Monday, June 30, 2014

Insert Taylor Swift Lyrics Here

I didn't fall in love after two dates. But god did I love the idea of us.

Everyone makes fun of Taylor Swift for writing an entire album about her 2 month maple latte relationship with Jake Gyllenhaal, but the truth is I could probably direct an 87 episode telanovela story arc based on the two dates I went on last week.

I'm going to say it again - we went on two dates. Not ten, not two hundred. Two. We communicated for a grand total of 4 Earth days. I am self-aware enough to know that I deserve to be committed for being so invested and for feeling so intensely about this. I've spent more time in the same room with John Frusciante than I have with NAME REDACTED but I can't quit letting the What Ifs chip away at me when I'm alone.

My dream man is a cross between Lee Pace's height and Ezra Koenig's twitter feed. All I want is a tall, funny, creative guy who doesn't take himself too seriously and will understand when I leave him for Dave Grohl someday. So when I walked into that bar and saw his 6'3" frame standing there, it was just like that Beatles song. Technically he was sitting down, 32 years old and a man, but my heart did go boom when I crossed that room. I don't believe in love at first sight, but something ignited in my chest and I fell.

Before I reveal more of my psychosis, let's talk about, "The Spark." Along with being ugly and antisocial, the mythical abstraction known as 'the spark,' is what makes dating so fucking hard. It's the idea that when you've finally met the Ryan Gosling to your Rachel McAdams your innards will alight and your smile will come easy and, put simply, you will know. The conversation won't be stilted, his touch will set you on fire and everything will somehow be equal parts familiar and new. Newsflash: it's complete bullshit, until one day it isn't. When it comes to love and men I am the ultimate cynic, because I have no reason to believe otherwise, but I had a total Notebook moment when we met.

I picked a bar with soft lighting, though maybe a bar with no lighting would have been better.  I was 5'11" in those shoes; we both had terrible posture, so busy leaning into the other. It turns out we both work retail. It turns out our stores are across the street from each other. We share a birthday month and obsessive personalities. He let his cat pick his own birthday; it's the same calendar date my parents met. It felt a lot like fate.

His face lit up when he showed me his artwork, mine when I mentioned tequila. We talked about music and when I expressed disappointment in missing my dream lineup at this year's Firefly Festival due to flakey friends, he asked why we couldn't just go together, "Pretty girl... music... summer? What else do you need?" I don't need to get stabbed in a sleeping bag by some guy I just met, and normally I would decline. But he was too charming and funny and familiar and he seemed to feel the same way about me, "I feel like I've known you for a while.. is that weird?" This is how serial killers get away with making book spines out of human vertebrae.

He joked about getting married at the festival, so I told him Dave Grohl is an ordained minister. I would have shaved ten years off my life to have Dave Grohl marry us there. (I would shave ten years off my life to have Dave Grohl spit in my mouth.) It felt more right than the time Meryl Streep was cast in every role she's ever played.

Game four of the Stanley Cup finals was playing at the bar, and it was projected to be a pitiful loss to the LA Kings. I'm a reluctant Ranger fan, in that I don't actively give a shit about sports, but I appreciate the skill and occasional violence involved in hockey. I also didn't want to return home to see my brother and father weeping before the television set after New York's inevitable loss, so I silently rooted for them. When The Rangers unexpectedly scored their first goal and the bar erupted like Mount Vesuvius circa AD 79, he played up the romcom and kissed me hard. It was better than Love, Actually.

He told me I was funny when I wasn't; he told me I was pretty which I'm not.

He asked me to go home with him, and maybe that was a red flag, but he was cute so I was flattered. I told him I had work early the next day and a dog with a weak bladder, so he walked me to the subway instead and we kissed until it hurt. He told me he wanted to see me again, and so I believed him.

He texted me that night about Firefly after I'd already fallen asleep, "We can totally do this..." He just needed to get the days off work, and I just needed to rob a rich widower to afford it, but we were both on board.

We spent five hours talking that first night, then five hours texting the next, because of course I counted. He asked to see me again the following night. Since my life is an episode of 20/20 waiting to happen I agreed to go to his place deep in the bowels of Brooklyn straight after work. It is important to note that he offered to pick me up in Manhattan, but I declined. It is equally important to note that this blog post is turning into a short story written by Ernest Hemingway. I might be drunk. War.

