I THINK I’M A WIRE MOTHER

I’m trying really hard not to feel like a bad person for not wanting my cat anymore. It makes me feel irresponsible and that makes me feel shitty. Because it’s not that I’m an irresponsible person…I just don’t like being responsible for stuff. There’s totally a difference…right?

I can’t tell if I’m emotionally attached to my cat or not. I think that’s making me realize something about myself that I wasn’t really super aware of before. I don’t really get attached to things. Tangible things, I mean. You know those people who still have a stuffed animal or some item from their childhood that they just can’t bring themselves to part with? I don’t have that. My room back home is basically stripped of anything from my more formative years. Why? I don’t know. I don’t like clutter and getting rid of things makes me feel good. I love feeling like I’m starting over. But I’m so pissed at myself for throwing out all of my high school journals because ugh I would love to go back and read them and re-live those ‘OMG WHY IS HE GOING OUT WITH HER???’ moments.

But would I consider my cat a “thing?” Is my cat cluttering up my life? Nooooo. I luv my cat. She has soft beautiful fur and her cheekbones are to die for. I’m just a lame-ass cat mom.

By the way, I HATE the word “attached.” It makes me feel trapped and tethered and I don’t like it. It’s not that I don’t love and care about people and some things, it’s just that I don’t want to say that I am ever attached to those people or things because I like to think that I am perfectly capable of getting by without them. Maybe I don’t like feeling like the other person or thing couldn’t get by without me and that’s a whole lot of pressure, ya know? Fuuuuuck I just opened up a can of worms and I’m closing it now.

Back to my cat.

I imagine a scenario in which my cat is gone. Maybe she was kidnapped (catnapped?) Maybe she ran away. Maybe she contracted rabies and I had to go all Old Yeller on her ass and put her out of her misery behind the shed. I picture these things happening and then I try to figure out how they would make me feel. Duh, I’d be sad. I’m not a heartless ice queen. But then I feel…relieved, almost. Relieved that I don’t have to buy cat litter or yell at her for clawing up the carpet or figure out who’s going to feed her when I’m out of town or any of those other chores that come along with being a pet owner.

What benefits am I getting from owning a cat? Health benefits? Bullshit. My cat causes me more stress than anything and I’m already a tightly-wound ball of nerves. Someone to cuddle with on cold nights? HAH. Last time I tried to cuddle with her, she bit my hand, leaped off my bed, knocked my water off the nightstand, and sprinted out of my room.

I’m too much like my cat and that’s why our relationship doesn’t work.

Is this what having a child is like? What kind of mother will I be? Will I have my kid for a year and then be like “Sorry, you’re stressing me out. I’m tired of taking care of you.” My child will probably end up like that monkey in that Harlow psych study with the wire mother who gives him food and the cloth mother who gives him comfort and even though the monkey received the physical needs to survive from the wire mother, he always chose the cloth mother because she gave him the comfort and love he needed.

AM I A WIRE MOTHER? I THINK I MIGHT BE A WIRE MOTHER. I’M SUCH A WIRE MOTHER.

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It came to me in a dream

So my allergies are super crazy gnarly out of control right now and last night I was doped up on Claritin and Mucinex and I had a vivid dream about an outdoor festival and going fishing with my mom and we talked about sex and then my Grandma told me my jeans were too tight.

I think this dream was telling me that I need to reprioritize my life. I need to reevaluate some stuff.

What I’m trying to say is that I’m going to try to write more on here. Like, maybe a post a day kind of situation. ON ANYTHING I WANT.

….starting tomorrow because right now I want to sleep forever.

Far out.

I want to take a bath, damn it.

You ever have that internal battle with yourself to decide if you want to take a bath or not?

You fantasize about a really great bath experience. Candles. Aromatherapy. Bath salts and powders and oils. All that shit. Lavender. Everywhere.

