How many hours do you think you need? Let’s measure it in months.
½ a month for flirting ½ a month for feels 1 month for the honeymoon, all attention he does steal. ½ a month for difference in opinion ½ a month for what he wants 1 month later and you win an argument for once. ½ a month for convincing friends ½ a month meeting his 1 month later, a drunken confession: he has no desire for kids. ½ a month saving face ½ a month showing affection so sly 1 month until they both uncover deception and little lies. ½ a month for short messages ½ a month not staying over 1 month later reveals a timid “I love you” sober ½ a month later not asking why ½ a month enjoying lust 1 month later experimenting all the ways to make him bust. ½ a month packing things ½ a month together every night and day 1 month where both leases were up anyway. ½ a month enjoying the company ½ a month dividing bills 1 month of being held during a great emotion spill. ½ a month later stressed with life ½ a month later he’s distant 1 month long-term is in question, to which she is insistent ½ a month of petty fights ½ a month of “what does this even mean?” 1 month containing “I can’t do this— fuck love” projected through a scream ½ a month breaking things ½ a month picking up the pieces 1 month in disbelief they both are breaking leases. ½ a month laying low ½ a month remembering why it all began 1 month he thought he saw her with another man. ½ a month the messages cease ½ a month his name doesn’t fall off her lips 1 month and moving on isn’t the only drink he sips. Of all the months to come and all the months that were He will never forget the 13 months of “her.”
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I'm not the typical girl you'll meet at a bar.
Your tired lines won't get you very far. Your sideways smile and your outlandish claims, And the fact that, for now, you can remember my name. Your smile is average, but mine you haven't noticed. You're trying to settle a bet: who can get closest. Humorous, the fact that you haven't yet offered a drink, but you've grounds to take me home, you think. Lucky for you, you saved your money; I could easily drink you under the table, honey. With all your pretending I could have mistaken you as a girl; dressing up your Barbies then giving them a twirl. Went out with my friend and that's how I'll return, so I don't give a damn if you're the next bridge I burn. I have to give credit to my most favorite part, the fact that three girls just this month have ripped you apart. They used you for sex and you seemed oh, so torn, yet each of them to you were better than porn. So save me your stories or better yet your lies, or creatively maybe they're just alibis. For the girl you have waiting at home all alone, to have an option on demand for you to bone. So I bid you adieu and I bid you farewell, long before your crafted stories, scripted to tell. They say online it's just a booty call, but in reality is there any safe place to fall? So I go home alone, my bed's warmer that way and I'm glad I left you- not much more to say. Give it some time, another will fall for your spell, another has passed, this too I won't dwell. He's not going to bring you flowers- not that he would have known your favorite anyway. He's not going to play your favorite song, because he never committed it to memory. He's not going to surprise you at your favorite restaurant, it's easier to ask where you want to go. He's not going to know your best friend's names, even though they're practically in every story. The only one of his friends he'll introduce you to, is his roommate, in passing. He's not going to call you baby because to him, that's something you'll never be. If it slips during physical stuff, it's not out of endearment, it's so he doesn't say another name. Any name: an ex, a fantasy, another current or competing fling. What y'all have is a sham. Daydream-crafted, Disney-sculpted, rom-com hope of a Mr. Right. Face it- he's not even a right now, he's a how about never. He's not going to call you when he's upset and he'll never care if you are... Whether or not he's to blame. He'll never invite you to fancy affairs, even if he's into that kind of thing, but it's not like you'll ever know. He gives you just enough to make you feel like there's a connection- a flicker of hope. But, the only hope in his eyes is to get laid with little repercussions. You'll never be beautiful, truly radiant, or lovely but, he had to say something... He won't even know your middle name, but it's not like he ever cared to ask. And Facebook is the sole reason he knows your last name. He'll never know your biggest fears or your greatest accomplishments. He'll never know what you aspire to be or your biggest regret. He's not interested in your scars because, subconsciously, he knows he'll be hindering them. You're an item of pleasure, satisfaction, and the immediate present. He's not going to invest in you, so expect nothing of girth: adventures for two, pictures/keepsakes, or any tangible record of your time. You are simply a pass-time, so it's time to fly. He spent most of his time flying high anyway, so it's your turn to fly. He's not going to offer you any genuine sweetness. He popped in and out of your life so quickly, oreo popcorn was the most appropriate recipe for her to make herself. Pop a bag of kettle corn, melt a stick of butter and a bag of mini marshmallows on the stovetop over medium Heat. Crush Oreos and set aside. Probably about half a package. Add the popcorn to the marshmallow mix then add the Oreos. If it seems too wet, add more popcorn. Simple and sticky just like his affect on relationships.
