Archive for the 'Adulthood' Category



28
Jun
11

Is it me, or are you the world’s biggest p^ssy? *

Dear Attractive Female with Nice Cleavage at Gate 25,

Maybe if Delta hadn’t screwed me again for the 2nd time in a week. Maybe if the burger I had ordered while waiting at JFK for 5 hours hadn’t been overcooked with the wrong cheese on it. Maybe if the iced tea I ordered hadn’t been peach (with no warning, I hate that crap). Maybe if the two drunk ritards next to us at the gate weren’t so loud and obnoxious. Maybe if I had a bigger set of balls…Maybe I would’ve taken my ipod off and chatted you up. Crap, I just used an incredibly British phrase, I hope I’m not turning into one of those assholes that goes to London for a week and comes back pretending to be English.

Anyway, I’m actually reviewing the last paragraph and realizing it’s not really true. All those things happened to me, yes; but none of them prevented me from talking to you. The only thing that did that was the same thing that prohibits me from talking to a random female at the grocery store. What is that thing? I’m not entirely sure. It’s part because it’s a slightly abnormal social situation, part not wanting to be ‘that guy,’ part being a bit of a p-word when it comes to approaching females.

But at the end of the day, what can I say in that situation that doesn’t make me come off like a skeevy asshole? Besides, you had your headphones in too…it isn’t as if you were inviting some dude that had been traveling for nearly 24 hours (but didn’t smell like it, always throw some deodorant in your carry on when traveling internationally) to hit on you. And let’s not be bashful here, it was going to be an effort to hit on you/flirt with you, even if it was only a mild one. Was there a fleeting moment where I imagined us talking for 10 minutes before sneaking into the bathroom for a quickie? Of course there was. But really, I just wanted to spend 20 minutes talking to an attractive female. Neither happened.

Just do me a favor, next time you travel and don’t want to be bothered, don’t wear a shirt that shows so much cleavage. It attracts attention.

Cheerio,

Jeremy

*Stand By Me

13
Jun
11

Dear Lebron,

Sometimes breakups don’t always go as expected, do they? You traded in your ex-girlfriend, who was basically the equivalent of your childhood sweetheart. A loyal, kind, homely girlfriend who always treated you with nothing short of reverence. But that wasn’t enough for you…you wanted the glitz and glamor of the the high school prom queen. Well how’d that turn out for you?

So far, all she did was take a giant dump on your head. Not only that, all the rest of the kids in high school hate you for what you did to your ex. But as you said, “they have to wake up tomorrow & have the same life that they had before they woke up today.” As do you “King” James…a life without a single championship ring (or without a single low post move, but that is for another time).

You come up with excuse after excuse for why you broke up with your ex, on national tv no less, and now we are going to have to deal with an offseason full of excuses as to why you and your current girlfriend aren’t working out too well yet either. You might blame her parents (for the purposes of this metaphor, Spolestra = parents) for not giving you enough control, you might blame her for not being totally over her former lover (Wade), but you certainly won’t blame yourself for failing to dance with her during the king/queen, when it really mattered (aka the 4th quarter).

The bottom line is, only YOU created this world where we have to wake up and live the same lives as before you blew yet another year of your career…but if you hadn’t dicked over your ex so badly, we wouldn’t loathe you like we do.

Signed, 99.9% of NBA fans

ps – I know the metaphor go a bit carried away, but it’s Monday at 8 am…give me a freaking break.

03
Jun
11

GUEST LETTER

6/3/11 – Im putting this on the home page b/c it’s too long for the Guest Page. And because I can. Because it’s my blog.

our 5th guest letter is a bit different. it’s 100% serious. and 100% awesome. this girl had me pretty close to tears. ill say no more. she wanted to remain anonymous so without further ado (ps its long. like, really long. but worth it).

