Desperation Station

Do you think there was ever a time when breakups were just breakups? Imagine how nice it must have been to sit through the awkward half hour conversation of, “This isn’t working”, and then go home and drink yourself to sleep dreading the next time you’d awkwardly run into him.

Nowadays, you have to go home and drink yourself to sleep while purposefully running into them on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram to see if they’ve posted anything that proves they’re as devastated and regretful as you want them to be. There are no longer coincidental run-ins, only stalker set-ups when you happen to think you look really cute today, and it might be worth taking a cab to the Starbucks they just checked into on Foursquare before their cappuccino is even frothed.

Or maybe just update your OKCupid photos since you know they’ve been looking at your profile anyway. They track that shit.

Last night, before I had even finished my first martini, my best friend mentioned I might be a little…”desperate”. She was lucky I’d already eaten the olives and was against wasting liquor, or she’d have been blinded by a flying garnish.

But that’s what best friends are for, right? To tell us the honest truth?

NO, YOU IDIOTS! Best friends are for saying that you were the prettiest one at prom and you were robbed of the crown because everybody was jealous!

OK, maybe I see her point.

The problem is, America, that this is the longest I haven’t had a serious relationship since I was 19. And by “serious”, I mean a jealous boyfriend who constantly texts me wondering where I am while I tell him he’s not the boss of me. And I miss that.

My best friend says I need to be OK with being alone before I can fully open my heart to another person. Then again, she’s had one boyfriend and they’ve been dating for over six years, so maybe she’s not the most qualified to judge me about my “serial dating addiction”. Plus, I spend most of my time staring into the mirror practicing my angles, so I think I’m pretty good at being alone.

Though, I did put in a work request for dimmer lighting in my bathroom. At least until I get my summer glow.

By the end of my second martini and a lot of fried food, I figured my best friend might have a point. I decided to spend last night watching movies, by myself…reflecting…in my twin bed…with four stuffed animals.

Oh GOD I’m going to die alone,

TJB: Making It

Big Fish, Bigger Emotions

The set changed every 3 minutes. For a large portion of the show, I wasn't sure if I knew exactly where the story was taking place. All I could tell is that there was a lot of money being pumped into it. The costumes, while beautiful, weren't very telling of a time period. Even the war referenced was left up for assumption. The setting had to be disregarded.

The songs were mediocre. While the voices may have been award winning, it was as if the actors were wasting their talents on something unworthy of their artistry. The story writing felt forced and weak, which I thought was strange for a musical based on a movie. Casting was predictable, as I had seen half the actors in the last show from the same writer. I suppose working with who's comfortable is expected.

In fact, I should have expected all of this. Many people had already given me their opinions on the show. By the end of the first act, I seriously considered spending the $8 for a 6oz. cocktail. But, my ticket was free, and I was extremely proud of all of the stress my friends had gone through to make this larger-than-life show a reality.

Then, the second act happened.

Suddenly, when faced with death, we find ourselves appreciative of everything we were too busy to believe in. Faith and love are no longer fairy tales, but the only reality we have. People that were simply "strangers we know very well" become the only link to ourselves, and it's when we're off searching for answers that we find there was never really a question to begin with. Still, even when we know how it will end, we're never quite sure how we get there.

I realized that I was watching my life. Only, I didn't want to keep sitting in the audience.

The set doesn't matter, that will keep changing. The costumes don't matter, as long as they look great. The year is irrelevant, since everyone (mostly me) generally looks the same regardless of time. There will be tons of money pumped into it and a lot of mediocre songs, thus, the first act will probably leave me bored and needing a drink. Yes, everyone will continue to give their opinion, but if I can keep working with who's comfortable, I'll be very lucky.

The facing of death will somehow remain an unpredictable piece of the plot. The audience will continue to not see this coming, which is sort of beautiful in a way. But it's always somewhere in that second act, where the stakes are raised and things get exciting, that we realize the banal necessity of the first.

In fact, if we could go back and start the play again, it might not seem so banal.

By the end of the show, I was a sobbing mess and re-inspired to enter the world. "A man is judged by the quality of his friends, and I am a tycoon". I figure, if I'm still in the first act and having such a blast

my second act is really going to bring the house to its feet.

Thank God my life wasn't Les Miserables,

TJB: Making It

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The psychology of an addict is a complicated thing. We are delicate creatures. And though I am recovering, America...I had a relapse last night.

That's right. I was just one iPhone screen touch away from purchasing a one-way ticket to New York.

I am addicted to running. A lot. Both literally (although I hurt my ankle, thanks for caring) and metaphorically. I'm like Julia Roberts in that movie I don't really remember, but there were lots of wedding dresses and cute guys, so I was on board.

You see, I went to this super swanky, open bar, artist's birthday party on the south side of Chicago that my friend invited me to. He has a pretty serious girlfriend, so I made sure to confirm that other friends would be attending. Since I am about as single as it gets, I had to ensure I wasn't the third wheel.

Turns out, I was the 9th wheel.

They weren't all couples, but I sort of realized that I was the only one without a party buddy. Sure, I was really feeling it when I was in the bathroom line and some ex-model kept telling me I needed to be in magazines, but as soon as she peed, I was left with my flickering ego and six too many vodka drinks. The lady at the snack table was even concerned once I hit my third bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos and wasn't high.

A reminder this is about my addiction to RUNNING...not substance abuse...Mom...

So, I posed for a few inevitable photos and decided I should duck out. I pulled an Irish Goodbye. But when I found myself walking 10 blocks to a bus I wasn't sure was going to show up, I sort of regretted my choice. Not because I was afraid of the south side at night (I was terrified), but because I was acting like a baby.

A baby with an iPhone. I am shocked how efficiently I could pull up a  flight to JFK. Fortunately, I couldn't find the information for my 50 JetBlue dollars I had sitting in an account somewhere, so I decided I would have to put off buying the ticket until the morning. Then, I made sure everybody knew just how upset I was.

How did we embarrass ourselves before text messaging?

I woke up this morning and deleted the conversations. I trusted that the world was sort of used to this by now. It was time I sat myself down for a serious talk. By serious talk, I mean I sang along to every emotional Katy Perry and Whitney Houston song I could find on YouTube. Yes, they were karaoke tracks. I don't need the competition. 

Once I dragged myself out of bed for coffee (7-Eleven because I didn't deserve Starbucks), I found a photo from last night in my coat pocket. The party looked pretty awesome. I was pretty lucky to have been invited to such a cool party. I was even more lucky to go to it with such cool friends.

WOW I can be such a whiny bitch. I had 3 open bars with unlimited Flamin' Hot Cheetos, and all I could do was feel sad because nobody was paying attention to me and I wasn't dating Ryan Gosling. I was like a fat girl on Pinterest with a cat in my lap, clicking shit without thinking. Time to LOG OFF and SHAPE UP!

This is why you're single,

TJB: Making It