gym. Like an even bigger idiot, I responded, Hey, that's my gym, too! And now don't you know? I'm afraid to go to the gym. We snap all the time so there's no way he wouldn't know me if he saw me, and I want to meet him in real life, I really do, but bumping into him at the gym just seems like such an awkward place to do it. I already feel uncomfortable and awkward when I walk into that place like everyone is staring, and have to worry about bumping into my ex-Glenn. I don't need to worry about bumping into Bumble Gym Guy, too. In addition to Bumble Gym Guy, there's Bumble Trader Joe, who, in case you haven't gathered, I met on Bumble and he works at Trader Joe's, which is, like, one of my favorite places in the world. I swear if I'd known he worked there beforehand, I wouldn't have swiped right. But I didn't, and I did, and now I have to worry that I'll bump into him and he'll think I'm a crazy stalker whenever I need tortillas or jalapeno lime juice or vegan tikka masala, which is actually way more often than you might think. Or at least I did when I started writing this blog at 8:25. Now, after our over five-hour date during which I voiced my Trader Joe's concerns, I feel more comfortable although I'm not exactly fine.

My point is that as I continue to meet and go on dates with people like I'm on my death bed and it's the elixir of life, I, a girl awkward and nervous no matter what, am creating situations that foster that awkward and nervous, cause it to flourish. Oh--I almost forgot. I said first Bumble; I still haven't mentioned work. While this is slightly different because it's not me dating and it's through no fault of my own, there's a man I work with who recently asked me out--as in last Thursday recent--inundated me with texts throughout the school day, called me while I was driving home from work, and then text me later that night telling me about my sexy body and asking me what I do with it, and I'm now so uncomfortable at work, I don't even want to go to the bathroom because I don't want to leave my room.

What I'm saying--and it's the only thing I'm saying, at 1:16 the evolution of this blog could suck a big fat toe--and I'm sure I'm doing a really bad job of it since it's the middle of the night and besides being exhausted I'm starving to death, is that all these guys are absolutely ruining my life. What's that expression? Don't shit where you eat? Well, life is a banquet and there's poop covering everything.

Monday

A few years ago I wrote A Little Bit Peter, an essay about  a slight Peter Pan complex--which seems to be primarily a boy thing but has been dubbed Princess Pan in an article by Tracy McMillan that makes me want to hunt her down and punch her in the face (but worry not because Jezebel refutes it beautifully)--I may or may not have had. I say may or may not have because while yes, I don't like the idea of growing up, or maybe a better way to say it is I don't like the life lived by most grown ups, I don't embody the majority of its true hallmarks. I don't shirk responsibility, I don't think the world revolves around me, I'm not afraid of commitment or rejection (well, no more than most people. Who does rejection not scare?), I don't lack emotions (although I often wish I did). 

Why do I bring this up now? Other than I need material for my thirty days of blogs?

Today Griffin asked me if I was still seeing "the young boy" I was seeing for about six weeks (you may remember him. The boy I had sex with on the first date in the back seat of my car the night of the guy who wanted to sext? Cutie Pie Court?), and when I told him no, this was his (copied and pasted) response: 

You guys would never work out

You have some weird obsession with being a kid and he has some weird obsession w growing up

To which my (copied and pasted) response was

Hmm. That's an astute observation, Marthe
But I don't have a weird obsession with being a kid. I'm naturally young

Griffin disliked the second part immediately.

So here's the thing. Yes, Griffin's right that A, who's 21 (don't judge me. He's one of the cutest boys I've ever met with huge dark brown eyes and almost black curly hair and he speaks three languages and he loves literature and poetry and he writes stories and he has a lot of things in common with me that I can't talk about in this blog plus when we met he told me he was older than 21 and does age really even matter anyway when two people are adults and, umm, actually I think I'm finding a subject right this second for a future post), has a weird obsession with being an adult. He's more determined than almost anyone I know to be professional and make money and buy a house and start his life. Despite that, though, he's really a big huge baby which is, in direct opposition to what Griffin said, why things didn't work out. A may really want adulthood, but he's actually nowhere close.

