Dear Future Me,
Being single is weird. Good weird. Neat weird. But still weird.
I’m sure it isn’t weird for everybody, but considering that up till now I’ve been single for a total of ten hours of my adult life, well…there is a bit of jet-lag. There is a sense of disorientation. Part of me wants to say something about it being like my arm has been cut off, but it’s not really that important. It’s like I’ve lost some vestigial tail that was cool for playing beer pong but otherwise didn’t have a lot of value. Sure, I miss my sweet hand-tail, but I can get along just fine without it. I can even still play beer pong, I’m just not as good as I used to be.
In the above metaphor, “beer pong” is synonymous with sex. I think. For the love of God, let it be about sex. Although it occurs to me that if “beer pong” means sex than “vestigial tail” implies I had a penis. I don’t! I mean, I never have! Had a penis, that is. Or a tail. And I’ve never even played beer pong. I don’t even like beer!
ANYWAY, being single is weird, especially because a lot of my single friends have been relationship-less for a year or more and many of them are bitter and cynical or at least cautiously conservative in the face of my blind, sexy optimism. I can sleep with anyone! I can stay up all night and party all day! I am infinitely desirable and suddenly available! WATCH OUT WORLD, I AM GOING TO FUCK YOU UP.
Of course, the truth is that despite this sudden sexual freedom I’m not cavorting about the streets of town in a non-stop orgy (sorry, everybody). And regardless of the number of people who might want to sleep with me – my arrogant hot-girl side says “two dozen”, with a sneer, but my practical side is betting a liberal negative two – I am only possibly, nominally interested in sleeping with a few select individuals. I will never have a one night stand. I’ll never pick a dude up in a bar and use him and discard him like a cheap kolbassa. (EWWWWWW). I don’t have the time or energy for meaningless, naked relationships. So I guess as my single life starts looking more and more exactly like my old life – with fewer snuggles and more random facebook messages – that sense of unending possibility will probably diminish.
Part of my blind optimism probably comes from the fact that I am reasonably confident that if I wanted to date, it is definitely something I could do. Fact is, I am a highly datable individual. I’m attractive, funny and smart, I like to try new things and it takes at least two or three interactions to realize just how bat-shit crazy I am, and not in the good way. I’ve got that magic kind of eccentric that looks charming and deliberate until you realize that shit, son, bitch is banana-sandwich. And by then it is too late.
In my mind, this is what a dude who I might date thinks when he meets me. Each new paragraph indicates a new interaction (I’m fucking organised, people):
“Oh man, who’s that girl? She’s kinda hot, and I like how funny and confident she is. Man, she totally just called me on my BS, plus I think I just saw a thong. She seems pretty smart and she got my Wrath of Khan reference. Cool!
Hahahaha, I can’t believe she just said she hates pregnant women! What a crazy chick. What a free spirit! Also, nice tatas. This girl is pretty far-out. Did she just say she solves her problems with fire? Hah..ahaha…cute…
Wow. Um…Sure, she’s got nice legs, but…did she really just punch a kitten?”
Now, before we move on, I’d just like to say that I’ve only ever punched a kitten once and that was because the little shit bit me first so really this is just the circle of life.
In conclusion, I might seem cool and hot but in truth I am loopy as a roller coaster. Plus I solve my problems with fire. DON’T BECOME ONE OF MY PROBLEMS. Also I am slowly getting used to being single, and yes I am still crappy at posting with any regularity.
All my vestigial tail-love,