Help me, I’m a desperate ho

So I’ve been trying my hardest to get a boyfriend since I started walking. Like, I was accused of stalking Dustin Little in kindergarten by his mother. I take love seriously. And since then, I haven’t had the greatest luck. My shortest relationship was a week because I convinced myself I liked a man that I didn’t find attractive because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. And my longest relationship was with a former soldier that I met at work. I was 17, he was 25. And I totally was in love with him. But he was way crazy. Now he’s married and has a kid. It seems everyone is getting married or engaged. So I decided to propel myself into the dark gloom of online dating. I had tried online dating before.I had done Tinder, Match.com, even a Bernie Sanders dating site (I mostly got women that didn’t read my ‘Preferences’ section. And I have been on a ton of dates. Mostly bad. And most of all, I’m kind of tired of being alone.

So I tried Bumble, an app that forces women to make the first move. It’s an interesting concept. The only problem was that no matter how many matches I got, no one was asking me out. In fact, sometimes they never responded. So I decided to take matters into my own hands and actually ask someone out. And he said yes!

Let’s call him George. I like that name. George works at Starbucks. He’s 25 and super cute. After our third date, I was so excited. Mwahahaha. After our fourth date, I was like, “Imma date this fool.” But he didn’t text me afterward. So like a spaz, I ‘casually’ walked into Starbucks today and tried to write my fucking play while glimpsing him through the bookshelf. And that’s where I am. Right now. When I went up for a drink, I tried to engage in conversation like a cool cat.

C: Hey! How are you?

G: Great. Just working.

C: I like your shirt.

G: Thanks.

C: What are you doing after work?

G: Working out then packing.

C: Ah.

G: You work at Roadhouse?

C: Yeah.

G: Cool.

C: …Okay, I will see you later.

 

Can’t you see I am dying slowly, George? A woman has needs. Every time I get close to meeting someone nice and settling down, I get too excited. Like, finally I’ll be able to hold hands with someone on the sidewalk, go to weddings, have huge fights and great make-up sex. And have sex continually with one person is personally the Dream.

And this is why I am a desperate ho. With all of my actions, I beg someone to like me. I like anyone who is nice to me. I know I am desperate because I keep texting first, taking the initiative, etc. I am actually so desperate for love, I dreamt I had sex with my female roommate (let it be known, I have no roommate) and I had to pretend to like the sex because I didn’t want her to leave me. And now I am probably going to stay at this stupid Starbucks for two more hours to see if George will come over after his shift and talk to me. Please help me, world. I’m sick of being a desperate ho. I want to be a badass ho. My 15-year-old friend is ashamed of me.

 

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Fear and Sickness

I am going to New York City in two weeks. Exactly two weeks from today. And for the past few days, I have been in inundated with headaches and nausea. Nausea that grasps the back of the throat and does not let go. For awhile, I thought it was because of my phobia of taking medication, but I know it’s my travel fright. Ha! Travel fright. I think that should be a thing. Unless it’s already taken?

I feel guilty a bit because I just bought a plane ticket a few weeks ago and didn’t tell my parents. If you remember the horrid time I had in Paris, then you know I have bad luck. And since the trip to Paris and England (That Time I Got Lost And Had Several Seizures, Not In That Order), I’ve felt my family thinks I’m irresponsible in traveling and can’t take care of myself. I had this big fantasy when I bought the airplane ticket to go quietly to NYC, have an awesome time, and then reveal my successful journey to my fam later. They would be so surprised and impressed. Never would they say I was a bad traveler!

But it seems I already think I’m a bad traveler because I feel horrible.

My trip secret only lasted two days. I asked my brother to come with me, and he spilled the beans to my parents. Ugh, brothers. But after a lot of fighting, my brother gets to come to NY with me! So I won’t go alone. Because I was originally very scared to go alone. You must understand my mother, though–she is apprehensive when it comes to me traveling. True story: I was going to DC and it appeared my flight would land in Baltimore. I get a text twenty minutes after I told her. baltimore is the 32nd unsafest city in the united states

She kind of freaked out when I said I was thinking of living in the Big Apple after college for publishing.

