You know, Romeo and Juliet isn’t really a love story. It is a 3 day relationship with a 13-year old and a 17-year old that caused 6 deaths, encouraged a huge spike in hemlock sales and inspired a goth movement. So what lessons can we apply to our own relationships from such an ill-requited love affair?
Well for one, you might want to hold onto your hemlock, don’t act rashly when snuffing yourself to be with the one you love. Why not wait a few days? Make sure the body is good and cold first. Next, unless you’re under contract with The Real Housewives of New Jersey, don’t let your family interfere with your relationship. And finally, it’s probably best not to take relationship advice from a celibate monk.
Times sure have changed. Romeo and Juliet killed themselves for love and you can’t even get your woman to give you a hand job and a warm veggie burger? What is that old saying when it comes to love? If you can’t make a hearts connection then lick a hooker. Hmm… maybe that’s not the saying but it’s close.
Love is a transcendental feeling. It makes people do crazy shit like kill themselves or shop at Crate and Barrel. You can loose yourself in someones heartbreak while you hold your breath for your own. I was always taught not to hurt the the heart of the one I love. But when I was busy taking care of that heart… I never noticed my own was bleeding.
You see, when it comes to relationships it is like God wrote up a contract on my dating life, and I just signed off on that shit without reading the fine print. I know. I know people go looking for love on their own terms. We accept the love we think we deserve. We try to safe guard our hearts but we just can’t velvet rope them off only allowing in those that pose no risk to heartbreak. Our hearts gravitate to whom they gravitate to and love… well, love is always a risk.
As women, we want to believe that every relationship will bring us a Ryan Gosling movie ending. We seek the fairytale myth. We put highly inflated expectations on others to stay loving us no matter the storm being weathered. Kinda like a mob membership, once in your never getting out unless you’re whacked. But everyone has emotional boundaries. And isn’t that the reason why we have lube? When one has had their heart put through a meat grinder as much as I have, you tend to get more than a little jaded, skeptical in what really motivates a person to date you. You build walls. Maybe you date down. You avoid. This time the risk I took was calculated but then I’ve never been good at math.
I suppose to many I come across as the type of girl who would fall asleep covered in Merlot on a pile of hangers or be found drunk spooning a yard gnome. So imagine for a moment me meeting someone who understood the dustiest corners of my mixed-up soul and accepted me anyway. Or at least appeared to. In those initial first phone conversations with Duncan, I saw myself married and divorced in a montage set to a Mazzy Star song. Our first date brought him to my door with wildflowers in hand, picked along some country road on the way to meet me. A note greeted him at the door saying: All Boarding Now For The Crazy Train. He knocked anyway enthusiastically boarding with ticket in hand.
Duncan is not the first man to think he has hit his gals bottom level of crazy to only discover there was an entire parking garage of crazy below. I didn’t put on false errs. He knew right off the bat in learning of this blog what he was getting into. If nothing else this blog serves as one big, fat, bat-shit crazy disclaimer that maybe I am not quite like other gals.
I am many things messy but at my core I am loyal. For any gent patient enough to ride out the crazy wave, you will find I am so worth the fuss. Plus, I’ll let you tea-bag me so good you’ll think you’re at a Glenn Beck rally!
When I reflect on my time with Duncan I think of soul-searching, faith-leaping moments. Experiences and dreams never audibly said to another. I think of a summer shared dedicated to serving others. He gave me a sense of family, spiritual enrichment, and countless nights of laughter and security in his arms. There was bangover numbing sex.. like being with a sex drive of an 18-year old. Heart melting moments like running in the Warrior Dash on my behalf. He became my best-friend and I loved him, trusted him in ways I never thought possible. In the end he couldn’t be more colder if he were trafficking ice cubes.
No one deserves to be treated like shit, especially on the heels of being dumped for another. No woman deserves to be treated like an option. Of course, there are no guarantees or promises a heart can hold onto forever. There is nothing written that says someone is required to invest a certain amount of time in or on a relationship once they have committed to one. But there is a lot to be said about the way a person exits. Love means you exit someone’s life the way you enter it, with dignity and respect. I believe there are times when a person should be cut infinite slack or understanding, times like sickness or loss. Saying, ‘I love you” does not provide some kind of immunity from taking responsibility for bad behavior. It actually devalues the term in ways one can’t imagine.