Instead, he picked me up from the train station, something the last guy I dated didn't 'believe in.' The last guy I dated was a short, racist elf from Connecticut.

In the end he couldn't get the dates off work for Firefly, but he showed me the post-it where he'd written out the cost and transportation. He bought me cider and fed me pasta. He made me laugh the way few people can. He was an artist deserving of the title. We spent the rest of the night half watching a movie but mostly waiting for it to end, and I made the fatal mistake of equating physical affection with genuine interest. I went even further and believed him when he ended the night by saying he wanted to see me again. That he would call. I let myself get excited, and that's where everything went wrong.

def did not take an entire week to fall apart

The Rangers officially lost the Cup that night, creating the most appropriate parallel to my dating life this universe has ever seen.

Spineless assholes of both genders who are reading this: why are you the way you are? Let me give you some advice. You're you and I'm me and we're on our second date in three days, initiated by you. Do not tell me I am pretty and funny. Do not tell me how bad you want me.  Do not tell me you like my legs, my eyes, my ass, my thighs.

Do not, as you're lying on top of me, hard as a brick, say, when I hesitate to rip my clothes off, "You can say no. I won't be mad. I'm still going to want to see you again." Do not then brush the hair away from my face, look into my eyes and smile, "Don't give me those sad eyes. I'm not mad. Ok?" Do not kiss me softly after.

Do not walk me to the subway station after I decline your offer to sleep over and kiss me deeply and grip my waist and promise to call. Do not make the last thing you say to me in person be, "Sorry again about postponing the wedding next week."

Do not respond to my text the next day. Do not ask me how my day is going. Do not send me a photo of your cat.

Do not remember the inconsequential things I told you the night before; do not bring them up now.

Do not, then, go Radio Silence on me and think you're doing me a favor by not saying the words. Say the fucking words; say any words. I can handle it.

maybe I can't handle it

I want to hate him and shit on his life and burn down his house for being this vehicle that has driven me to question my sanity and my worth, but the truth is despite his cowardice, I don't think his intention was to hurt me. He probably thought I was a normal human being who would react to silent rejection in a normal, human way: that I would feel disappointment, not crippling loss. That I would delete his texts and move on, not replay every interaction we had and wonder where I went wrong, since he did everything right.

But if there's one thing in this world that I'm good at it's obsessing.

need I remind anyone of 2012
He told me he told his mother about something I'd said; that she'd laughed. I didn't think anything of it until I couldn't stop thinking about it. It's one of my favorite things to shout into the void when I'm drunk these days, "He told his mother about me! He. Told. His. Mother. Why would he do that!?" The answer to that question is: many people tell their mothers many different things. It doesn't have to mean anything. Clearly, it did not.

"I'm not usually this funny... especially on a first date. You must just laugh at everything." Except Amy Poehler told me I don't have to laugh when boys aren't funny. I didn't then and I never will again. His last girlfriend didn't think he was funny. Maybe if I had laughed less he would've liked me more. Maybe I shouldn't have told him to watch Bob's Burgers; he fell asleep during the pilot. Maybe if I'd spent the night like he asked he would have called. The What Ifs are fruitless, of course. If sex is what would have kept him, he never meant to stay.

I realize in the grand scheme of things, two dates should mean nothing. They obviously meant nothing to him, and they would usually mean nothing to me because I am so guarded. I have always refused to be this current version of myself: the one who overthinks and disappears and doesn't eat. Much like being drunk around giant cacti, when I allow myself vulnerability I get hurt. I have long suspected that I am not the type of girl people fall in love with; I have never been made to feel like anyone's first choice, so I don't get attached and I don't get excited. Perhaps it's a self-fulfilling prophecy, but this time felt different. It just sucks that it was one sided. It sucks more that I'll never know why.

He clearly didn't like me as much as I thought he did.  Maybe he got back with an ex or saw in another girl what I saw in him. Maybe he fell from Belvedere Castle, suffered a concussion and died in his sleep. In the end it doesn't matter, because whatever his reason for wanting to Eternal Sunshine me from his existence is knowledge I will never be privy to.

And I get it. Shit happens. You get corrective lens surgery some time between the first and second dates, you meet someone else, you fall down a well and suffer from retrograde amnesia. Whatever. It's the total disregard for my feelings that makes me want to post his number to numerous online sex forums.

