I am the saddest whore puppy.

I like to identify myself as a lot of things.

Sometimes I like to identify myself as a girl. I do my make up, and hair and spend too much time deciding on if I want to wear matching undergarments. Cute underwear make you feel confident all day. Not a girl and don’t believe me? Tell me you don’t have one pair of boxer briefs that make you feel superior, even if that’s your only pair without holes, that’s still your “cute pair of panties.”

Sometimes I like to identify myself as a hard ass. I can tell mean jokes, and brag about out drinking a 26 year old, Catholic, Irishman. I can ask my roommate to punch me in the face, and drive off with diesel trucks that belong to people I don’t know very well. I can get really weird voicemails that completely make me lose my train of thought. Like so weird that even rereading what I have written will not put me back on track. The voicemail: I got a call from a guy that I met at Pride; I was giving my number out pretty freely there. I bought a really weird button from him. Don’t know what I did with the button, he sells buttons, that’s his thing. So I ignore the call because he is a little creepy. The voicemail goes: “Hey this is Ian; I make buttons and sell them at bars. I was just hanging out at my house alone, making buttons and I decided I would call everyone in my phone that I’ve never called before and see if they wanted to hang out while I’m making buttons.”  It really ran on like that, like no pauses or comas or anything, it was remarkable.

Sometimes I like to identify myself as a writer, with the drinking and the smoking and the writing.

Sometimes I like to identify myself as seamstress, but that’s only when I’m alone and I want to try to follow this DIY tutorial I found on Pinterest.

Most recently I have been flirting with the idea of indentifying myself as a musician. I have gone with the whole music major thing; I have been an avid lover of music. I have been pretentious as all get out, but I’ve never been a musician. I’ve never stepped back, to look within myself, and pull out something like music. The boys from the audition liked my voice, they liked my passion for music, they liked my stories (maybe, I don’t think I ever shut up. I was nervous.) But they want me to write, I want to write, but I’m not a writer of music. I’m a singer, a vessel for other’s words and melodies. It took a teacher I had a small crush on telling me I should get my work published to even look at myself as a decent writer. My sister is the writer, I’m not.  But now I write, and I enjoy it.  Sometimes people say nice things about it. It makes me feel good and I like it.

But musician? 

That’s just such a heavy word. I mean, say it “myu-zi-shin” its heavy, it makes your mouth move, lips and tongue and teeth. I have a few moments that made me feel lots of emotions, emotions that make me think I could write a good, honest, moving song. But its so personal, and intimate, and hard. I’m procrastinating. This post is full of procrastination. With every word I could be avidly trying to write something. Instead, I’m blogging, like a fucking hipster, talking about identity, like a fucking hipster. Shoot me.

I had this plan. It involved blank notebook paper, a half empty bottle of rum, The Devil’s Advocate, and a very beautifully painful memory. I went back-roading instead. There ain’t nothing like an open container to start the procrastination train. I want to be all Damien Rice circa “O” and make everyone want to cry with my songs because that’s the kind of music I like. Its real, its honest, it reflects on feelings to which everyone can relate. And if you’ve never had your heart broken, come see me. I have a baseball bat, a big porcelain pot, and a few hills I can roll you down.

The Beginning of the Catch Up

Just to get you caught up. I was without my laptop for about 3 months. The power cord died, and I just dealt with the lack of technology. Now, my typing has gone to shit, and I have 3 blogless months I need to catch you guys up on.

First off, I quit my first relatively big kid job. I worked at a hotel, I enjoyed it even. I like meeting new people. I don’t like working for inconsistent bitches, who talk bad about the owners of said hotel. And I don’t like people that go out of their way to make you feel inadequate. They really get under my skin, I know I am a mediocre person, I don’t celebrate it, I just acknowledge it.  So I found myself a new job, took all of my uniforms up to the hotel at like 9 at night, and said I was finished, I had found another calling, and some other really eloquent bullshit. Then I got drunk with Sarah, got over Friday night’s hangover, and drank with Cameron and some of our mutual friends on Saturday(St. Patrick’s Day). Some of my Ada friends made a cameo appearance, and that was nice, but I was drunk and they didn’t know anyone else. So I understand the lame. That Monday I started a new job. I work at a gas station, still get to meet a lot of interesting people, but it’s the meth interesting, not foreign country interesting.

