January 2019

I watched an episode of Cheaters a thousand years ago.

Narrator: She watched A LOT of episodes of Cheaters back in the day.

Ya, ya, I did. Back in the day when I found really basic shit entertaining. Like Maury and Jerry. But anyways, this one episode featured a really cute little young, alt couple. She had green hair, I remember, they were both skinny and had collections of bad tattoos and worked minimum wage jobs, probably left home young, smoked a lot of pot and drank a lot of coffee while smoking unfiltered cigarettes listening to indie music. They’d have been typical hipsters had it been now, but this was then.

Long story fairly short, boy thought girl was cheating. Survey and surveillance said yes indeed she was. And when the grand finale confrontation happened she was tied to a canopy bed, surrounded by a bunch of kids in hard hats and reflective vests and not much else, with a dildo barely blurred on the bed. Boy ran and covered her up, untied her while the cameras rolled on and the conversation went something like this…

Girl: What was I supposed to say? “I want you to dress up like a construction worker and fuck me in the ass?”

Boy: Well, ya.

She cried tears of relief, they hugged and I swear to god, I think they made it.

That’s the problem with being relatively single and just dating casually. Never get a chance to build up that trust or get bored enough to experiment much. 3rd date is a little too early to say ‘hey, do this fairly kinky thing to me, I saw it on Pornhub and I wanna try it.’

I really do want to try that thing. Can’t get past the 3rd date.

None of this is neither here nor there. Once again it’s been over a week since I wrote anything. There was a super full wolf blood moon eclipse yesterday and shit got weird. Nothing to do with the moon, shit is always weird here. Especially on Thursdays apparently.

It was a weird week in general, things happened that I can’t speak about but my hopes were less than zero, so that was fine. Just tryna get through another wintery week of doom.
Cue ‘some dude walks into the bar’, asks for me by name, I recognize him, ya we met before, said we might go out, never happened.
Surprise!

What would have been weird is if we actually did go out, but alas.
I think I might be dead and all I see are ghosts. Some prettier than others.

Also neither here nor there, except when the Thursday dude bought way too many rounds for all the girls at the bar at 7:30 which caused Havoc and Mayhem, then pulled me aside in the middle of me being sober and trying to keep everything from exploding

(Narrator: She did NOT keep everything from exploding)

and said “I know that blog post was about me.”

Wait, what?

“What manner of man is this?” (Bram Stoker’s Dracula)

Like seriously? We met once and got drunk. Not blog worthy, until this next level narcissistic shit.

Nope, nuh uh. Not you. Hadn’t thought about you in a really long time, like 5 to 10 minutes after you left last time. And then the fat man to that little boy of a bomb, “(Stalker) Sarah and I were talking about it.”

Wait…what?

I laughed.

Then he got a handful of messages from her (which I was shown) and from some girlfriend he failed to mention (you left your phone open on the bar) and I wandered off. Dodging bullets like Neo in the Matrix after following the white rabbit into Wonderland. Stupid rabbit. Tricks and kids.

How is this still a thing? sis, STAHHHHHHHP.

Said blog post could have been about anyone. He never did mention which exact post it was. Probably one about Dear John (most likely, something about here and away), or maybe the Lovely One.
Could have even been the Last One, he still messages from time to time, or He Who Shall Not Be Named, not The Boy, I don’t write about THAT anymore…there is another that is just my not so little secret.

THAT is done.

Much to the chagrin of a few overly romantic folks who really wanted THAT to work out. And there was a time that I did too. But reality kicked in and his ex is still stalking me and according to him I have 30 boyfriends, which actually equals 2 dick appointments, of which he is neither, who are aware that there are others.

(find the others)

I need to find the others. Or I need to shut up and wait. Who knows what I need. According to Google a search for “Sarah Needs” comes up a blog post I wrote called exactly that, or in the quick search
1. Love
and
2. Batteries,
in that order.
Sounds about right.

Other Sarah needs a hobby or a job with the FBI. Adopt some cats and knit them sweaters, just keep my name out of your fucking mouth child.

What I need is someone I can trust and on this tiny island of gossip and craziness, that doesn’t happen much. I did let my guard all the way down with the Lovely One and did a quadruple shot of whiskey before we left the bar, which culminated in me telling him he was ‘so pretty’ a hundred times if once (he really is pretty, his mom said so too.) Normally righteously wasted me wants to go home and curl up in a ball, but I curled up next to him instead, and it was good amen.

I wandered into the last couple weeks with this feeling of “something is gonna give”. So I sat back and waited. Lo and behold it was me. I stopped doing some of the self destructive shit I did, traded it in for even more destructive self destructive shit. And there was a great kaboom and it was good.

I am feeling more optimistic than I have in a long time. Change is coming, I think sometime in March or April. But in the meantime, I am having belly laughs and grinning like a Cheshire cat instead of bitching and crying like Alice. I might yet get to try that thing I saw on Pornhub.

