Once I delivered a teary mini-speech about all the reasons he was an asshole, the dynamic changed and he had me laughing again. The tears, which I always thought would deter sexual attention, seemed to have the opposite effect. We slept in the same bed but skipped the sex. (What, you thought he was going to change his mind about me being fat? Yeah right.)

I woke up in the morning with a slight headache and lingering memories of the night before–a speedy escape was necessary. Not so much for the sake of my self-worth or respect, but because I didn’t feel like having any kind of uncomfortable verbal exchange in my underwear. I pulled the dress from last night over my head, gathering up my socks and cell phone charger from their landing spots on the floor of his apartment. Doc Martens on and laced, coat in hand, I tried turned the knob several times before realizing I was quite possibly stuck.

Despite my turning and pulling, the door was not opening. I felt my eyes go wide like dinner plates–a pointless expressive display, really, since nobody was witnessing this melodramatic moment in not-a-hookup history. It was the momentary panic you’ve already seen a hundred times in cheesy romcoms–fighting the doorknob, trying and re-trying every broken locking mechanism on an old East Village apartment door.

“Shit. Fuck. Fucking shit!” I whisper-cussed, as if that would do me any good. The knob continued to turn, the locks moved but the latch refused to catch. I became more frantic, a semi-shamed little bird beating herself against a closed window, until a good turn-shove-pull from my wrist cracked the door enough for me to step out into the hallway. I carefully shut the door behind me, avoiding the loud slam that would have rendered my 20 minutes of silent panic pointless. Once on the street I marveled at how quickly the chilly morning air alleviated what I thought were the beginnings of a hangover. Maybe it was just the glee of a successful getaway pumping through my veins. Several hours later my phone chimed, alerting me that someone was awake and looking to discuss the events of the night before.

After realizing just how desperate the better portion of Manhattan is for brunch on a Saturday and being unwilling to wait 25 minutes to be seated (his impatience, not mine) we wind up at some cafe around the corner from his apartment. We made small talk past the arrival of our coffee, until midway through our brunch.

“Listen – I like you it just… it can’t be like this. I promised myself I wouldn’t come to America and get involved with girls.”

The Russian girl seated at the table next to us is obviously listening. She looked at me expectantly as he and I “had it out”, her face giving away that she couldn’t understand why I wasn’t more upset at the fact that this guy was telling me–quite bluntly–that we needed to be “just friends”.

Despite being awkward, the conversation wasn’t so bad. It’s not the first time that people got drunk and made questionable passes at their friends–with any luck, it’ll be the last. We agreed to avoid drinking and sleepovers, to still hang out and (non-verbally, and quite possibly only in my own head) that he would continue to pay for my food when he suggests we go out. I’m still not eager to test the limits of this thing, whatever it is. My ego is still bruised after his honest assessment of my body and my ability to shrug it off may have more to do with my own vision of self than his thoughts on it.

Several Fridays back I resolved not to be an internet-addicted shut in and took the train into Williamsburg. According to some kid with too much time to wax poetic on Craigslist, this is the borough of lost boys. I fully agree but feel the need to add in that it’s them and their five piece indie bands. Craigslist writer’s oversight: corrected.

I wound up at some venue by the water. I didn’t realize there were still places that let you smoke inside. Stuff like that is only possible in a converted commercial space that may or, more likely, may not have the proper licenses to be operating as a music venue. Considering I was told about an inaccessible room people live in “in the back” in addition to the workshop specializing in guitar parts, my bet is on the latter. My eyes watered as they adjusted to the dark; too much smoke, choice use of patchouli oil and body odor that with a distinctly vegan undertone. (Is it just me, or is there something sickly funny about the dirt and hard boiled egg smell most vegans have?)

