TTS

I was digging through old photos when I stumbled across an old love letter. Funnily enough, I mocked how I purged everything out of my life after things end. But I found that I kept one. The last one. The Dear John letter. From one of the most insanely intense, poetically inclined, lovers in my life. He even sent it to me three days after my birthday. It sent me into a frenzy, I couldn’t sleep all night, I tore through my closet wanting to know if I had kept any more. Overwhelming emotions, of need, of breath catching, and butterflies stirring, arose to the surface to blind my thoughts. I needed to know where this person was, what they were doing, I had to reconnect. But the hitch...I knew him ten years ago. It was a whirlwind affair, across states, and continents. His nickname was TTS, he called me Blumchen. He would carve letters out of wood, and stitch them together with red thread. I would illustrate him my day. We were madly consumed by each other. And now years later, for the life of me, I cannot remember what TS stands for. I simply remember his first name Timothy. It has been racking my brain for days. It is amazing, how we can have these intense moments in our lives, that we shove away, and then become overwhelmed by again. Where oh where has he gone. All I have left is a beautiful poetic note, and a photograph, and the same consuming desire that once haunted me enveloping me again. Reading through the last goodbye letter, I am remind harshly, how nothing in LA has even come close to the intensity of that relationship. And perhaps that is why they all keep failing.

Where are you Timothy?

"Oh, how I wish I had all the right thoughts and, further, the most effective words to express them with. Sometimes even the best of friends, words in this case, are so unprepared for the present moment that they only make one feel all the more alone, isolate, and barren. If I were more musical perhaps I could find the proper melody to play and ponder over and over again until there were no longer the need for meditation. If I were more artistic I would form an abstraction of wood and clay to shape, stroke, and reform until the materials reach their stress limits and crumble and crease into new self-definition. Thus, I carry light from a recalcitrant black void plane with a sharp blade and hope all the while that I will find some loose threads and fabric swatches with your patterns on it. Perhaps you will see bits and pieces, flecks and static, finger prints of me mingling amidst you. Clearly there arises a tension and confusion from the lines and void. I see flashes of you in it, Jessica; However, it is presently too confined and like you, needs a more expansive (perhaps limitless) "horizon" along which to grow and express itself. You are not designed to be statically held in place. I do see you in a fixed place fidgeting and carving your space, anxious to hatch into a new world (your world). I think of exuberant red flowers, willing to explode into an impermanent beauty for one perfect day rather than remain tightly enclosed as a bud for another week to ensure a full spring of blooming. If I may editorialize further, I will tell you that I am drawn to and also fear and am jealous of this unwavering commitment to the course of greatness. This is not to say that I fear and am jealous of you. No, I would be unable to trust and care for you as I have if I feared you. I wish that I could be compulsive like you rather than merely impulsive, as I presently am. As resistant as I am to change, I actually desire and relish it. I’m on my way to changing- my chrysalis is formed, yet I'm not ready to hatch. Perhaps someday Jessica, we'll be ready to fly together in a more elegant synchronized way. I think of large waves, which are the product of many smaller waves of different velocities and periods that happen to synchronize and become absorbed into one another. I think of Alice, the nigh blooming white phoenix tree. I think of Voaness, the Gothic flapper from the Edo dynasty. I dream of your Tokyo antiquarian bookstore and all the sartorial busts and swatches within it.

Imperceptible.
It withers in the world.
This flower like human heart.

-Ono no Komachi, The immortal great beauty poetess (what do the beautiful know of beauty?)

Yours. Timothy"

The Designated Date

One of the first dates I have been on since my reprieve from dating land resulted in intoxication. Not mine, his.

Now see, usually I vet most of my dates through an intense screening process, which begins with:

Photos. Profile. Email. Texting. Phone conversation. Date near me

In that exact order.

I have found if I stray from this order, it can either go incredibly well, or can go incredibly bad. There is no gray to messing with dating order.

Photos can tell a lot about a person, both for men and women. They are the icebreakers to all things dating and online. Now, while they are such flat depictions of the reality of a person, they offer up subtle intricacies to deciphering who this person really is.  The way they took their photo, to which photo they post as their intro, can give up infinite wisdom to this person's psyche. For instance:

If they only wear sunglasses in all of their photos, usually means, they have something to hide.
If they never smile in their photos, usually means, they are self conscious.
It goes for if they only have pictures taken from the head up, they are usually insecure about their body.
If they have photos of small animals, or babies, or both at the same time (and they do not belong to them), usually means, they are just trying to come off as sweet, or they really just want to procreate.
If they have photos next to a person with a blurred out face, you can guarantee that use to be their ex.
I have learned to steer clear of one-photo wonders. Of blurry photos. Of bathroom selfie ab shots. Of drunk photos, or consequently photos of alcoholic beverages. Of those "silly faces". And headshots. My god, headshots. The ultimate deal breaker.

