I will not be ignored!

So, according to some study I read over the weekend, the Justice Department has found out that text messaging is becoming a popular method of stalking. To which, I say- duh.

Let me tell you a story. A couple weeks ago I was out with a friend, and a friend of her friend decided I was very impressive and awesome or something due to my ability to sing along with both Frank Sinatra and Biggie Smalls (which, you know, means a *lot* of people are very impressive and awesome. Probably most people you and I know.). He went on about this for some time, and when I went to the ladies room, he took my phone, put his number in it, and then called his own phone.

THUS, I have been receiving various random messages from this dude for the past three weeks or so. I have yet to respond. He has also found me on Facebook and "poked" me like 37 times. I have yet to respond.

I don't think that's actual stalking, of course. But it is annoying. In the olden days, people were much easier to avoid! The thing about text messaging is that it's less ignorable than other things. You can't really pretend you never got it- and if you don't open it, your phone is going to keep beeping at you until you do. Oy.

Shut up and let me go

Hey, here's a tip! If you are interested, for whatever reason, in not seeming like a creepy stalker, it would behoove you to not text a girl late at night telling her you can see her in her living room from the bar you are at on the street below her window. That would not be the best way possible to ask someone for a drink. And, um, even if a girl really, really likes Tom Waits, it's still weird to follow that up with seven text messages highlighting various stalky sounding lyrics from "Downtown Train." And then later, some stuff about your being "broken." It's just weird. Weird, weird, weird. Especially considering the girl lives nowhere near the train, and is firm on her position that you are, in fact, an asshat.

Psych!

The NY Observer ran an article today on a new male archetype- l'homme fatale - a type rather similar to the one described by Tracie over at Jezebel a while ago as The Emotional Conquistador - a phrase which has rapidly become a part of my everyday vocabulary. I prefer Emotional Conquistador because l'homme fatale sounds too aspirational.


It's the same story on both sides- instead of scheming to get into your pants, they're scheming to form some sort of fake emotional bond. Which is way weirder. And sort of a waste of time, if you ask me- there's no forseeable gold at the end of that rainbow. I would never put in that much effort just for the glory of spinning around and yelling "Psych!"- I just don't get that. At least try to get laid. Be respectable.

It seems as though things have been radically switched around. Once upon a time girls were warned about men who would pretend to be in love with them in order to get laid. Back then, maybe it was easier to get someone to believe that than it was to get in their pants. Not so much now, except perhaps among super religious types, maybe. It's probably easier to get a girl to fuck you than it is to convince her that you're not a douchebag.

So they pull all the same lines that they used to, the lines we were warned about and never lived to hear in that context. They overflatter, they do nice things, they talk constantly about doing things in the future... except this time they don't try to sleep with you, at least not figuratively. Except this time it's not clear what they want from you. And when it's over, you're left thinking "Well, what fresh hell was that? That wasn't at all necessary!"

You harken back to a better time, a simpler time- a time when things made sense. When a dude would just buy you a drink, tell you you're pretty and make a pass at you- and you could say yes, or say no, and either way know what you might end up with (Ideally, not Mr. Goodbar). Alas, alack, Alaska.

Delta Dawn of the Dead...

I have to be up in a few hours to go to work. I will possibly be going to work green, as who knows how hard this makeup is to get off. But I am going to write some shit and eat some hot dogs, so there. Hah.

I am so in love with Halloween it's insane. I ran into this dude tonight that my Dad totally wants me to marry despite the fact that he looks like Derek Jeter and my Dad loves only the Red Sox and hates the Yankees so so much.

I discovered some important things in the past few nights, some good, some bad.

- I like the fact that I am still comfortable being hideous for Halloween.

- The diner next door to my apartment was obscenely busy, so while I waited for my hot dogs I bussed dishes because the lady who works there is always very nice to me. This is how things should work in life.

- My inability to throw away a crossword puzzle unfinished is affecting my sanity. Sometimes there isn't an answer, sometimes there isn't an explanation, and sometimes people are just douchebags. I am not Nancy Drew. I must become content with not having an answer or explanation to everything. Even though it is obscenely frustrating.

- In a somewhat perfect world, everyone would throw their crazy on the table.

Things that are good vs. Things that suck. A booze infused list I will probably delete when sober

Good things:

1. Two eggs, over easy, wheat toast, hashbrowns and sausage links. Right now, I can promise you that this is the most importantly good thing ever.

2. Mr. Catface being absolutely delightful.

3. The episode of Fantasy Island I am about to watch.

4. Writing in a bar.

5. Chocolate! I hope to find some in my apartment! I should have gone to Dominicks and purchased tiramisu before they closed. Alas.

6. Closure.

7. The awesome list of ways not to get murdered I wrote today, based upon my watching far too many true crime shows. I'm pretty safe, as I do not jog, I didn't marry my highschool sweetheart or anyone with the last name Peterson, no one would describe me as the All American Girl Next Door with a charmed life who smiles all the time and goes about lighting up rooms with her zeal for life, I have no Sears Portrait Studio pictures of myself donning a floral bib dress and an 80's bouffant, and I would not describe any of my neighbors as people who are quiet and keep to themselves mostly.