"She looks like a model, except she got a little more..." She posts selfies because she is trying to convince herself she is beautiful. It’s a lie she has yet to fully believe. Sure, there have been many male suitors proclaiming this word, like slander in a rumor magazine; they too lie in a stack at the grocery check-out but her barcode is scratched. Her value is illegible. Price check, price check. There’s no product comparable. A number is keyed in with no significance, but plenty lackluster.
“Weather” it’s her thunderous mood swings or typhoon of past scars, each suitor in their own time are wiped out and seek another place to rebuild. She towers her insecurities as a model, but under the make-up and Spanx, a quieter self beats. She's trying to fit a mold that is unrealistic; even the stilettos she slips into can't slip her mind of the pain. And there's no medication to alleviate. She tosses a coin into the fountain and wish for, not a better life but a better reaction to the life and circumstances she's been given. You've reached new heights, or from her vantage point, arrived at new lows. On a shelf somewhere between deceit and innocence, you sit quietly smiling. Sitting and smiling, you soak in the scene. The protagonist and how she's affected by the actors that appear and disappear. The nature of their effect and the impression they stamp on her ivory skin. Most of them are more than she can bare, but your gaze is fixed and attention won't be stolen elsewhere. Maybe your silence is attributed to the curves of your mind or your ability to write her best ending. Maybe words are not instruments of compassion here and your silence is more reassuring to you. You feel as she doesn't know you exist. You're no actor, you're a shelf-sitter and reassurance is the next part she must play. You've seen the dress rehearsal and you weren't deterred, but your path has been paved.
Strange that a sitter on shelves has any use of a road, especially one as definite is cement. It's something you don't draw attention to, you'd rather draw her. Not "like one of your French girls," but like one for the time being. You arrange your tools and prepare your mind as your silver sharpener catches the stage light. She catches the glimmer and is transfixed on the familiar stranger and lets her memory guide her back to a man with noble actions and humble desires. A man that played a part but now has been outcast. "Hey- Ya!" you exclained as if a striking gold or genius. Your hand paced across the busy sketchbook without looking up. Watching this diligence, she was shook from the past, and focused on what her mind knew of this man, you, in the present. Your gypsy was purpose and you Captivate Galleries and unintentionally, hearts. You wouldn't dream of stretching the truth but you wouldn't dare reveal what some things about. It's usually for personal gain, you keep it under restrictive you. It's need-to-know basis and guess who doesn't need to know? The only thing that can understand you and your heart desires is your heart and you keep it that way. Deciphering your intentions are like attempting to break a federal in Cryptid code, it most often ends in imprisonment. Your actions aren't villainous and your intentions aren't corrupt but clearly not a dove. So I guess you're just a sneak drafting masterpieces near stage lights. Maybe you're allowing future to craft you or maybe driving her We've all heard of the notorious dick pic... But here is one for the books. A picture he requested from me, was his greatest, deepest fetish. A side picture, a picture of my hands, or even a picture of my ass are all a semi-normal requests to some- but I'm not sure many find this request in the same zip code as normal. He asked me for not one but THREE pictures of my feet. My instinct was to run yet he might get turned on by that? I don't know... I resisted for a while but eventually sent him one: half out of amusement to see his response and the other half because I was slightly intoxicated. Turns out, apparently the angle that I sent the picture was not good enough so he requested two more... "Look at those arches"I wish I was kidding about the quote above. There's other choice words he used like "sexy" and "ooooo send another with more focus on your arch" but wait, there's more. He demanded he give me a foot massage on our first date... we never met-- I made sure of that. I found this recipe suiting because I "really put my foot into it." That's the first time I've ever used that phrase and I don't think I'll do it again.