Once the photos are fully evaluated, the next phase is their Profiles. Now depending on the dating site one is using, this intro has become somewhat obsolete, but I still think it is an undeniable clue into the integrity of a person. Do they take the time to describe themselves, what section did they focus on the most, do they talk a lot about what they do not want, or what they really do want, do they say "living life and loving it" (in which case, delete delete delete); or do they write small autobiographies of their person, which I have coined as the "Bragfile." Just so we are clear, I am 100% guilty of the Bragfile. We try to condense as much statistical information as we possibly can, in the most witty of ways, just to show how incredibly astonishing we are, in the hopes that someone will be all, "Holy hell, this is the cornucopia of amazeballs, I MUST DATE THEM. Or maybe BE THEM. No no, definitely DATE THEM. They will make my world complete. Launching downward obsessive cycle." What I have learned though, from my own personal experience, is that people's attention spans are about a minute long (well no more like 55 seconds...tops) and the more a person brags about their accomplishments, even in a highly saturated condensed Ulysses inspired format, the more they come off as an intimidating force of nature. Lesson learned: Bullet point life.

My sex.
My ultimate goal on a dating site.
My career.
My relationship status.
And my height (Truth: LA is the land of short people. A couple of days ago, a man who was 5'-7", and actually very cute and very well accomplished, introduced himself to me, by saying, "I know you probably don't date short men because you might feel like a large yeti, but I wanted to say I really enjoyed your profile." Backhanded compliments, you complete me.)

If they make it past this phase, then of course comes the introductory Email, which can die rather quickly with a, "Hi", and a reciprocated, "Hello." I would say this is about 90% of all email interactions that I have. The life and death with a simple introduction, and a nowhere to go from there.

If per se, we make it past the awkward digital computer poking, then it goes to the awkward digital phone poking, because let's be real, why email when you could be Text Messaging. Instantaneous gratification. But, no, as silly as it sounds, texting inherently tells one of two things: Are they obsessive about getting my attention, or on the flip side, are they incredibly hard to even engage because they simply have no time to respond to a text.

This finally will filter into the Phone conversation, which can, in most cases, last longer than an hour. If they have made it past the upper things, then I know that I can at least have a conversation with them, and all I have to worry about, at this point, is the sound of their voice, and if they are witty.

Lastly, it comes down to the Date itself...and I am going to be honest here, at the end of the day, after all the T's have been crossed, and everything above was thoroughly examined, realize one absolute truth, my assessment is TOTAL AND ABSOLUTE MALARKY. Why? Because of the second absolute truth: EVERYONE'S IMAGINATION IS OUT TO GET THEM. No really, throw out that playbook; ignore everything I just wrote, because everything is a fabricated illusion. No one is who they seem. And what you want to believe, and what daters want you to believe, is never ever ever going to be right. In person interaction will trump any digital form, anytime, always.

So enter, Mr. Drunkard. No amount of analysis could have possibly prepared me to predict that outcome.

Now, Mr. Drunkard was a production manager (which I honestly still don't know what that means, but for me it means, he has a paying job, so, let's play). He was easy on the eyes. He was Tall. Bless his genes. And he was witty. We literally did all the checks I had above in 1.5 days, and decided to meet the second day, impromptu, quick, it felt like a whirlwind, but I was on board. Sweep me off my feet already.

Our locale was at my favorite haunt, because if there is anything I can impart to online daters, it is to meet where you feel most comfortable. I, of course, was early. I am always early to a date. I like watching people approach, that extra minute of watching them look around for you, prepares one for utter disappointment or sheer attraction, both of which you can check at the door by the time they make eyes with you, and for people who wear their emotions on their face (see: me), it is all the time in the world for the mask to slip back into place.

