Where She Comes From

Oh, if I had a dollar for every time I heard myself or one of my friends say: but he’s different, or, but there’s just something different about him, we could’ve each gotten top-of-the-line dildos and fucked ourselves right then and there.

January 2016.

I met someone. At first, he was everything I had wanted: dark hair, light eyes, an English teacher, funny, sweet. We used to talk for hours, and I mean that literally: just on the phone. When we weren’t talking on the phone, we were texting. When we weren’t texting we were snap chatting. I felt so lucky – I thought that by some chance, this was it: finally what was supposed to work out for me. He had no idea how he made me feel; I could have written symphonies solely based on the curls of his hair, or the length of his lashes, but he would have never listened to them. He found me to be funny; he said women who were generally funny were hard to come by. He told me that having a sense of humor and being funny were different, which I guess is accurate. I was not myself around him, though. I felt like I could not openly talk about the thoughts that I had about me and him. I was never given a straightforward answer to my questions, and somehow, I felt worse than I did before I asked. By February, about a little less than a month of us talking, something happened. He become the person that he was when it ended, and not the person that I thought I knew when it started. Something had shaken him; something had shifted, and he told me what it was. I remember one night, him texting me and telling me that he felt very upset, and did not want to talk about it at the moment, and would talk to me the next day. The next day he sent me a Snapchat of his shaved head and no facial hair. I suppose he needed a change. When we spoke later on the phone, I asked him what happened. He brushed it off briefly, but then finally said that it had to do with his ex girlfriend. His ex girlfriend was gorgeous – she had red hair, a super nice butt, and was an athlete. She looked wholesome, yet not. He told me he received a package from her; if I’m not mistaken, it might have been something of his that she had, as well as a letter she had written that expressed her feelings of anguish. She told him she had a blog, and advised him to read it. Now, if I am remembering correctly, they broke up once because she cheated on him (I seem to attract guys with cheating exes), they then got back together, and I cannot remember if he broke up with her or vice versa and if so, why. He told me he read what she had written. How badly hurt she was by the breakup. He was so incredibly hurt by whatever it was that she sent him – it was as if he had meant nothing to her. I guess they talked for a while over the phone that night or something. He was in this rut that no one could pull him out of. I tried to be supportive. And I tried to be patient. But there was something inside of me that questioned why it still bothered him so much, and why he was so deeply hurt. I understood, but, selfishly I didn’t. Was I just someone to take up the time? I was nice and compliant and sweet and cute. I have learned, everybody, that those qualities do not merit a girlfriend. After he received what he did from his ex girlfriend, it was like one thing after the other. He was trying really hard to get his teaching license in Florida so he could move, and he was under insane amounts of pressure. He also ended up in the hospital due to something which wasn’t super concerning, but I think he was there for a day or so. It was also the anniversary of his father’s death. He also had to deal with things at home and helping his mom sell their house. Whenever I asked him when the next time we would be able to see each other was, he was never sure. I would make sure I was free on a Friday or Saturday, even if we didn’t have anything planned, hoping that he would say something last minute. I was let down a lot. It sucked only seeing someone once a week, and for them to never agree to any concrete plans. And when we would make plans, he became too tired, or something would come up. If you read back to those months on here, most of those posts were about him: For A Boy Who Doesn’t Care; I Can See the Signs; To the Rain; To the Storm, This is How it Happens; etc. I felt like there was no point in telling him how I really felt, because I made him angry – I made him frustrated. My need to ask questions and understand things has that affect, I would soon find out. Whether it was on the phone or through text, he seemed to somehow always take what I said the wrong way, or he would turn it around on me and make himself seem like the victim, which, I never acted like I was or there was one to begin with, I was only expressing how I felt. To this day I cannot deal with a guy that turns shit around on you; trust me, if I did something wrong I will own up to it, and if not please say something. But don’t just write off someone’s concerns if you don’t care to hear them. One night, while we were in the car, he was upset. I asked him the same question twice; I typically do that out of habit – I don’t mean to, it’s just a thing I do. The second time, he snapped. He yelled. What is wrong with you? Did you not just hear me? No, I want to know if you’re really that dumb to not have gotten what I just said? And yes. It was along those lines. And yes, I was taken aback. And I sat in his car while he went into the gas station near his house and I teared up; I was so angry at myself. I did not deserve that. I do not deserve that. But I still sat in the passenger seat, and stayed. After seeing each other for a couple of months, maybe about 3-4, I tried so hard to work up the courage to ask the pesky question: what are we? Where is this going? Because I truly did not know what it was. I feel the need to know at least what general area it falls under, only because I don’t want to be someone’s fuck buddy or their friend with benefits, however, I find myself there more often than not. But I want to know because if that is what they want, that is fine: I will be the best wingbitch ever (ask Metin), and we will go out and find you that. I am too ‘in my feelings’ to mix sex and friendship, which is probably why Jake and I did not talk for a couple of months after. But every time I asked, his answer was vague. Every time it was how much he cared about me and liked me as a friend. But we weren’t friends with benefits. But we weren’t dating. I had never felt less like me at that time in my life. I kept as quiet as I could. I tried to obey as much as I could. Whenever I spoke, I prepared for the backlash and anticipated the blow since I was used to things being turned around on me.
June 11th, 2016, Kevin and Shannon took me to see the conjuring 2. He was supposed to come over my house to see me on my birthday. At this point, we had been ‘talking’ for about 5-6 months. We got back from the movies around 9. I wished him a happy half birthday, and he told me thanks. He told me he wasn’t sure if he could make it – he was tired and had to get up early the next day. A part of me had already expected that to happen. But it doesn’t mean it hurts any less when it does. I did not expect anything from him and especially if someone isn’t technically ‘mine’, how can I? I just wanted to see him. I remember him coming to my neighborhood twice in a 7 month period. The other times, I came to him. And yes, in some senses I am old fashioned and think if you’re going on a date or something it’d be nice for the guy to actually pick you up. The end of June came, and he was going to drive to Florida to move there. I worked so. fucking. hard. on this mixtape that I made him specifically for the drive there. I could hardly contain my excitement and I wanted to play it for him beforehand. He told me no, and he wanted to wait so he could be surprised. He periodically checked in with me on the way up there. He said the CD was packed away, and he would listen to it when he got there. I think I asked him almost daily if he got a chance to listen to it yet. A word to the wise: when a woman stops telling you something like she misses you, or stops asking things, it is because she is tired of hearing the same answer or tired of being disappointed by your minimal response. After a couple weeks, I asked him again if he had a chance to listen to it. He said no, and that he realized he had forgotten it at home. This doesn’t seem like that big of a deal, and to him, it wasn’t. But I worked really fucking hard on that playlist. And it is because I pay attention to the small details of peoples’ lives am I able to make them something beautiful. It meant a lot to me that he have it and listen to it on the way to Florida. I made it for that reason specifically, and for him to maybe think of me. Only for him to have forgotten about it completely, leaving it behind in Illinois. I had never once asked him for anything. And a word of advice to women: when you are being honest with a man and expressing your thoughts or feelings, if he invalidates them, responds condescendingly, or turns it around on you, walk away. As soon as you can. Because guess what? When he was stressing out about work and school, my grandfather died. My 3 month old niece died. Both within 2 months apart. My uncle was diagnosed with cancer soon after that. I was promoted at work and that consumed my life. And just a lot of other shit. I was not doing well mentally. At all. My self harm was not at its peak but well on its way. And whenever I tried to express things, they were shot down. He told me he was going through a stressful time. And I understood. I always understood. But he did not understand that I was, too. And I tried to do what I could to give him what he needed. As significant as I tried to make him feel, the more insignificant I felt. In both his eyes and mine. And I tried so hard. Why? I think I tried to prove something. I tried to prove that I was worthy of being with. That I was not the type of woman to cheat, or intentionally hurt him. Here’s some advice for any girl reading this: that does not work – trust me. This situation with him affected me more than I like to admit. I was patient and waited for him to tell me I was good enough to be someone he saw himself with. Just like I waited for Nick to tell me I was good enough to love. From what I have gathered and from what I’m still learning, waiting is kind of bullshit. Let me wait for this guy to see how great I am. No. Fuck. That. If he does not see how great I am to begin with, what is the point? If you have no interest in being with me, actually being with me and being mine and me being yours at some point if things seem to head in that direction, then don’t. I will be your wingbitch, tell you to never settle for mediocre blowjobs, and leave it at that. I appreciated sex with him, because he was the first person to ever make me squirt which I feared I could never do. But, he was confident – cocky. Sure his penis was pretty, but no, I do not think that he needed magnum condoms, but he said they were the most comfortable for him. I do not believe we were ever fully sexually compatible. I wanted to believe we were. He liked my blowjobs, but they were weird for him. Or he was weird for me, and not in the good way. When I think about people that I have been sexually compatible with, only a few come to mind. He took pride in his abilities sexually. He said he could tell when women faked orgasms, so I did not even bother. I felt like even during sex I was doing something wrong, or not good enough, or whatever. Which, criticism can be good and helpful, but I do not know. It was just. . .strange. I felt like I was not completely myself. But at the time, I thought it was the best thing? I thought I felt so comfortable? I do not pay any mind to guys that tell me they read what I write: it is only when they reference things that have to have been read to reference, or ask what I meant by that one sentence back in 2015? Wow, I think, if they take the time to read something that is important and personal to me, maybe they will take the time to actually get to know me. Or something along those lines.