So I am writing about my Travel Fright in hopes of curing it. Or postponing it. And so far, it’s worked.

More Updates That You Probably Don’t Care About

  • I’m off Facebook because the fucking politically correct feminazis pissed me off too much. And I just realized I cared too much what they and others thought of me.  Now I’m on Instagram and Pinterest. And Snapchat. Wow. Still too much SM.
  • Still single af. But not quite as bad. Actually went on two dates last week, but they both went terribly. My fault.
  • My pill phobia is worse.
  • I’m campaigning for Bernie Sanders, but kinda like Hillary Clinton. I bought a suit and it has shoulder pads and I love it. I feel like her when I wear it.

Epilepsy and props with meds

It’s been 18 months since I had my last seizure and was put on medication, and almost a year and a half since my August seizure episode.

On August 8th, 2014 while studying abroad in England, I started having a seizure during my sleep. I only know this because my bedmate was awakened by my jerking, and called for help. Apparently she had to get several people to carry me down the stairs (for some reason, this makes me laugh). I don’t remember any of that. I was not conscious for the seizure, only the odd aftermath:

Wake up. People are surrounding me.

Ambulance comes. They decide I should go to the hospital.

Hospital ride.

(Black out again. They say I had two more seizures and had to be sedated.)

Wake up in a South Warwickshire hospital bed almost 36 hours later. They’ve put needles in me, done a CT scan, X-rays, etc. My bed is wet. I fucking pissed the bed during the (second? third?) seizure.

I leave. My wonderful teacher, who stayed with me at the hospital, gets our train tickets. We go to Bath.

 

For the longest time, I didn’t want to write about it. Now it kind of seems comical. I can honestly say that time in the hospital was fine, great, even—I mean, how many times do you get to say, “Dude, I was so fucked up, they had to put me under.” And to this day, it was the best sleep of my life. The peeing part was embarrassing, but whatever.

pills

Before, I knew nothing about epilepsy or even what type of seizures I had. Now I know they are nocturnal seizures. They only happen when I’m asleep, because the brain is free to go crazy then.

Before, I took my medication semi-regularly. I had to take three pills a day (excluding my other meds) and I hated it. Now I have stopped. I told myself it was because I didn’t need to, because I hated pills, because I needed to focus on my depression. Surely I would die from complications from depression before I died of epilepsy. Now I think it’s because I hate parts of myself and I wanted my consciousness to melt away. It would be better if I had a seizure–maybe it would damage me so I wouldn’t feel bad. Or wouldn’t feel at all.

Worries

I worry all the time, it seems. Or lament about my failures. Why am I not in a relationship? What is wrong with me? What type of person does this stuff? I’m stupid and ridiculous. I’m tired of it.

There’s this inner tension inside my heart—have sex, even if it’s meaningless, or be celibate and look for a relationship? I’ve had…maybe one ‘relationship.’ I was 17 and he was 25. It lasted a month after I realized I was not what he needed right now (which was a therapist.) I still miss our talks, though, and sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision. But as my mother says, “Do something right, or don’t do it at all.”

I started dating this guy in March, and I was into him. I loved the intimacy and the way he looked at me. I wasn’t crazy about him, though. I kind of knew it wouldn’t work because he and I are so different. He’s in a whole different sphere of creation; music. And I need someone who understands and appreciates my creativity. No, who urges my creativity and supports it. We need to have a shared passion. I remember going to Julianna Baggott’s reading a few years ago, and she said something so inspiring, something like this:

My husband doesn’t just tolerate my writing; he says, “Go write, you need to write.” He understands that I need to be creative, and that’s the man that I fell in love with, that I am still in love with.

I need that. I need someone creative, intelligent, adventurous. I want to dive and climb and eat and race.