Sometimes you have to get to know a person very well to learn you are strangers. I loved him like a knife loves a murder, like misfortune loves an orphan. I loved him with all my heart and genitals. I am glad he has found someone to give him what I couldn’t.
Okay. I am still in love with him but I am moving on. I only wish for his every happiness.
Jesus, Mary and Jerome… what is it with you? Fine! I want his new girlfriend to get herpes and choke on a crayon. The thought of him buffing some other skank drives me to fucking drink. Okay, it just gives me another reason to… that isn’t the point. He made promises I could exhale on. When I did, when I needed him the most he battery rammed my heart. Leaving me to feel like nothing more than an after dinner mint following a blow job. He simply leveled me and walked off scott free.
Grrr….. Shut up!!!
This vodka induced break-up rant spiral was brought to you by:
Also brought to you by…
Skanskas will be all up on your dick when you walk in a room sporting this bad ass retro look.
In fucking orange!
Shit. Get 3 of these fuckers to wear every other day. Holy shit! You want a fucking Poncho! Now back to our regularly scheduled spiral….
Don’t fall in love. Fall off a bridge. It will hurt less.
How does one sort through all the complexities that love serves you? Well, you could Angelina Jolie your way through a relationship, or you could seek sound advice from those well versed in telling you the ways you are fucking it up. Enter: Snarky Snatch wisdom.
Want to know how your partner will be in a relationship? Go driving with them on the highway and ask them to merge. I believe that highway merging is a metaphor to merging in a relationship. You can tell a lot about a person who overrides the brake. And who is the biggest culprit to bad highway merging? Women. Yep. My own fucking gender. I have ridden with some women who break… go… break… go… break… go …. break, so many times in a merge that by end of the ride, there is a little vomit in my mouth.
Women do the same things in relationships putting men through the paces until a gent sets himself on fire long enough to prove he is worthy of her coveted snatch. My gender, (myself included), when not having a reason to put the breaks on a relationship, goes to death defying great lengths to find one. Take texting for example. Especially in the early stages we will comb through a text a gent sent us like Dexter at a crime scene. He didn’t call me baby or end in xoxo. It sounded like he had a tone, is he angry at me? Why didn’t he text back right away… he must be fucking someone else? He didn’t use caps what does that mean?
We share these texts with our Yentas, reviewing line by line, trying to figure out every little nuance and texting cue, like it is some lost Mayan plate to when the world will actually end. “He text me at 3:18 in morning saying he loved me but is that just a booty call?” And when we don’t get the answer we would like, we truck on over to another gaggle of friends willing to listen to us drone on for hours, and curtail their responses to our liking.
A gal’s tendency for worse case scenario thinking causes us often times to over dramatize a situation, make rash decisions or even problems where there need not be any. Whatever the story line, our inner dialogue takes over turning us into emotional crazed creatures in need of ownership over anything with the potential to hurt us. But everyone gets hurt and everyone takes a risk. Men risk they’ll be taken as a chump. There’s a risk they’ll fall for someone who will use them till the next sucker comes along. Men risk that they will spend so much time on one woman that they’ll miss out on other opportunities. Women aren’t the only ones with the market cornered on risk. We aren’t some impervious little snowflakes immune to dishing out our own brand of bullshit. For any woman to be successful in love, she must first make adjustments to her emotional barometers and stop editing the story. Yea, and it’s these vodka drenched moments of self-reflection that makes me know I am alive.
No..no I’m not crying, I’m just having an allergic reaction to my feelings. A few more drunk spiraling posts about Duncan, (okay maybe 221 more), and I will be ready to get back to those dating trenches!!! Why, let’s see what tasty morsels my inbox holds today, shall we?
Holy hymen on a cracker! These are the milkshakes my dating profile brings to the yard?
So, with that I now prep for an evening of double teaming myself with vibrators as I mourn a beloved cock that pulsates elsewhere.
R.I.P. Duncan. I will miss you.
Oh, I just remembered that saying about relationships. No poem survives its own translation. What does that mean? I’m not sure but I think it has something to do with anal.