Fuck, man. What am I doing? What was I thinking? What did I think would happen? He told me he didn’t know if he was going to for sure move to Florida. Which obviously did not help, because I thought there was some possibility. So yes I stayed knowing that there was a possibility of him leaving, but he always played it down. He made it seem like it was just an option and not permanent. And he still reads this. And he’ll still like my Instagram pictures from time to time. The last time we had any form of communication was when he texted me back in April of 2017 and asked if the post that I wrote, Homes, Houses was something I actually wrote or if someone else wrote it. But there is absolutely no point in speaking with him. Some people will never understand where you’re coming from, not even because they can’t, but because they don’t want to. That was a really fucking shitty time in my life. And I’m not blaming him because it wasn’t his fault by any means, that’s not what I’m saying. The timing in general just wasn’t right to begin with. I wrote a post about him entitled The English Teacher. I have since made it private. At the time, I was so smitten. But he had an upper hand because of it. Very rarely did he tell me that he missed me or couldn’t wait to see me. I felt like I fished for reassurance and validation in a sea that had long been dried up. The reason why I felt the need for validation and reassurance was, I guess, because I need an exact answer. I could not sit and wait for him to decide whether I was good enough to be with. And, to anyone reading this, I would imagine you know what that feels like; it is not a good feeling. I cannot sit and wait for you to only talk to me when you want, when it’s convenient. I cannot wonder whether I am someone who is worthy of your time. You cannot talk to me about the lies, deceit, and infidelity of your past, and how that has affected you, only for you to reminisce about those people. You cannot tell me that I have made you feel incredible, in more ways than one, and then act like I’m not shit.

I wrote a post long ago entitled For Anyone Who Dates Me or something. I meant what I said in there. But I am starting to think I should accept the fact that people do not feel as deeply as me. And no, I do not mean that I fall madly in love with any person I’ve talked to. But if I actually text/respond back to you frequently, take it as a compliment. If I make or bake you something, you’re welcome. If I take the time to write something for you, I hope you feel whatever it was. It is important for me to invest time with someone that actually wants to be with me, wants to do things with me. Tell me what you love. Tell me what you hate. Tell me what has kept you up at night. Tell me what you’re passionate about. Tell me what happened to you in elementary school that one day. Tell me the name of your first pet. Does anyone remember Ryan? I never said his name, but he’s the one that broke things off out of nowhere because I liked horror. I remember he gave me a plush shark after our first date. The first time I decided to give him a blowjob was on the 4th date (I know, crazy) when he got me flowers for no reason, got my favorite wine because he somehow remembered, and we watched the Addams family. No, I am not suggesting that I need things like that. Everyone expresses things differently in their own way. He obviously did not know my favorite flowers – no guy does except maybe 2. I have met one guy since I’ve been 21, that has said some things to me, in detail. Where I told them how I ate my pizza rolls and they thought it was adorable. My niece was sick one night, and I nonchalantly mentioned it to him. The next day, he asked how she was doing. I remember exactly how I felt in that moment: surprised; appreciative. No guy besides Jake or Luke would ask that; no guy I was interested in would ask that. But this one is different, I thought – about the person I had met that I told my pizza roll story to, which isn’t the person I originally started writing about on this post. But I would soon realize, again, that there is absolutely no amount of star alignment, or Gods’ smiling down upon you from the heavens that will make something work if you are not ready. And the thing that sucks the most, is sometimes we don’t even know that we’re not. Whether it’s that we don’t love ourselves, or we are still healing from old wounds – the universe is a fucking savage; but I still believe it has our best interest at heart.


I Used To Write

I used to write of lovers,

Of men that made my day.

I used to write of love

But there’s nothing more to say.

I used to write of heartbreak,

When I knew it very well;

It’s still etched inside my bones

In case you couldn’t tell.

I used to write for people

That I thought would write for me,

Until I finally realized

My love is like the sea:

My love is like the sea,

It’s darkened and it’s bold,

And though my love is endless

It can get very cold.

I only say this now

Because I cannot wait –

For another storm to brew

And he leaves me for my waves.


Hey guys, let’s talk about sexting:

Personally, I love sexting. Back before Tyra Banks had her show on ‘sexting’, we old folk used to call it ‘text sex’. Unfortunately text sex wasn’t as trendy and cool as sexting, so it never really made the cut. Sexting can mean a bunch of shit: talking dirty, exchanging pictures, exchanging videos if you’re lucky; it’s great. A while ago, I talked about dick pics. I love dick pics, as in, I appreciate them. The last dick pic I got was a couple weeks ago from a friend, wait, scratch that, it was yesterday from this guy Travis. *note, I started writing this post a couple of months ago, so that previous sentence is inaccurate, but I also didn’t want to edit it out, because, hey, yolo.*
I’ve known Travis since, like, 2015. He’s a hot as fuck bass(?) player and he lives in Nashville(?) I think. Not sure. His beard game is strong though. Good for you, Trav. So, I pride myself on a lot of things, and writing out what I could potentially do to someone to turn them on is one of them. I’m so good that Shannon would make me write her sexts back when we were in high school. Shit, even before she met Sean and she was trying to get her slutty self back, I’d write her sexts for her for whoever her potential Tinder hookups might have been. The longest time it ever took me to write one was like 2-3 hours. But that’s because of stopping and editing and such. Now, if any guy I’ve sent a sext to is reading this post, I’m very sorry because I’m about to crush your dreams and shatter any sexy illusion that you might have depicted at the time. Or in the future.