Just tell me you're over it so I can buy a handle of tequila on my way home from work. It's about seventy thousand times more considerate to be honest with someone and reject her so she can move on, than to force her to dwell on the maybes, the whys, the what did I do wrongs. But to just cut off all contact without warning? When things seemed hopeful? More spineless than Gilderoy Lockhart.

I'll never know. I will never know how we went from marriage to death in four days.

I am grateful to the friends who have been very supportive. I am not an easy person to deal with when I am hurt. First, when things were great:

and then when things were bad:

I haven't been this disappointed in the outcome of something since Justin Guarini beat out Tamyra Gray on season 1 of American Idol, but I also know that when I look back on this a year from now, a decade, I'll be more embarrassed than when my mom asked me what a MILF was for a second time.

Logically I don't want to be with someone who doesn't want to be with me. Who thought I wasn't small enough or soft enough or kind enough or clever. Who fails to have the decency to respond to my (completely normal, reasonable) text of, 'if you're no longer interested I'd appreciate a heads up.' But logic and love do not run perpendicular to each other. Even though it wasn't love.

I told him I'd never had my heart broken before; I guess he took it as a challenge.

Even though he seemed perfect for me, it never would have worked out anyway; he hates karaoke.

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Last Goodbye

We got Buster a week before my 6th birthday - 18.5 years ago. Aside from my family, I've known him longer than anyone. That's a stupid thing to say; he is family.  I'll start over.

We grew up together, both puppies with boundless energy and trust and love.  It's cliche because it's true: dogs are totally limitless in their loyalty.  He was my alarm clock every day, urging me awake, prodding at me with his paws.  He would tug on my school uniform before I left, begging me to stay with him. I wish I could have brought him with me, I wish he wasn't leaving now.

He loved me even when I left him.  He waited by my door when I left for college, four long years of 'why did you leave?'  and 'you're finally home!' Even after the arthritis kicked in and he could barely hold himself up, he was always the first one to welcome me back. Weak limbs be damned. 

When he was older, calmer, I would hold him, swaddled in a thick blanket, and he would fall asleep on my chest like a baby - his belly rising and falling with ease and comfort, his breath coming out in soft wisps as he slept. This was peace.

Now there are no more false alarms or false hope. My dog, my little bear, my Buster, once so filled with life and energy, has been reduced to only moments of wellness, short bursts of clarity.  He can no longer walk; instead, he howls, he sleeps. It's time.

And so I say goodbye to my oldest companion. My heart isn't heavy so much as it is hollow. Times like these I pray for an afterlife, for some sort of Heavenly world because any other reality is too much right now. I need to trust that I will see him, see all of them, again someday.

I know he's held on so long for us - his love is that selfless - but it's finally time to let go.

Goodbye my little bear, I love you. I'll see you when I see you.

Monday, December 31, 2012

suck it, 2012

They say the way you spend midnight on New Year's Eve is the way you're going to spend the rest of your year. I'm glad that saying is farther from the truth than any predictions made by Miss Cleo because otherwise I would have spent the entirety of this godforsaken year blacked out, drunk on tequila, lying on the floor of a karaoke room. Actually that probably would have made 2012 a little more bearable.

My resolutions for the past year were to blog more and get out of retail. Oops. The only thing I succeeded in was regressing further into the emotional maturity of a tween girl. My resolutions for 2013 are to actually blog more and to stop being late to every single thing I attend as I am convinced the reason I get invited to nothing now is because I am always late (and also because I never show up).

I think we all put too much emphasis on New Year's Eve. I'm about to leave my apartment but my makeup is terrible and I'm wearing the same outfit I wore for NYE 2010. I'm not going to kiss anyone at midnight, I'm too tired and embarrassing to drink to excess, and I'm already pathetic at 24. This year sucked. I'm only celebrating the fact that it's over.  To be honest, a huge part of me really wants to stay home and fall asleep at 11:30. If sleep is all I do in 2013 it will already have been better than 2012.

But enough complaining. Here's to the money I didn't earn, the job I failed to quit, the weight I didn't lose, and the pop culture that consumed my existence. Thanks to those who have yet to abandon this blog, even though apparently I am not one of those people.