I, on the other hand, with my "weird obsession with being a kid" really don't act like a kid at all. Do I do and like things that a lot of people my age are "too mature" to do and to like, like push my way into the middle of the madness at and occasionally crowd surf at concerts and dance and mosh around my house while blasting pop punk or easycore or indie or Lil Peep? Okay, fine. I do. Do I maybe wear clothes and have piercings and hair more frequently--but not always--seen on a younger crowd? I suppose. Do people think I'm Griffin and Keifer's sister instead of mom sometimes and have I even once or twice been mistaken for a girlfriend (which is fucking crazy since we all look so much alike especially me and Kei. This is California, not Kentucky)? That's also not wrong. Do I date people a lot younger than people my age usually do? No one who knows me will argue there.

All of these things are my reality, yes; however, in response to Griffin's accusation and that ridiculous post by Tracy McMillan, I have to ask who decides what an adult's life, or an adult, is supposed to look like?

One of the things I saw frequently in my recent quest to learn more about this whole Peter Pan thing is that people who have it are more interested in fun than anything else and that mirrors a line from A Little Bit Peter that reads: "An adult who behaves like a child and believes fun is the most important thing in life is said to have a Peter Pan complex because, clearly, life has nothing to do with having fun."

Now I have to ask: Who says that if I've had the same job since 2000--which I do a fucking kick ass job at if I do say so myself--while simultaneously teaching night school and raising a family and getting an MFA and then after getting that MFA taught two classes per semester at community college for a few years after my day job while still raising that family and pretty much supporting an entire household; that if I've never been late with a single payment on anything in my life and have a FICO score of 799 and not one penny of debt other than my house; that if I take care of things in a crisis like a son's split open eye (twice!) from mosh pits and another Baker Acted son and impounded dogs and a beehive in my wall that because I have a nose ring and a septum piercing and often candy colored hair and a penchant for cute young Colombian boys (and Dominican boys and Japanese boys and Venezuelan boys and Korean boys and Jamaican boys and Sri Lankan boys and Eastern European boys and plain old Wonder bread white boys) that I'm not a proper adult or that I have a weird obsession with being a kid?

Why does my adult have to look like everyone else's?

And why, when already by the time I'm not even 44, my ex-Glenn's best friend (36), my close friend's brother-in-law (41), several of my classmates from elementary and high school (20s to early 40s), and almost my best friend who had a major heart attack and actually died on the table several times (37), are already dead, when a teacher at Griffin's school literally dropped dead at his retirement party, when a teacher from my school went to the doctor one summer and was dead from cancer not even three weeks later, can life not be about fun? 

School's in Forever

All right so while I realize that the fact that it's past midnight technically means I haven't done what I set out to do which is publish a blog every day, I've always been of the belief that it's not tomorrow until I've gone to sleep and woken up the next day, so according to Kelly time, it's still today. And today we're going to take a break from all the sex talk because just like I didn't want this blog to turn into a boy blog, I don't want it to be a sex one, either. Instead of sex and boys, which I have to admit are my forte, I'm going to talk about something people will find far less interesting but that's been a very big part of my life for 21 years: Miramar High.

A lot of you who read this blog know all about my school either because you know me personally, you went to Miramar in the past, or you're weirdo little students obsessed with stalking your teachers' lives, so I won't be telling you anything you don't know. In fact, you should just stop reading right now. But to the rest of you, I just have to share the realization I had on Thursday during my third period class, and that's that I work in the best school in the world.

Okay, so maybe Miramar High isn't the best school in the world, but the school that is the IB program is. Where else could I have Jamaican fritters with Indian pastries for breakfast and then watch a Nigerian dance right after? I have learned so much about so many peoples and so many places, been exposed to so many different cultures I never would have known anything about from being a part of the IB program at work, I honestly don't think I could make clear enough my appreciation. On top of that, the students, for the most part, are amazing. They care about justice, they care about the environment, they care about science, they care about learning, they care about each other. They're a part of something, and they make me feel like I also am a part of that thing.