In all the time I’ve worried about this stuff, I could have been on adventures. I could have written novels. I could have gotten to a better place and fallen in love.

Even though I know he doesn’t care about me, that our small connection has trickled and vanished… I’m still hurt. I cared about us together, even if I didn’t really like him in a deep way. If you like someone, you

  • ***brag about them***
  • reference them randomly
  • in fact, make excuses to talk about them
  • or see them
  • think of them and smile
  • love the stupid things they do
  • ***value their opinion***
  • tease them
  • get nervous around them

This is just a bit of stuff I came up with on the fly. Thinking about this stuff, I realize I did tease him. I did get really nervous. I did always want to talk about him, because I was happy in those few weeks we saw each other. But that was before I knew him better. Sometimes it just happens that way—it’s not that they’re a bad person or they deceived you. It’s just not a good fit.

And I think that’s why I’m hurt. Because I miss the intimacy and vulnerability (nothing is so sexy as vulnerability. It’s so wonderful when someone opens themselves up to you). No one’s ever held my hand like it was natural, like they wanted to. No one’s ever kissed me in public before.

I don’t know why I’m sharing this with you, readers. I guess it’s a comfort that there are so few of you out there and I may rant as I please. I’ll leave you with some Jane Austen:

“The last few hours were certainly very painful,” replied Anne: “but when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering, nothing but suffering.” Persuasion

Hypocrisy

I am unaware of how my life must seem to others. Is it fulfilling, is it youthful, is it prosperous, is it naive, is it desperate? Yes. Probably. But often times I forget to look at other lives. I forget that we are all intricate creatures, that one person prefers blueberry jam, and another prefers blackberry. That’s a weird analogy. I sometimes am baffled by other people. And I become hypocritical. It’s like I think everyone should be made in my image and philosophies.

This past month, Indiana has been a hotbed of controversy. Indiana’s Religious Freedom Restoration Act became a law, and people started freaking out about it, left and right. I personally see how much harm it’s done to our reputation, and worry that this will give religious organizations freedom to discriminate. I am an LGBT and reproductive rights advocate–I’m really annoyed by the people that decide they can refuse service because the customer is doing something against the person’s moral code.

This post got me angry:

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This is a post from a customer of mine at the coffeehouse on campus. I Facebooked him after cashiering one day and realizing I wanted to have him on that counter right then and there (sorry, Mom). In other words, he is the hottest thing since hot fries and that Nymphomaniac scene where Shia LaBeouf goes down on a chick. Wow. I just watched that scene after typing that and I’m breathless now. Aaaaaannnywaaaaay, the point is that I was lusting after this guy until he wrote this. Then I deleted him.

He came into Starbucks yesterday. My breath caught in my throat and I didn’t know how to act. Should I bring it up? No, that wouldn’t do any good. So I was distant. And he wondered at it, I could tell. Then I thought, “Is this a good enough reason to cut someone out of your life?”

Am I a hypocrite? Am I only accepting of others if they fit my lifestyle, my liberal, feminist, queer-rights lifestyle? Yes, I think so. I don’t think I’m a tolerant person anymore. I think I’ve changed.

Preface to “Not Yet a Rainbow”

Preface:

I wrote this after a friend told me the ‘white race’ was not a race. And despite acknowledging this, and even understanding the logic, I couldn’t help but take these words as a blow to my identity. It’s odd; I’m first a woman, second an American, third a heterosexual, fourth a Caucasian. And none of my labels comes with a sense of pride (except maybe the second one, albeit ironically). It’s who I am. It comes as natural as breathing. My race is part of that.

It is one thing to say that race is just a concept, and yada yada yada. It’s true that we created these terms. But it’s useless to try removing ‘race’. It is ingrained into our minds. You may tell a white person that race is ridiculous and they might shrug. But try telling that to a black person or an Asian. Try it. They will probably laugh in your face. Race is everywhere, as is racial prejudice and discrimination. From the moment you are born, you are assigned a gender and a color.

