6:42 pm Red Line to Glenmont

From the little girl singing at the top of her lungs in my train car to the sunset casting a deceptively romantic glow on the rooftops of abandoned warehouses and broken windows that are more veracious symbols of D.C. than the monuments could ever be, this moment is perfect. I have an overwhelming desire to scoop it into a paper cup like a firefly and feel the life in it buzz against my hand until its light inevitably fades.

It's Wednesday, and I realize that this is the happiest I've been in months.

The Grand Finale

No one seems to know where Forest Glen is, including me, but I did manage to make it back from there Saturday night. I crashed on the couch and woke up early for a shopping trip with one of my darling friends. We were slightly perturbed to discover that PG Plaza doesn't open until noon on Sundays, thus the significant effort we expended in order to arrive promptly at 10 am was totally unnecessary. We lounged about the mall for two hours, and I got a really great watch. The fact that I'm writing about this at all makes me suspect that Tattoo Boy was right about me. Nah.

After a dash and grab job once the stores finally opened, I hustled my way down to Chinatown for lunch with none other than The S. You know that feeling when you see someone that you really, really want? Butterflies? That doesn't happen with The S and I. I saw him Sunday afternoon, and thought "He looks like shit." Of course, I promptly said this out loud, and he graciously accepted my remark. Turns out he'd been up all night after bar hopping and deceiving women with his boys. My second reaction to seeing him after our long-ish hiatus was one of genuine contentment. It's the way I always feel when I first see him, but this time, it was even stronger.

As if there was any doubt, we slept together. It was part of the plan all along, much like eating 312 twice-baked potatoes before I went on my diet. So much of this part of my life has been about him; there was never any question that the last time belonged to him.

And now I can start again.

When you were young

With all the spare time I've got now that I'm not fucking, I've decided to make a serious effort to spend more time with my friends. For better or for worse, a lot of my friends are starting to settle down--moving in with their significant others, getting engaged, and even popping out offspring. It scares the bejesus out of me because I feel less prepared for any of those things now then I did when I was 18, but at least it's an excuse for lots and lots of parties.

Case in point, my friend's bachelorette party last night. This particular friend is, without question, one of the funniest people I know. However, she is not known for lasciviousness, which is probably why she's getting married at 24. Like her wedding plans, her bachelorette party plans were simple and understated. The group met for dinner, then for a few drinks. She was adamant about not wearing a veil or any kind of bride-to-be button, though she was a sport and posed with a light-up penis pacifier. With this group of friends, I always have a great time. We laughed about the utterly ridiculous notion that one of us is about to get married, and constantly joked about rumbling with the three other bridal parties at the bar.

While the bride-to-be is not of the naughty variety, two girls in our group most certainly are (aside from me). Every time we go out, a swarm of men gathers around them. Probably because they're so darn tall. Early on, I spotted one of these friends chatting up this really cute guy. By the look of him, I could tell that he wasn't her type--sleeves of tattoos aren't really her thing. I wonder who might like such a thing? Perhaps someone who has "sleep with someone with tattoo sleeves" on their list of things to do before they die?!? Perhaps someone like me! I had to intervene. Oh my, was I sorry that I did.

Tattoo boy was pretty, but in a tragic way. Obviously he's been so pretty all his life that he has no need to develop even basic conversational skills. His second question to me was "Do you believe in werewolves?" Umm, no, but I believe I'll stop talking to you. So I turn to his friend, whom I'll call Blue Shirt. Decent guy actually, though clearly a poor judge of character. We chatted for a bit, but when I returned from getting a drink, I stumbled back into a conversation I could have missed. The beefier of the boys asked me what I thought of his friend (Blue Shirt), and I said something boring and non-committal like I always do. For whatever reason, Beefie then asked me if I thought his friend was an F-word. This was about the end of my desire to talk to any of them. I support swearing, a lot. But if you're a straight person, don't use that word. It's not for you.

Then the part that really pissed me off. Blue Shirt is wowing me with some cheesy magic trick that even drunk girls surely don't fall for. Being the snarky cunt that I am, I tell him that I'm so impressed, I'm definitely going to sleep with him now. He finds this cute enough to crack a smile, probably because he actually thinks he's got a shot. Tattoo Boy is having none of it though. "You're boring," he snaps at me. "We've got to bounce."