Happy New Year! and many thanks to Ke$ha for my mantra of 2013:

found out you're full of it I'm over it so suck my dick

Monday, October 15, 2012

getting greasy

I don't do updates posts because who cares but I said I'd post this on every social media account I possess and since that's all of them I need to post it here, too.

I apologize to my faithful readers (no one) for not updating. I've been extremely busy trying to hit my goal of reading 75 Young Adult novels by the end of 2012. I soon realized that would never happen because I spent too much of my time watching One Direction interviews on youtube this year, so I lowered the number to 50. Almost there you guys.

The truth is I've been really lazy the past two years, increasingly so over the past 4 months. Summer makes me more slovenly than usual, sorry.


BUT I do have some good news! My hilarious and talented friend, Jordy Scheinberg, is not a lazy sack of shit like I am and put together Greasy Magazine! That's a bunch of exclamation points coming from someone who's never excited about anything! So this must be something!

Since I'm a 'writer' (who has never been published or celebrated in any way because why), she asked me to be a contributor and because I literally have nothing to do with my time other than look for a job and like please, I said sure. I'm sure she regrets asking me to be part of something she worked so hard on because I am the worst, but look! Everything came to fruition!

Check out the full site here, my article specifically is here. It's Halloween themed! SO FUN

I'm hoping to post something here in the very near future (this week!), because I'm trying to stop being a waste of space. But we all know how that goes.

please don't abandon me yet

Sunday, July 29, 2012

hell is other people

dear Zac why did you get a YOLO tattoo

I recently put my two weeks notice in at my retail job in a momentary lapse of good judgment. I was finally ready to walk through those double doors for the last time, middle fingers in the air, sunglasses on, profanities vocalized, until student loans and no job prospects brought me back to the reality of my limited life. Thankfully one of my managers offered to simply cut my hours down, so now I only work two days a week and 'job hunt' the rest of the time. By job hunt I mean sleep in until 2 everyday and get around to scouring Craigslist never.

Most people think working a mere two days a week would make the pangs of retail horror easier to deal with. But because I no longer spend the majority of my time immersed in the entitled, douchebag attitudes of customers, I have less patience than ever. I compiled a list of awful things customers do, but the list quickly grew to be as long as the Lord of the Rings trilogy and included things like 'breathing' and 'walking into the store,' so I had to edit it down to the following.

people who shop on Black Friday belong in Dante's 9th Circle of Hell

People Who Are Impatient Dicks
If you only have 10 minutes to shop and the store is clearly very busy and you are an asshole, DO NOT SHOP.  The line isn't going to move any faster because you need to get to your niece's Christening. She's not going to remember the ugly dress you wore, anyway, go in sweatpants.

my fave casual outfit makes a triumphant return

I know it's hard to believe, but having Somewhere To Be doesn't make you important enough for me to overlook your obnoxious attitude.  I'm not going to stop helping another customer just to assist you because your lunch break ends in 5 minutes. I'm not going to let you skip the register line because you have a cab waiting for you outside.  Some dad once asked me, "What are you, stupid? We have somewhere to be," when I was looking through his daughter's purchases to find the tag that set off our security alarm.  Not sure how doing my job according to the handbook correlates to my intellect but alright.

I don't expect some overzealous, Colin Creevey-type enthusiast; that would be kind of weird and maybe terrible. But I'm going to let you in on a long guarded secret of the retail world: the customer is not always right.  If you fail to treat me with respect, I will have no qualms about telling you those pants are sold out in your size in every location in the world, in fact I think you imagined those pants because they don't seem to have ever existed, goodbye.

If you're in the fitting room and you ask us to get you a different size and we are clearly understaffed and over capacity aka it is a Friday afternoon, chill the fuck out, you're going to be waiting a while. I know it's really hard to remember, but this is not TRON, no one is a robot. (disclaimer: I've never seen TRON and I don't know what it's about. I don't even know if the title is supposed to be in all caps.) If they ever make robot sales associates they'll probably turn out like the animatronic replicas of Itchy & Scratchy in that one episode of The Simpsons where they turn on the humans, because retail is just awful enough to bring inanimate objects to life for vengeance.