“Not Yet A Rainbow” is about struggling to reconcile these notions. It’s also an acknowledgement of the white guilt that permeates America and my life.

 

Thank you,

Chloe

Being Broke, Stranded in Paris is Scary as F#ck

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My hotel room in Paris.

I wish I could tell you I am a completely independent woman. I really do. But getting lost on the Paris metro system, missing my train to London, and having to grovel for a cheap hotel room in a bad area made me realize that I am a dependent woman. And maybe that’s okay.

Continue reading “Being Broke, Stranded in Paris is Scary as F#ck”

Breaking Up With Your Best Friend is Hard

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A Platonic Love 

My friend and I were Yin and Yang. Or at least, I thought we were. We would hang out all the time, text or call regularly, and everyone said we were a perfect fit (Chloe+Zoe=Perfect, right?). Unfortunately, our love was not in the stars.

The Signs of Death

I knew we had our differences. I didn’t anticipate them to be such an issue, though. Looking back, we didn’t value the same things or share a similar disposition. I am a very passionate person who puts her family first and admires her elders. She…was not. She’d tell me, “You are too sensitive.” Or she’d say nothing, and act like I had a problem. I’d compliment her constantly. She didn’t even contact me after I had epileptic seizures in August.

The Breaking Point

She insulted my mother. Or at least, my mother felt very insulted, and said she didn’t want to be around  her if she didn’t apologize. I talked to her, she got mad, I asked her to apologize, and she said she might. Then I didn’t hear from her again.

Now What the Hell Do I Do?

Nothing. Make new friends. Delete her number, profiles, etc. It’s over. You had some fun, but if she doesn’t want you…why would you want her?

 

books on making friends

 

Need some help breaking up with your friend?

Breaking up with friends, Huffpost edition

WikiHow’s tips to the BFF breakup 

Buzzfeed’s steps to breaking it off with a close friend

This is Not a Super Depressing Parental Divorce Post. Well, actually…

I wrote part of this coming back from Texas two days ago.


Tuesday Evening, July 29th, 2014. Texas. 

I wish I could say I felt some great pain when my parents finalized their divorce early this week. But honestly, I feel nothing. I don’t. Feel. Anything. This isn’t a change. This is a pebble a kid threw into a great big lake. There are ripples, certainly, but does this pebble graze the fish? Does it wound the frog? No. It settles amongst the millions of other pebbles in that vast lake that is my life.

Perhaps I should reminisce about the time my parents were happy—the times they kissed and held hands and talked late into the night before going to bed. I do not remember this. I have never known a time my parents loved each other, or showed affection. My oldest memory is a fight. I never heard my mom say she had ever loved my dad until I was 17. I first saw their wedding photos six months ago. The album was nestled in between the gardening handbook and a bird index.

Thursday, 2 AM, July 31st, 2014. Indiana.

No. When I said I felt nothing, it wasn’t quite true. I was numb. I was awaiting the blow. But when Mom. Nate and I got home, we discovered that the papers were incomplete; therefore it isn’t finalized. They are the most ridiculous ‘married couple’ I’ve ever known. And the odd thing is that I had prepared for an obstacle, and I found myself relieved when it appeared. I do not want this to happen. I do not want this change. A part of me wants it to go on as before; the fights and the insults that hide the resentment and hurt. Perhaps I’m a sadomasochist…

When I was in middle school, my mother got me What A Girl Wants (VHS of course, because DVDs weren’t nearly as popular). In case you don’t know what it’s about:

Yeah, basically it’s the best teen movie ever.

I would watch this movie all the time, and crying, I’d think, “Why her and not me? Why does she get the happy ending? Where are my perfectly-in-love parents?” I mean, I would have loved the sexy British hunk, but that was not the priority when I was twelve.

Now, almost fourteen years after they separated, I still feel a twinge.