Extremely Perishable

Oh, I've had more than a few.

Bitches, bisexuals, boys who can't take a hint.

Some days I'd rather forget. But the memories, I guess, are what make us human.

I want to find new hangouts. I'm so sick of going to the same 2 or 3 bars, over and over and over. I need variety. My girlfriends, evidently, do not.

First of all, how in the hell am I supposed to meet people worth my time at these fratboy/sleazeball hole-in-the-wall dives that I go to?

Secondly, how in the hell can I escape these fratboys and sleazeballs who try to pick me up (by talking drunken gibberish and breathing their last meals in my face) if I show up at the place they call their home-away-from-beer-can-infested-home every single weekend? Stupid, isn't it?

This is not copasetic.

I need dudes who got game ... and hygiene. And I need to relax and party someplace where the barstool doesn't stick to my jeans, the pool table isn't soiled and the playlist doesn't loop back after 20 minutes. I mean, damn! I heard that Mika joint 4 times already! Let it go!

So please, good people of New York City, where oh where is there a good night out? And don't say China Club or Marquee or Webster Hall. I don't get down like that. Anywhere that has seen 10 or more of Lindsay Lohan's East Coast coke-fueled night-rampages is off limits and anywhere that is 1% NY, 1% L.I. (you qualify as a separate world) and 98% Jersey, well ... you know what I'ma say. (It starts with "hell.") I'm even game for Brooklyn.

Yes. The center of the hipster universe.

Give me something different, unique, underground, gritty, delicious, weird or wonderful. Just give me anything but your average pub in the E.V. or mega club in Chelsea. How hard could it be in this city ... honestly?

Help a girl out.

Someone I know used to abuse the ill-gotten knowledge that I was totally (and, in hindsight, inexplicably) head-over-heels infatuated with him. He did this for months.

I've never felt smaller, younger, more exposed than I did when I was in the same room as him, trying not to breathe for fear of giving myself away -- though I came to the realization that he, in fact, already knew my secret. He ended up milking the situation -- not for all it was worth -- but enough to make me feel like a total fool. It was like he could strip me bare with just a word or a look. Every time. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.

That's when it started to turn. He wasn't trying to, but he gave me a reason to fall out of love. And, since then, all his little ploys for attention and admiration seem pathetic and cheap.

Too little too late.

It's funny because he'll never understand how I felt. It used to hurt so much. It used to be torture. To be near him and not be able to be WITH him was the most exquisite pain I had ever experienced. For such a long time, I thrived on being on the wrong end of unrequited love. I tried to move on by staying far away from him but, in the end, I'd always punish myself by showing up at the places where I knew he'd be. And I would beat myself up about it because, not only had I been reduced to a love-sick stalker, but the object of my stalkerish ways was covertly mocking me and, less than covertly, rejecting my sorry ass.

The pain is gone now.

His tactlessness, his lack of maturity and kindness ... they killed the feelings I once had for him. But now he senses the difference. He senses that I'm over him and now he's trying to find ways to push me back under.

He touches me too much now, makes inferences and then takes them back. I can see him testing the waters, wondering if he can stir up those old feelings.

I wonder if he can sense just how disgusted I am by it. Does he see that I wipe off the kiss on my cheek?

Funny how he kissed no one else.

You had your chance, man. I'm wise enough not to worship you anymore. Fuck the hell off.

Been a while. Been fighting with the woman who gave birth to me. But, like I told her when I was 10, I never asked to be born, so why does she hold it against me?

I used to think, if I ever have a kid ... I want a boy.

Did I see it as a chance to tip the scale back? Build a man up instead of watching him get torn down? Is it because I hate myself -- the fact that I'm female? Is it because I always wanted something from men that I could never get? And when they gave it ... it was unwanted ... and wrong.

I know I'm fucked up. I don't know why I've gone in this direction. If someone else had been rejected and abused and had her heart removed by the men in her life, maybe she'd come out of it, salvage herself, regrow what disappeared. But I can't. Most of the time I feel like a fake -- like I'm walking around pretending not to be broken when the truth is I'm so messed up, it's almost the only thing that keeps me alive.

So maybe it is to build a man up ... so that he won't tear a woman down someday. A peace offering to the male god who would hate to see me happy. Wish I could kiss some of them into the grave. And I know that's unhealthy.

Oh, come on. I'm just being dramatic. It's 4 in the morning.

But it's scary how good I am at it, right?

It was my mother who saw him. My mother doesn't even know his name. My mother only recognized him because she had seen his face on the cover of US Weekly, next to Reese Witherspoon. My mother thought his name was Lyndonhaal.

HER: "That was Lyndonhaal. We just passed him."

We were on the upper-eastside.

ME: "Who's that? I don't know who that is."

HER: "Yes you do, you do ... Lyndonhaal. Lyndonhaal! You know!"

ME: "What?!"

HER: "You know, dating Reese Witherspoon."

I stop dead in my tracks.

ME: "Gyllenhaal?! You saw JAKE GYLLENHAAL!"

HER: "Yeah. Him."

She said that last line with such calm and reserve.

Of course, by the time we had pinned down exactly who it was that she had seen and that it was NOT in fact somebody named Lyndon Hall and rather one of my favorite whiteboys of all time, Jake Hotness Gyllenhaal, the dude was long gone up Lexington Avenue.

But at least I know he's back in New York.

Now that the readership of this blog has hopefully dwindled down to 1 from its maximum of 3, I might actually start posting again.

Although my posts about masturbation and love triangles might have to disappear for good like the Titanic, my virginity and acid-wash jeans.