this is what a retail labor union would look like

People Who Comment On The Temperature In The Store
The best time of year is the middle of summer, when our AC breaks down. There is no feeling in the world I love more than beads of sweat dripping in a constant stream down my back for 8 hours at a time. Even better than actually suffering through this for a full shift is when customers take it upon themselves to inform me that it's hot in the store, as though I have no clue. The exchange usually goes something like this:

Idiot: Wow, it sure is hot up here...
Me: I know!
Idiot: Well, no one's going to want to shop if it stays this hot. It's really uncomfortable.
Me: Imagine how we feel! ha!! (here I usually laugh a little too forcefully, lest I cry)
Idiot: I need to speak to your manager and let them know because this is ridiculous.
Me: Trust me, they know it's hot.
Idiot: I don't think so.

Do you really not think so??? Do you truly believe all the employees in this store have tiny air conditioners strapped to our backs? That the sweat pooling in our armpits and crotches is simply condensation from the cool air blowing out from these nifty little AC jet packs that don't even exist? No, asshole, we are suffering at least 27 times more than you and we are all acutely aware of it so fuck off. 

i am so mad

People Who Can't Describe Things
My other favorite thing in the world is when someone has a specific item in mind but can't describe it beyond "dress."

Customer: Yeah I came in here at some point and saw a dress right over there, but it isn't there anymore, do you know what happened to it?
Me: ..........................
Customer: ................
Me: heavy, audible sigh
Me: What did it look like?
Customer: I don't really remember. It was a dress
Me: Okay, what color was it? Was it long? Short? Did it have sleeves?
Customer: I don't remember, okay, it was RIGHT THERE
Me: How long ago was that?
Customer: ummm i think it was before the advent of time

If you cannot describe an article of clothing, no one is going to help you. It isn't that we don't want to help you (even though we probably don't), it is that you are a moron. If I were a mind reader do you honestly think I'd be wasting my time as a sales associate when I could be in the circus or on one of those True Crime shows?

A few weeks ago a guy came in and asked me to help him find a dress for his girlfriend that was 'appropriate' for going out.  He had a difficult time communicating to me what he actually wanted, 'appropriate' and 'dress' being his only descriptors.  Everything I showed him he hated. It was either too short (knee length) or too sleeveless (cap sleeves) or too brazen a color (peach). What he actually wanted was something like a loose burlap sack that would cover his girlfriend completely from head to toe. Sorry, better luck at Whole Foods, I hope your girlfriend dumps you.

Drunk People
When I'm drunk, the absolute last thing on my mind is to go shopping, unless it's shopping for more tequila. Drunk people are the worst. I should know, I've been there. They knock things over, they vomit everywhere, they pee everywhere, they smell and they don't care.  Because when you're drunk the only thing you care about is getting more drunk.  And honestly good for you if you're doing karaoke or you're in a drunk-person-appropriate location like a bar or a high school talent show. But what are you doing in a clothing store at 8:30pm, barely able to stand?  Unless you're going to throw up on a shirt that costs over 300 dollars (we will make sure you buy it), then go away.

The only good thing to ever come out of a drunk person in my store was watching my manager clean up some customer's vodka based bile.

notice Daniel Radcliffe is not shopping at Forever 21 in this photo

People Who Skip The Line

As I have observed through the course of my painful sales associate position and also through being alive, people who have never worked in retail feel supremely entitled to being given a fitting room immediately.  Dear people who are this way: Have you never gone shopping before? Is there a reason you ignore me when I say "DO YOU NEED A FITTING ROOM??" I know you can hear me and I know you SAW THE LINE because I heard you comment on it. I saw you wait behind everyone else before you got fed up with it, walked past everyone else and helped yourself to a fitting room. Are you serious? I'm going to pound on your door, tell you to get out and get to the back of the line. Then I'm probably going to drop all your clothes on the floor 'by mistake' and linger until you pick them up yourself. This is not a free for all. If it were I'd be lounging in the break room looking up YouTube videos of Scottish Folds instead of painstakingly counting each individual item and putting people into fitting rooms myself.

my face whenever there's a 50% off sale
Do you really think you're owed a room quicker than everyone else? Why are you even trying on 7 graphic tees? Newsflash: They all fit exactly the same. The only person I would let skip the entire line is Dave Grohl and he would never do that because he isn't a jackass based on the time I met him for 3 minutes when I was 16.