Tattoo Boy and his sidekick, Beefie, drag Blue Shirt from his stool and waltz him out of the bar. Shortly there after, our party "bounced" down the street before I made an ill-advised trip on the Metro and woke up in Forest Glen at 2 am. On my honor, I promise not to think of Blue Shirt as a missed opportunity for fucking and rather allow Tattoo Boy to serve as a reminder why I'm giving this all up.

How about a donut and a fuck?

Amidst the second round of my Special K diet, I’m going fucking nuts. There is a Dunkin Donuts two blocks from my office, and I swear to you, it’s calling to me. Fellow dieters frequently tell me to squash my craving for an everything bagel smothered in delicious, fatty cream cheese by having just a bit of one once and awhile. But, moderation has never been my style. Come to think of it, abstinence hasn’t really been my style either.

Maybe it’s time to renew my faith in staying away from things that are bad for me. Like any good addict, I make excuses for my self-destructive behavior. Lying about your life becomes second nature, because in the beginning, the lies were true. Even you keep forcing yourself to believe the bullshit long after the excuse turns into a lie. Yes, I am happy with the way I look. No, I do not mind paying $5 per day on a habit that will eventually give me cancer. No, I do not want to have meaningful relationships, as they’re too boring and conformist. I’m happy with being on the fringe because it allows me to see what you’re all missing.

Last November, I decided that I wasn’t happy and that I could do something about it. Moderation failed me, so I took up abstinence. The last two weeks aside (birthdays don’t count), I haven’t had a donut or a bagel in something like 9 months. Pretty impressive, right? After the first few weeks, I stopped fantasizing about them altogether. And it paid off, as those who actually know me can attest. Up next on the hit list had been my filthy smoking habit, but I’m reconsidering. Perhaps I’m trying to find an excuse to keep smoking, or perhaps there’s another part of my life that, while cheaper, is more bothersome.

There’s a lot to consider in this decision. Dating and fucking at absurdly high levels has been my life for going on three years now. In that time, I’ve amassed a wonderful collection of stories and an incomparable amount of experience (for girls my age). But there’s nothing that I’m really proud of in all that time; nothing accomplished. By now, the possibility of learning something new or reaching into the unknown has long faded. To be honest, I’m not even interested in the sex anymore. The only moment that still holds any appeal to me is the moment when I first know that I’m going to get to have sex. All the moments before that are filled with awkwardness and often, panic. All the moments after that are filled with awkwardness and often, more panic.

From The Blondie tonight who oscillated between staying on the date, going home with me, or going home alone three times to The Roommate who used me like a fucking blow-up doll to The S who’s taken to using his dominant-submissive language and tone outside of the bedroom with me, I fucking hate dating. I should stop doing it.

Far Behind

I can already picture tomorrow morning.

Every dresser drawer hanging open, the laundry basket dumped on the mat on the floor, shoes and feather boas flung carelessly about, the bed pulled desperately away from the wall. I wish I could say the chaos will be caused by a night of wild passion. The truth is, I'll just be searching for clean underwear. Or socks. Or something else completely mundane. I'll probably give up before 8 am and go commando in a skirt. Pray that it's not a blustery day.

It's not that I'm irresponsible, mind you. There's clean laundry in the basement. Say what you will about me, but I do have the forethought to wash a load of dirty clothes when I start to run out of panties. I do not, however, have the forethought to decide what I want and say it from the beginning. Instead, I wait until someone else says what they want, and then I agree with whatever it is that they said because it's easier than admitting that I'm disappointed. Then I bitch sans-guilt about how I never get what I want. I'm a fucking (and repative) e-tard for this.

The Wish List

I want there to be clean undies in the drawer (not two flights down!) tomorrow morning. I want to get up at 6 am and go running like I should have done all week. I want to stop fantasizing about bagels. I want to quit smoking. I want to finally locate my credit cards and update my budget. I want upcoming season premieres (of South Park, no less) to cease to be the most exciting fall event on my calender. I want to have a calendar. I want to make more single friends. I want to spend more time thinking about my family and friends than I do thinking about boys. I want to stop caring about a boy who left me a year ago, and all the ones that never cared at all. I want to stop filling out my application for the Peace Corps every time I realize I care about someone else. I want to tell The Roommate that the sex we were having three weeks ago today wasn't meaningless to me. I want to tell him that it did mean something, that I have feelings, and that I do care about his. I want to tell him that I'm sorry that I orchestrated this scenario, and that I'm sorry I paraded boys through the house since it happened like the insecure cunt I am most of the time. I want to make myself vulnerable in a way that I never am and see what comes out of it. I want to know rather than wonder.

Tomorrow will be different. But today, I just can't.