I’m susceptible to a deep voice with a confident dance.
A guy with a briefcase of nothing, but a heart full of something. Paper clipped ideas and drafts of a vision. Labeling me as inspiration and typing me as beyond typical. But he doesn’t see me, not really. He sees what will sell; what will spark conversation and buzz of his name. Unlike my laughter buzzing through a phone line, new vibrations exclusively fuel him. I’m this week’s project but not for improvement — that would suggest I possess cracks and catastrophe crumblings. His intrigue painted a play outlined in mystery. A scene of respect with absent spotlights; for he fears what they’ll reveal. Casting me as his traveler, I was his something, but never his everything. Existing, but never present. Gone, but never absent. Naive beauty, none of this was for you. He’s had an ad out for “her” all along…
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And so, it's time again to revisit a story that has since passed. A date with a man whom was all the rage in February. And yes, that was the actual month that this took place. "Oh my gosh, Stephanie aren't you afraid of him reading it and by revealing the date, he could confirm it's him?" I'm more likely to get shot out of a cannon than him reading my blog. After all, he was quick to tear it down.... a lot like me. And I think that's one of the reasons I felt he didn't even deserve a blog post. Didn't deserve the air I had to breathe unless it was angry poems, of which are strung through previous posts, fueled by my anguish and frustration and bitterness of him and the time of mine he wasted. He wasted my trust, he wasted my patience, he wasted my charm, and I wish you could say he wasted my empathy... But I've come to the conclusion, I possibly have an endless supply. Which is both a gift and a curse. So, before he ridiculed my dream and my efforts to become an aspiring writer, he was funny and notorious for making those tired little pick-up lines, new again. You're the most beautiful girl, you're gorgeous, I want you to be mine, no guy realizes what he's passed up, I'm after your heart, you're worth it, I'm trying to give you the world, and the ever fraudulent: I'll take you places you've never been. Oh he took me places, like Deceit Drive, Manipulation Station, and Bitterness Boulevard, but silly boy, I've been down all those paths before; you're not unique in that. It's not that I'm THAT naive, but more so, hopeful. Hopeful that he meant it and just wasn't very original. Hopeful that he that he wanted something more just an accompaniment, but a better half.... oh, that lines has been used on me too.... but that fell off the lips and slid down the beard of a different dude. THIS DUDE knew what he was doing. His rehearsed words, were not at all just that-- they were the beginning of his operant conditioning, you know, the bell accompanied with reinforcement of things to make me droll. The device in which to control. We resided in different states, so all of our correspondence were via video chat and flirty text. We decided to meet at a central coordinate (well, mostly) at, you guessed it, MAGIC KINGDOM. The home of Cinderella's Castle and "where dreams come true." I don't know if it's because I failed to ever find Neverland and now I've been doomed to ruthless aging of adulthood, but the magic was gone this time. At the ticket counter, the most majestic-looking grandfather, dressed in baby blue pinstripes, asked if we were celebrating anything. He asked the WRONG GIRL. I celebrate new shoes or a day I didn't experience road rage from getting cutoff by a person without a blinker (not speaking from experience or anything) or even the fact that it's not Monday. Now that you have a little background information, can you guess what I said? "Oh my gosh! We are actually on our first date! I'm sure there's not a pin for that but...." This is not a story about a girl getting pinned (even though I often dream of the 50's dating etiquette)With our pins secured on the left side of both of our cotton t-shirts and his hand in mine, I practically skipped through the front gates. I buzzed around like a kid hocked up on Mountain Dew and even took pictures of the trash bins because to me, they too were magical. He refused to take a picture in front of the Cinderella Castle, so I cast him as photographer..... wondering now if he didn't want that picture because he knew very well, that's a memory he'll easily dispose. The date carried on as we waited in line, became sucked into street performances practically on every corner, and even got to watch two rides break down right before our eyes (Ooooooo! Ahhhhh!). Later, he developed a migraine and hoped food and air at a lower magical altitude may alleviate the pain. He selected a restaurant of which he knew the genre of food was one of my all time favorites! Maybe he was still into me... After laughs and crawfish, we returned to the park. Less hand-holding, but now we got to ride coasters in the dark-- smashing good fun! Then, our eyes feasted on one of the most elaborate, nearly heart-stopping firework shows ever orchestrated. Later that night, he