So big story, first day, my boss (who is 23 and AWESOME!) decided it would be fun to hook me up with someone who works with her husband. That should have been a big no. A, he is a friend of hers so if I fuck up, I really fuck up. B, she is married and happy, and I am easily influenced. So we text, he isn’t an idiot. We talk, he doesn’t sound like a girl. We meet, he makes me feel all giggly and uncomfortable, I for some reason found this to be a good sign of the things to come. I spent the first 5 times we hung out trashed. He had a lot of really good qualities, but I started a relationship wearing marriage colored glasses and that is not what I want, not right now. Security? Maybe. Marriage? No.

Now, I could reminisce and tell you all the cute stories I can remember, or tell you about his pretty car, but I would rather tell you about the night we broke up. To set the stage, we have been together for all of a month, I was getting restless and we fought a fair amount. I met him at his parents’ house, where he still lived at the age of 22, and we talked everything out. It was all gumdrops and rain, and the he said he loved me. I kissed him out of lack of response. It was gross and terrifying and mildly wonderful. So that was a Wednesday, I think. Thursday is irrelevant, and Friday was date night. So he picks me up and I cry; I want so badly to rip his face off. I can appreciate a good beard just as much as the next girl, if not more, not the case with novelty facial hair, however. He had cut his beard into a Lemmy beard.

This is Lemmy Kilmister of Motorhead, for whom the beard is named.

This guy can pull off the beard, he can also rock that really gross growth on his face because he doesn’t give a fuck and he is famous. The guy I was seeing could not. He had a gap in between his two front teeth, which I found quite endearing at first; he also had a butt chin. It was just too much. Too much of a shock, too much ridiculous. We went out to dinner, which was good, then a movie. I was mildly irritated after dinner, although I can’t remember why now; we meet Cam and his old roommate Jayson at the theatre in Bixby. We are going to see The Avengers. I am filled with nerdy excitement; the guy I was seeing is not. We go outside to chat with Cam and Jayson, and also to smoke. Cam and Jayson go off on some crazy awesome comic related tangent. A lot of it is over my head, but I still have witty commentary. The guy I was seeing did not. We go inside to save some seats. NOW HERE IS THE BIG PART OF THE BREAK UP.  We walk into the theatre; I trip because I’m really awesome at walking. Someone is super witty and does the whole Nelson laugh from The Simpson’s, I laugh because that’s fucking hilarious and we walk upstairs to find a seat. Half way up the staircase he asks me if I know the guy who laughed at me.

 “No, why?”

“Just curious, I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just go find us a seat, baby. I’m going to kick this guy’s ass.”

“What?! No you aren’t. Come sit down.”

So that was irritating, fighting really bothers me. We watch the movie, I totally nerd out and he only laughs at the dumb obvious humor. We drive home, and fight, and I break up with him in the drive way of my house. I forgot that his door didn’t open from the inside,  that was awkward. I got a fair amount of shit from a few people for breaking up with him, because they really liked him, but it’s my life, my vagina, and my heart, they can go suck a bag of dicks.

I still live with Cameron. I still get drunk and make an ass of myself. I also got drunk on whiskey one night at the house with just me and Cam and I totally asked him to punch me in the face. I had never experienced a punch in the face, it was interesting. Whiskey makes me make bad decisions. I love whiskey though. I had a tiny emotional breakdown at one point. I’m at a pretty stable point right now. I know where I stand, and people know what to expect from me. I went to Pride by myself. I have an audition for a band tomorrow and I know more line dances than I should, considering I learn them all when I’m drunk. I’m content and at a good place to grow and expand. I have cut off a few loose ends, but I’m weaving in new strands every day. I’m thinking about going to cosmetology school. I have a sun burn on my shin. And I have a tree tattoo on my wrist.