I met people, shook hands. Quickie introductions are uncomfortable because assuming I continue to talk to anyone out of the group after the mandatory meet and greet, I stand no chance of actually remembering their name. Even if I had remembered name of the guy I wound up talking to, I never would’ve used it. He bore vague resemblance to Macauly Caulkin, a thought which immediately took over whatever brain-space would have been used to store his given name. The red plaid coat he was wearing did nothing but add to the celebrity comparison I was making mentally, either. He had a lot to say about the occult and seemed distressed by the abundance of zombie movies released in the last few years.

I didn’t really want to talk to him but I wasn’t ready to not be talking to anyone either, so I just threw in enough semi-opinionated statements to keep the conversation going. My “everyone in New York has a fucking band” comment was not well received, but he argued against my dismissive statement with a vocabulary that showed he really was just a few weeks shy of graduating. (College, you guys. Pedolene’s been retired.)

Maybe his teeth weren’t actually gray but that’s how I remember them, though I know his adamant hatred of Boston is a fact and not a half-imagined attribute. I tried to amuse myself by observing the crowd over the course of the show, and though the people weren’t all that watch-worthy, the walls were. Painted behind the stage were 1920′s-influenced reproductions of Mickey and Minnie. Minnie’s tits hung heavy, swinging in an unseen breeze, nearly touching the piece of the pearly gates she held in her hands while Mickey’s dick hung low. That little mouse would be proud if he knew about the artist’s interpretation of his junk. Other walls were partially covered in half-finished murals, seemingly abandoned after a full day’s work. Day two of the project is a day that is probably never going to come.

The boy I had not successfully offended was in the last band to play. Once the vocals started it became clear someone had worshiped the Cure in high school. I was pleasantly surprised by what I was hearing and simultaneously pleased with myself for recognizing the musical influence for once. I read The Perks of Being A Wallflower in middle school and took the title to heart–rarely will you find me anywhere during a live show except in the back corner of the room. Out of the way, but in the best spot to see and hear all the action uninterrupted.

I hadn’t had anything to drink but after their set ended he came up to me again. Rarely do people become more attractive after spending twenty minutes on stage–a mild case of Boy With Guitar fever was manifesting. Rather than brave the weird hormonal wave sure to follow, I took his number when it was offered and left knowing one thing: I won’t call. I won’t text. I never do, honestly. I’ve just learned that the outright refusal makes people uncomfortable.

In polite society, it is better to give people false hope over none.

It’s funny what’s come to constitute as “hanging out” in my circle of friends. What it really means interacting by way of sitting in the same room and utilizing the same WiFi connection while functioning completely independently of each other. We were in the midst of smoking a blunt when he paused, looked at me sideways and said, “You’re probably the strangest girl I’ve ever met.”

I don’t think that was an insult but… “Strange how?”

“It’s not, like, a bad thing or whatever.”

I’ve been told before my face has a tendency to give away what I’m thinking. I struggle to keep it neutral. “No, seriously.”

“I’ve never met a girl like you, that’s all.”

That phrase wasn’t being used in the way you’d expect of a romantic comedy. Several silent minutes of joint-passing before my non-pot related paranoia got the better of me. Fuck it.

“You’re giving me a complex. How am I strange?”

“I dunno it’s just–you’re just…” He’s fumbling

“It’s that I’m like a dude, isn’t it?” I said quietly.

He didn’t hear me. “What?”

“Is it that when you hang out with me it’s like hanging out with a dude?”

“Actually…yeah. Yeah that is it, kinda.”

I want to be crushed by this exchange. I want to confirm or deny that what he’s said is true. I want to, but I feel like I float in some weird space between the too-bro and some non-feminist standard of “girly”. Sure, there’s an array of dresses and varying heel heights taking up space in my close in my closet–that’s not real me. It is just dress-up, or maybe more like fulfilling a role. Except I’m not pretending for anyone else, I do it to prove that I could–if I wanted to, which I don’t. The reality is every time I’ve gone out in these get-ups I start kicking myself the minute I’m outside, pretending my legs aren’t fucking freezing because layers of tights and sweaters and slips I’ve donned are not a substitute for pants.

This is what happens when you toe the line; not the one of androgyny, I hardly think anyone would look at me and question which bathroom I’d be using. No, the line of partially-but-not-really reformed tomboyishness.

