Random Thought to Ponder: Brain Backlog

Sometimes, when it’s been a while since I last wrote, I get physically agitated. I’m anxious and cloudy and feeling like I’m dangling outside of the physical realm. I realize how, well, ridiculous that sounds, but it’s almost as though there’s so much that needs to come out. And all of this brain barf backlog is fighting to be the first at attention.

You know how with cans, the contents can’t come out because there’s a natural vacuum? And the only way for it to move is if the poor can gets another hole popped in it to break the vacuum? I’m the can… so much is trying to get out of my head and the only way for that to happen is with some fresh air.

And, yes, I realize that probably makes very little sense, but basically I’m saying that I realize I need to write about SOMETHING, but have no clue where to start. Maybe it’s more that I just need to talk to someone. I used to joke that the reason I loved to write was because it was like talking to a therapist. The shrink doesn’t even necessarily have to say anything, but just spilling our heart’s complexities is therapeutic.

So I’m spilling. And I should also preface by saying that this is by no means a professional post. There is no research involved (unless you count living as research) and there will likely be no conclusive thesis. But look at the title of this blog. Brain Barf. That’s what it’s called and that’s what I’m giving. And if you have a recommendation for a therapist in San Diego or Boston, feel free to pass their information along.

So, as is evidenced by the past um several posts, I have plenty of romantic issues in my life. And it’s frustrating. I am confident in my school, I am confident in my writing, I’m confident in myself too… 95% of the time. I’m even comfortable meeting guys (maybe too comfortable). But put me in any sort of relationship with them and I screw it up. Why am I so innately hardwired to want to have a successful relationship? Why do I measure so much of my self worth based on my relationship status?

I think what I find particularly challenging is that I’m not a bad catch (and I say that with all necessary modesty). I get good grades, I know what I want in life, I’m sarcastic and even occasionally funny. I have straight teeth and am skinny. I’m competitive and smart and know not to wear double denim. And I happen to get along great with the parents.

So is it me? I realize I have some major honesty issues (as in, I tend to dole out a lot) and I over-think and over-analyze every look and twitch and unanswered call. Yes, I’m not perfect. But let’s evaluate some other suspects, as well.

Is it the age? Is college to blame? The oversexed media culture that is turning Gen-HarryPotter into testosterone-crazed sexpots (or visa versa)? Is it what I spontaneously deem College Player Syndrome, where guys like to “play the field” up until about their junior years when they realize that maybe girls don’t still have cooties, but sleeping around DOES spread cooties/STDs?

Is it because I’m actually looking? Truth be told, some of the best guys in my life were able to access me because I payed them no real heed until I suddenly turned around and thought Hey look, this guy’s kinda… awesome.

Is it because I settle? Or because people settle for me (ouch)?

I was watching some (more) Ally McBeal today… as in 5 episodes. Bygones. But Ally was sitting with this one character and had this character do an exercise. She said to think of the perfect wedding. Think of the guy and the first dance and the ring and the cake and the gorgeous low back dress and the color lipstick and the perfume and… you get the point.

And then focus again on the groom, on that perfect morsel of a dream man. Imagine his every feature, his every charm, his every trait. His smells, his eyes, his jokes, his quirks, his hands, his hair, his job, his house, his parents, his dog,his friends, his ex-girlfriends, his conservative grandmother, his dirty clothes, his leaving the toilet seat up, his spraying the mirror with toothpaste, his lack of interest in having a family, his dancing with two left feet, his sand paper facial hair, his geronomo afternoon shits, his stealing the sports section, his using my towel, his 100 degree heat when he sleeps, his tendency to not look me in the eye, his arrogance… And imagine living with that every day for the rest of your life.

Somewhere along that list, I realized what Ally was trying to show, that even the man of my dreams isn’t what I want. If my imagination can’t even grant me that small happiness, how can a person?

Gosh, that sounds so depressing and downtrodden. Mostly because that’s kind of how I feel lately. But I’m tired of singing Goodnight, My Someone to some mythical person. Ever since the first grade and my first boyfriend, John Paul, my life has orbited around boys/guys/men. It’s been way too long; I’m tired of passively waiting. And I’m almost tired of actively pursuing…

I just wish someone were fighting to find me as hard as I am to finally, FINALLY find them. Hurry up, babe.

Thought to Ponder: Compatibility or Craziness?

I was sitting with my girlfriend the other day talking about relationships. We both find ourselves in healthy, simple relationships right now… None of the crazy lusty heartbreakinghappiness of infatuated relationships.