Obviously women have mastered the art of manipulation and falsification towards men since Eve lied and said she finished, or since the first Caveman asked his wife, was it good for you, too? and she nodded her head yes. Eve, Cavewoman, whatever you prefer to believe. Women are great at it; I’m not, but most are. Remember the ever so classic telephone call, when a guy would ask the woman what she was wearing, and she would lie and say nothing when really she was wearing an oversized ripped T-shirt and ugly ass floral pajama pants? Then that migrated to him texting and saying, what are you doing right now? 😉(winky face and all, gotta add that; personally I hate the winky face – it makes me cringe) and she’d reply with, Oh, just got out of the shower. . .thinking about you. When in reality she’s either making pancakes with no pants on (not the sexy kind of no pants), or in the middle of watching Snapped or Killer Couples with a face mask on. There are those times when you’re honest with him, and you say, I’m literally in my Jason Vorhees Jersey and shorts watching TV. To which, he’ll try and be smooth and reply, woah, that’s even sexier – I love when women aren’t always dressed up all the time. And once you read that line of bullshit, you roll your eyes and reply with a lovely Lol. To which he’ll say something along the lines of, So, what are you doing? And then you’ll think he’s retarded because you literally just answered the question, and you say I just told you…watching TV. And then he’ll either be passive and say, send me a pic ;), or just flat out go balls deep, literally, by sending you the boner that he has inside of his boxers, boxers – not even briefs, where you can see that there’s a pile of what you assume is dirty laundry on the floor of the room he’s in, and you catch a glimpse of his feet and you know you should be analyzing the outline and shape of his boner but instead you’re trying to figure out if his toes are just weird or if they’re webbed, and how the left one is noticeably bigger than the right one, and how, even though dick pics with socks are cringey, you almost wish he would’ve just worn socks so you’re not as grossed out, and what kind of bed sheets are those? and say something ‘coy’ like, come over, we can watch TV together and cuddle; I just wanna cuddle with you. You don’t even reply to that, and not even 5 minutes goes by and he sends you another goddamn winky face. And by then, you’re so invested in Snapped that you don’t reply but see that he texted and you think to yourself, damn, I’m just trying to see if Jennifer Martin-Watts murdered Gareth Watts and framed it on his brother that she was having an affair with; let a bitch live! 

As you all should know by now, dick pics do absolutely nothing for women. We don’t automatically turn into Niagara Falls just because you sent us your dick. We do not masturbate to your dick pic. We do, however, show our friends and talk about it. Kevin has a folder, I believe. He used to, anyway; he did of the ones he and I both received back in the day *Funny story, so back in the Myspace days, there was this guy Kyle that randomly added me: He was about my age, or at least that’s what he said and that’s what his pictures implied, so I did what any 16 year old would do – I gave him my number. He sent me a dick pic and wanted a picture in return. I told him I was with my best friend and she had amazing tits, so we’d send him a picture of hers. Me and Kevin went on Bad JoJo, which was the porn site I used to go on all the time, and took a picture of a random porn star’s boobs and sent it to him. What we didn’t realize was that we accidentally also got a little bit of the hyperlink in the picture, so we assumed that blew our cover. So we send the picture, and he says: Holy shit – are those real? Your friend has really nice tits. Is she single? We laughed, probably said yes, and never talked to Kyle again*. So, guys, the point is. . .we do not masturbate to your pictures. Oh, and also, the next time you get the urge to send a girl a dick pic, maybe you should ask her first. Do you know how many times I’ve opened random snapchats of dicks on a crowded train, at work, or even at the gym? Okay, who am I kidding: I only opened 1 at the gym and that was last year when I was trying to be skinny for Florida but it didn’t work. Chances are, if you’re someone I like, I’ll ask you for one anyway.

I admit that depending on what is being said, there have been times when a guy has been able to turn me on with his words. There have also been times where I’ve received a dick pic, and I instantly thought, wow, I want that inside me. But it just depends on the person and what is being said and if I’m that invested or not. Also, just a random fact, I hate the word ‘pussy’, and the only time I’ll both say it and accept it is when sexting is involved. Or dirty talk in general. In my personal opinion, as stated previously, I like sexting. . .with the right person. Like, even whenever I’m married I know I’m gonna randomly sext my husband while he’s working. Shit like that is important in relationships: it’s important to still feel desired and shit. That should never stop just because you’re married. In conclusion, yay sexting (if it’s consensual)!

Many Men, Many Times

How many men have touched your naked body? How many men have been deeply infatuated with you while you two were intimate? But when he is no longer inside of you, you are no longer inside of his head. How many men have you let do that to you? Where they beg at your feet for you to allow them to come inside? Come inside. How many times have you left their house at 2 am, wondering if what you had just done was worth it? How many mirrors have you avoided that day because you were too ashamed to look at yourself? How many lies did you tell yourself, saying it didn’t matter, saying that you were safe, saying that you were not lost? How many lies did he tell you, saying you were great, saying he wants you to stay, saying that you meant something? The answer is infinite. 

How many men have touched your naked soul? How many men have been deeply infatuated with you while you were talking about your day? And even when you’re not talking, he still listens. How many men have you let do that to you? Where they kiss your feet, desperate to make you smile? How many times have you fallen asleep in their arms, waking up at 2am just to realize how lucky you are? How many times have you caught yourself smiling whenever you see your reflection, just because you feel happy? How many times did you tell yourself, saying that you were happy, saying that you were grateful, saying that you feel peace? How many times did he tell you that you were great, that he wanted you to stay, that you meant something to him? The answer is zero. 

Let Me Tell You Something

It may come as a shock, but there are actually people that find what I write to be helpful. Sometimes even empowering or inspiring. As you all know, writing is something that means the world to me, and it’s something that has helped me through almost everything in my life. I’ve written about myself: How deeply I loved my boyfriend, how heartbroken and hurt I was when we broke up. I’ve written about the healing process, how hard it was to move on, how hard it was to be told I was not enough, yet too much all at the same time. I’ve written about the aftermath of that person telling me that, and then witnessing him fall in love with someone who has my name. I’ve written about the fuckboys, and the guys I’ve managed to stay good friends with after we went our separate ways romantically: I wrote about Luke, the sweetest guy that I’ll always be grateful for. I wrote about Tony, the English teacher that I was so enamored by and that I ‘liked’ so much, for I thought he was different and taught me a lot about myself. And then I wrote about how I was strung along for 6 months, and what I had written previously about him was a joke. I wrote about Dale, who referred to himself as ‘Mr. Fucko’, his fuckboy persona. I wrote about how he loved to smoke weed, which made it harder for him to cum, as well as him being one of the biggest fuckboys that I’ve ever encountered, for someone who was a 31 year old ‘man’. I’ve written about swearing how I would never write about a guy I liked, unless it became official. I have kept that promise.