DISCLAIMER: I realize a huge part of my job is dealing with customers who have little to no respect for their fellow human beings.  But I refuse to put up with people who treat me like I'm a dumb, rotting log just because I work in retail. I refuse even further to stop complaining about people who are jerks.

And to everyone who has asked me why I don't just 'get a real job?' You're right, I keep forgetting I just show up to my store and don't do anything; also I'm not actually paid in dollars, I'm paid in sheets of looseleaf so this doesn't count as a 'real' job or anything. Dick.

p.s. shoutout to all my coworkers who don't suck

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

one day you'll find that I have gone

The best part about being a 'writer,' for me, is that I have the ability to express myself in words in almost any situation.  The worst part about being a writer is when the words refuse to come out. Like right now.

And since I don't know how to talk about it or write about it without a geyser of anguish gushing down my face, I'll lay it out in the simplest terms.

We had to put one of our cats, Suzie, down today. She'd been losing weight and getting weird over the past two weeks, so when we finally brought her in we got the worst diagnosis possible: inoperable cancer. So she's gone and even though I've now lost six pets over the course of my 23 years this one hit me the hardest. I don't know what it is about aging but the older I get the more difficult it is for me to deal with loss.  I'm dazed and I'm confused and I'm hurt and I don't want to deal with this. Not now; not ever.

Suzie has never been my biggest fan, but over the years she (at the very least) grew to tolerate me because I was obsessed with her as I am with all cats. She took to sleeping on my Zac Efron pillow right by my heater a few months ago because she has great taste in human men and was probably cold. She stopped hissing at me and rubbed up against my legs a few times. I guess her tiny heart finally grew a few sizes and she was able to squeeze me in there. Maybe she sensed the end was coming; animals always do. Whatever it was I guess it's over now.

Maybe it's immature and strange to feel so much sadness over the death of an animal but... why? Forgive me, this is all so cliche, but no animal has ever made me feel like a worthless piece of shit the way some people have. No animal has ever made me feel like I was too fat or too stupid or too anything to be loved. If you're good to them, they're good to you, and that's the way it should be always and forever world without end. So I'm not sorry if I'm a lot sad for losing someone who never deserved to suffer; I'm not sorry that I'm not ready for this kind of loss.

The only thing I'm sorry for is bringing so much sadness to my blog. To add a little levity to this post, here's a link to my second blog entry ever, aptly titled "Suzie."

So Suzie,

I miss you and I love you and I forgive you for ruining so much of my stuff. It's alright. They were just things.

Monday, June 11, 2012

i've tried playin it cool but i'm too old and creepy

NOTE: This blog post was written about 1.5 hours after I'd taken some powerful, prescription sleeping pills (I haven't been sleeping well lately). Please try your hardest not to judge me; though no one will ever judge me as harshly as I judge myself.

farewell to my dignity
This is the end. My only friend. The End.

Can I get some cool points for use of the most overplayed line that exists in any Doors song? How many? 3? I will take them because I am pathetic.

Let's talk about pathetic. Let's talk about me.

Do you remember Nsync and Backstreet Boys? Because I remember them. Because I am reliving that entire aspect of my life but this time it's weirder and more intense because the Internet is a thing and Twitter encourages stalking and everything is just out of control.

I am however grateful that Kanye West's twitter exists
If you haven't heard of One Direction, the UK boy band currently in the process of dominating the universe and my heart, you probably live under the heaviest rock in the Ozarks or do not ever talk to me because they are everywhere and I am obsessed with them.  If you know anything about me it's that I am a sucker for catchy pop music and cute (legal) boys. People are often embarrassed to admit they like Starships by Nicki Minaj or Part of Me by Katy Perry or that they used a friend's little sister to meet One Direction at an NYC signing recently (o yes more on that later), but would you like to know how many fucks I lend to being embarrassed about this shit? spoiler alert: zero

I will never be cool

When I was 14 I listened to Nirvana and The Beatles and all that other shit that gives you cool points, and I listened to it then and I swear I listen to it now still earnestly. but at this point in my life all I want is a cute boyband that makes me feel as old and feeble as Dumbledore in the sixth book. You know, right after he drinks that potion in order to get one of the Horcruxes out of that cave that would only accept blood as an offering to open the fuck up. God, Voldemort was such a piece of shit.  If Niall attended Hogwarts he would be in Hufflepuff SORRY