Your hair piled up on top of your head but with some of it slipping out the back because your hair isn’t quite long enough to be put up that high. Your tiny shoebox of a bathroom is steamy as fuck and you can’t see anything but you can’t wait to get out and swipe your mirror with your hand and pretend you’re in the opening sequence of some 80’s John Hughes movie where The Psychedelic Furs are playing in the background while you dance around being all excited because you might see Jake Ryan or Judd Nelson in the hallway today.

Maybe you’re listening to music. Maybe you’re not. If you are listening to music it’s probably the soundtrack to The Graduate because you just watched that movie the other night and Simon and Garfunkel be mellow as hell and weren’t Anne Bancroft’s highlights and outfits just so effing perfect like OMG.

You’re having such a wonderful time you don’t even notice that the tub is too short for your body and no matter how you position yourself, some part of you will not be submerged in that delightfully scented water. Lavender. So much lavender. LAVENDAHHHH. You don’t even care. Nothing can ruin this for you. It’s just you and maybe the slices of cucumber that miraculously found their way to your eyes.

Ahhhhh…….

In reality, you lack the patience to even wait for the tub to fill up. You have no lavender. None. Your knees will be really freaking cold. You’d rather dip those slices of cucumber in some ranch dressing. JAKE RYAN ISN’T REAL.

This isn’t like a metaphor or anything. I just really want to take a bath right now…kind of.

Where my silver foxes at???

I don’t know what it is or where it came from, but I’ve suddenly got it into my head that I want to date an older man. How old? I’m not sure. How old is too old? I’m thinking maybe a George Clooney old. Not that I think I could ever find myself a George Clooney. I’d totally take maybe a Colin Firth or a Gary Oldman, though. God yes, I love Gary Oldman. OLDman.

You see, I feel like an older man would at least kind of have his shit together. Besides the obvious mid-life crisis thing he’d def have going on. But that I can handle. Because that is the exact reason a man in his late 40s to mid-50s would even date a 23 year old. And he’d obviously have to be loaded. If I’m going to do this I’m going to do it right. Not with some man who still drives the mini-van his wife left him after the divorce. No way.

Also important to point out in this mantique fantasy of mine is that I would probably not love him. I would probably not fall in love with him. This is a one to two years (tops) kind of sitch, ya feel me?

I would mostly just like for him to be charming and mature and take me to interesting places and lavish me with Agent Provacateur lingerie and macaroons imported from France. (If you think trading my body for a silk corset and some thigh highs is gross then I need you to go look at some AP lingerie and tell me you wouldn’t do the same. I mean, come on. Get real)

But then I’m like oh no, what if it turns out like Carrie and The Russian on SATC and I move with him to Paris and then he ignores me the whole time because he’s preparing for his big art exhibition or whatever and then I feel really out of place and everyone’s mean to me because are French people mean? I DON’T SPEAK THE LANGUAGE. WHY ARE YOU TALKING SO FAST??? I MISS MY FRIENDS.

How does one even go about finding this kind of man? Should I put an ad out in the paper? ‘Poor 23 Year Old Woman Seeking Rich Old Dude – Not an Anna Nicole Smith Situation – Like, Please Don’t be Dying or Anything – Be Very Much Alive and Have Lots of Frequent Flyer Miles. Okay. Thx’

What about you guys? Would you ever go silver fox hunting? Tell me that doesn’t sound mad hot, right? Right? Yeahhh.

Power Down

The Internet is a desert at 2:30 am. It’s dark. It feels weird. It’s desolate. Pretty sure a tumbleweed just rolled by.

You go to Twitter and the only ones tweeting are the people from a different timezone where it isn’t this late (early?). And you’re left to assume that the ones in your own timezone are out doing something with their lives or sleeping, which you should be doing but you don’t because whYYy do you fight it?

You go to facebook, good God you go to facebook, and it’s all people you went to high school with sharing **Just Cause I Talk Slow Don’t Mean I’m Stupid**’s photo of a Marilyn Monroe quote paired with a ‘girl stares off into the distance while her hair blows freely in the wind’ stock photo.