Something nudges my elbow; my friend has one eyebrow cocked and a half-smirk on his face as he pushes the ashtray into my hand. The stoney mental rabbit hole I threw myself into headfirst begins to close under me. I let the glow of my laptop’s screen lure me away from further investigation of my insecurities, cranking some of Slug’s old shit and wondering if my friend is smart enough to hold his tongue from now on.

Most of us here in the States have spent the better part of this year using weather as a legitimate conversation point. It’s either unseasonably hot or cold, there’s too little moisture or it won’t stop pouring… 2010 may be the first time when someone in my age bracket is willing participate in lengthy exchanges about weather patterns. Following that comes talk of global warming and other politically-charged topics–but hey, I’ll take all the pointless-banter-turned-legitimate speaking topics I can get at this point. Unless this is one of those “just part of growing up” things, in which case I retract this whole line of thought.

As it begins to take a turn for the chillier, albeit a bit slower than most of us would like, it’s the little things that make me aware that summer is ending. Leather goods are coming out of the closet, re-waterproofed and placed a few inches further forward in the closet than the heavy wool coats purchased while it was still necessary to run the air conditioning 10 hours a day. Pantry shelves are restocked with favorite canned soups and other non-perishables for the days when leaving the comfort of home is simply out of the question. More notably, Starbucks kicked their advertising for the Pumpkin Spice Latte into full gear. (How anyone drinks that garbage is totally beyond me…) Yes friends, autumn is just around the corner and winter is not far off. This means it’s time to begin to settling into the age-old routines necessary for hibernation.

The real sign of changing seasons in the world of the single 20-somethings is not that the leaves are turning; it’s the quick progression from summer fun to winter stability. Without warning it seems everyone is suddenly in a relationship. I don’t think anyone’s under the impression these temporary unions will make it past the fiery initial stages of relationship-dom before a catastrophic break up. Just until spring when all the little bunnies are hopping around town again, excited to regale their friends with tales of new…er, tail. (Sorry, couldn’t help it.)

Most of my friends are now playing house with someone new and that doesn’t bother me–it’s to be expected, really. What is perplexing to me is that this year more people than usual are taking a different approach: rekindling the flame with ex’s is the name of the game this fall. Sites like eHarmony and Match are pumping out a whole new line of advertising (notably targeted at the early 40′s and up crowd), yet the youth sector seems eager to return to the familiar.

I get it guys: you’re seeking out something that makes you feel good. And your ex–they used to do that for you. Somehow the fact that it’s “used to”, as in past tense, as in things are no longer that way, escapes these individuals I would usually classify as very “with it.” I wouldn’t go so far as to say you should never get back with an ex; always and never are words that can seldom be applied in the real world. As a rule of thumb though, it’s a bad idea.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done it. I wouldn’t even say I regret doing so, but it certainly was a learning experience. Trying to bring a relationship back from the dead generates a lot of inner conflict; to reconnect with old feelings while disregarding whatever leftover post-breakup ill will you held onto is no easy task. Worse yet, if you didn’t do the dumping, it’s borderline impossible to force yourself to believe it won’t happen again–this time you will do everything right and there will be some kind of fairy tale ending. Maybe that’s why when my friends get those out of the blue emails and texts from ex’s, they eagerly ask anyone currently online for their opinion. What starts as a friend asking my opinion tends to turn into them trying to debate all the reasons it couldn’t possibly hurt to just meet up and just “see what they have to say.”

Except that’s not what happens – you hook up, or make out, or pour out all the emotions you chose not to address before and in that moment, everything the two of you do and say is sincere. However, that moment ends… and then? You’re left with a big goddamn mess and not a whole lot of sympathy from friends like me–the ones that told you the truth, even though we knew you wanted us to play along with your rekindling the fire nonsense. Nothing ceases the healing of an old wound like fiddling with the scab, which is why your mother told you not to pick at them as a child. Wounds you feel in a phantom-heart pain type of way tend to heal a lot slower though… which would be why after six months of not speaking to someone it still hurts even while it feels good to see a certain someone’s name pop up on your caller ID.

