Sometimes, my life feels like the sky just opened up and decided it was a good day to poop on me.
It was 10:55PM on a Friday in early February, and one of my relatively-attractive male friends had called in sick to our hang-out session. This normally wouldn’t be a big deal, except I was inexplicably “in love as fuck” (to quote an article I read earlier that day) with this dude who carried a gun as part of his job description and had once told me, “I really don’t have anything else to look forward to until I have kids, I guess.” He also let me know that he wanted to be a teacher, but, “Oh well, in another life.”
Fantastic! Perfect suitor. He’s stable, can use a firearm legally, is good in bed (or at least was two years earlier), and sometimes talks to me.
This was not an isolated case in my own poor judgement.
One month earlier, the relationship finally fell apart between myself and yet another complacent Settler of the P.D.X. (Portland, Oregon, for anyone unfamiliar). The man in question here was nearly thirty, pretty much in love with his mother, and had been slowly working up the underpaid rungs of his corporate ladder. This guy was not as stable, not good with a firearm, not good in… some other regards, and wanted to talk about his feelings all the time.
The guy before that was an adoptee who couldn’t reconcile his identity, and the guy before that one was essentially emotionally abusive.
This was all typical.
If one were to keep back-pedaling through my love life, one would notice a pattern of complacent, nice guys with way too many female friends. They usually had parental issues of one sort or the other, with a good deal falling into the category of, “Well, my father was a cheating bastard, didn’t talk to us for several years, and now we’re forging a relationship.”
Back to that moment in February, though. It was the moment that I decided I needed to really do something with my life. Up until then, it was just school, work, and one failed romance after another.
I dreamed of sunshine and C-list fame. I wanted to write. I wanted to do stand-up comedy. Hell, I wanted to compete in a CrossFit competition of some sort. I wanted to learn another language. I wanted desperately to travel more.
I wanted to fall in love with someone who meant something deeper than all the others, though.
What’s a girl to do when she’s nearly thirty-years-old, nine months in with a brand-new, fresh-out-of-grad-school job, single as fuck, and living in a city where the men were as passive as Canadians (sorry, Canada–I needed something to work with here).
Start an inappropriate blog recounting all her dating mishaps and stories.
On that note. Welcome. Pack your bags because I’m ready to fly.