You go to tumblr and you’re like yes these are my people what is uppppp. And all of a sudden you’re on the Cillian Murphy tag and you’re staring into Cillian Murphy’s pretty/creepy/sharp blue eyes and asking yourself why Red Eye isn’t a movie that anyone talks about ever and who the hell is Cillian Murphy, really? Does he even exist? What is time? What is space?

You repeat this process so many times and there’s never anything new but you keep doing it anyway. Why don’t you just close your eyes? Why don’t you just read a book? Why don’t you just write something?

Your eyes are tired. Your body’s tired. Your brain is probably tired but you overstimulate it with this useless shit all the time.

I would say go to bed, but you’re already in your bed.

Step away from the social media. Step away, already. There is nothing for you there. It’s too late to make sense of anything. It’s too late to wonder what that status update means. It’s too late to come up with a clever tweet. It’s too late to reblog that gif from 30 Rock.

All of that…stuff will be there in the morning when you don’t feel so bored/restless. All of that stuff will always be there. All of that stuff you don’t even need, no matter the time of day.

Know what you do need? Sleep.

So power down.

I love going to the movies by myself.

I love the dark. I love how I always have to bring a hoodie because I know it will be freezing inside. I love the seats that sometimes creak when I cross my legs. I love when no one sits in front of me so I can put my feet up on the back of the seat. I love when someone does sit in front of me and I sigh loudly like a spoiled four year old. I love not having to wrestle anyone for armrest privileges.

I love going alone because I love to be alone. I do. Knowing how to be alone gives me a confidence that I don’t think I would have if I felt the need to do everything with someone else.

I love going to the movies by myself because no one else cares, really. It’s a movie theater, not couples night at the Olive Garden.

Don’t pity the ones who enjoy going to the movies alone. Don’t pity the ones who want to take themselves out for a steak dinner. Don’t pity the ones who don’t need to be with another person to feel good about themselves.

But when I get down from my high horse and get real, do I actually love going to the movies by myself? Do I really love laughing at that one really great joke in a room full of strangers? Do I really love the lack of a shared experience with someone I know, even if it’s just seeing some lame-ass Nicholas Sparks flick? Do I really love walking out of the cinema alone, getting into my car, and going on with my day like la di da that was fun?

Knowing how to be alone can be scary. Knowing how to be alone can become a habit; a really fucking hard habit to break, too.

Sometimes I worry that I like being alone too much. Sometimes I worry that being alone will get stale and I’ll become that proverbial old married couple. Except I’m married to myself. Ugh.

I worry that I’ll get sick of me. Me. Me. Me. All the time. And one day when I’m too old to drive myself, who’s going to drive me to the movies???

But then I’m just like, quit your worrying. You’re twenty-three years old. And that’s what cabs are for, dummy.

Hey baby, I heard you like self-deprecating pick-up lines. Is that true, baby?

Hey baby,

I heard you like girls with child-bearing hips, an irrational fear of commitment, and an addiction to simple carbohydrates. Is that true, baby?

Hey baby,

I heard you like girls who can’t distinguish between hunger and boredom and are very skilled in the art of avoiding any and all social interaction. Is that true, baby?

Hey baby,

I heard you like girls who are awkward around children and animals, yet want to have a small army of children and animals one day. Is that true, baby?

Hey baby,

I heard you like girls who are anxious, emotionally unavailable, and unapologetically bad at parking. Is that true, baby?

Hey baby,

I heard you like girls who would rather not hold hands or do anything in public that would let anyone know we are together. Is that true, baby?

Hey baby,

I heard you like girls who pick the m&m’s out of trail mix while reading their love horoscope for the week. Is that true, baby?

Hey baby,

I heard you like girls who are cynical, but romantic. And skeptical, but with unrealistically high expectations. Is that true, baby?

Hey baby,

I heard you like girls who know all the songs from Anastasia and can eat their way out of any life crisis. Is that true, baby?

Hey baby,

I heard that you like the bad girls. Honey, is that true?

Alright, that last one was Lana Del Rey, my inspiration for this post and everything in my life (kind of).