So my dear friends, readers and other strangers who for whatever reason are reading this: find someone new to let your world revolve around for a few months until spring. Just please, don’t ask me to remind you why sleeping with/dating/loving/meeting up with your ex “just for coffee” (which we all know means at least a little hanky panky) is a bad idea. You already know.

Lately a good deal of the females I know have been telling me they loved my e-dating series. This is usually followed by near-begging to bring them back. There’s just two problems:

1.) I haven’t been going on any dates, but mostly…

2.) Writing about this shit on the internet means eventually everyone reads it, and guys don’t like being called out online. (Examples: the artist, the babyface & the super hot older writer man.)

I don’t think anyone would say I’m a shitty girl to go on a date with. Except Captain Planet–but really, he set himself up to get crushed via debate over lunch. A lunch I bought myself, no less. (Bad first date etiquette, I don’t give a fuck what your liberal friends are trying to tell you.)

My dating life remains at a standstill, for the time being. It sort of has been for longer than I’m going to admit on the internet, now that I really think about it. Part of the problem is that this year is party-free (for reasons I’ll touch on later) and the coffee shop grouping is officially too young to be on my radar. I got to talking with an internet friend about “going through the motions” when it comes to dating. More specifically in regards to unattached sexual encounters that started out with some kind of spark of genuine interest, but whatever. What didn’t “come up,” at least for him, got me thinking about where I’ve been at when it comes to my own interactions of this variety over the last few years.

Getting myself to the point where I sort-of-almost-don’t-give-a-fuck about dating was intentional on a subconscious level, I think. It took energy to curb the amount of time I put to toward thinking about that messy subject. And then one day when I woke up, it just was no longer so all-consumingly important to find someone to be with. The need to look just dissipated, and while I’m down for a little art appreciation I’m realizing that isn’t the same as actually LOOKING.

The change doesn’t stem from fear of commitment, or a need for commitment, or any of those other emotionally charged power-phrases people are using these days instead of just saying they’re shitty at being considerate toward the people they’re sleeping with. To be fair, it’s not that I don’t still want to “find someone”–I vomited in my own mouth while typing that–I’m just busy doing other things. Actively seeking out anything except a cheap cup of coffee and reliable WiFi is more than I have the energy for.

For 2010 I’ve been on some independent woman bullshit head trip-actively being happy in my solitude, which sounds far more Debbie Downer than it really is. It’s a “best of times, worst of times” type of year, really. The type of men I keep crossing paths with have made this easier than I expected. There’s always some hormonal undertone to their sweat, on their skin, in their hair; something they can’t control that’s telling me these guys are going to be a waste of my time. Whatever hormonal repellent they’ve been letting waft my way is working. If only I could bottle and sell this newly discovered spidey sense of man-scent dissection–or just give it to my girlfriends when they start becoming overly-invested in lame dudes. That seems to be a common affliction for my gal-pals this year.

It’s been suggested maybe there’s something wrong with my hormones from all the supplements, working out and dieting I’ve been doing. To have a fully functional sex drive that I am perfectly content to ignore is shocking, I guess. This isn’t an issue relating to my enjoyment of the activity.

Fine, I admit that’s a small contributing factor–but not the way people think it would be. I think it’s completely acceptable to get none as long as I avoid all the “only okay” encounters lurking out there. Is it so bad to just skip on the whole thing? Let’s face it, most of the fucking going on at any given time is lame. As far as I can tell (smell?) I’m not missing out on anything good. In which case, it doesn’t even count as missing out.

Besides, there’s so many other things I need to be focused on (writing, TattooSnob, some top secret shit I hope someday I get to tell you about, etc) that guys can just… stay on the back burner, for a few more months at least. I’m sure by the end of the year the frustration will be too much and I’ll post something on Craigslist in an effort to meet someone in no way tied to my social circles. The other option is to become a Shaker, except I don’t think I can make a commitment to lifelong celibacy.