basically ended things in. the. shower. Are you kidding me? Nothing like washing the day off like washing the girl I took to Disney off so I can return to my state and condition someone else to be what I want for a period of time. I've been dumped in so many colorful ways.... I just never thought following a full-day at the place notorious for dreams coming true, where there is a 7 year waiting list to get married in front of the castle, or even in the corner by the mickey-shaped pretzels, would be my next place. Life will never stop surprising you... And just like a magician's final act, he was gone in a puff of smoke. Oh, and to add insult to injury, he left his pin (the matching Disney pin) in my console. Sharp with intent to prick, he was just that. Hey Mickey, you're so fine, crispy treat divine; hey Mickey! Hey-Hey-Hey Mickey! 1/4 cup butter 4 cups miniature marshmallows 5 cups rice crispy treats
You never need a guy (or a girl) to make your dreams come true! (I had to ;)Although dressed like a far-fetched fairy tale, this was tale was non-fiction and a recent event. This particular event was not a Kodac moment, so there is no digital proof of it living and breathing on my phone or the internet, but there are a series of pictures of the three little girls pigs in the story. Not to disappoint with the theme of my dating-blunder stuffed blog, drizzled with "wtf" and dusted with "baha I thought MY dating stories were bad," the third little pig was mine in this story. I'm not even going to entertain the lie that he talked to me in the hopes of me falling into the strangely specific type of "women that used to be men." That's a new one, that's a new one. I'm a lot of things but a prior dude is NOT one of them ;) This story goes in the same bin as the bi-guy who wasn't actually bi. In case you were wondering, I'm still as single as a Pringle at the bottom of the can. Dessert Pigs in a Blanket!
Since the three little female pigs deserve a little sweetness in their exceedingly disappointing interaction with three Irish brothers, here is a revamped version of the elementary dish: Pigs in a Blanket.
I should never listen to a country song with a cigarette drag’s pace. In one, two, three, holding it for the faint hope that it could be you I was holding in my lungs, near my heart. Tightening my stance, fixating on the fumes that could be your Old Spice with the grizzly plastered on the front of the bottle. Rolling my tongue around the smoke that could hold the flavor of coconut which soaked the tips of your course beard. Almost rolling my eyes back into my cranium, weighted with memories from the better part of half a decade, but lungs deflate that fantasy.
As I exhale the love that was ours, I scrounge for another hit. I think I’m addicted. But no — admitting that is a step out. I don’t want to step into any direction; I couldn’t if I wanted to. Feet glued to reality, I’m paralyzed with the story of you that is now just that. A pack a day and I’m reminded of when you packed, I packed, together but, separately. Moved everywhere but on… at least for me. But that’s an exhale that will never formulate to words. Articulation of such a feeling is the real nicotine. Gushing about such fantasies: forever, unconditional, two centuries… evokes a cough that almost terminates my breath. I guess thoughts of you will always: linger in my curls you liked so much, stained on my fingertips you would hold delicately while driving through the bends and bounds of hill country, and coats the walls of my lungs, thick with unmistakable passion. I desperately inhaled more and more infatuation, but my tolerance keeps climbing. I’m hooked, but your brand has been discontinued. After a pretty great date that definitely warranted a second, this particular guy certainly had something else in mind before the date's conclusion.... "So do I get to meet the famous Bulldog?" He couldn't even remember her name.. That should have been an indicator... But my boisterous heart for that beautiful two-year-old bulldog clouded my judgment. "She's going to jump on you," I beamed. He followed me inside my humble abode with instant intent to get me alone on my couch. Following some compliments and brushing my bangs out of my eyes, he removed my glasses from my face. After hitting a base or two, he realized he wasn't getting any further and rose to his feet. I tried to walk him out, but he was cold. Not literally obviously... Temperature-wise he probably was closer to 98 degrees (possibly material for a 90s boy band). He walked out of my life that day... Can't say that I was shattered, but also can't say that I was unphased. The longer I sulked, the more I concluded that men are dogs. A lot of them... just as much as women are bitches... Which are also dogs. So, as a tribute to this "ruff" dating scene, I found it only suiting to make the first ever non-human dessert on dates and cakes. Sit. Stay. Enjoy. A Treat for the worthy dog amongst us:
Once upon a time there were three little pigs relaxing in a pub in downtown Dublin after a long day at work. They caught the eyes a three little girl pigs on holiday and paired accordingly.