So here I am, early. We agreed to meet at 7. I am there at 6:45. I text him that I am at the back of the bar, and am met with radio silence. That is usually a bad bad bad sign. But I think, I am early, I will just play it off. 7 rolls around. Still nothing. I text him again, jokingly to see if he got lost. Nothing. At this point, I have two guys who have tried to engage me in conversations, locals at the bar, and thus harmless. 7:15 rolls around, and so I call the guy and leave a message. If he doesn't show up at 7:20, I tell myself, I am out of there. At this point, another guy has approached me and offered to buy me a drink, in which I politely thank him but say that I am suppose to be on a date, so that would be rude...he tells me if the guy stands me up that he is more than willing to be the back up plan. Sweet. But no, still bouncing at 7:20. Finally 7:20 rolls around, I am literally getting ready to leave and I receive a phone call. The gent apologizes profusely and says time got away from him and he was helping do a mixed tape for friends and didn't have his phone on him. He apologizes again, and says he is on his way and will be there in ten minutes, and for me to please please please please wait. So I do. I know I know, I have issues. 7:30 rolls around, and he texts me that he is parking. Finally, at 7:40, the longest I have ever waited for a date, he strolls in. Mind you, at this point, I am a little peeved, but he was much better looking in person, so I forgave him. It is really that psychologically easy to forgive attractive people. It is a horrible superficial admission, but it is oh so true. Of course, as I am telling my loins to quiet themselves in the minute reprieve of him searching for me, I note one other thing, there seems to be someone with him.

Wait, no, did he...bring his friend?

As they finally spot me and approach, I realize that yes, in fact, he did. And as he stumbles and catches himself, and sloppily gives me a hug hello before falling on to the stool next to me, I also realize, that he didn't just bring his friend...he brought his designated driver. Let me repeat that: His. Designated. Driver.

I quickly had a flight or fancy moment, but if anyone really needs to ask, in moments like these, my sadistic side smiles its cheshire cat smile, sits back in its chair, and purrs, "oh, bring on the story." So as the date progressed, and Mr. Drunkard sat stone faced and out of it in his stool, laughing at random moments that applied to nothing but his intoxicated haze; I ended up having a roundabout date with his friend, who was, surprise, a recovering alcoholic, and thus stone cold sober. He was actually a very interesting person to talk to, but the oddity of having his friend there who was suppose to be on a date with me, stopped it from being anything but casual interest.

At one point during the evening, Mr. Drunkard, excused himself to throw up, at which point, I made sure to verify with his friend, that he was in fact drunk, in which he sheepishly shrugged his shoulders and said, "I could not let him drive, but he did really want to meet you." Lucky. Me. My inner chesire cat's response, "Puurrrfect."

I have no idea what the dating moral of this story is. Perhaps if I had vetted him longer, I would have noticed his drinking problem, or his lack of manners problem. But I don't think one can fully prophesize these things. There really is no playbook for rookie moves. I think sometimes, you just have to go on a date with a drunk person, and their designated driver. I will say thank you to Mr. Sober. You were oddly, a blessed lynchpin of the evening.

Ode to Backhanded Compliments

Now we all know I am not new to dating.
In fact, if this were an olympic sport, I would probably have beaten Michael Phelps in the gold medal department, and still had time to pop his kitty pool.  I am just THAT much of a dating genetically mutated freak of nature. With that being said, I am continuously dumbfounded by the way men seek to compliment me when we go out on dates.

Sometimes I get the overtly affectionate compliments, like, "Wow, you are cute AND smart, why are you on this dating site, what is wrong with you?" (because you know, a women cannot be both of these things and still be on a messed up quest for love, without the world imploding) or "Will you marry me?" (because obviously I am desperate enough to marry a complete stranger from that opening line), or "Sorry I do not mean to stare, I am just picturing your long legs wrapped around me" (um, no...just...no).

I usually spend a vast majority of my time contemplating how in fact I should respond back to these interludes of sexual repression drenched in desperation and lacking the fundamental air of romanticism.  The other part of the time I am trying not to throw up, curl my lip in disgust, or furrow my brow in irritation. BUT, it does usually spark up the fundamental question of, why AM I on a dating site? I mean,  my statistics are rarely successful.  The only thing I can come up with is, I either A. suffer from a dating curse B. The government is out to get me or C. aliens (because, you know, I am being saved for the progression of the super race,  clearly).

More often than not though, I have come across gents who go out of their way to compliment/critique me in a weird song and dance into my panties (*disclaimer, every single one of these has been said to my person).

