“I talk to myself. Constantly,” Sarah Jessica Parker admitted in a recent interview with People. She claims her audible self-convos are not a sign of insanity, but a coping mechanism for keeping her life together. Hallelujah! I am so glad she came clean about this because I also talk to myself. If my world is flowing, the mute button on my internal dialogue remains on. But when things don’t go exactly as planned (which, let’s face it, is a lot of the time) that’s when the conversation goes live “On Air.” It’s like a defense mechanism that keeps me from short-circuiting. Ironically, I think it keeps me from becoming one of those crazy ladies on the street muttering to herself. Well, at least I hope so.
After the jump, my favorite kinds of conversations to have with myself. Keep reading »
One of the hazards of writing on the Internet for a living is how everything will show up on a Google search. On a day-to-day basis, I’m mostly an open book writing about my opinions, my sexuality, my depression, and even my love life. My private life is private, but a lot of topics that other people consider private are the very things I write about daily.
There are times, however, when I regret being as open as I am. Not everyone is accepting; my openness makes me vulnerable towards people I barely know. I’m still human and I still care what people think about me. Sometime a girl wants people to get to know her good parts first and the rest of her human-being-messiness sl-o-w-ly. Nowhere is this more apparent than in dating — especially online dating, where as soon as you find out someone’s last name you Google it and make sure they’re not a serial killer. If a gentleman caller Googles me, there is lots to read. Imagine how an ordinary person feels about her employer finding her Facebook page and then imagine the guy who have a crush on having access to your id.
Yet, to a certain extent, blogging acts as a “douchebag filter” by keeping certain guys away. Recently I was chatting with a fellow I met online who I’d really been into until … well … he completely blew it before we’d even met. How’d he screw up so bad? He wrote to me in an IM conversation, and I quote, “But how could I ever date someone that if my parents Googled her, there is writing that she likes to be called a slut?”
How indeed. Our IM conversation, for your perusal, after the jump: Keep reading »
I was finishing college when I met my husband, Jason*, a carefree, polite Australian with dreamy blue eyes and shaggy brown hair who was on an extended working holiday. The attraction to his laissez faire personality and quirky accent was arguably a naive American girl’s knee-jerk reaction to a breakup with a controlling and insecure Brit. Yet, it is undeniable that our romance was of Hollywood screenwriting caliber. Set in the picturesque town of St. Andrews, Scotland — ironically at the same time and place where Prince William courted Duchess Catherine — I allowed this delicious Aussie, four years my senior, to sweep me off my feet. We strolled hand-in-hand through ruins on the beaches that lined the North Sea, snuck kisses in-between pints at our favourite pubs on Sunday afternoons, and celebrated my graduation from St. Andrews University in the company of my entire family, who embraced him immediately. I knew he was a keeper when he broke into the Royal and Ancient Golf Club where he worked to show me the grandiose dining room, which had banned women patrons centuries ago.
Nonetheless, reality always finds a way to spoil the fairytale. Soon after graduation, I returned to my parents’ house in Connecticut and Jason returned to his native Australia. While most flings abroad are retired, Jason and I couldn’t shake the feeling that we might be soul mates. We agreed to take a stab at our fledging union and if it didn’t work, we would walk away with dignity and respect knowing that we tried our best. Thus began a journey that far outweighed the rarity of our early beginnings as Jason and B.B. Truly, what was most unforeseen was not the juggling of the typical long-distance relationship, but where this brand of relationship took us and the questions we inevitably had to answer. Keep reading »
I found this graffiti on a building in my neighborhood over the weekend. I wonder, does Dave live there? Or was Dave’s girlfriend just trying to work out her relationship problems out loud, on the side of a building? Most of us just change our Facebook statuses… Keep reading »