Anything’s tolerable so long as it’s temporary, y’know?

M—: lets do it,,,,,, please\
Me: are you drunk?
M—: no, but i think u are a lesbien
Me: HAHAHAHAHAHA. no, i love men
M—: well love this stick
Me: WOW. don’t you live in iowa?
M—: maybe baby…… but i also maybe at a suite in town…… maybe
Me: oh that’s romantic
M—: yeah, and i have shoes. something that homeless people arent use too
Me: that’s what i’ve heard, i wouldn’t know
M—: so lets grab a drink, than fuck
Me: tempting as that may be, i don’t think you could hang
M—: not only could i hang, i would win….. I dont even like jesus!!!! thats how ill this nigga is\
Me: don’t you have like 1000 farm honkey broads that’re all about you and your expensive things?
M—: of course…… but its iowa. I dont sleep with chicks that weigh over 125. and that is a slim approch to the media
Me: you realize i weigh more than 125 right?
[extended pause]
M—: prolly not by much
Me: this is where you backpedal, FYI
M—: back pedal is what n******s do…I didnt make the rules…. I dont make em; and i dont brake em
Me: so… racism and propositioning me like a hooker for a suite meetup? you’re just hitting home runs left & right, bud.
M—: yeah, and i am not very partial to latinos either
Me: …how long have you been single m—?
M—: 26 years

And the next day:

M—: sexy time?
Me: you’re doing this again?
M—: no, i just think its kinda funny
Me: do you just sit at home and troll on girls via fb? be honest.
M—: no. I just like to hit up chicks from my past and see if they want to chop. divide and conquer
Me: oh m—, the closest to chopping we will ever come is that one time you ordered pizza and we watched football.
M—: thats gay
Me: i don’t dwell in the past
M—: neither do i. but, we still should. but your like a girl liker now
Me: i won’t sleep with you so i must be gay, eh? interesting approach.
M—: i am out of sweet words
Me: color me surprised.

What mostly concerned me about these exchanges is that I’m sure this has worked at least once before in the past, on someone my age.
The only thing I changed about his text was certain choice words, so the atrocious spelling & punctuation errors are his own.

Not that it’s original (or even all that funny) to pick on people for lack of control when using a keyboard… but it sure is easy!

There’s three important factors when we’re talking about the kinds of relationships women think they should be having. I think taking these into account when entering or observing a relationship could potentially really do something for our generation… like maybe, helping us having meaningful and open lines of communication. I realize that’s asking a lot, but let’s start out with the first element responsible for relationship letdowns and we’ll see if you’re on the same page I am after.

Element one: A successful father figure with appropriately endless love for his daughter(s) tries to micromanage their lives, while still wanting them to find a strong provider of their own.

Our Ideal:
Not every Disney movie has a father figure, but when they do… man, they are the best goddamn dads. They love their daughters wholeheartedly, without reservation even when their behavior is at its worst. Typically these fathers border on being too involved with their daughters lives, pushing this daughter-turned-woman to marry (think The Little Mermaid, Aladdin, Beauty and the Beast, Pocahontas, Mulan, etc.) Early on in the plot they butt heads over what she should be doing with her life–after all, this intelligent, vibrant, attractive female wants to do more with herself than just marry a suitor of her father’s choosing.

Then she runs off to experience the world without being under her father’s thumb… and meets the man of her dreams. You know, the successful one that isn’t her father but resembles him in many ways. Once the family is reunited, daddy meets his daughter’s love interest and realizes that this suitor is capable of taking care of his little girl monetarily in ways her father probably couldn’t. Handed off like the prize that she is in her father’s eyes, queue wedding scene, cut to a chaste-but-loving kiss and daddy waving stoically as his daughter rides off into the sunset in the arms of her new beau. She has done him proud by following the life plan he had set out for her (one she “grew up” and realized he was right, of course.)