The first little pig was charming and flirty, of which his girl little pig took kindly to. After locking lips for a series of minutes, the little girl pig scurried away. "He smelled too much like straw," she squealed. "Hygiene must not be his priority." The second little pig was arrogant and ridiculed his girl little pig's type of law she practiced. He threw sticks and stones at her intelligence, for she lacked knowledge of any foreign languages. Even as a school teacher himself, he deemed himself more prestigious. After jousts of profanities, that little girl pig scurried away. The third little pig had a foundation of bricks he laid for what he wanted. "I strictly date women who used to be men," he squealed. This caused the third girl pig to scurry faster than the other two. The three female pigs on holiday, grabbed a pint and proceeded to the bartender to order their own drinks. "Hay, who needs sticks and Bricks anyway?" There are amongst us, the daters that seek “projects.” The fulfillment that we seek to instill happiness in those that need it most is enticing — to say the least. Unfortunately, the sweetest of roses possess the sharpest thorns, and we look past that. If you've read 4 of my blog posts, you could easily conclude that I am among the "fixer uppers" of broken hearts and troubled pasts. It's force unlike any other-- yes, even rock-hard-abs. I'm drawn to it, I crave it, and I'm restless without it. This speaks volumes to my self-worth and image of myself, I'm sure, but here I go, with another one that bites the dust. Unfortunately, I can't rip the guitar like Brian May or hit angelic notes like Freddie Mercury but I sure can hell relate to that song. Their interpretation is polar to mine but that's what makes music so beautiful. Music is freedom to feel it in any frame of mind, any affiliations, any pain. The same could be said about "projects." Some interpret projects as toxic and equipped to provide a functional relationship, much less house the seeds of love. But others, the dreamers, believe wholeheartedly in their potential. There is a colorful contrast between the lovers’ beauty and to their inevitable downfall. Those that put their happiness completely into other hands are not only further hindering their chance at independence, but are setting the lovers up for failure. We almost believed that we didn’t work harder, didn’t love without limits, and didn’t help to the best of our ability. These lies are crippling, but we can’t help it. Boundaries are, the only way to cease this vicious cycle and give our own hearts a chance. Maybe that's why I am so transfixed with traveling: crossing boundaries into new cultures and customs. Being free while being within a county or territory or country. Gaining more than knowledge of the place around you, but the qualities within you. This is crucial; if you aren't able to establish worth in that and your actions aside from saving a damsel project, you'll imprison yourself, instantly. More than one of my “projects” have told me I was worthless: in actions, synonyms, and low blows to my aspirations. I almost believed them... but I'm incredible-- we all are. Repeating this over and over like a scratched mixed CD, I’ve relinquished their power and rooted my own. "You don't even deserve to make an appearance of my nightmare, your time with me has run out. Plans of us he sketched in pencil within that moment were what you are about. The ending of the song was sadder than expected. The music didn’t slow but the connection did." -Me after a project fell through... again Extract the Good Out of the "Projects" Instead of sharing a dessert recipe, I found that creating a primary ingredient is more substantial. Creating the purest, most coveted baking extract is a more fulfilling project. Shall we?
Slice each bean once long-ways and place in bottle. 1 cup vodka, fully submerged. Shake occasionally. 8 weeks total. You are a rock star. "I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?"You’re a flash in sky, forget the pan
Consuming attention, all that you can Creating quite a consensus of awe “Most spectacular [they] ever saw!” Every head turned and jaw agape Blink and we’re a little too late Operated by computer command Beckoning for an ovation to stand Appearing only for massive crowds Stealing thunder from the clouds Beautiful? Yes, but self-assured One-night loneliness, you’re the cure Requiring so much But withholding touch Numb to emotion, party in mind Following the smoke — impossible to find But as your finale takes its turn Sky is consumed with fire’s burn Flashes of white, then black is cast Alas, you’re now a thing of the past I often wonder if I'll find fireworks again of my own. Not out of pessimism, but realism. The calculations keep failing me: 8 billion people, 1 pure heart seeking another pure heart of certain age, particular morals, and with semi-normal hobbies... carry the one. DRAT! Still getting a negative number. Maybe these few screenshots are an inkling as to why.... So... basically swiping right would constitute you receiving head? That's the "danger?" Selfishly dangerous, yes. He actually sent the SAME response to my best friend, whom is also on this notoriously classy dating site.Oh, he's not done... continue scrolling.I call reverse psychology.... alluding to it being a joke but in reality, he has a freezer full of "first dates."Baha! Okay, I have a sense of humor and I liked this one! But that name makes my skin crawl so I still swiped left.At least he's fearless? What this picture doesn't show is the cops ready to arrest him for public indecency... and is not nearly his first attempt.I'm declaring my freedom from dick-heads.... singleness is starting to be incredibly attractive. I'll be my own sparkler... Happy 4th, y'all!
