Thursday, October 8, 2015

The theory of a Perfect 10, as told by a blue eyed Asian in a Kinky Kimono

"Well obviously he wasn't a perfect 10," starts the lesson taught by a truly not-blue-eyed Asian friend over a dangerously delicious champagne cocktail called the Kinky Kimono, which in all its kinkiness has led me into some, shall we say, epic evenings to which we will not discuss neither now nor later. My friend was attempting to make me feel better, less rejected, as I had just recounted the story of the most recent absolutely perfect-for-me guy that followed suit with those before him and decided that talking to me after I departed for my "home" city was far too much effort to be put forth. And he was, by all my standards, perfect. Everything about this boy was what I am looking for and more. He was the perfect mixture of what my parents are looking for (which let's be honest, doesn't come too terribly much into play when I'm choosing who to give my attention to) and what I'm looking for. I mean, a high school football coach who speaks three languages, has a love for other cultures and tacos, and has an open mind about people and their beliefs/ lifestyles. A person who works hard to be able to do the job that brings them joy. Not just the job that pays the bills. And maybe he doesn't like stinky cheese, but at least he's open to trying it. And he made me laugh, hard, like cheeks aching and dying to relaxing hard. He really was perfect. Enter the voice of my friend and his theory of this illusive 10. "If your perfect 10 would make the effort to talk to you even though you're not close in distance, then, I'm sorry, but he wasn't a 10."... Damnit... Of course this then leads me to think perhaps I wasn't his perfect 10 and that's why he let the opportunity go. So what's wrong with me? Why am I not the right fit? Why is it not my chance to meet my 10 and live happily ever after. And then the thoughts of what if... What if I've let go of my 10 without realizing and that 10 is the only 10 that I will ever be allowed...but id we are to stick strictly to this perfect 10 theory, then there hasn't been a 10 yet. Everyone has let me down, disappointed me in one fashion or another (and boys please doesn't take offense to this as many of you that I seriously dated, it was before I could even begin to know what my perfect 10 should consist of. We've all grown since then, we can all agree on that). This whole 10 business is rather taxing. Rather depressing. Rather frustrating... However, Dear Mister try-lingual, adorable, taco-loving, football coach- if you read this, I still have hope. 

Sunday, October 4, 2015

A plan from the buzzed chef

I am the girl who likes to get drunk and cook dinner. I am the girl who regrets only when she's intoxicated. I am the girl who won't leave her kitchen dirty... no matter how much wine has been consumed. I both love and hate to plan...for anything. I want nothing more than to lay in my bed all day and read, but I won't allow myself to be so lazy. I have issues. I want someone, anyone, to spend time with me while I cook, and drink, and clean. I need someone to hug me. A for real hug, a meaningful hug. I need someone to care. But it can't just be anyone, it has to be someone I want to care for me. Someone I care about too. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of praying. I'm tired of hoping... I'm just plain, tired. I'm almost 30...30! And any guy I meet just drops me, looks at me as if I'll only be in their lives for a solid 48 hours and where I have hope they have empty feelings. Time and time again I fall, I fall and fall hard and then fall back to the place that is so dark and so remorse and so much in the past that is kills me. Nothing is going to change the choices I've made, and when i'm not sad, I can be okay with that. But it's those moments of rejection that bring me back so forcefully to a place that makes me think I just didn't try hard enough. Sane me knows there's no truth behind that at all. Sane me knows that I did everything and that for some reason unbeknownst to me it was not part of the Plan. I hate the plan, I hate and I love the plan. The plan gives me hope, and the plan also kills my the plan just a way to excuse the bad things in life? A way to make me feel better when things don't go as I hoped? This blows. And I shouldn't drink alone anymore. Time for bed.