"You have such doll like hair, so fine, and so soft"
"You are so tall, I want to climb you like a mountain"
"We are like pointy chin models"
"Oh I can see the witch resemblance, that's so cool"
"Your scars are sexy"
"You remind me of a horse, which I want to ride"
"You have very unique features, you could cut someone with your cheekbones"
"You have the most beautiful toes, I wish your whole body were like your toes"
"You got a Kill Bill thing going on" (... as in, I carry around a japanese sword hoping to enact revenge upon the male population?...ok he may have gotten a second date out of that one).
`
Or my personal all time favorite:
"You are so intimidating, but no really I like it".

Dear male population, if you tell a girl she intimidates you, this is what is bound to happen: Game over. 

The Nunnery

The rumors are true. I am on a hiatus....from dating. Actually, it is more of a step back, a retreat, a run for the hills, a call to arms of thyself....

What I find most fascinating about this experiment of solitude, is the withdrawals, the way my mind is coping with not having an overwhelming amount of testosterone at my disposal. 

For instance, I now find babies extremely cute, and I am not talking toddlers, or pre-schoolers, those guys I will always adore because they have no filter, and are just blessedly all over the place. Little people after my own heart. But babies...no...way. Squealing, squiggly, squirmy, poopy things that stick out their tongues way too much. I just don't get them, and thus have never had a desire to have one. The closest I ever got to the idea of motherhood was coming up with awesome names for my future progeny. So far I have: Indio, Peregrine, Ksenia, Zoie, Gemma, Holster, Holden, and Clay....but lately, LATELY...I see people with their newborns, and I think, "Oh my god I want my own little glo worm." The lack of letting men into my 6-18 inch personal space has spiked my estrogen levels so much it is beginning to affect the way I view procreation, and this is an unsettling development in the world of everything me. 

Then there are the dreams. I have always been a vivid dreamer, and they can range from prophetic type of dreams, to nightmares, to fuzzy dreams that make one wake up with a smile. Lately I seem to be getting all three rolled up into one. Recently I dreamed that a clown broke into my house and proceeded to make-out with me (granted he was a hot man in clown makeup, and I know he was hot because I washed off his make-up in a steamy shower scene, and the conversation, "Oh my god you are so hot" and "I hide behind the clown makeup so people won't know the real me," actually ensued). I mean, clowns are suppose to be terrifying (especially to people in their 30s, I don't know why this phenomena exists, but it does), and even though I have never been all that terrified of them, I have been terrified by how atrocious their makeup is, those red lips with the white makeup...ugh, it's like a corpse trying to reanimate its own flesh...but now, NOW, I probably just developed a new clown fetish, all thanks to my deprivation of the male species. My fantasies are now reaching out to the strange recesses of my perversions, and what they came up with, were clowns.

I have also started viewing the way I interact with people, very differently. This digital medium we use to communicate is killing the tangible connections; even as I write this on my computer, to post to a social media site, I realize my own folly. But I am trying to bring back the small things that made so much more sense to me when I was younger. For instance, the romance of life. I pressed flowers the other day because it just seemed so right. I have lit candles instead of turning on lights, taken bubble baths full of mostly bubbles, ridden my bike with my arms open to the sky down forgotten paths full of overgrown city flowers; I have contemplated the ocean waves, and started reading through old poetry books again. It’s almost austenian of me. More than anything, I have this desire to write people, actually write people a goddamn authentic letter, and holy hell I forgot how much it can cramp one's hand to write a three page letter...but afterwards, when I fold it up, and place the already outdated stamp on it, there is a sense of euphoric bliss, because it is something I created, and conceived, and it is imperfectly spelled, and scratched out, and ink blotted, but it is authentic, it is me. These are the things that are sticking to my psyche lately. Perhaps it is the estrogen speaking, or perhaps it's the magic being introduced back into my mind, the magic that for a time was tempered by digital means. The quantity of choices over the quality of choices.

The response from friends and family has also been interesting. The same line that usually surfaces is, "Good for you, one needs to find themselves before they can find others," and I suppose this is the heart of the matter. Peeling back my own layers now, and finding not only old, but new pieces of me...but clowns, subconscious, that was unexpected.

Don't Mind the Elephant Online.

Song of the day: Social Studies, Terracur http://vimeo.com/51597619

So I have a pattern when it comes to dating.

I basically online stalk, I will fully disclose this.