Which brings me to

something I've said many times before and written at least once. I love my kiddies so fucking much. Teaching English I could take or leave. Sure, I love writing and grammar and analyzing rhetoric and lit as much as the next guy, but trying to make my students appreciate it? Talk about muy malo. I've been teaching for 18 years, and if it were all about teaching English, let me tell you, there's no way I could do this job. What it's really about, at least for me, is relationships. These kids, maybe not all, but a lot, have no adults they can talk to or trust, and of that a lot, some of them choose to talk to me. I've had students have me tell their parents they were pregnant, I've had students come out to me, I've had stranded students call me in the middle of the night, I've had students contact me about mental health crises. I'm not stupid enough to think if I weren't here someone else wouldn't take my place, but I'm glad I am here so we don't have to see if that's true. I'm also glad I'm here because as much as I help my students, they help me. I can go to work in a bad mood and be happy by the time first period ends because being around my kiddies puts me in a good place--well, not my blue day kids because my blue day kids are mostly the pits. I can be plagued by a problem and forget it's there until the end of the day. I can care about people enough not to worry about me.

When my students ask me all the time if I always knew I wanted to be a teacher, I always tell them the same thing: I never wanted to be a teacher. I never really wanted to do anything but learn about English and write, so I got a degree in English and was a waitress and then I had a baby and felt like I needed a real job, and thus began my teaching life. For such a long time, I lamented my lot, felt like I was doing something I was too good to do, that teaching wasn't for me, but I have to tell you, I can no longer imagine doing anything else, and teaching isn't just my job but one of the pieces in the jumbled up bag that makes me, me.

Wow, I Can Get Sexual Too

Pre-post disclaimer regarding post number two about Hot Hockey Guy: Griffin is a very sensitive young man in touch with his feelings and has been known to cry over many things including but not limited to poetry, song lyrics, movies, plays, television shows, the news, instrumental songs, super cute cows, super cute dogs, super cute dogs being kissed by super cute cows, and really, the list doesn't stop. He has, however, never felt the urge to cry over another man's penis size.

My bad.

And now that that's cleared up, but while we're on the subject of penises, let's talk about sex. Or rather, let's talk about the idea of sex and how every guy acts like he wants it so much but mostly that's a bunch of bullshit stemming from societal norms. I'm talking about a universal generalization that pretty much goes like this:

Guys are these super horny creatures with sex on their minds all the time who will take advantage of every opportunity they have to fuck. Girls, on the other hand, aren't nearly as sexual as men and have to, for the most part, be talked into having sex, give sex as a reward or a present--or maybe perform certain sex acts only for these reasons--or are only half as interested as guys, and on the off chance that a guy does end up with a girl who's super into sex, he'd be thrilled.

Well, I am here to debunk all that crap, ideally once and for all, but a lot more realistically to one or two readers if even that.

First, about that last one, all I have to say is, Ha! A woman with an unusually high sex drive is nice in theory, but the majority of men are actually pretty intimidated by it. It's one of those they think they know what they want but they really don't things.

Second, about the guys wanting sex all the time and girls not being that into it thing, I cannot tell you how many women I know, who I have known throughout my entire life, who have been in relationships that embody the exact opposite of this notion. I know of two women who got divorced for this reason--I'm one of them although by the end of my marriage, a whole heaping helping of a bunch of other stuff was piled on top of the completely disproportionate desire for sex thing, all of which stemmed from that disproportionate desire for sex thing--women who have had affairs for this reason, and women, beautiful, desirable women, who question their self-worth for this reason. (I currently know one girl, one of the prettiest girls I know, who just started an affair pretty much for this reason--although there are others too--but we'll talk about her more in depth at a later date.)

Like the misguided notions about penis size, this misguided notion about men and sex is harmful, too, not only to women, but to men as well. Regarding women who have been told their whole lives that men just want to fuck, fuck, fuck, and then fuck some more, how are they to feel when that's not the case? Bad, of course. Unwanted. Gross. And regarding men who have been told their whole lives that they're supposed to want to fuck, fuck, fuck, and then fuck some more, how are they going to feel if that's not how they are? Pretty bad, I'm pretty sure, as if they're somehow less than men.