Let me preface by saying that I’m probably not the most trustworthy opinion on the relationship front; I have a habit of completely fucking things up. But I have had that crazy lusty love, the kind that gives you a stomach ache and makes you want to vomit all over the poor guy’s shoes. It immobilizing, yet possibly the most invigorating, alive feeling I’ve ever experienced. It’s an adrenaline all its own and it’s the scariest thing in the world.

If that works out for people, goodness take the opportunity. But I only ever seem to make those situations into complete messes. Which kind of got me thinking about the guy I’m dating now. We butt heads and compete relentlessly, we manage to get along with each other’s friends, we butt heads. We also butt heads. But for some reason, being with him is comfortable…Putting effort into debates and laughing about unimportant things is fun and I find that by not going head-over-heels, I am able to keep my grounding and I’m slightly guarded against the devastating, heating-up-and-falling-fast feeling of being broken by someone I was infatuated with.

I don’t mean to sound removed or heartless, but maybe it’s better to be with someone who is compatible than to be with someone who drives you crazy (in every sense of the word).

I mean, maybe that’s why second marriages are often so much more successful; both parties go in with a knowledge of each other and of the others flaws and strengths. It’s more about making a compatible, healthy life together than it is about following our lusty wiles. Maybe it’s called “young love” for a reason… because it’s a love wrought with naivety and immature notions of compatibility.

But when it comes down to compatibility or craziness, does choosing the former mean I’ve lost my sense of romanticism? Or am I leaving childish notions behind and embracing a life of a lot less heartbreak? Wouldn’t that be nice…

Poetry: “Shades of You”

For some reason, I was writing last night and the phrase “shades of you” came to mind. I liked it, so I ran with it. Twice.

Shades of You (v.1)

Shades of you,

Lackluster faux-mances without the inside jokes and comfortable silences.

Poor perfects don’t stand a chance against your unkempt mess of a personality.

The way you try to use your psych talk to analyze me.

You kept quiet but I had to brain barf all over Tyler’s shoes.


I can hide 3,000 miles away,

But my 2am insomnia misses you.

Me too.

Shades of You (v.2)

You loved me,


I caught on a little late.

I told you you were smarter than I.

As usual, time wasn’t on my side.

Impromptu drivebys turned to awkward mornings.

Life’s not a romantic comedy…

No climactic music and kissing scenes.


I used to think that putting “us” off,

Meant that I was in control.

I’m such a control freak.


I’m trying for “hopeful” romantic,

Even if it’s a challenge

(It is).

He’s great, you know.

He gives me a headache.

And his hair…

And he kisses my head like I know you would.

If you would.


(Gosh, I hate that word)

But shades of you,

Will never shine quite as bright.

For what it’s worth,

I still love you.

Random Thought to Ponder: Are Guys Romantic?

Part of me is hesitant to even say this aloud (or written. same same). To be honest, I’m more curious than accusatory. And, boys, I don’t mean to offend, but…

Consider for a moment the lyrics in the following songs:

  • The Luckiest- Ben Folds
  • Can’t Take My Eyes off You- Lady Antebellum
  • Amazed- Lonestar
  • Wedding Dress- Matt Nathanson

There are more, but those 4 in particular have been running through my head all day.

All (predominantly) male artists, right? And all heart-wrenching-ly romantic songs. I guess I’m just wondering if guys really think that way. Or do they just have really good lyricists well-versed in the female psyche?

To all the “Nice Boys:

This is a letter on behalf of all women to the “nice boys:”

Boys, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry for making you walk me home and carry my shopping bags. I’m sorry for using you as some backassed shrink whenever I had questions about whatever asshole I happened to be dating at the time.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for calling you “cute” and counting you among my girlfriends. I’m sorry for watching you fall for me and pretending not to notice. I’m sorry for thinking of you as a nonsexual entity. I’m sorry for it all.

Because honestly? You’re the one that I want. And my psyche knows that. But instead I’m spending my nights eating crappy food with some guy who cares more about his band than asking me about, well, anything. Instead, I’m inviting you over when I need a pick-me-up because I know you’ll be there faster than light.

And it’s an out-of-body experience. I’m watching myself make a complete mess out of you. And I’m so, so sorry. But thank you for putting up with it. Because someday, it will all play out like some romantic chick flick and I’ll turn around and realize it’s been you all along. Someday.

But for now, thank you for taking my coat and for treating me to midnight snacks. Thank you for going with me to buy shoes or tampons or a new date outfit. Thank you for waiting outside the dressing room while I try on hundreds of potential getups.

Thank you for watching me watch chick flicks. Thank you for picking up my call every time (even if he doesn’t seem to think I exist). Thank you for sharing online jokes and acknowledging my birthday. Thank you for giving me second (and third and fourth) chances. One of these times, I promise, I’ll get it right.