Let me tell you something: When I first wrote about my breakup, I was raw and way too vulnerable. But, aren’t I always? The pain of it was indescribable. Being someone who has depression, who has walked through the deepest and darkest depths of my mind, desperate to do literally anything to get out of it, even dying, there was no comparison. Yes, though they’re both equally as fucking awful, I would pick depression any day over heartbreak. I had my medication and therapists. Though I was numb to the world and everyone around me, I knew it would get better. Even if I went from being really fucking depressed to just depressed, I knew the darkest of days would pass. Now, I am grateful for experiencing my first love, and my first heartbreak: I learned a lot about myself, plus I lost some weight from not being able to eat. HAAAY! So that was an upside. But it took me a really fucking long time, like, longer than I’d like to admit, to be okay and come to terms with it. And right when I did, what happened? He decided that he missed me. He decided that he was now heartbroken because he let me go. It was months of back and forth. I’m sure he’ll take it to the grave and deny it to Colleen 2.0, but he actively tried getting me back. He wanted me to move to LA with him. Fast forward. That was 2015. Here we are, multiple ‘men’ later. Nick was the absolute worst pain that I had ever felt in my entire life. And when he came back into it, just to use me as a safety net and leave, it was another kind of pain. I was mad at myself for letting the same guy break my heart twice. I told myself over and over after every single fuckboy, no one can hurt me as much as I was already hurt. If I got through that, I can get through any guy. I also thought this to be true when my best friend Briana was finally done with her second real boyfriend. I believed it to be true that if she could get through him, literally a demon from hell, she could get through anyone. I was wrong. Sure, the demon made her resilient to others that were controlling, but he was just a demon. None of us were prepared for the Devil. And I’m not saying this to be funny at all. It just goes to show you that any guy you date, no matter how badly he hurts you, it doesn’t mean that when it doesn’t work out with the next guy, it’ll hurt any less. NEWSFLASH! It does not. After Nick, I told myself that now I know what I want and what I don’t want. I don’t want to be with someone long term, just for them to still be unsure of our future together. Actually, this is an interesting thought: when I was newly single, my standards were a lot higher. I remember I talked to this guy Brendan for a couple weeks, and he always blew me off. And eventually I was like, listen dude, I’ve seen my best friends go through this shit, and I’m not trying to deal with that – I don’t deserve it. I think he was taken aback because he didn’t expect it. About a month later, he texted me saying that he missed me and that he would make more of an effort. I think he might be engaged now, but I’m not sure, I don’t FB stalk guys from 2014-2015 anymore.
After that incident, I noticed a pattern. My standards as far as dating goes were thrown out the window. Let’s see. . .after Brendan there was Johnny, who will always be known as the second person I ever slept with, and a fuckboy for saying he didn’t like me, and then texting me months later wanting to ‘hangout’ because my head was the best he’d ever gotten. When I told him to go fuck himself, in a more or less polite manner, he called me an ugly slut. LOL OKAY BITCH. But Johnny was just a fuckboy. He’s now super happy with his girlfriend, and he’ll like my instagram pictures from time to time. He seems like he’s doing okay. He’s not relevant enough to make it to Maria’s shit list. When I think about the people that I actually spent a lot of time with, and talked to all the time, and pretty much dated, or where they talked about how much they liked me and wanted to date me, I can think of about 7. Granted, we all know I accidentally tend to sometimes give blowjobs on the first date (oops), and I’m 100% sure a majority of them said the things they did only because they liked my blowjobs so much. I have been fooled before by many people. Like, they hid that shit well. Like Dale – the actor that looked like he could be a serial killer, but I dug it: Dale was only words, however. He was not made of actions that should have matched what he said. But…the last person I talked to, or, ‘dated’. . . I feel like he deserves an award or something. Because if my best friend Kevin, AKA the person that never wants anything to do with the randoms I meet on tinder, wanted to meet someone, then you know it was different. And it was. He was. And once again, like I always do, I am going to break all the rules of girl code, because, hi, I’m Colleen. This one, you guys, really fucking hurt, actually. Because I have never met someone that was so vocal and communicative with me about what he felt in terms of me and the route we were going. Scratch that, I haven’t since I’ve been single. In over 3 years, no guy has made an effort like that. Which is honestly probably just a reflection of how shitty guys actually are, or at least the ones I’ve dated. He was very considerate, and I had never been as hopeful that something would actually work out in my favor. Now, we all know I overthink, over-analyze, over-everything. So of course me rereading his reasoning for not wanting to see me anymore, just makes me wonder if the last month and a half or so was actually a lie, or if it was legit. I know I’m very naive. However, my intuition with guys is usually good. I can always sense when things are about to end, it’s a gift. But this was out of fucking nowhere. Especially when we had spent the day together less than 48 hours prior. He could very well be reading this post, thinking that I’m insane for thinking or saying what I’m about to say, or writing about it in general, but then I guess his reasoning was accurate. I have not had the feeling of wanting to see someone when I wasn’t with them so badly, in like, forever. I haven’t missed someone when I hadn’t seen them in a while, like, genuinely missed them because I knew they genuinely missed me as well, in like, forever. But now as I’m writing this, that could’ve just been what he said to everyone he dated. Maybe it’s normal for guys to tell the girls they’re dating that they can’t stop thinking about them. Is that true? Have I just dated extra shitty people? Probably. I will say this, as cringeworthy as it is: he did make me happy. And for the first time in ever, I wasn’t worried about whether he felt the same, considering he told me and showed me. So. His reasoning for not wanting to see me anymore was because I liked horror, and I seemed like I was bored when he talked about his interests. Now, listen: I can totally understand those things because I’m an understanding person, and as always, too understanding. However, he knew what I was into when we first started talking. The only time I wanted to watch a horror movie with him was when we watched The Conjuring. Any other horror movie we watched was because he put it on. Maybe because he thought that’s what I wanted all the time. Which, wasn’t the case. And also, I have RBF. I’ve told him that. He’s told me before that he can’t tell if I’m interested in him or not and I’ve told him that it’s just my face, and that I am interested and if I wasn’t, I’d say something. We’ve talked about both of those things before, which was why his reasoning was shitty as fuck and probably not completely honest. He said that because of those things, it made it hard for him to fully connect. Which could’ve been true. However, I once went on a date with a guy, and at the end of the night, he apologized and said that there was just no connection. I respected him for saying that. It doesn’t take a month and a half to realize there’s not a connection. You don’t tell someone you can’t stop thinking about them, holding them and talking with them because they make you feel less stressed 3 days before that you couldn’t fully connect. Damn. I really liked this one. Which I’m mad at myself for, because how many people have I said that about, or said that they were different. But it’s true. He was. He was until he wasn’t. No one had ever taken the time to give me things I’d like, or go out of their way to do so. Not since Nick. Not since Nick have I ever gotten flowers, and if any guy tries to tell you that he doesn’t believe in sending or getting you flowers, leave. Not for the materialistic reason, but the thought. But he got me flowers. He made sure to have my favorite wine whenever I came over. He got me little things that I loved, and tried to make me genuinely feel better when I was upset. Not just the bullshit: I’m sorry. I do miss seeing him. I’m not supposed to say that because it makes me look pathetic, but he played things well and made me feel things I hadn’t felt in over 3 years. However, with guys, the sooner we as women realize that they probably treat every girl the same, the easier it’ll be when you get blindsided.