Now, don't think I'm saying all guys are shittalkers pretending to be interested in sex just because of societal norms. I'm sure there are plenty of guys who want it all the time just like I'm sure there are plenty of women who don't. I'm just saying that there's so much damage done from sexual myths and expectations, and that that's a horrible thing. Like ideas of femininity and masculinity, this idea of what a man's sexuality is supposed to look like is so entrenched in our society, it's rarely talked about openly when there's a deviation from the "norm" because the parties involved feel so wrong they're embarrassed to even bring it up.

And that, people who read my blog, is what's actually wrong. 

I Like It, I'm Not Gonna Crack

I've been thinking about addiction a lot lately. Although people would probably scoff at the idea that I'm an addict because they'd likely disagree that this type of addiction even exists, accusing me of being hyperbolic and overdramatic instead of really being an addict, I am absolutely, positively addicted to boys* (I even have an essay about it that if I'm ever not too lazy to edit and send out, you may just get to read). I may not look like an addict, but it just so happens that, you know how there are functional alcoholics? I'm functionally addicted to boys.

*For the purpose of this blog and pretty much everything else I ever write in my life, when I use the word boys, I'm talking about guys pretty much between somewhere in the 20s and maybe 40 (although that's pushing it). I mean, sure, there are some guys in that age range who I would categorize as men instead of boys, but I wouldn't want anything to do with them. Gross. 

Just for fun, let's look at the American Society of Addiction Medicine's definition of addiction: Addiction is characterized by inability to consistently abstain, impairment in behavioral control, craving, diminished recognition of significant problems with one's behaviors and interpersonal relationships, and a dysfunctional emotional response. Like other chronic diseases, addiction often involves cycles of relapse and remission. Without treatment or engagement in recovery activities, addiction is progressive and can result in disability or premature death.

Except the "can result in disability or premature death" part (unless we're considering things my ex-Glenn could have done to me in the past), this definition fits me to a T. I won't go into details (at least not here; if it's details you want, I totally wrote a book), but I promise you that over the years (about 31 of them) I one hundred percent have been unable to abstain in bad boy-related behavior, I have had absolutely no self-control where boys are concerned, I have craved boys--holy shitballs have I craved boys--and my behavior has caused significant problems in my interpersonal relationships. To put it in simple terms, where boys are concerned, I have exhibited behavior that is batshit fucking insane.

Like addicts of more commonly accepted this-is-an-addiction substances such as, for example, a drug addict who could maybe have a glass of wine without descending into a downward spiral but couldn't be anywhere near a line of cocaine, I have weaknesses, too, only in my case the different substances are specific people instead of specific drugs. Also like (some) other addicts, I go on the wagon and off, in and out of recovery, but I'll never really be cured. And like those in recovery, I truly have to take one day at a time.

But I have to tell you, it's been hard, especially as of late. The dreams have come back, to the point that when my alarm goes off in the morning I hit snooze, which I never do, because I don't want the person in my dreams to go away. Every single day, I have to talk myself out of texting or calling or snapping certain boys because just like an alcoholic on a bender, I know--oh my God, do I know--that the effect of doing any of these things will be the opposite of good. I'm talking self-loathing, I'm talking humiliation, I'm talking setting myself back I don't even know how long.

I know all of these things logically, of course, but it's getting harder to abstain nevertheless. That's the addiction at work.

But I'm trying, Ringo. I'm trying real hard.

Hold Me Down, Baby

All right, people who read my blog, I'm feeling a little bad. I told Griffin about Hot Hockey Guy earlier today, and he instantly got this sad look on his face and said he felt sorry for Hot Hockey Guy and not at all for me. While he agreed that what Hot Hockey Guy did was inappropriate and yes, he understands why I'm insulted, what really upset him about the situation is the stigma of the small penis. He told me that he and his friends were just having a discussion about this very thing--well, the stigma of the small penis, not guys on dating sites sending dick pics to his mom--and how guys with small penises pretty much have horrible lives.