Neville is that you
They're all just so fun and charming! I'm gonna be real with you, boys are not as charming now, at 23, as Harry Styles somehow manages to be at 18. And I try to pretend like I don't think he's adorable because I'm so old. Except he totally is and it is sooo embarrasssiiiiing you guys be still my arthritic hands and back aches

Just to let you all know how far gone I am regarding this stupid boyband - well, the least embarrassing thing I can admit to is spending hours on end watching every single interview they've ever given. If you can find and post an interview I have not watched I will pay for One Direction to play your child's birthday party provided your child is me. The most embarrassing thing I am willing to admit is using my friend's little sister as an excuse to go to their album signing when they were here in NYC. I have actually done much worse but these pills aren't strong enough to let me delve that far into my shame so you only get the one story. For now.

If I only I were pathetic in the endearing way like Zac Efron
I have never felt so old, so out of place or so out of touch with reality as I did the moment I stepped through the doors to J&R music world. My friend (little sister's owner? keeper? guardian? Kreacher?) instantly went apeshit upon sight of Harry Styles' perfectly disheveled mess of curls, and nearly knocked her little sister over trying to get some far away shots of the group before we got to the table. Luckily for her we had a shitload of time to wait and watch. 

We got to the venue as soon as the signing was supposed to start which was apparently a huge mistake as there were about 78 million people already in line (rough estimate). Some people waited there overnight.  Do you honestly think Louis is going to accept your Ring Pop proposal when you've been sleeping in the street for 24 hours just to meet them first when entrance was guaranteed anyway??? They know how long you waited. They are judging you even if they refuse to admit it. I am not judging you though because I am probably more batshit than anyone I could even begin to judge.

this girl though
We had to wait 4 hours to go down a table where the group barely had time to look up from the thousands of album covers they were signing. and regretting because that photo is so stupid.

Oh, but then I came along and they did look up. I am twelve thousand percent positive I attracted attention because I was the only one towering over their shitty fold out table. I was also one of the few around me who wasn't screaming because why the fuck would I scream? Also they probably thought I was a mom. More importantly why the fuck did I spend 4 hours of my life waiting to meet a group of teenagers?? Why am I writing about it now?? What is wrong with me!? Was Nsync not enough!??? How am I not embarrassed enough to stop myself from publishing this post?? If anyone needs 'people' it is me. Someone please save me from myself.

everyone else in the room can see it
As soon as I gazed into the beautiful green eyes of Harry Styles, I was a goner. Actually, my filter was a goner because apparently I don't understand any setting other than 'crass' when my mind goes blank. Rather than say something like "What Makes You Beautiful is an iconic pop hit" or whatever fans say that isn't 'marry me' I said "jesus christ, how do you deal with this shit everyday" sounding like the old, bitter Brontosaurus that I am. He smiled that smartass grin of his and was about to part those Mick Jagger-esque lips to respond at a glacial pace when fucking Louis had the gall to cut him off and respond with a sassy quip, "Well I like carrots SO..." and then he proceeded to roll his eyes in such an exaggerated fashion that I was pretty sure he could see his own brain matter back there. ugh

Louis I get that you hate everyone who brings up all the stupid shit you used to mention on the X Factor when you were too old even then to get away with it but like chill that was SUPPOSED to be my beautiful moment with Harry Styles where we fell in love until he realized I was still 10 years too young for him and he is 5 years too young for me.

we possess the same level of maturity

Then I was literally shoved down the table by some security dude who was clearly not used to dealing with a girl in her early 20s at these signings, where the median age was somewhere between embryo and fetus. After telling him to never put his hands on me again, I looked back to the table, having bypassed Liam entirely because oops Zayn was right next to him. Sorry but they really should ward off a section of the signings where Zayn has his own booth made out of Swarovski crystals and 14 karat gold and his 21+ fans get glasses of Cristal and Veuve Cliqcuot or shitty Tequila, I'm not picky. But since he's rich it should at least be Patron. Since there are only seven One Direction fans of legal drinking age in the US I could probably have a few bottles to myself while Zayn sits on his throne drinking apple juice or shirley temples.