I know I’m not everyone’s shot of whiskey or favorite beer. Some people like Coors Light, and I’m just not that generic. I’m not light, and crisp, and simple. I don’t just resonate inside of your stomach and inside of your blood hoping that you’ll start to feel something after the 5th one. You should feel something before you’re even halfway done. A lot of guys have taken a sip so carelessly thinking it’s just another domestic. Some spit it out right away, because it’s thicker, more dense, and unlike what they’re used to. Others will keep drinking for a while, just to say they’ve tried something different. But before they’ve even finished, they’re done. I have yet to meet someone to drink in all of me.

I spent a lot of my relationship as well as single life apologizing who who I am as a person. I’m too depressed; too sad; too cold; too open; too honest; too sexual; too naive; too understanding; too weird; too dark; too awful; too serious; just too fucking much.
When I went out with that guy Daniel a while back that left me in the middle of a date, a week or two after I decided to finally get two tattoos that I had wanted, and it was the perfect time to do so: ‘stay weird’, and ‘Love yourself first’ in Latin. I’m not all dark all the time. Yes, I love macabre-esque things and spooky, creepy things. I love horror and fall and crisp, cold air. I’m not girly and cute-sy, nor would I want to be. I’m also not goth, nor do I wear black all the fucking time. I think strange, weird things are cute and interesting. I think disturbing shit can be interesting. I fucking wanted a black cat named Lucifer and I got him. My whole ‘self’ is not for everyone. My kind of strange is not for everyone. And that’s fine. I’m not looking for a guy to be into gothic shit, or horror like me. At the end of the day, at the end of life, I just wanted someone that loved me the way I was, weird and all, with a black diamond white gold engagement ring, and to be okay with skull decor around our house. That doesn’t mean I want to go on a fucking blood and guts crusade. I like awkward, unusual people. People that are different and don’t give a fuck. No one person fits into a distinct category. My room is fucking pink and with a framed poster of Jennifer Love Hewitt, and a framed poster of Carrie Bradshaw for the Sex and the City series premier. There’s also a Jason Vorhees mask hanging from my doorknob, as well as skull shit everywhere. I’m writing this as my black cat is laying on my pink sheets.

I don’t know. Sorry this is completely all over the place. It’s also probably misspelled. It’s just been sitting in my drafts since that person told me that, and I haven’t been able to finish it. I’m not even gonna bother tagging it or promoting it. I just needed to write it out. Something that has always been a part of me, and helps me.

You Won’t Believe This

I couldn’t even make this shit up if I wanted to – mostly because I try to steer away from things that are considered to be painfully cliché. 

I know I haven’t posted anything in a while, especially about the wonderful life game I like to call, Adventures in Dating When You’re in Your 20’s. You guys, there’s so much shit I haven’t told you, mainly because life gets in the way of writing about life experiences. But this one, oh, this one is way too good not to share. 

So, I’ve fucked with Tinder and Hinge in the past; I’ve never fucked with Bumble simply because I hate the name and think it’s Fucking stupid. However, about 2 months ago I took the plunge and downloaded it. Why not? In total, I’ve met 2 guys off of Bumble. 1 was named Sam and we went to a cemetery on our first date (it was my idea and he was super cute and weird and totally all for it). It went really well, the only problem was that he lived like an hour away, AND there would be no second date for a while considering I was going to Florida. This was back in May. Well, as per usual, in Florida I got drunk and I said something to him, but it wasn’t offensive or anything, I swear. And he wrote back saying he didn’t want anything serious, *eye roll*, and that I was too complicated.             Now, he was super fucking cute, weird, and tall, and a good kisser, but it was whatever. Nothing I haven’t heard before. Sam, if you ever read this, stay weird, my friend. 

But this post isn’t about Sam. It’s about a guy that I talked to for a week via text and Snapchat, and we finally got drinks this past Friday. His name is Daniel; everyone, say hi to Daniel. Daniel is a 28 year old ‘man’ that works as a paramedic. He’s 5’9 and Puerto Rican, however, I spoke more Spanish than him. He was interesting looking and had a nice smile. He was also funny and seemingly sweet. All great things.                                 So, Daniel and I text throughout the week; of course things end up getting sexual because, hi, I’m Colleen and I’m the fucking worst. But that wasn’t all it was; he knew I was weird, that was the whole point of him being interested in me…or so I thought. And honestly, I can’t even talk shit about him because I’m pretty sure he might have a video or something of me that I’ve been meaning to send to Shannon because I’m sure she’d enjoy it. Anyway, not the point.             So, Friday comes. Need I mind you, he seemed super psyched to hang out and get to know each other. He gave me no signals of fuckboy to the highest degree. So, I get to the bar, and then he gets to the bar. We’re talking and everything seemed fine. He told me I was hard to read, which everyone says that: I personally think that’s awesome, but guys don’t like challenges and shit. We order 2 beers. We finish them while talking about some things we touched on during our texting conversation. We order 2 more beers. We get into the topic of religion, to which I told him I was Catholic, but satanism is actually quite fascinating and is totally misunderstood, but I’m not a satanist. He was fine, and was interested with what I was saying about it. Then I told him I had a black cat. He said, Lemme guess, you named him Salem like the cat from Hocus Pocus? First of all… Salem is the name of the town. Thackery Binx was the name of the Cat. Salem the cat is from Sabrina the teenaged witch. God. Then he got warmer and said Damian. And then he said Lucifer. I said yes – he laughed; everything was totally cool. He then told me he’d be right back, cool. Whatever. Meanwhile I checked my phone and I was texting Kevin. 10 minutes goes by. Nothing. I told Kevin and he’s like, wait another 10 minutes. I waited another 15 minutes. Nothing. Was this really happening? No way. He’s probably taking a shit or something. There’s no way he just pulled that; that’s way too Fucking cliché, and that would never happen to me.                                                        Well…it Fucking happened. I texted him, but the messages weren’t going through; I know he blocked my number because he had an iPhone and the messages weren’t showing up in blue, but they were when I was texting Kevin. I go to Facebook and see he deleted me. I go to Bumble and see he deleted me off there, too. So…I got up, went to the bathroom, fixed my eyeliner, came out, and asked the waitress for the bill. She told me, ‘oh, don’t worry, he got it!’ Well fucking gee. At least he had the decency to pay. I mean, it’s the least he could fucking do after Fucking leaving me alone at a bar in a neighborhood 35 minutes away from mine. And I’m not ashamed to admit that I cried. Not in the bar, but on the way home. Kevin came to get me. It was very -beginning of  a rom com where a girl always dates shitty guys and then meets the love of her life somewhere like Barnes n Noble, or the total opposite by getting hammered the next night- It was crazy, you guys. I didn’t know this shit happened in real life. To just leave like that… I don’t fucking understand why guys can’t be straight up. Bro, you could’ve told me I weirded you out or something. I came to the conclusion that it was either because he thought I was ugly and fat, OR, the whole talk about me thinking satanism is interesting, EVEN THOUGH I’M FUCKING CATHOLIC, freaked him out. Everyone thinks it’s the latter. I should’ve seen the warning signs. He said he’s never sent out dick pics (yeah, okay), and he liked Halloween, but he wasn’t like, in love with it. You know who I think about in times like this? Dale. Dale liked that I was weird. Dale also liked my blowjobs and was a fucking fuckboy and that earned him #1 or #2 on Maria’s shitlist. She had a legit list: it’s of all the guys that have fucked me over…but not just fucked me over, like, Fucking royally, no lube, no warning FUCKED. Its actually quite hilarious and I’ve been meaning to make a post about it. In fact, I’m gonna text her and see her in like, 20 minutes so we’ll figure this out, don’t worry.  