And the real…
Girls are rarely close with their fathers throughout the years when they need them most. Through that rocky pubescent period, even the best fathers are unsure of how to handle us growing and changing. We are physically becoming an embodiment of femininity, yet remain children in their eyes. More so now than ever, there’s the concern of a father being too involved with his daughter’s life while she matures. Not to say there weren’t cases of sexual abuse at the hands of fathers in the past, but courtesy of day-time TV and those speeches pounded into our head by school guidance counselors at a young age, girls are on edge–just waiting for some kind of inappropriate contact to occur.

While fathers have to fear for their daughters being attacked, molested, or raped by a man, society fears that they (the fathers) will be the ones to do wrong. I suppose it gives them every reason to hesitate when it comes to tucking their daughters in at night with the door closed, or hugging their teenaged ‘princess’ unless it’s from the side.

So they put up this safe distance for all these years when we need to be hearing from men about what is (and more importantly, what isn’t) acceptable behavior from a boyfriend or lover. In retrospect, I wish more of those “good” fathers I knew growing up sat down and told their little girls when to leave a guy. While I’d like to say most of us learned our lesson the hard way, I don’t think most women have fully grasped the concept. Why else would our friends in their 30′s and beyond struggle with the same issues revolving around codependency and abusive relationships that they did in high school?

And is that really due to a lack direct discussion about the topic with someone we (generally) idolize, like our fathers? I’m not sure, but I suspect it has something to do with it.

Think about every girl you know. We may have been close to our fathers as children, or developed one of those parent-turned-friend type of relationship as we’ve become comfortable with being full grown women… but really? We hate our dads, we love our dads, we deny any Oedipal-type desire to find a man like our father to take care of us for as long as we both shall live.

We’re looking for daddy in all the wrong places, ladies.

Turns out, I have less of a set “type” than I thought. I don’t bother checking out dudes with shaved heads, throat tattoos or lobes big enough for me to put four fingers through. (My inner comparison of that last bit to fisting doesn’t escape me.) Looking around, there’s fewer would’s in here than I would have been able to spot a few years ago. Has my taste changed that much or are people getting uglier? I want to believe I am becoming more refined in my choice in men, but the second option is equally as likely.

I watch women a lot too, though I’m pickier and harsher in my judgments of them as they walk by. There’s fat-faced high school girls abound in here, and the low-budget edgy dye jobs are a red flag that I don’t need to go there. (I learned this lesson the hard way about five years ago. Remind me and I’ll tell you guys about it later.)

A girl just walked in the front door–she bears slight resemblance to a coke-y Lohan. I’m feeling it until the guy two steps behind her makes jealous eye contact, so I go back to pretending to read something really interesting on my laptop’s screen. My sexual preference has always been fairly fluid, but I suspect I’m years past wanting to actively sleep with women… thinking about, however, it is a different story.

That’s precisely one ‘would’ in four hours of people watching, by the way. I know it’s not that I’m not interested in looking, but everything I’ve been looking at hasn’t been all that interesting. Well, maybe interesting to the kinds of girls I mentioned in my last paragraph but not to me.

Trust me, I’ve been evaluating my options. The rockabillies are too chubby, the punk rock boys too thin. The older dudes are in no way comparable to foxes, the younger dudes could use a bath and a box of Nicorette. All those formerly delicious bros are packing beer guts and hipster boys have no visible package in their skinny jeans.

Picky, picky, picky. It’s not like this was intentional, but I suspect my sex drive is on sabbatical for a while. I’m not bothered by the idea at all, but it’d be nice to see someone worth making eyes at on occasion.

Then again, between work, websites and my anal-retentive work out schedule I don’t have much time to ‘entertain’. Unless by ‘entertain’ we mean spending hours writing by myself in coffee shops where I stare at (ugly) boys.

For the record, I will probably never stop having enough time for that.