Though, in my defense, I have been a catfish victim (aka fallen for a false identity online). And once you see what is really behind the Oz curtain, you end up becoming an obsessive information gatherer, worried that the person you are communicating with is just another illusion. Plus in this day and age, with Facebook and Instagram, it makes it incredibly easy to view into the looking glass. Although, while this can inundate one with the overwhelming world of candid polaroid like photos that make everyone seem like a darling at heart (or a derelict, depending on how many booze shots one comes across), it can also open the nasty world of conjecture.

One of the things, that seems to keep popping up in this magical place of I-probably-shouldn't-know-about-this, are ex photos.  Those glorious old photos that remain of the once burned out loves, beholden in all their I-once-loved-this-person-with-my-whole-being-eyes still shining through the photos. To say the least, they are incredibly uncomfortable things to stumble upon. They remind me of the Native American's that use to frequent my bookstore who would pretend to click a camera in my direction and joke they were stealing my soul. Of course I was 8, and believed anything that came out of their mouths. But seeing these photos, I am thoroughly convinced as an adult, that this is true.

Love stolen, for a moment, within a shutter click, and the remains littered over social media.

And with the litter comes the mind burning questions. Why did they break up? Where were they in that photo? Was she the one? Who broke up with whom? etc etc etc....and of course my imaginative mind, just runs amok at this point.

Now see, when I break up with someone, I go through this purging process. No, it's not like I am outside burning the remains in a metal trashcan. Though, sometimes these thoughts do go through my head. Ha. No. This is the 21st online century, I simply, delete them. I delete their phone numbers, I delete their emails, I unfriend, and unfollow, and so on and so forth. And if there is something that made it into the real world scenario, I simply collect every single scrap, and return it to them, most graciously mind you, so that I have nothing left.

My girlfriends often say I am crazy, that they like holding on to the paraphernalia. That they like to reminisce over the things that once were, or could have been, if only (dot dot dot). So they hold on to that teddy bear, those pair of earrings, that postcard, the seashell found, or the shirt that still smells like the ex. I, on the other hand, don't want to remember any of these things. Though, truth be told, I did hold on to some love letters from a Frenchman who use to hand sew me letters about his day...but he was French...and thus allowed to be a romantic AND a cad; and those letters are more of a cry of what I still expect, even if that sets up future men to fail, I still long for the day of chivalry and romance (and ok, a dash of cad). But this is not why a majority of females hold on to things from their exes, they hold on to them in the hopes that perhaps, perhaps, perhaps there will be some gloriously amorous resolution. It's a revelation that at one point, someone loved them. We have all seen the "Notebook", and now everyone wants the goddamn"Notebook" (or "Shades of Gray", but that is a whole other level of frackery).

In some way it seems men also hold on to these digital memories, by playing the, "I haven't gotten around to deleting it" card, because they too are like my girlfriends....I guess in the online world, both sexes still hold on to the idea of make believe. Regardless, for the new person in the equation, it just becomes fodder for an overactive imagination.

I think I just took a Nap

Urban dictionary definition of a Douchebag: "The term "douchebag" generally refers to a male with a certain combination of obnoxious characteristics related to attitude, social ineptitude, public behavior, or outward presentation."

I am going to let you all in on a little secret.  I am a douchebag collector.

I have collected all types, all colors, all shapes, and all sizes. The good ones are like a fine wine, they build on your pallete, until wham, you are overcome by the sheer audacity of their make up. The one thing that I can always count on with these types, is they never disappoint; and I am not talking about their crushing ineptness of having a moral fabric when it comes to matters of the heart, I am talking about how awesomely entertaining they are to reminisce about. They are a don quixote quest. They are the Moby Dicks to my Captain Ahab (And not literally moby dicks, because men with three arms need to steer clear of my dating circumference).

...but this post is not about these types. No this is about the exact opposite of these types:

The boring guy.

The snooze.

The sleepwalker.

The ho hum man.

Mr. Complacent.

Now this new guy, who I shall call Rip Van Winkle, or Mr. Winkle for short (teehee), put up quite a good show, but perhaps that was his modus operandi. He was an artist, and as you all know from my past posts, I have a thing for the creative types, and he was relatively successful at what he did. So we set up a date to meet.

First thing to note: We decide on a bar.

Second thing to note: When I arrive at the bar, he is drinking water, because he does not drink. Oh goodie.