Anyway, thought you guys would enjoy that story. I’m still shook, to be honest. Not even trying to flatter myself. I just didn’t know guys were such pussies. He probably thought I was gonna drug him and sacrifice him to ‘my dark lord and savior, Satan’. My cat’s name is Lucifer. It’s cute as fuck so stop being a little fucking bitch. So you can go shave your back now, bye Daniel. 


Group message:
C: You guys, he didn’t respond to my last message. He usually does. What the fuck?
M: Is he working?
J: He’s probably working.
C: But like even so, he still does.
C: It says read 9:18 am
J: He’s at work!
C: I don’t care. . .
C: Am I ugly?
C: But why hasn’t he replied?
M: He’s. At. Work.
C: But like I still feel as if that’s not a valid enough excuse.
J: Just give it a couple hours.
C: Fuck that. I’m deleting the message thread and deleting his number.
J: Well. . . don’t do that unless you haven’t heard from him in a day or two.
M: C! Don’t do that!
C: But like why?
M: Because. Just because he hasn’t responded doesn’t mean he’s not going to.
C: Wait, does that even make sense?
J: M’s right. He’s just busy, he’ll text you.
C: I don’t think so.
J: Can we just talk about how _ always leaves me on read and doesn’t reply?
C: But he’s your boyfriend. . .you know that he’s into you regardless.
J: Um, that doesn’t mean anything.
J: At least he responds a majority of the time, right?
C: I mean, yeah. . .
J: So why are you worried?
C: It’s like, I’m not worried.  I’m just psychic and I know what’s gonna happen.
M: What’s gonna happen?
J: And what’s that?
C: We’ve talked for a while. He seemed super into me, like I’m amazing. Then he meets me. And then it dwindles down. And then I give my award-winning advice about blowjobs.
J: Now I’m gonna smack you.
M: C you can’t always keep thinking that. That obviously hasn’t worked in the past.
C: Ugh you know who the biggest fuckboy is?
M: ?
C: Dale.
M: Fucking Dale. Fuck him. I can’t stand him.
J: That’s the guy from the video, right?
C: Yeah
M: Yeah.
J: Yeah he’s not cute.
C: Anyway, so yeah, shit like that, situations like that seem to happen a lot.
M: That’s because you expect it and you can’t let yourself be fucking happy!
C: You sound like my mom.
M: I’m serious lol.
J: _ said you were pretty.
C: Aw, tell him I said thanks.
J: We love you, you just don’t see how amazing you are.
C: My mind is telling me to ruin it before it even has a chance to begin.
C: It’s like I’m stuck on this one level of my life, and I’ve been trying so hard to get to the next level and it just isn’t working. Like, I’m almost there, and then I fucking fall off a ledge or something. And have to start back to the beginning of the level.
J: Well, it’s time to beat that fucking level.
M: That was deep as fuck.
C: Like my throat skills.
M: Oh my God C. Lmao
J: *crying face emoji*
C: You guys, I have to shit.
M: I’m shitting now lol
J: Oh my god.


This is a girl conversation in a nutshell.

This Just Needs to be Said

I want to know what exactly it means to be in love. To love someone and be in love with them are two completely different things. As I’ve said, for something that should bring such light and happiness, it is very gray; it is neither black nor white. It’s quite interesting when you ask someone what love means to them. Everyone interprets it differently. I thought I knew what it was, and I think I did to an extent. I don’t believe that bullshit when people say you only get one true love in your life. I mean, maybe you do – maybe everyone before that person was just a facade of love – draped in flesh and potential heartbreak, all to prepare you for that one person. I believe in love. I believe that it is possible to find someone, that you are so in love with, and you spend the rest of your lives together. That may be foolish, I’m aware. Especially since I’m so cynical. But is it so bad and so foolish to want someone that looks at you like you are the greatest person in the entire world? To find a man that’s like, damn, I’m so lucky to have her. Because, if she’s a good woman, she’ll show him that she’s just as lucky. Is it so awful that I don’t want to accept the fact that all modern-day romance is completely fucked: like, no lube no warning fucked. Is it so bad to want that person that is so enamored by you, and so in awe of you.

Okay, I’m just gonna say this: I know most of what I write probably makes it out to seem like Nick was an awful piece of shit boyfriend. He was not, he was a wonderful boyfriend, and because of him, I know certain things and qualities that I deserve when it comes to being in a relationship. I also know what I don’t deserve. I was very, very fortunate to have him as a first boyfriend. I will never deny him of that, I will never intentionally bash him on here out of spite or hatred or bitterness. We are both two completely different people now, and that’s what happens. But I can say, that way back when, he was great. However, I used to take full responsibility for whatever issues we had going on. But I’ve realized that it wasn’t entirely my fault. I thought I was the luckiest fucking girl in the entire world, because there was this guy, whom of which I loved very deeply, that seemed to somehow love me despite the flaws that I had, internal and external. But he really didn’t. He did, but he didn’t. He was not the type of person who liked conflict. He wasn’t the kind of person that did well with confrontation. He could be selfish sometimes. As was I. Let me tell you something, though. One of the most harrowing feelings is wondering when that person is going to tell you that you’re the one. I know, how ridiculous and crazy of me to say that. How ludicrous to assume we’d end up together forever. But every time it got quiet, I had always hoped that that would finally be the moment that I was going to be told something. Is it that preposterous to think everyone in a relationship should feel so loved, and so wanted? For him to just stare at you, while you’re cooking, while you’re brushing your teeth, and think that you are the most exquisite thing he has ever laid eyes on. Why settle for anything less than that? I want to ask, why is it so bad to want that when the time comes and when you’re ready for it? Do people just love differently, and sometimes it doesn’t match up, or it becomes too intense for one person, because the other loved too deeply? Is that the goal? To find someone whose love matches up with yours? To find someone who cares just as much as you do? Why are guys settling for girls who treat them like shit, and don’t appreciate them? Why are girls settling for guys who don’t deserve them and take them for granted? Why? Why is it so fucking difficult to find two people to be mutually so disgustingly happy in love with each other. Why would it be so difficult to find someone that thinks you’re incredible? Because being the kind of person that you are, you think they’re incredible, and you can easily give them 10 reasons why. Do other people not think the same way? Have relationships and happiness become that jaded and cynical?

If you have a man that looks at you like you’re a prized possession, that goes to great lengths to cheer you up, that tells you how amazing you are, that loves taking you out, that’s proud when he takes you out, that thinks damn, that’s mine, why do anything to fuck that up? Because I’ll tell you that there are millions of men who won’t look at you like that after you’ve just helped them with something, or after you worked hard to make them something, or after you look at them because for whatever reason, you think they’re amazing. Instead, you get one-worded replies, shifting eyes – shifting mindsets.
Is it so bad to want something like that? For someone to want to count every freckle that I have, because they love them. For someone to not say it’s okay when I apologize for being me, but instead make me feel even more loved than I ever have? For someone to be so enthralled by what I think, and how I do. For someone not to take me for granted. For someone to make me feel like I’m not a burden, or I’m not hard to love. For someone to feel lucky, honored, and proud that I write about them. Or excited that they’re able to make me smile, because that’s rare, or make me laugh out loud. I know life isn’t a Nicholas Sparks novel, and it is certainly not a John Green novel. Oh, god, I would not want it to be. But there have been so many instances with girls regarding guys and it’s like, damn, bitch can’t even get a text back?