Case in point: around the time I was 20 or 21 I had a sweet fluffy faux hawk that brought all the bros to my yard. There’s one in particular I feel like mentioning though, because overall he was a pretty nice dude. I just… flaked on him. I think it had more to do with the fact that the group friends I had at the time told me there was no way some tall, blond Brosef was into me for anything other than shock value. Personally I thought he liked me for my sick tattz and my ability to hold a conversation—regardless, I just quit calling him back after a few weeks of us hanging out on a pretty regular basis.

Shitty, right? Right. I mean, I hate when that shit happens to me. That’s why generally I try to tell dudes if I’m not feeling it. At least then they won’t wonder why after seeing each other on a semi-regular basis I’ve suddenly dropped off the face of the planet.

Anyway, about two months after I initially blew this guy off and had started seeing someone else I ran into him out at a bar. I was in the middle of my shift; my then-boyfriend was standing about five feet away watching as the aforementioned Brosef started asking where I’d been and if everything was okay. I panicked, so I did the only reasonable thing I could think of: I ducked out the back door and booked it out of there for the night. Super responsible way of handling an awkward situation, I know.

Fast-forward four years… I guess without the fauxhawk I’m not nearly as recognizable, but I haven’t ever been the type of girl to forget a face. Brosef approached me at a favored cafe & mentioned I looked familiar but couldn’t put a finger on where we’d met before. Being the awkward little bird that I am, I opted for the best reply (the honest one) and reminded him that I’d blown him off years before.

Why he thought that meant to sit down with me to catch up is beyond me–I’m still not feeling it. He still strikes me as a nice dude, and the little iPhone photo slideshow I got to look over of his adventures in foreign countries was inspiring in a weird way.

I think he got that I’m not interested in a round two from my quick goodbye… or maybe it was the way my waiter mean-mugged him from the time he sat down until I headed out the door. But the guy picked up my tab (nothing serious, just $1.37 for that cup of coffee) and said he’d like to hang out and talk again. I’m glad I got to apologize for blowing him off without feeling like I had to do anything else… I’m not big on that whole “make it up to me” mentality.

This song takes me back to being 19 and dating some young hoodlum motherfucker that I’ve mentioned sparingly on this blog. I know that even now, years after our break up, he holds this special place in his heart for me and I guess to an extent I do for him too. It’s nothing like the love we (thought we?) had during the zenith of our relationship, obviously.

I think everyone’s enjoyed that whole “being young and thinking just because you’ve been together a year means that maybe you’ll make it” thing at least once. While it’s a beautiful sensation, I don’t think I can really experience it now the way I did back then–not that I’d want to, because I remember the kinds of arguments that accompanied our puppy love. Our breakups were ugly and world shattering; we really had a knack for fucking each other up when we weren’t trying to convince each other to try something freaky I’d never want my mother to know about. Before we dated, I was seeing one of his best friend and he was dating a girl I knew. The night he dumped her I happened to be in the neighborhood, and while I went over to his house to tear him a new one that wasn’t really how the situation played itself out.

Sometimes I wonder if he qualifies as a feeder–I must’ve weighed 165 by the time we finally broke up for good. Really it was the best thing that could’ve happened: in less than two weeks a fight followed by a hospital visit, bail bondsman and drug charges all came into play. What can I say, I used to need something explosive in my life to distract me from the goal at hand: figuring out what the fuck I was going to do with my life.

…But this song doesn’t remind me of all the shitty times I’ve brought up. It makes me think about riding around in his maroon Chevy Cavalier with the windows down smoking Marlboro reds and smiling at each other. He had the prettiest blue eyes I’d ever seen, and something in them didn’t match the swagger his low-income upbringing had afforded him. He was a lot more intelligent than he liked to let on. He made me listen to Fabolous and I knew he secretly loved the Fall Out Boy CD I forced him to suffer through on occasion. The beauty of our puppy love was that we didn’t identify it as such. It was everything: we were everything, if only because of what we were to each other.

With spring here & summer just around the corner, there’s few things as enjoyable as remembering what it was like to be in love without hesitation. There will never be another love like that one, and I’m okay with that. Round two just never yields the same results, you know?