MC: OCD Medication & Socializing

As proof that I'm officially old and boring, I've taken to obsessively reading Missed Connections at least twice a day. It's fascinating stuff--people hate each other, people love each other, people are lonely and shy, and people are lonely and brazen. It's like a giant soap opera with thousands of characters. Or, really, the three guys who post on there everyday.

After admitting that I require my daily fix of MC (regardless of whether it disrupts my working, sleeping, and even fucking time), I would also like to note the systemic problems with MC that are driving me bat shit crazy. Here's a short list:

1. Descriptions are never specific enough. "Cute girl on the metro" does not tell me who you are referring to. Even mentioning "Cute guy with a blue shirt on the metro" is not helpful. Three million people work in DC everyday, and it's a well known fact that the average male DC worker wears a blue shirt 84 percent* of the time. Besides, there are several metro lines, running lots of trains all day long, on which I'm assuming every asshat is wearing some shade of blue.

2. People try to cleverly use Missed Connections as a forum for the agony and the ecstasy of their already occurring interpersonal relationships. Further, it ceased to be original to post a "MC with deodorant" or "MC with courtesy" the day after Craig's List was invented. Stop doing it, or I will poke you in the eye.

You may be saying to yourself, "But isn't that what you just did in the title of this post?" To you I say, "Shut up. Oh, and by the way, you're adopted."

3. Posts always seem to describe the same kind of boy/girl. You know, the beautiful kind that dresses extremely well, went to an Ivy League college, has a great job, a loving family and a hypo-allergenic cat, and reads to blind orphaned widows on the weekends. First, it's not fair that those people are more valuable to society that those of us who are smart enough to be sarcastic and downright mean. Second, people such as those are always missed by everyone they know because they're so perfect. Those who "miss" perfect people from a distance and post perpetually unanswered MC's about them are called stalkers. Creepy.

4. I swear most of the posts happen outside of DC, which infuriates me. If you're young and you live in the suburbs, you are definitely cheap, boring, and prematurely old. Don't ever post another MC, or procreate. Please. Also, this makes me feel as though I'm missing out on something by living in DC and not commuting via Orange Crush on daily basis. Then I get angry because I live in DC to avoid having to commute, and there is no rational basis for me to be jealous of god damn commuters.

5. The most glaring oversight, so far as I can see, with the MC system is that none of the posts are directed at me. Wait, let me rephrase. I think none of the posts are directed at me. I honestly find myself racking my brain (and wasting a good hour of otherwise productive time every day), trying to think of where I was at various points in recent history, and what I was wearing, and whether I "shared a moment" with anyone. That's so shameful, but it'd be worse to say that I don't do it. Feed the ego.

Occasionally, I'll get a little sad that no one posts about me. Of course, never this sad. Then I remember what I look like when I leave the house, and where I go. I wear jeans almost every day. This is generally paired with a fetching t-shirt and my hair freaking out thanks to the humidity. Beyond that, I'm clearly not frequenting the parts of the city populated by people who use Craig's List. I work in the ghetto, and spend most of my time there. In fact, I don't even take the metro to work. Therefore, I absolve myself from any sadness over not being noticed. And now I'm going to stuff my face and watch a Beavis and Butthead marathon.

*This statistic may or may not be entirely fabricated, and could not be confirmed by a reputible source at the time of publication.

Welcome to Summer

Summer is officially upon us.

On this, the longest day of the year, I urge you to throw caution to the wind. Break out the hot pants, sunless tanner, beer, road trip plans, illegal fireworks, debilitating body issues, unused “sick” days, frizz control hair product, city-sized grill, disturbingly low cut tank tops, and a rainbow assortment of flip flops. Prepare for the much anticipated onset of Hottie Hill Interns, wedding invitations, massive droves of tourists and annoying travel talk with co-workers. Bring all the boys to the yard, grab a phallic (yet delicious) popsicle, and relish in all that summer may hold in its sweaty, little palm.

I'll follow you into the dark

Where to begin.

Catch Up, Hussy Style

Holmes: Officially released from active duty due to enormous penis and unending stamina. Even silicone lube could not salvage this relationship.

Boy Blue: In one of his inexplicable disappearing phases. We drunkenly fucked about three weeks ago, so based on his previous record, he'll likely booty call me sometime this week.

The Roommate: Up until about 20 minutes ago, I was genuinely concerned about him. We haven't seen each other since last Tuesday, which isn't odd for someone that I'm trying to lure into bed, but keep in mind, we live together. All around, it's a bad scene, and I really need to exercise a little self-restraint on this one.

The S: After a $150 trip to Victoria's Secret, I spent Saturday night in a hotel room with him. There's nothing to say about this, really. Conventional understandings of relationships and love fail miserably at contributing to the situation, so I should stop trying to hang on to them. It is what it is, and what it is is good.

New Boys of Note

I must be emitting some serious pheromones right now because my stock has gone through the roof lately. Here's a sampling of the current activities.

The Lawyer: I can't help but adore playboys--especially when they've never encountered girls who, like me, have a certain relaxed attitude towards sex. Generally when I meet one, I smile and nod throughout their requisite bragging stories. I giggle when they boast about their many conquests, even the stories of multiple girls in a single day. And I relish in the look of shock and disbelief they have when I pull my jeans on, give them a friendly goodbye, and walk away without reassurance. Yes, girls like this exist. The Lawyer hasn't lost his look of surprise just yet, and I love knowing that I caused it.

Intelligencer: Strange boy, this one. Smart as the dickens with a fetish for the kitchen floor. Let's just hope he doesn't go and get himself attached.

Smith: I don't like to fuck nice boys, especially not on the first date. A good, clean time was had by all. Although our date made two nights last week that I intended on coming home, but never made it. Woops.

You make me feel like a blow-up doll.*

Some of this story has squeaked out in my comments to other bloggers, and conversations with friends, but has yet to be fully actualized or addressed. Might as well do it now.

About six weeks ago, I had a sex dream about my (male) roommate. Nothing that unusual. As he informs me, the way to get two animals to mate is to put them in the same space together. If that doesn't scream "do me now," then I don't know what does.

Time passed and platonic relations continued, as did the dreams. But something was definitely different. It was as though for the last seven months it had never occurred to him that I was a girl. And then, bam! All of the sudden there I was. With tits.

We flirt back and forth, and it's all seemingly innocent enough, but sooner or later, something will happen. There's a reason I have very few straight male friends. Actually, aside from my roommates and Rusty, I don't think I have any straight male friends.

The Ladder Theory doesn't quite apply to me. Unlike most girls, I see little purpose for guy friends in my life. If you can't sleep with them, what good are they to you? So, much like the men around me, I pretty generally just rank everyone in the order with which I would sleep with them, if given the opportunity. Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule. My other roommates (the Boy Scout and the Sailor) are out, as sleeping with them would mean destroying something innocent and good. Plus, they're kind of like my brothers. The other, more common exceptions are boys with serious faults such as being leprechauns or having bad teeth.

The Roommate, on the other hand, does not fall into either of those two categories. Girls are adept at making quick assessments on who they will and will not sleep with, and I should honestly say that my initial decision was that I would fuck The Roommate, if given a situation in which it wouldn't negatively impact my housing. Given that, months passed, and the thought never crossed my mind. Now, it's there way too frequently for my liking. What's the solution here?

Ah fuck it. I'm too tired for deep thought. I'll just buy him a pie tomorrow. And then probably flash him.

*Title courtesy of said roommate, and one of his many entertaining stories.