cuz your friends
they look good
but you look better
Sidenote: in case you've never read my blog or encountered me as a human being or even seen a photo of me, you might have no idea that I'm the unluckiest lady when it comes to matters of the heart. Even at the age of 23 I can't seem to get my shit together and talk to a guy I'm interested in unless there are at least 12 shots of liquor in me first. I was approached by a decent enough guy at a bar a few weeks ago and didn't know whether I was being tricked so I ignored him. So I'm bad with guys. Not only do guys typically not like me (really, it isn't that I Don't Know I'm Beautiful. more like i am aware that I'm Not Beautiful and this is fine), but if they ever do they're probably foreign and just want to hit on the drunkest girl in the room (me). In short: the idea of looking at someone as stunning as Zayn Malik was overwhelming because I can't even talk to a guy who's as basic as a beige carpet. The idea of speaking to him made me want to set myself on fire in a garbage room. I probably should've done a few shots beforehand.

But back to life back to reality. As soon as I honed in on Zayn's blessed quiff, there was no one else. Liam who?? Niall who?? Paul their terrifying bodyguard who?? I felt so blessed to be able to watch the gloss of his hair shine over us plebeians as he stared down upon the endless CD booklets in front of him and signed them, barely looking up at anyone ever. Those 3 seconds of beauty made the 4 hour wait worth it, lack of eye contact and all. His beauty is unwavering. and it gets more and more alright for me to be attracted to him by the day. Someday he will be 21 and by then our age difference will just be a number I refuse to acknowledge.

Just as I was getting ready to move on to Niall, I guess, Zayn looked straight up at me and right before my palms started dripping barrels of sweat onto the floor he spoke to me.

Everyone is subject to preconceptions, okay. Excuse me for thinking someone whose beauty is matched only by his own reflection would be kind of a dick, or at least shy and unresponsive. When Molly (apeshit fan/friend) and I were talking about this in line we decided we'd rather have no interaction with Zayn as his beauty was too intimidating. Based on his sometimes overwhelming reticence and his propensity to eat while he sleeps he seemed to be the least likely to give a tenth of a fuck and make painful small talk with irritating fans. Oh how I ate those words. I happily ate those words. I made them into a fuckin souffle and fired up the goddamn stove to consume the lies I had spewed earlier.


In the right place at the right time with just the right amount of hairspray, Zayn looked up at me, smiled, said, "Hey babe! How are you? You alright?" and with that the sky parted and a light shone down upon me. I replied with a really sexy and enticing blank stare followed by an, "I'm great." He went on to stare at me and said, "I love your hair, babe. It's very rock n roll." At this point I tried not to throw up in my hands until I realized he was waiting for a response. Naturally I responded with the stupidest shit I could think of, "Thank you! I like......your......ummm....eyes.....?" I literally searched his face for something specific to name. I couldn't say "I like your album" or "You have great hair too." No, I had to scan his face and eventually went with the most obvious choice: EYES. EYES!!! Everyone uses eyes as a compliment! I tell my damn cat he has beautiful eyes every day. because he does

he is a very handsome cat
None of this probably sounds too bad until you take into account I have the vocal expression of Daria on Lunesta. Probably the facial expression too. In other words I probably sounded like the most insincere, sarcastic little shit, especially compared to the legions of happy, nice 12 year olds they'd met throughout the day. I was clearly too old and too into it to feign disinterest so I just came off sounding like a total dick.

Suddenly, there were toxic amounts of secondhand embarrassment radiating off everyone within a 30 foot perimeter of me. The embarrassment probably showed on my face when I actually said, still talking to Zayn who was for some unfortunate reason on his part still looking at me, "Oh that was embarrassing, sorry, don't know why I said that... I'm not 16 years old so.." and he winked at me and laughed as I was being pushed down the line by security and girls. Niall looked up at me and smiled and I waved and said 'bye' because nothing was going to top a forced compliment from the most beautiful person I will ever meet.

Here, this stunning King of Vanity complimented my hair with no prompting. I almost asked if by 'rock n roll' he actually meant 'dirty' but I'm glad I didn't because he probably did. Instead, I made an ass out of myself and actually cared because I will always be a 13 year old girl at heart. This is officially the most embarrassing blog post I have ever written in my entire life so I'm going to go play in traffic now bye

I know you are all reacting to this blog post the same way Liam is