Third thing to note: I order myself a drink, and sit down to this gent drinking water. Our conversation is such:

Me "Hello"

Mr. Winkle "Hi"

Me "Nice to finally meet you"

Mr. Winkle "Same here"

-crickets-

At this point, I have slurped down my cheap drink and throughly people watched the entire room for about ten minutes. His water has also been finished off, and he goes for a refill, when he comes back I try to come up with whatever tidbits of conversation I can muster:

Me "So you are an artist"

M.W "Yup"

Me "Tell me more about it, what do you focus on, what do you do?"

M.W "Um, it's hard to explain"

Me "??"

M.W "Well like my current project is focusing on an existing vending machine. I want to make a commentary on the vending machine"

In my head, "Ohhhhh you are one of THOSE artists"

What I really said, "ohkaaaaay???"

Mr. W "Well like, I am going to shine a bunch of fluorescent tube lights on it, all around it, so it becomes a focal point, so that people notice it"

Me "Oh, so you are doing a light installation?"

Mr. W "Well no, it is more than that"

Me "How is it more than that?"

Mr. W "Well I just don't like the word installation, it devalues what I do in the art world, the piece is about societies focus on the vending machine"

Me "Like Duchamp's toilet?"

Mr. W "No more than that!"

Me"..."

Mr. W "Its just a piece best not described, but experienced."

In my head "So not only are you boring, you have been drowned in artist jargon to explain away how boring you truly are. Money well spent." 

Me "..."

Mr. W "You are obviously viewing it as an architect, if you viewed it as an artist, as is taught in graduate school, I think you would realize more fully where I am coming from"

In my head "Oh no he didn't! -snap my fingers in his face moment about to happen-"

Me "Yes, let us talk about the difference between our worlds. Now granted, I play in the architect-turned-artist world, and you play in the I-am-a-graduate-student-artist world, so according to you the word "installation" is implied differently between our worlds; but I am sorry, if you, or any other artist, wants to dip your toes into my world, well I am going to call a spade a spade. Hanging lights, or using elements of the built world to emphasize a discussion best be done in a way that does not look like you just went to home depot and hung a bunch of lights...along with the vending machine, at the very least, rethink the light, if it is going to be so inclusive, otherwise, your piece of "art" work is going to get called an installation, from the architect aka layperson like me, no matter how much you diction it to be the next coming of christ."

At this point,  I should have had a "what would meryl streep do?" moment, which would have been to dramatically say "thank you sir, and good day" and trollop on out of there. Instead, I continue to listen to him fumble. I am a sadist at heart.

Mr. W "Um, so what is your sign?"

Inside my head "oh my god, it has come to this" 

Me "I am a pisces/aquarius"

Mr. W "Oh really me too!"

Inside my head "Well hold on now, suddenly this has become a tad intriguing"

Me "Really? When is your birthday?"

Mr. W "Feb 20th"

Me "Holy crap, MY birthday is Feb 20th"

Mr. W "Ha, maybe you are the female equivalent to me, or maybe we are soul twins"

Me "Well, you know, there can be only one!"

Mr. W "Huh?"

Me "It's a quote from highlander"

Mr. W "Huh?"

Me "You dont know highlander? It is a scifi movie from the 80s, Sean Connery...Christopher Lambert..."

Mr. W "No, i dont like scifi."

Me "Well look at the time..."

Mr W "Yes perhaps we should go..."

Fourth thing to note: Go ahead and attack my lack of an art education, but to not like scifi!!...nope. Straw that broke that camel's back.

The date lasted 30 minutes. Give or take a minute. It was the shortest most god awful insultingly boring dates I have ever been on.  After lamenting to my girlfriends for hours about how well rested I now was, I get a final text from Mr. Winkle "That wasn't a disaster, you did great." 

AHAHAHAHAHA. Priceless. My collection groweth.

Evil Eye, One too Many.

I have begun to believe I am cursed.

Coming from a long line of black forest "witches", aka people from Deutschland who live in the deep deep parts of the woods and have festivals that revere "witches", this is not such an impossible stretch. In fact our village translates into "Dead moss", we have at least 2 witch carnivals (spring and winter), most of my family has "pointy chins", and my house is currently adorned with witchy relics (see photo, one of the native witches, carved from wood).  Needless to say, I grew up in a family dripping with superstition and lore. 

My grandmother would say to me, "Spinnen am morgen bringen Unglueck, Spinnen am abend bringen Glueck." (See a spider in the morning brings bad luck, see a spider in the evening brings good luck).
My mother,  any time a major life moment would happen (or I would get on an airplane), would spit in the air, and holy cross me. Touching my eyes, my lips, and my heart. 

