This blog has pretty much certified that I will never again date, flirt, or sleep with any male who knows of its existence and also just so happens to be coherent enough to put my Twitter feed and posts together to realize that, indeed, I am the, uh, not-so-mysterious “A” part of 1528.
I guess I thought it might be sort of fun for the gentlemen that I have crushes on to also know about this personal outlet of romantic escapades and frustrations, and part of me even thought that it would be great when trying to date someone seriously, because any issue I couldn’t actually say to his face (clearly sidetracked by the way his fingers fit mine so perfectly and the oh-so-elusive increase of forehead-kisses in my life) I could write here instead, therefore avoiding that awful, awful habit I sometimes have of being a girl and having issues with boys and wanting to talk to them about it candidly.
(Unfortunately, my frank discussions, while initiated with good intentions, seem to always lead away from the road of making out, cuddling, and general getting-lost-in-each-other’s-dashing-good-looks-and-charm reverie, and more towards the road of Serious Conversation About Where This is Going territory. [Yeah. No one gets laid after those kinds of conversations. Trust me.])
Instead, however, I believe that boys are generally backing away from me, afraid that their shortcomings and issues will be laid out in digital print, maybe even complete with a Google-searched image of cartoon speech bubbles. And to be honest, I can’t really blame them. My most recent ex-boyfriends have been covered in excruciating detail, an on-again, off-again paramour has been vaguely profiled, much to his chagrin, I’m sure, (and that of his are-they-or-aren’t-they girlfriend/ex-girlfriend) and, let’s be blunt here, “A” comes across as a snarky, sarcastic, self-righteous bitch with a bit of a Narcissus complex and whole lot of self-inflicted problems with the male gender.
To quote a male friend of mine, “So last night I read your blog. I don’t like whoever the hell ‘A’ is, because it sure as anything isn’t you.”
Au contraire, mon ami, my media persona is definitely a part of me. I wasn’t exactly making up the crush on Nick Jonas (yes, admittedly, this is unfortunate for me), nor was the spirited defense of smart, funny, social girls who wear push-up bras something that I thought up in my imagination. Clearly, these entries come from a very real person with very real thoughts with very real (and ridiculous) obsessions who doesn’t always try very really hard to mask things she is frustrated with.
But it’s not always as simple as that, either– I don’t walk around stabbing boys in the heart with five-inch stiletto heels like my persona probably would enjoy. Nor is my backpack always holding a handle of rum. There are even times in my real life that I have to study and make sure I don’t fail out of my senior year, although based on this blog, all I do is lounge around my room in a kimono, communicating with dozens of male admirers, persuading them to come over and sleep with me. I also don’t spend my time generally not participating in daily life and instead playing Rock Band. (Well, that last one might be more true to my actual schedule than I wish it was.)
However, I must admit, that for all the assumptions, I find it quite delightful to hide my reading-glasses-wearing, old-movie-watching, Spanish-ham-eating, Star-Wars-Convention-attending self within the majority of my posts to this blog, which clearly, confuses much of my male audience. (My habit of using the phrase, “Dude, I know!” in a pitch and tone eerily similar to that of Spicoli’s in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” has also managed to confuse those around me, but that is a different problem entirely.)
No matter what I may or may not be typing for the public sphere, however, I must acknowledge the gentlemen who have been mentioned before, are again mentioned in this post, and will be mentioned in the future. Know that I’ve (mostly) adored your company, your words, and your actions (especially if your actions included attempting to give me a piggy-back ride at any point in our acquaintance), and that it’s not to be taken too personally.
Gentlemen, all I can really guarantee at the end of the day is that I will generally ask all of the essential first date questions, I will make an excellent spooning partner, I will definitely offer to pay half, I will most likely not ask that you leave your girlfriend for me, I will be the first one to admit than I am more than a little complicated, ridiculous and/or crazy, I will not mind tell-tale markings on my neck due to the suctioning function of your lips, I will always appreciate your handsomeness more in khakis and collared shirts, and nine times out of ten, your parents will adore me.
As for the rest? I’ll try not to blog about it.
But you’ll have to be beautifully endearing, and I’ll have to be fantastically infatuated.
Mostly, though, you will have had to make me pinky promise it.
Which can usually be accomplished with the help of a) Jose Cuervo, b) witty texts, c) Wii marathon sessions, d) fast food, e) private slumber parties in my silk sheets or f) any combination of all of the above.
I mean, I’m not that complicated. Geez.
– A
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