1 stick unsalted butter 1 C brown sugar 1 C white sugar 1/2 C cinnamon applesauce 2 tsp maple syrup 2 eggs 2 1/4 C flour 2 tsp cinnamon 1 tsp baking soda 1 tsp baking powder 1 tsp salt 3 C oats 1 C caramel bits Preheat oven to 375. In a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream together the butter and both sugars until smooth, about 2 minutes. Add in the applesauce, and mix. Add eggs and the maple syrup, mix for another 2 minutes. In a separate bowl, whisk together flour, cinnamon, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Slowly add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients in thirds, mixing slowly until just combined. Add in oats and caramel bits, mixing until just combined. Be careful not to overmix. Scoop cookies onto baking sheet and bake 8-10 minutes. These cookies certainly are foot-stomping good... just be careful who you share them with. http://www.familyfaithandproteinshakes.com/caramel-apple-oatmeal-cookies/ I wish you would get off my wheel. You’re not a hamster. I’m not holding you here. Your presence is something I feel. Even though you dismissed me like the 3pm bell. Class is not on your schedule. Longevity wasn’t part of your deal. You’d rather be a memory only lined by film. On a roll; rolling on. Esteem is something you steal. The sensitive around you make for great step stools. Step up and step out. I want to go places only boats or helicopters or a dive master can take me. I want to ride the rails of trains pulling more than cargo. I want to climb the depths of the world’s basement. I want my world turned on its side. I want to slide down altitude in the hundreds. I want to rest my eyes on vegetation only dinosaurs could enjoy as reality. I want to taste adventures so succulent that I’ll question what I’ve known before. I want to acknowledge ruled lines and then write to the rhythm of my flow. I want to delve head-first into the unknown; swim with the sharks of fear, dream with the poets of the hills, and create with the crafters of imagination. Sail with captains of liberty waves and peddle with cyclers I want the love of Christ to radiate through the ringlets of curls flowing off my head. I want, but will I ever seek it? Transportation to your aspirationsCan you get there by subway or bus, train or shuttle, Uber or airplane? Can you arrive by "faith, trust, and just a little bit of pixie dust?" Can dates take you there? Can a collection of hugs or grandma’s chocolate chip cookies take you there? Reading can but those destinations aren’t tangible. So don’t ask for permission or forgiveness just take the adventures you lust after. Dates take you on an emotional adventure, delving into commonalities and testing compatibility. Dates don't have to solely consist of dinner and a movie or the mundane "Netflix and chill." You deserve more, so fight for it. One of your commonalities has got to be adventure in some fashion, so hone in on it and set a date! Cruising the waves with a fluffy friend-- now THAT'S a date. Dates are for learning new things; not just about each other, but about the colossal world around you. How do you expect to truly get to know someone if you do not see how they react to certain situations or environments? Different cultures, trying new foods, walking instead of driving 16 blocks; try them and a new city out at the same time. Little Havana offered signature mojitos, Cuban sandwiches stacked high, hand-perfected art, checker tournaments, and cultural music at every corner. It made me wanna sing, "Havana oooo na-na; half of my heart is in Havana..." Set realistic expectations for first dates. Just because you're broadening your horizon of the date's location, it is still a first date after all. Two different people that have lived their entire life not knowing the other existed and then setting out for two or more days within a very close proximity is going to be an adjustment. Not always a bad one, but bring your flexibility and level-headed potions. Just because you're visiting "the happiest place on earth" doesn't mean you'll be the happiest you've ever been. Take it for what it is and soak up the memories and adventures away from home.
"Who's on first. What's on second. And I Don't Know's on third."Although my dating game of a triple header on one Saturday was at the peak of baseball season, it wasn't quite as humorous or memorable as Abbott and Costello's renown "Who's On First" skit. I couldn't resist the reference for two reasons: Abbott and Costello are my favorite black and white comedians of all time AND I found several parallels between the three main "players" in their skit and the three guys I dated. The mystery of how I managed 3 different guys to take me out within 12 hours and the risk that I would get caught mid-date by one of the other two, is hopefully a reason to keep you scrolling. This specific plot will probably never leave the frame of this blog, but what other dating extravaganza has been paralleled to a black and white comedy duet? My story wasn't as slap stick but the third basemen in my story did almost get slapped with a stick. And now ladies and gentleman, for an introduction of the three basemen! Who~ Who takes a girl to the gym for their first date? ESPECIALLY if you actually listened to the girl when she spoke. Spend one inning conversing with her and you'll quickly learn, she is in no shape (literally) to excel or enjoy a fitness date. She uses yoga pants to lounge and uses her free weights as book ends. The first baseman didn't have grounds in the red dirt to make any plays this game. What~ What happened to the pool-playing, leather jewelry-wearing, pirate-looking stud? Well, after trying to catch a runner stealing second, he hit the dugout with a girl holding a better batter average than me. They were a captivating couple of innings but offense apparently wasn't strong enough. You're OUT! I Don't Know~ I don't know what this guy has been sipping on, but his approach was horrid to say the very very least. He had an attitude of an all star pitcher with a reputation of a back-up left fielder. His role as third base in this game was a fill-in; he certainly played the parted and strived for third base, that's for sure! I still remember his words when arranging the date via text:"When are you going to clear the bench and realize that I'm what you've been waiting for?" Confidence is cute until it revolves into arrogance. Little did he know, he would later ensure the bench was cleared, including himself. Forcing your agenda on another player deserves much more than being thrown from the game. "There's no crying in baseball" so... lucky for him, I didn't kick him in a different kind of ball. His slightly aggressive advances almost got him there. Luckily, the Uber ensured I made it home SAFE! I'll forfeit any game if it means I'd have to settle for a player with no endurance or class. Swing and a miss! Blonde Bombshells
Ironically, none of these three players were blonde but, the recipe is what reminded me of this triple play. This recipe requires 3 cups of ingredients of your choice. Obviously the three ingredients I chose didn't last past the game so hopefully you'll have better luck.
