Love at First Gag

You vomited, I fell in love. Saturday L Train to Union Square. – m4w – 26 (Union Square)

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Reply to: pers-625396684@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-03-31, 3:38PM EDT

You kinda caught my eye at first but its not unusual seeing cute girls on the L train from Brooklyn. Then you vomited and stole my heart. The way the sick was reflected in your blue green eyes made my heart sing. The way you swallowed a bit to try and lessen the scene. My vunerable barfing angel. I know this is unorthodox but I’d love to get together and drink as much as you must have done on friday night, maybe we can hurl together and then… the world is our toilet basin

[via Craigslist]

Green Rooms

They’re not green. And depending on the show, are barely a room. Some qualify as out-right closets with a good stash of candy, soda, and wheat thins. Oh, there’s also a mirror. And a tv set. And a producer hanging out in the doorway making awkward conversation, holding a release. When you walk towards the set, you may or may not pass by the most recent American Idol cast off, who will wave and grimace as his handlers push him forward down the long, snaking hallway. The audience is crazy. The hosts have piled on make-up, big teeth and plastic smiles. Everything goes fast fast fast. Everyone giggles, struggling in their seats, wishing and hoping and waiting for something funny to happen so they can finally laugh.

But you know you’ve made it when there’s wheat thins.

No Butts About It

“I met his family today. Oh, and I also had butt sex. Shut up. It wasn’t gross, it just didn’t feel right. Well, I felt fascinated — like I wanted him to stop but also not to. I was also so drunk and had just thrown up a few times. And want to hear the grossest part? I got my period today, but at first I was like, ‘Ahhhh! My butt is bleeding!’ I was so confused. It took me 5 minutes to be like, ‘Ooooh’.”

——–

Dear all female friends of mine,

I do not and will never approve of you having butt sex. That shit is gross. For real. From what you’ve all told me, it hurts like a bitch and feels awful. What a shocker. The only positive aspect I can admit is that the conversation is frought with puns. But that is not reason enough to have a dick up your ass.

Gays: carry on.

Love,
SP

They All Come Crawling Back

Mr. Orange, who I dated over the winter, suddenly texts.

We had had fun. We met at a friend’s Halloween party–I was a geek, he was Mr. Orange from Reservoir Dogs– and instantly hit it off. We had dinner, and then drinks, and then dinner, and then drinks. I was preoccupied with work, and he was the stereotypical busy, self-involved law student. We spent New Years Eve together, and then the first day of 2008 sprawled out on my couch, half-kissing and watching the small-time presidential candidates flounder on C-SPAN2.

And then he didn’t call. Or maybe he did? But I didn’t call back. And he didn’t call back. And so on. And a week later, I assumed it was over. A clean, nice break with no rejection, no tears, no regrets. It was fine. I moved on to the next round of eligible bachelors and chalked up my relationship with Mr. Orange to another law school casualty.

So here I am, lying in bed on a cold Saturday afternoon watching Hannah and Her Sisters when suddenly an unknown number texts me: How are u?

Ah, Mr. Orange. All that schooling and still poor spelling haunts your every letter.

I eventually get him to tell me who it is. I had deleted him from my address book — ouch. And I ask where he has been the last three months. He asks where I’ve been. He says the phone works both ways — ouch.

Wait. What? Mr. Orange thinks I’m the one that broke it off with him.

It all suddenly makes sense. The missed calls. The waiting.

Now Mr. Orange wants to see me. What is this, a Woody Allen movie? He wants to watch the news with me. He wants to send me cute knock knock jokes and drink a drink out of the glasses he had bought me while on vacation in Florida in December. Sigh. Forty text messages later and I laugh to myself, and decide to call my friend who had introduced us in October.

“I’m not surprised,” she laughs. “I’ve said this once and I’ll say it again: They all come crawling back.”

No love’s as random as my love…

My coworker had a successful date last night.

“The stars were aligned,” he explains, “and we are really perfect for each other. People kept saying we should date, and when we finally met, it made a lot of sense.”

“So,” I smile, “Where is it going to go?”

“Well, see, it’s perfect because I don’t want to be in a relationship and she gets that. So I see her maybe every two weeks, and we have a great time. Like I said, I really adore her. I guess we’ve been dating for a while … maybe since September.”

This struck me as so odd. How can you truly think someone is perfect — star aligningly so — and only see them every other week? What calm intervals for perfection.

After some back and forth I cross my arms and sigh. I disagree with his assessment of his feelings for her to the core. In the last year that I have been single, I have been on myriad dates and in far too many pseudo relationships. These guys are all great, sure, or else I wouldn’t be seeing them in the first place. And, no, I don’t want to be in a relationship right now.

But let me be honest, and the following cliche may put you off, as you read it on this somewhat jaded blog:

Love is not convenient.

There. I said it. Tar and feather me and throw me off the internet for good. Take me off of your RSS reader. Chastise me in the comments. I don’t care. I have been in love: reckless, damaging, life-altering, painful love. It does not occur seven months in to dating someone three times a month. It does not occur when you are ready, in your head, for that love.

Love does not approach when you are ready. It sneaks up behind you in a dark, back alley and holds you up at knife point. It comes on suddenly, tip-toeing, following you from the subway and running off with your wallet.

You do not plan for love. Love ruins plans. Love ruins surprises parties. Love collides into your car at an intersection when you have the right of way.

Believe me or not, able minded coworker. The stars one truly align one day. And then you’ll be fucked, and I’ll be there to say I told you so.

Career, Career, Korea

“Should I stay at my current job, which is stable, but not really letting me grow, or take the leap to a consulting job, which is less stable but potentially more money and professional growth? Should I stay or should I go? Also, I’m tall.”

–C, New Jersey

Dear C,

I think you should write out a list of all your expenses, your debt, your salary, and any other number you can think of. Send it off to Suze Orman and let me know how it goes. She is hip to the chaos of the disaster known as the current national economy. I am just a drunken girl on the subway with her own secret blog.

(And I love that you’re tall. And I love puns. That alone tells me you need a new job as a basketball playing greeting card writer. So, you see? You’re better off with Suze.)

Thanks for writing,
SP

Got a question for the subway philosopher? Send it to subwayphilosophy@gmail.com

Six Sentences

Robert, of Six Sentences, asked me to write for his website. It’s great concept — you should check it out. And of course, while you’re there, be sure to read my story: The Bitter End.

No damn cat. No damn cradle.

Charlie Brown once said: “Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.”

It’s true. And as many times as I would have swiped the football out from under the pitiful, balding kid, I relate. Is there anything worse than unrequited love? Perhaps food poisoning and income taxes. Perhaps the overwhelming stench of the 4/5 on a weekday. Bloody gums. Shoddy abortions. Wine that has gone sour.

Okay, okay. Enough.

In my mind, the one thing worse is intuiting a connection that was never there. Thinking the there is a spark, willing a romantic subtext beneath dialog, imagining what is not. Maybe it’s worse. Maybe the deflating sadness itself is worse. The build-up collapsing on itself, like the son in Cat’s Cradle, staring at the knotted string on his fingers.

What does it all mean?

No damn cat. No damn cradle.