And I don’t have to dodge bullets.

I know where the car is parked
I know where the cupboards are
I know he isn’t you.

Tori Amos
Hey Jupiter

Sometimes I am not sure where my car is, Brian leaves it places, better than driving drunk by far.
None of the cupboards have doors, so that’s taken care of.
And of course I can tell them apart. I know who is who, and who isn’t and what is bad for me and I do them anyways.

The parable of the snake is me. I am the woman who picks them up, warms them up and gets bit.
Luckily I am also the anti venom.
Its not like bee venom or poison ivy where the toxins accumulate.
Suck it up, spit it out and around we go again.

(Oh look, another purdy snake.)

For all I know Jupiter is still in retrograde and for all my starry eyed witchyness, I couldn’t tell you what that means, nor if its even true.

I can say this.

…this little masochist is ready to confess….

Same song.

Same girl, different bad decision.

If we date at the level of our self esteem, and god help me but I believe this to be true, seriously, god help, like now, please. I am in some serious trouble here. Where was I going with this…

I am a masochist, I gravitate to pain. I wish I could stop.

I had this great opening line for a post and then I stepped in puppy pee, lost it in the clean up.

I am definitely losing it.

Surrounded by drunk toddlers, playing chess with no rules, on a season of Survivor. Cherry Bombs and hurricanes with stripper names.
And here I am, stuck in the middle, relatively alone.

I am on a carousel. Faces change, circumstances don’t.

At least I got laid this time.

And a UTI and scrambled hormones from Plan B.
I only cried a little, no wait, a lot. That was how I spent New Years Eve. Constantly reminding myself ‘these are not my hormones’. Over and over on a loop, spiked with ‘somebody do something’ and a lot of ‘fuck it’ after 2 am and sprinkled with some tears.

I had to give up my superstition of whatever happens on New Year’s is what will continue for the year. This is the island of opposites, thank fuck. Even if it is, wouldn’t be a lot different than last year and I made it through. Perspective is a beautiful thing. I can gladly say the things that once held power over me, don’t anymore. Time does heal, answers always come when they are ready and not a minute sooner. We will get there. But for now I go round and around. Not a fan of the carousel but it’s better than standing still I guess. Roller coasters are always preferred.

I missed my roller coasters this year. And my swimmable ocean, 6 am wake ups on the balcony watching the birds and looking for dolphins. Writing, I get a lot of writing done there. Hours on the road, days really. Gives me lots of time to think and not much else. The nostalgia, I has that.  Keeps coming up in my Facebook memories, I should be just getting back from Florida. My eyes turquoise from swimming, my skin tanned from the sunshine, my face brighter, my heart lighter. I couldn’t get away in time. I went to Ontario instead. It’s okay. It is what it is.

Chris D’elia does this stand up bit about drunk girls and how we make no sense. He isn’t wrong. It has been adopted into the vernacular.
Lines like “Is it what it isn’t?” and “is that your crocodile?” No, its a snake and it’s not mine either. They are never mine. I just pick them up and get bitten remember, and none of us are wearing pants and no one wants to take my job.

Nothing matters to a drunk girl at all, but I am still trying to be sober. And ya, some of it matters.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6XrTj7g714g

My current mental war is between it is what it is, and fight for what you want. Actually that is always what it is. I am tired of fighting and like I said, on a long enough timeline the truth comes out and everything makes some kind of sense.

It is what it is is winning. I knew what I was getting into and it went the way I knew it would. And if the above statement is true (not that one the other one where I stated we date at the level of our self esteem) then please don’t give me what I want. My vagina is an idiot, maybe not an idiot, but definitely a masochist.

In 9 weeks it will be mid March. At some point the trees will start to bud, the leaves and the sun will come back. The neighbors lawn will be full of crocuses, I will be able to at least dip my toes in the ocean, see the whales, wear a sundress, sit outside and be happy. The thing that is making me sad right now will have subsided to a dull ache that only hurts on cold days.

I am not even that sad. It is what it isn’t. It was never gonna be.

I forget where I was going with this.

I forget why I came here.
It happens.

Thankfully with less frequency than the time called ‘before’, but when yet another dude lets me down, I get an old familiar ache, like a long healed broken bone on a cold day, or a phantom limb that itches. Same same, here we go again. How long is it going to hurt this time around and around and around.

Then Brian and I go late night tipsy grocery shopping, or the cabbie takes the route where I can see the boats in the harbor, or something on my car breaks and I go way up the shore and find myself covered in grease laughing at a stubborn bolt in a garage. Playing with a floppy eared dog looking out over the cove as the sun goes down and I am content in the moment.

I think that is the answer. To all the dilemmas, the snakes and the heartache.

“It’s having a thing and then losing it that’ll kill ya.”*

I thought that, I really did. But now I don’t know. Having a thing and enjoying it in the moment, for what it is, then letting it go gracefully, that might be the thing that saves me.

It is what it is.

 

*Cold Mountain