Don’t you want someone that you wake up to, and through their half-opened eyes while you’re putting a shirt on to make breakfast think, she’s so sexy; she’s amazing. Do people just not think about these things? Is this not a common thing because girls don’t take the time to reciprocate? Are things really that depressing when you find yourself in a relationship in your early to mid twenties? Or have I just been out of the game too long. . .? Or was Nick just incredibly rare? As we all know, I have a lot to say about a lot of things. What happens is this: I meet a guy, he says something about my hair, complimenting me. He asks what I do. Then he asks what I’m in school for. I tell him I write. He asks what I write about, or he’ll say I’d love to read your blog (only like 1 out of 10 actually do). He’ll say he thinks it’s so cool that I write, he’ll say he thinks the fact that I’m so open and straightforward is attractive. He’ll tell me I’m not like most girls and it’s intriguing. he’ll say he’s not looking for a hookup. He’ll tell me I have nice boobs. He’ll tell me I give good head. The talking dwindles down because he got what he wanted. Or he’ll try and keep it going, in turn, to get more blowjobs. But it’s my bad, because that’s all he sees me as now. A nice girl, who gives good head. And the one or two that ‘like me’ don’t care to ever date me. Why would they take me out? Just hang at their place. Gee, I wonder why. They don’t pay attention to how I think or what I have to say. They say I’m interesting. But they don’t listen, really listen. They don’t care to ask how I’m doing, how I’m really doing. Why would they? Why should they? They don’t care about the insane amount of freckles that I have. They might think they’re cute, but they don’t care to study them. Or inspect them. I might have a decent body to them. But it’s just a body. They don’t care to stare at it, or talk about it, or examine it. That would require more time. I’m not worth that time. Or, making any effort for, for that matter. And for once. . .I would like it to go differently.

I’ve said this before because, though I am not a confident person, I know whoever I end up with will be extremely lucky.

Homes, Houses

You’re beautiful. You’re angelic. You’re not like other girls. How are you so perfect? How are you still single? I’m making you my girlfriend. I don’t know why guys stop talking to you. I’d love to read your blog. You’re amazing. You have a great body. You have amazing boobs. You’re cute. You’re a good woman. You’re different. You’re a redhead, awesome. I love your freckles – they’re sexy. I love your skin. Who wouldn’t want to date you? I’m not immature like most guys. I’m different. I’m not into hookups. I like you. I don’t want to stop talking to you. You’re so sexy. I’m not just going to stop talking to you out of nowhere. I’m definitely interested in you. I want to see where this can go. I don’t want to fuck this up. I like your mentality. I want that.

I’ve let many men into my home – perhaps too many. I have not only felt the physical weight of them, but the mental weight as well. Each and every one of them have all taken, even if the tiniest, a piece of me. It is a sad thing when you give and people take. We give to the wrong people, and they happily take. Will there be anything left for the right person? That is hard to say. Your body is your home. People walk in, and they walk out. They visit when there is vacancy. Sometimes their visits are 2 days, 2 weeks, or 2 years. Sometimes you welcome their visit – other times people walk in, unwelcome. Because of this, you’re more cautious and you leave the door locked. . .always. You have been fooled before. You have been conned into unlocking your door, even if it’s to peek your head out. But, it ends the same – they leave your house trashed. You let them stay there for free, you allow them to come and go as they please. They do not respect your rules, and they do not have manners. They have absolutely no regard for your home and what’s inside. They are not grateful, they are not worthy. They see your house as a place to crash for a while until a better offer presents itself. Your home is not where they want to be, it’s where they need to stay for the time being. However, you being you, that isn’t a concern. You gut out your walls to accommodate them, to make more room for them. You change your decor in a way that pleases them. You make your home as comfortable as possible for them to stay, because you have somehow convinced yourself that that is where they want to be. But, it doesn’t work. Sometimes they tell you that your house is not where they want to be anymore. Other times they will just leave without saying a word, so you’re left there wondering what was so wrong with your home? You start to think about your house. It isn’t the biggest, and it isn’t the smallest. It can be quaint, but also confusing. The wood is scuffed up, the paint is chipped. The hinges on some of the doors are loose. The stairs are creaky. The faucet leaks. The foundation is that of no other. It is not always sturdy, or precise. It is not immaculate, but it is your home. You have lived there for 23 years. But I will give you a piece of advice, darling: you cannot bring someone into your home thinking that they’ll repair the damages. They do not care to. Having them there only makes you feel better because someone has decided to stay in your house, despite the scuffed up wood; despite the chipped paint; despite the loose hinges; despite the creaky stairs; despite the leaky faucet; and despite the poor foundation. But it is only temporary. And once they leave, you are alone. So, what do you do? Buff out the scuffs; touch up the paint – possibly a new color; tighten up the hinges on the doors; insert the screws and threads to fix the creaks on the stairs; tighten up the pipes of the faucet; But your foundation is fine – it is you. And if you decide to let a man step inside, and he tells you the foundation is not as stable or secure as it should be, as other houses are – let him leave. You should be proud of the home you’ve built. You should be okay with living in your house alone first, before you let someone else stay there. Explore every room, every corner, every area. Appreciate the decorum. Know that your house is amazing. And once you are at peace in your home, with your home, only then should you unlock the door. Because soon enough, you’ll see; you’ll know what it feels like to have someone want to be at your house. And though it is quite possible that neither of you know why, your house is perfect to them, and it is, indeed, what they have been looking for – where they want to be. 


Worth the Fight

If you’re a single male and reading this, feel free to let me know what you think, for this might be a little too emotional for you.

To be completely honest, I could cry right now and not entirely know the exact reason why. I’m gonna clue you guys in if you ever find yourself falling for a girl who society might deem hard to love: run. Run as fucking far and as fast as you can. Because if you don’t run now, she’ll give you reasons to soon enough. As annoying as it may seem to those who read my posts, I will never stop talking about this aspect of relationships and love. Sorry, not sorry. Yes, I am aware that everyone gets hurt – it’s a part of life. What makes my life any different, or different enough to read about? Well. I guess that’s for you to find out. Talking to someone who I respect and love, it’s made me wonder certain things. She’s gorgeous, her body is bomb, she’s smart: why would she have to worry about her relationship? It just goes to show you it doesn’t matter who you are. I once thought that I was indestructible when it came to guys and relationships. I thought I was hurt so badly, that no man, no being could ever hurt me as bad. Therefore, I could handle anything and survive. To some extent that is undeniably true. Aw, I’ve talked to you for 5 seconds and you want to call me an ugly slut because I won’t suck your dick? How nice. True story, by the way. Shout out to Johnny. But really, I feel bad for guys in general because women are so complicated as it is. Guys can be, too, but we’re complicated as fuck. Throw some self-loathing in there and you have yourself a potentially destructive human. So, talking to this person a couple days ago, she came to the conclusion that I think some girls do: she realized what she does, but not the full reason as to why she does. And, I do the same thing.