Above all else, my family believed in the power of three. You do bad unto others, then bad will come back to you three fold, same if you do good. If 1 person died, 2 more would follow, same as in births. 
To top it off, they believed in the power of curses. No they did not practice curses and no I do not either, nor do I have a voodoo doll of an ex lover under my bed (only because sewing that shit gets expensive, and what would I do with all of those dolls)...but they did believe that what you said could be carried onto the wind, and that things should be said with caution in case certain elements were listening to interpret in their own way.

So I have begun to believe that I am love cursed.

Mainly because at the age of seven, when my big sister was talking about boobs and David Bowie's package, I told her that I hate all the boys who flirt with me, but I lamented about how I wanted big tatas (because obviously I had none at that time). Well I ended up becoming well endowed, and while yes I still have a lot of boys who flirt with me, the ones I do end up falling for are truly awful human beings. So whomever, or whatever, was listening in to the conversation between my sister and I, all I have to say to you is, well played, indeed....and enough with the funny.

Now, granted, I realize this makes me sound insane. In fact, from a very scientifical mindset, the kind I received from my engineering dad, what I am feeling is completely heuristically based. Meaning, I am finding meaning, when no logical meaning is apparent. The rational part of brain is just plain ole exhausted trying to figure out the variables of my many many failed dating moments, so the irrational part of my brain steps in with its shining family coat of arms and suggests the impossible. That I am cursed.

I often joke that my quests with men must somehow be some form of super power, in which I have not figured out how to harness for the good of mankind; but I think we would all agree that super heros do often feel cursed. But come on Universe, before I adorn a cape, it would have been much more awesome if my curse involved heightened physical capabilities: speed, flight, invisibility, super strength, reading minds, chameleon tendencies...you know, the normal choices. Alas, instead I am cursed with the ability to be the black hole of asshole nation.

This last one happened to be a beautiful part Cherokee of a man, with smooth creamy coco skin. He was even a teacher, so cute, and so un-artsy. He had a smile that charmed the socks off of me, and eyes that twinkled brightly. I was soon to find out that he was a true skinwalker, with teeth like a wolf. I was immediately smitten, in which case, I should have immediately run for the hills before he devoured me whole;  I have begun to wonder if my immediate attraction to men is an ultimate warning sign, like if I feel my loins quake it means break out the mace, but if on the other hand I feel like my vagina just dried up like a hot desert, then I should probably marry that person.

But yes the Cherokee smile, per usual we seemed to hit it off divinely, he whispered sweet nothings into my ear, held my hand while we walked around in the chilly christmas weather, told me how he was falling for my doe eyes...all the good stuff that movies are made of...and I lapped it up. Lapped it up so hard. Then, one day, it was like a rift happened, and it kept opening up wider and wider, much to my dismay. Of course, I asked him about it, I said I was getting a vibe, and wondered if he were getting cold feet...and he responded simply, bluntly, and shortly, "my feet are freezing, sorry"...and with that, The End. All the pretty words, and all the hand holding, and all that jazz didn't even get credit acknowledgement.  There is something so stilling about truncating things when your imagination is still in game time. And so afterwords, I seriously began to ponder this curse idea.

On a side note, tribute song to the Cherokee: http://www.last.fm/music/Juliette+Lewis/_/Romeo

I suppose I could also blame me. I am an only child, I can be demanding, harsh, critical. I don't always play nice with others in the sand pit. I am aggressive, argumentative, I am also self conscious. I push myself to exceeding lengths, I think I can always do better, and usually this translates into other people as well...but past all the hard crusty bits of my outer shell, I am also a sensitive one. I care deeply about those around me and I would do anything for most. I am kind, passionate, quirky, creative, deep, intelligent, and thoughtful. I know I am not easy, and perhaps most want easy, but what I find heartbreaking, is that I have been entangled in a dating game. The more intelligent the quest, the more they are intrigued about check mating me. With each pierce, and each knock down, I have learned to laugh it all off with a tearful smile, and then wrap it up into another wall. My curse has made me into a diamond. Multifaceted, pretty, easy to cut with, and hard to break...I worry not that I am cursed to meet more and more douchebags (this is more than likely a fact of my life), but that when the magic (aka knight of all knights) does come to break this curse, I may swallow them whole, and effectively, curse them.