"One day I will see you and feel nothing" -Jessica SemaanThis is saddest, most anticipated milestone in the stages of heartbreak. When someone leaves your heart dead upon arrival, you would give anything to feel nothing, but such a wish is just that. The quaking emotions is what withholds silence, exhales, and inevitably peace. Haven't they done enough? Can't they just let you be? You scoff as your mind formulates such a question. This outburst of seemingly dramatic emotion was evoked from a poem I read from Jessica on a Sunday night, curled up on my coach, accompanied by only a cup of Irish coffee and a snoring English bulldog. She poured out her heart about a past love and how he will remain there. Her resounding theme was: it will get better. Gosh, I wanted to call her and say, "will it though?!" Then, I came to the line I quoted at the top of this post. That stopped me in my love-sick tracks. What I wouldn't give to remain slate when I run into the slew of guys that have pinched, kicked, and spit on my heart. To see him [insert the 5 or so guys that didn't deserve me to graze shoulders with them, much-less consume days, maybe months of my precious time] standing at his post at that bar I used to sip bottom shelf tequila, disguised flirtatiously with a boa of salt and watered-down limes and to have no facial expressions. To pull up next to his "truck," which really was a Dodge Durango, at a red light, see his balding head bobbing to some metal band he played for me a dozen times that I smiled politely through a pounding headache and not be phased in the slightest. To see him biking on my beach, the beach he called "lame" and questioned why I emptied my hour glass there day after day, and for me to keep treading water- keep kicking up sand and soaking up the beauty that isn't his. I want to be okay and never exhibit any indication that they affected me. They don't deserve to gloat in the power I foolishly relinquished to them. I wish I could crate them up and ship them off but I don't condone animal cruelty. I'll keep fighting for the freedom from their memory pouring over me like hot caramel over a multi-layer cake. Bake your favorite recipe of cake into 3 8'round pans. While they cool, in a saucepan, combine 1½ sticks Butter, cut into 12 pieces and softened, 1 1/2 cups Granulated Sugar, ½ cup Heavy Cream, and 1 teaspoon Vanilla on medium heat. Stir until begins to boil. In a shallow pan, put 1/2 cup Granulated sugar and stir until melted and turns a golden brown. Do not burn like they burned you. If it burns, pour on him and see how he melts like you did at one time... except this will leave more scars than he did... I know, an impossible thought. Add melted sugar to boiling saucepan and stir constantly, like thoughts of him constantly stirred within the walls of your mind for days after. Clip candy thermometer on the side of pan and wait in anticipation for his memory to fade and your caramel to reach "soft ball stage." Ha! The innuendos I could make... At the very moment it reaches soft ball stage, remove from heat and stir for two minutes.... two minutes not thinking of him or Him or HIM. Then pour out your hot emotions and caramel (about 1/3 of the mix) over the bottom layer of your 3 cakes. This time, you will have fruition and feedback from all you're pouring out. Put down the pan and spread quickly, the caramel as evenly as possible over the bottom layer: bye, Al. P.H. With all the passion and genuine concern you offered before, grab layer two of your desired flavor/recipe of cake and stack on top carameled piece. Repeat last step; same outcome, but you thought this one would be different. Once you've smoothed things out, say goodbye to CrayCray. Surely, this one will top the others. Provide as much consideration for crumbling that you did for the others but you'll soon discover the same result. Scrape the saucepan like he scraped your remaining hope and cover the top and sides of the layered emotions shed: bye, J. Shelter. You won't feel nothing, but your taste-buds will reap the benefits."Just so you know, because I've never been one for lying. You seem cool, so here it goes. I am in prison and was looking for someone to talk to and maybe sext and share pics. Not a lot of time, I'll be out at the end of the year. I'm not a violent offender or a drug dealer. It was a white collar crime." And that was the day I died of laughter Let me begin with the classification of his crime: What exactly constitutes as a "white collar crime?" Snatch a bank pen right of the chain? Steal gold-plated sticky notes? Hack one of Bill Gate's accounts? The fact that he tried to justify his crime for the sake of a sexting partner is a nasty combination of pathetic and entertaining.. you know, for all intensive purposes. I didn't know you were able to have a phone, much less access to dating apps in prison. Even though it's a tempting offer to have the opportunity-- no, the privilege to send a non-violent, not drug-dealing boy revealing pictures, I laughed wee wee wee, all the way home. For this boy blunder, we are going to make the ole cake with a knife in it... You know, to smuggle it into prison! Be sure to stir in all your ingredients as opposed to beating since he was "non-violent."
Behind Bars Buttermilk Cake
Add icing of your choice. The sweeter the better because that's the only sugar he's going to get behind those bars. https://addapinch.com/southern-caramel-cake-recipe/ |
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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