Everyone, and I mean every fucking one, for over 3 years, even when I was with Nick has said:
Colleen, you can’t always be so open. You can’t tell guys everything. You can’t let them know what you’re thinking all the time. Colleen, you’re gonna scare him off. Colleen, don’t do that. Colleen he’s not gonna take you seriously. Stop talking about blowjobs. Stop being so straightforward. 
I’ve heard it all before. And I never learn my lesson. Ever. You think I would, right? No. Because of course I rationally know that guys don’t wanna deal with all your shit right up front, especially if they’re first getting to know you. Because your emotions don’t always define you as a person, and you’re letting them see that side of you. But we do it because it’s better you realize you can’t deal with it now, then in 3 years. And let me tell you. . .what an awful way to live and view relationships. How can that be fair? It’s not, it’s not at all. If a guy blatantly gave me reasons not to like him, it’d be annoying as fuck. And when I’m doing it to a guy, even if they don’t think it’s annoying at first, I talk about it and talk about it and then they’re like yeah no bye. And I get it; I get it, I do. I’m the first person to get it, even before they do. And having this mentality has gotten me nowhere. First and foremost, I will say that girls aren’t fucking stupid. I’ve talked about this SO many fucking times, but we can tell when a guy is pulling away. If you’ve been talking to someone for a couple weeks, and there’s a routine that’s been formed, and, whatever, it’s like science. Like we know. And no offense but guys are pussies and they don’t want to tell you that they’re not into you, so they try and sugarcoat it or you have to be the one that’s like, okay dude what’s going on.

I wrote a post a while back entitled, For Anyone Who Dates Me, or some shit. Like, yes, there are aspects of myself that I think would make me a great catch. And I’m a super caring person, and to be honest I feel like whoever makes that decision or thinks, damn, I really want this girl as my girlfriend – she’s amazing, is gonna be super lucky. Not even because of how I feel about sex and domesticity, but like, if someone could just get past the fact that I don’t mean to push people away or give them reasons not to like me, then it would be worth it. Something I’ve heard from multiple people, not even just Nick, that makes me cringe every time is, why do you have to be the way that you are? Why do you have to be so difficult? Why can’t you just be? I don’t have answers to those questions. And I’m not sure if I ever will, unfortunately. If someone I like reads what I write, they probably find out more about me than they should a potential prospect. And they’ll tell you they like it, that it’s different in the best way possible. But they honestly don’t know what you’ve experienced, what you’ve heard, what you’ve seen, how you’ve felt, how you hurt. And until someone says, tell me, I want to know, then, it’s probably not going to work. It doesn’t matter what someone has going on in their life – if you like them and want to be a part of it, you help however you can.
I tried SO hard. . . SO fucking hard to be there for Tony, when he was sick, or when he was in the hospital, or when he felt upset. And sure, he appreciated it. Sure he cared about me as a person. Sure he thought I was a nice girl. Again, I know my faults. I am the first one to say what they are. I know he still reads this, but damn. Like, some of the shit that went down, I really didn’t deserve. I remember one time we were at the gas station, and he was upset about something and I asked if he was okay and he said no, and whatever else he said. Now, I don’t know why I do this, but I ask if someone’s okay more than once no matter what they tell me. It’s subconscious, it’s just what I do sometimes. And he went off on me. Something along the lines of, ‘what’s wrong with you, are you dumb, why the fuck would you ask that when I just told you I wasn’t, etc.’ and I just remember thinking I didn’t deserve that. I remember wondering how I got there, why I liked this person so much when he had absolutely no intention of being in an actual relationship with me. And he could say that he ‘was taking the time to see where things go’, but after six months, it’s like. . .okay. And after he moved and said what he said to me and made me feel so shitty, it was just, like, why Colleen? He told me I had no self-respect. That’s not the point right now, though.

This sounds like, ‘boohoo oh my god so sad blah blah blah’. That’s not what I’m trying to convey. At all. I realize it sometimes comes across that way. Most times it comes across that way. I thought to myself a long time ago that I just wanted someone to accept all of me. To say, it’s okay, I’m going to keep trying. But that is not that person’s job – it is incredibly selfish to ask that of someone. It is so selfish. And I’m starting to realize that it doesn’t fucking matter whether you love yourself or not. You’ve spent years trying to love yourself. It was hard. It was difficult. And you expect another human being to accept all of you? Your body, your mind, your spirit, your soul? There’s a reason why I stopped writing about guys that I like or want it to go somewhere. Now I just write about assholes and failed prospects. It’s easy for guys to tell me I’m different, because I am. And I like that about myself. But, like we all know, it’s just never right. They’ll say it’s cool that I have a blog, and they ask what it’s about. But only a handful have read it, and for those who have, I greatly appreciate it. I’ve been told that I’d be an ideal girlfriend. And I’ve also been told that I would not be. Life isn’t a fucking John Green or Nicholas Sparks novel. No guy in his right mind is going to want to be with a girl who’s difficult. Guys want a girl who’s easy, and simple; a girl who’s not complex or whatever she is. My mom tells me that constantly. But I will say that those are the ones with the basic white girl names who probably don’t even give amazing head. But this isn’t even about blowjobs for once. My mentality on a lot of things is my mentality. It comes from my mind. It has its pros and cons. It’s just not fair to have to worry most of the time if the person you love finally had enough. If that last anxiety attack was the one that made them leave. If that one irrational thought was enough to push them over the edge. It mind fucks me.
Going back to what was stated earlier, this person is a wonderful person. And it’s not fair to let her anxiety define her. Just like it’s not fair to let my shit define me. However, at the same time, it is what it is. It is unfortunately a part of me. And like I’ve said before, it was instilled in my brain that it was not a desirable part. I was ‘loved’ for everything but that. Jesus. And I can’t even blame him because I don’t. I understand. But we have to wonder, if parts of us are hard to love and accept, does that mean we find someone that isn’t afraid of a challenge? One that works harder in general? I honestly don’t know. And it’s terrifying. Since when did it become a thing where it doesn’t matter if I’m witty, or funny, or pretty, or nice, or whatever. . .those get overrun by the things a woman should not be. This post has become all over the place. And the more I write, the more I stop to reevaluate my choices and what I’m doing.

I guess I’ll leave it off at this: for anyone who dates me, who really dates me, who would want a relationship with me, you must have some balls. You also must be an incredible human if you want to call me your girlfriend.

And I want J to know this: love is incredibly messy and gross and disgusting and wonderful and cliche and beautiful and good and evil – it is everything. And if you’re lucky enough to find a man willing to cross the tattered, old rope bridge with the possibility of falling into a fiery pit of hell, climb the oldest, highest guarded tower in the land, in the darkest of night, not to banish your beasts and demons, but to help tame them, you are lucky. Some step outside, only to see that it’s far too dark to go anywhere. Some get to the bridge, only to see that it’s not worth crossing, for it’s far too dangerous. Some get to the tower, only to realize that it’s too high and that the chances of them falling to their death are higher than the tower. Some climb the tower, only to get overrun or eaten by your beasts and demons. And then there’s one that has completed every obstacle, every challenge – has come face to face with the monsters inside of your head, and does not flinch. And I would imagine that that would be the most beautiful thing, because you, my dear, are worth the fight.