Melt butter, brown sugar, salt, and vanilla in saucepan. Mix in large bowl flour, baking soda, and 3 cups of desired ingredients. This is the opportunity for creativity here; your ingredients up to bat could be coconut, oats, nuts, chips of any kind (semi-sweet, white, butterscotch, milk), peanut butter, Nutella, toffee chips, candy pieces, or nuts. Choose wisely and remember they must be cohesive with other flavors in the blonde recipe. Pour melted butter mixture into large bowl. Pour into 9X13 and bake on 350 for 30-35 minutes. This guy and I were destined in the stars to fail. And I don’t mean by 68 and there may be an opportunity for extra credit— no. I mean like a 40 and you even made flashcards. He was cute and established and dedicated. His greatest dedication was fitness. Now those of you that know me, know that I’m alllll about fitness; fitting this double bacon burger in my mouth! So when we asked me on a date to the gym, I should’ve known the inevitable. Yes, you heard (or read) me correctly. He took me for our first date and first time meeting EVER to his gym. I had to sign in as a guest, they took my picture, and I vaguely remember someone throwing confetti. That last part might have been because of too many bench presses but I mean, with a date like this, anything is possible. So, I’m not sure if my endurance didn’t measure up or my ass didn’t meet his expectations in yoga pants but he did not talk to me again. But hey! At least I earned the Cajun food we ate after the gym. That’s one thing that’s so interesting to me… if he wasn’t feeling it, why did he take me out to eat after? Isn’t it easier to end the date early than to waste nonrenewable resources? I mean think of all the water we used at the gym and the Cajun restaurant— the earth will never get that back. Walking to my car around 2 o’clock, I headed home, showered and got ready for a round of pool at a local dive bar. HOLD UP STEPHANIE. A meet up or a date? Guilty 😉 So I arrived at the bar and this rugged man with medium length dark hair, a tight shirt, and leather bracelets smiled directly through me and put down the pool stick. I felt the color leave my face as I managed to move my feet equivalent to a pace of a toddler taking steps for the first time. When I finally crossed the 3 mile stretch to where he was, he embraced me. I’ve never experienced a pool game so enjoyable in my life. We flirted like seniors before prom. Buying me vodka soda after vodka soda, he always ensured the bartender mounted at least 3 limes on each, while he gulped down whiskey. I didn’t want to leave and I think the feeling was mutual but the clock struck 5:30 and I had to get to church before I turned into a sinning pumpkin. Well.. I was already half way there… He held me close and then walked me to my car. My heart sighed when he didn’t kiss me. But, I knew I’d hear from him again. Following church, I sped home to spruce up, and change into heels. You guessed it— date number 3. This one was cocky and had been in and out of my texting life for months now. We met at the start of a string of restaurants. He rolled up in an red Audi and smirked as he saw me looking it over. As the self-elected umpire, I call that a foul ball. We went to two or three restaurants (I was quite taken by the drinks so the environment wasn’t really at the forefront of my mind). He was intelligent but sure of it. He dressed well but his pompous filled shoes didn’t match. He took me to the smallest club I’ve ever been. His motive was obvious here— to get his hands all over the drunk girl. Another foul ball. We starting dancing because the playlist was one my hips couldn’t resist. Two girls next to us made his night by screaming over the music, “y’all are so cute together; how long have y’all been together?” My eyes mimicked the rolling of my hips. His ego grew three sizes, which, quite frankly, I didn’t think there would be room. He started pounding drinks and persisted that I follow. I politely declined and he pushed. Trying to dance through it, I only lasted two more songs because his hands were wandering in places that could get a boy choked. Strike one. With 11% battery on my phone, my fingers raced to the Uber app. “Will arrive in 5 minutes.” Guh, 5 minutes too long I thought as I smiled his direction and motioned to the door. Slightly confused, he followed me to the door like a lost puppy. Covered in the fleas of shallow intentions, he grabbed my ass as he followed me onto the sidewalk. Strike two. He didn't make it to the street before being swatted for such a gesture. Following me to the parking lot, he attempted to corner me and imposed his wet lips on mine. Strike three. Regardless of my current level of intoxication, I peeled the drunk player off me like an old sticker. In just the nick of time, my Uber arrived and I slipped inside the back door and locked it. Safe. Spoken like a true umpire of hearts, |
AuthorChef Steph cooking up trouble. If she can't find anything real, she bakes real good sweets. Chocolate really may mend a broken heart... Archives
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