T.
I find it a bit ironic that I’m writing you of all people a letter of gratitude after, you know, everything.
I still have so much negative energy toward you that it startles me to find myself thinking of you at random and I can feel my body tensing up palpably, a defense mechanism against even simple thoughts of you.
It wasn’t all bad, was it though? I could write at you for hours if I fixated on all the yuck, but I don’t let myself do that these days. Today I’m here to thank you. That’s all.
Yes, surprise should be your natural reaction.
Remember that night we walked around, side by side, next to the water? It was three am when we began, that second weekend up at the lake, before anyone had really made friends or moved in that summer. I had just gotten off a shift working the door at the bar. My head was swimming with love for this strange new place, my own daring to go through with it, and this life and the summer and all the people and their energy.
I was buzzed, my shift ended in a couple of Starry Nights and a Red Headed Slut. I hurried home under the stars to a promising group of new characters on the front porch. The kind you laugh with and look around at with glee before you realize they’re barely disguising how much they’ll ultimately want to crush you to feel bigger, brighter, more. But not then, then it was just so. A perfect storm to start the greatest summer. It was the greatest summer, wasn’t it?
Finally, everyone retired to their own rooms and new beds, so many still- unfamiliar names and faces swirling around in their heads. But we weren’t done, then. Just us. We walked for hours that night, literally. You had to work at eight that morning and we were just approaching the restaurant as it opened at seven. We strolled in and ate breakfast together like it was the most natural thing in the world. I had to work at 10:30 am, but by then I didn’t need sleep. I was electric. Completely lit with energy, my veins felt too full to hold my body. We dined, we laughed, across from each other, hours into a conversation that flowed so beautifully that I feel physically ill even now just thinking about the ease. Still strangers, but losing mystery by the minute.  We finished eating and you went to work and I half-skipped back to my room in the dorm building, already smitten.
We never touched that night or morning, except when our arms collided briefly as we swatted our way through a cloud of gnats, somewhere amid hour three. Or maybe I shook your hand in introduction. I can’t remember if I was still in that phase.
There aren’t many nights or moments in my life that I would honestly label as perfection. They’re all scattered and rare and mostly fragments of bigger, bitter disappointments. But this night, this one was perfect.
We were perfect.
I wish we could have, would have, just stopped there, hanging frozen in time. I wish we’d never have met again. I don’t need the years of everything that went deeper and stole pieces of me and destroyed others, but I’d keep that night. Hell, I’ll keep it anyway.  I’ll hold it deep in the depths, no matter the way things turned out.
Remember that night when you told me you loved me more than you could ever love yourself? That’s the fucking saddest thing anyone has ever said to me. It was all falling apart by then, anyway. But even more than starting to hate you for saying it, I hated and still hate myself for feeling the need for you to mean it as it started to seep in. Through all my cracks and little broken parts, eventually invading the whole and knocking me off course.
You may not love yourself, but you certainly never loved me either.
That’s not what this is about. I’m writing to thank you. There’s not really much I can honestly say I’m grateful for when it comes to you, but I do treasure the way we met, that perfect night.
Thank you, for being handsome and charming and for just talking to me. Thanks for not trying to get in my pants or making me feel awkward or embarrassed so you could take advantage. I’ve seen you do that so many times to so many people, preying on insecurity. But not that night. For whatever reason, you let me feel like I was the right girl with the right mind at the right time.
You’re just so goddamn handsome, it’s disarming. It was disarming.
I hope you’ve got everything you need. I hope someday you turn your head up to the sun and realize it’s always been there, just waiting for you to realize it. I hope you’re warm at night and that some girl finds a way to disarm you, but doesn’t abuse it like you do. I hope you wrap your giant, graceful fingers around her fingers and catch them in her hair. I hope you drown in her eyes the way I felt I couldn’t catch my breath looking into yours.
I hope you stop making promises, because you’ll never understand how a broken promise from your direction can cause the edges to crumble off an entire world.
I hope you never contact me again; because you know I’ll always tell you everything is going to be all right. It’s cruel. Remember those months of page upon page we typed to each other? I waited each time for yours with baited breath, devouring every punctuation mark and pronoun with my heart. I knew you didn’t love me then, but that didn’t stop me from loving you anyway. Us, playing at friends. We were never fucking friends. Thanks for helping me realize the difference between hiding behind words for comfort and actually wanting to build a genuine friendship with someone. It was the closest you ever came to needing me though, wasn’t it? A steady fix of reassurance in your darkest moments. I hope I never need anyone like that.
More than anything though, the stupid, silly, selfish, girl in me hopes you remember that one perfect night as vividly and as reverently as I do. I hope you keep it suspended over you like a mobile, or an umbrella. A reminder of how living cosily inside the exact right place at the exact right time feels. Those moments before we learned how to hurt each other and who could make it the deepest.
You always won.
By the way, thanks also for the wreck plate that last morning. Remember? You dumped me for the last time fifteen hours later.  I thought you loved me then, that hurried-with-oversleep morning as you grabbed your phone and called in the order, just in the nick of time. You, always keeping me on my toes, in the dark, knocked on my ass.
Thanks to you I’m on a new path. A better one. Thank you.
Sara
19
May
11

“We got three big weeks ahead of us. It’s wedding season, kid!” *

Dear Dee,

We’ve hung out two nights throughout the course of our lives, and both times I’ve desperately wanted to make out with you. The ironic thing is the first time we met, about two years ago, we were making fun of a couple in our group who had just gotten together and their public make out scene was vomit-inducing, at best. Fast forward 24 months and possibly 24 first (shite) dates, and we were again thrown together at said couple’s wedding.

I forget the exact reasons I didn’t make a move the first time around, probably some combination of the following: I don’t operate that quickly, we were with some of your extended family, I’m kind of a p-word. This time around though, the reason was far clearer: I can’t play the rat race that happens at weddings. Sure, I’ve been to some where there are seventeen single females looking to make out, but this situation was entirely different. You were literally the only eligible female at the event (not entirely true, but the other two I’m thinking of are in that friend zone).

From the rehearsal dinner on Friday night onwards (my speech alone should’ve been enough for you to want to tear my clothes off…I kid, I kid), it was clear that I would be competing with approximately a dozen single men for your attention. Perhaps if I didn’t know anyone else at the wedding my mindset might have been different…but there were about 75 people I knew there, and a good chunk of them I actually wanted to see (this is exactly the opposite of what happens when I go to the bar most weekends). Maybe if I was guaranteed at least a boob grab or something I would’ve made more of a concerted effort. I guess I just don’t see the point of spending all night at a wedding with some cool people pining after one girl’s (even if she is cute & fun) attention.

Is that abnormal? That I’d rather spend times celebrating with my (pseudo) family & friends than shower you with affection? Is this a sign of a bigger problem. If so, I might be f*cked, and not in a good way.

Oh, out of curiosity, if I had approached you somewhat early on Saturday and said, “listen…I’m not going to join in the competition for you, but just know that I’d love to make out later on if you want to,” what would you have said?

See you in a couple years I hope,

Jeremy

*Wedding Crashers




Letters sent…

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