I didn't tell you guys this yesterday because it wasn't relevant to the story, but Hot Hockey Guy's penis wasn't even particularly small. Sure, I've seen bigger, but I've seen smaller, too. Way. When Griffin told me how bad he felt, I told him that, and he said that it doesn't even matter, that because of porn, where the average penis is eight inches, people have complete misconceptions about the size an average penis is supposed to be, and if a guy thinks he doesn't measure up, his life is pretty much ruined. He said small penises are a factor in depression, suicide, anger, and even serial killing (and a quick Google search told me he isn't wrong).

Hot Hockey Guy, Griffin said while looking like he was going to cry, must have had a really horrible experience or many horrible experiences if the first thing he said to me after hi was literally, Do you care if it's small? Please say no (goddess. Let's not forget that). Imagine, he said, what he must have experienced and how bad he must feel.

So I did plus I thought of the humiliation he must have felt when I chastised him the way that I did--not that he didn't deserve to be chastised--which of course led to me feeling as sorry for him as Griffin looked which now has me veering toward the insane, which admittedly is a pretty easy way for me to veer, considering messaging him like an absolute crazy person on Instagram (because his username was on Bumble don't forget), apologizing for what I'm not quite sure in an effort to what I'm not quite sure of either because really when we analyze this, I'm not going to say the dick pic and obvious presumption that we're going to fuck are okay because they're totally not, and I can't apologize for or make him feel better about the size of his penis, and if anything, the whole thing will probably embarrass him more on top of making me look like an absolute stalker lunatic bitch, but omg Griffin just made me feel so bad so in spite of all of these reasons why I absolutely positively should not direct message this guy--

I think I probably will.  

You're So Damn Not

One of the things that I don't want to happen over the next month is for my blog to turn into nothing but a blog about boys, but omg, I had not one but two boy-related things happen today, and I have have have to talk about one of them. I really want to talk about the other one, too, but since it involves someone who could possibly see it or be told about it, I just can't (well, I can't talk about it here. The people who watch my Snapchat story are going to hear all about it tonight).

I know I told you a long time ago that I deleted my Tinder--and I did--but I'm still on Bumble, for no other reason honestly than I don't know my login info and have no idea how to get rid of it. I could just not go on it, yes, but when it's right there on my phone and I'm lying in bed not sleeping at night, what else is there to do than swipe mostly to the left? So last night while I was swiping I saw this super cute Eastern European guy who not only looked like Sergei Federov circa 1995 in street clothes in his first few photos but was actually wearing a hockey uniform a few photos in, and, well, how could I not swipe right for him?

(I couldn't. That's the answer. I couldn't not swipe right for the hot Eastern European guy in a hockey uniform. That would be impossible.)

We matched, of course--and I don't say of course because I'm like, of course every guy I swipe right for matches with me, but because if we didn't match, there clearly wouldn't be a story--but since it was late I didn't message him till today. He messaged back fairly quickly, and the messaging went something like this:

Hot Hockey Guy: Does size matter goddess?
Hot Hockey Guy: Please say no

I'm not embellishing here. Hot Hockey Guy actually called me goddess.

Goddess (because why the hell not?): Well, I guess that depends exactly what you're talking about because size can refer to more than one thing
Goddess: What exactly are you talking about?

Hot Hockey Guy: lol
Hot Hockey Guy: Goddess guess

Goddess: Okay, first of all you have to stop calling me goddess and second of all, it could mean height

(I'd seen his pictures. He clearly didn't mean height.)

Hot Hockey Guy: Not height

Goddess: Well, I mean, small is pretty subjective so like how small is really small and also, I don't really think this is the conversation you should lead with when talking to women

Hot Hockey Guy: Pretty small. Every girl I'm with tells me I'm too small
Hot Hockey Guy: Sorry I just wanted to find out

(Goddess here to interject. What the fuck is wrong with women? How does someone--multiple someones--just tell a guy his penis is too small?)

Goddess: Well, if it's really that small, I'm sure you do other stuff to make up for it

Hot Hockey Guy disappears for a few minutes and then I get a notification, not that Hot Hockey Guy has sent a message, but that Hot Hockey Guy has...sent a pic.

A pic!

So I'm sitting there staring at the lock screen on my phone, and I'm talking to myself out loud, and I'm like, Oh, God, please tell me this guy did not send me a picture of his dick do not be a dick pic do not be a dick pic do not be a dick--

It was a fucking dick.

Hot Hockey Guy sent me a picture of himself lying on a bed with an erection, his penis in his hand for scale.

Hot Hockey Guy: See?
Hot Hockey Guy: I do other stuff

And while I'm mulling this all over, bam! Another dick pic, this time with his hand hovering over it I guess so I could see it from another perspective.

Yayyyy.

Goddess (after she gets over her utter disbelief which shouldn't even have been because seriously nothing guys do should surprise Goddess these days): Okay, so you look super hot in your pictures but I totally did not want to see those pictures and I don't know if anything ever would have ended up happening with us but now it's never going to and it absolutely has nothing to do with the size of your penis

So I go back to making my vegan pancakes that up until now I haven't mentioned I was making and see Hot Hockey Guy has sent me another message but by the time I finish mixing the dry ingredients into the wet and check my phone, Hot Hockey Guy (whose first and last name I actually know because like the silly boy he clearly he is, he posted his Instagram info on his profile), our messages, and his dick pics are gone.

And I know crazy is subjective, like whether or not Hot Hockey Guy really has a little dick, but I'm not entirely sure that's the crazier story of today's two.

Hard Times

In the spirit of Seinfeld, which I don't particularly like, I'm going to post a blog about nothing. I'm just going to ramble on in a way that makes everyone who reads it wonder what exactly is wrong with me, which is absolutely fine because it's something I'm constantly wondering myself.

Actually, you know what? Never mind. I just realized, like I always realize when I start to write, that I have something to write about after all.

Sort of.

A couple days ago I told a friend that I have so little to do when I'm not grading or working that after my summer travels, I'm going to look for a second job. She pretty much told me I was crazy and that what I need to do is start writing another book. I told her I knew she was right, but I had--have--absolutely no intention of doing any such thing.

Then last night when I was on the phone with my mom, who was going on and on about how sorry she felt for Keifer because music is the only thing he wants to pursue in life and the chances of his being successful aren't very high, I said, What about me? When I was in high school and in college, all I wanted to do is write, and yet here I am teaching, stuck in this godforsaken place. Why don't you feel sorry for me?

I didn't really want her to feel sorry for me. That's not why I said what I did. I said it to make her see that teenagers have dreams that don't come true all the time, that it's not that big a deal. But now as I sit here writing this blog that started out about nothing, I'm realizing not that I'm lamenting where I ended up in life (at least not in regards to my career because I can't imagine life without my kids) but that I am lamenting what seems to be a complete and utter lack of desire to write anything at all ever again.

I don't know if it's that I'm getting old...I don't know if it's that I'm uninspired...I don't know if it's that I'm super depressed...but the desire, the yearning, the need to transcribe the goings on in my mind into print that have been omnipresent my entire life just are no longer there.

And that, people who read my blog, is way scarier and way worse and way more upsetting than being a teacher stuck in Florida for my entire fucking life. Having no commercial--or even critical--success in writing is something I've totally come to terms with; but writing not being who I am? That is not even a little bit okay, not at fucking all. 

And so, people who read my blog, when I started writing this blog that was supposed to be about nothing, I realized what I'm going to do: I'm going to force myself to write. In hopes that writing will turn out to be like sex--studies show that the more you do it, the more you want to--I'm going to force myself to write in this blog every night for...how long? A week certainly isn't enough. Two weeks isn't either. Ummm one month. I'm going to force myself to write in this blog every day until June 22, which is actually the day I leave for Chicago, so this couldn't have worked out more perfectly if it'd been planned.

(It's almost like kismet, right?)

Now I have to warn you: A month of writing when I don't want to write and probably will have nothing to write, well, I'll be searching, and things might get a little rambly, a little personal, a little uncomfortable, and a  little weird, so if you don't want to read what's coming, I won't be mad. In fact, it's probably better if you don't.

But if you do, do not say you weren't warned.