8. The most amazing episode of Intervention, ever, is now on the OnDemand thing. The huffing episode with the girl who feels like she's "walkin' on sunshine!" It's so, so disturbing, and yet I cannot turn away.

Bad things:

1. Camille Paglia

2. Dudes that I used to date or see or whatever being painfully, gag me with a spoon, jaw droppingly cheeseball-esque human beings. I tell you, it's absolutely painful, and it kinda makes me feel embarassed to be alive.

3. Tucker Max

4. Having to sit still for too long. I'm not so good at it.

5. The fact that no one seemed to want to be out tonight, when I was way too hyper to go home.

6. The guy who said earlier "what's a gal like you doing in a place like this?" I really wanted to punch him. A lot. More than you could possibly know. Like, A) dude, we are not in the country, and I most certainly do not appreciate being referred to as a gal anymore than you would like being referred to as a motherfucking redneck douchenozzle, and b) Really? You actually said that? Out loud? With the intention of my hearing you? What's next? Asking me what my sign is? Or if I come here often? Oy.

7. The fact that I cannot foresee myself remembering to take off my makeup tonight. And the fact that I didn't finish hanging up my laundry today, and thus will have to remove things from my bed in order to sleep. Sigh.

Presents!

I invented this mug two seconds ago. Not in reality, just on MS Paint, but it should totally exist, and I should have like, 2,000 of them from various fellas as a testament to my skill and labor in this particular field.

Lady, lady never start...

When I went to bed last night, I was so angry that my skin physically hurt and bristled, and maybe that's why I had all these ridiculous dreams and nightmares that I thought were real upon waking. Or maybe it's becase I was drunk. I don't normally remember dreams, and I don't talk about them either- because I am of the opinion that dreams are only interesting to the person who had them. It's not like I can tell you that I went to this weird zoo where they had like, terrifying sheep/kangaroo hybrids whose arms fell off if you shook hands with them and you can relate. Or that I for some reason sucker punched a pregnant woman in and her stomach crumbled like cardboard and you can say "Oh yes, I have seen that happen."

I digress. I'm sick to my stomach right now- and I don't know if it's from booze, or anger, or the fact that I have to work today and can't see Stevie Wonder play for free at the Taste of Chicago thingy. Maybe they'll let me leave early if it's slow. I like Stevie Wonder much better than I like most other people.

I am partial to band-aids being pulled off quickly- I don't like to look at the bloody underside, and when they're off I want them in the trash, never to be seen by me again. I wrote a rather vitriolic letter last night, which this morning I discovered did not actually get sent, and that's probably for the best. But now, maybe, I suppose I know why I have always been so instinctively vigilant about keeping the things that actually matter to me so well quarantined.

The longest of days...

Yesterday morning the streets were blocked off by my work due to the filming of Public Enemies.... and also due to the filming of Public Enemies, my store was dead and many many crazy bitches were hanging out around outside waiting for a glimpse of Johnny Depp.

I hung out with the security guard and talked about Ralph Nader, and swore up and down that I did not care to see Johnny Depp because I didn't actually have anything important to say to him (Which was a lie- I wanted to see him, and maybe touch his face. Like, just for a second, because I have had a crush on Johnny Depp ever since I was like, 7, and to this day I do believe that no human being will ever again achieve the level of sexiness he did in the movie "Crybaby."). He told me stories of more crazy bitches who climbed trees and fell on Mr. Depp's trailer, which seems excessive to me. I don't know what they thought was going to happen. Like Johnny Depp was gonna be all "Wow! I know I'm married with kids and all- but screw them! You are the woman of my dreams, crazy bitch who fell out of the tree onto my trailer!" or something. Even I am not that delusional.

I found out that Catherine, the French lady at my work, put in her two weeks notice, and I feel kind of bad, because we haven't been getting along so well lately... but I do love her a lot, and who is going to tell me I have nice ankles, and get mad at me for saying boobs instead of breasts now?

I was in Jezebel's Past Fashions: Prom Edition... looking chubby and glittery in a handmade monstrosity of pink vinyl and taffetta. I have no shame, so here you go. I promise you the dress was way cooler in my imagination than it turned out to be.

I had an awkward run in with a dingleberry, who was in fact responsible for the coining of the term dingleberry in the first place. I maybe feel bad on some level... because we hung out once... and then he kept calling me like, every day for two months, and I kept ignoring it, and saying I was busy- and I probably wouldn't have felt all that bad if he hadn't been friends with Jen... but he was... and then today he was all "Do you still go out a lot?" and I was all "I like drinkin'" and then he was all "Oh, we should hang out sometime" and I said "I hang out all the time. Mostly in my neighborhood- I'm sure I'll see you out sometime." And then I pretended I was late for something.

The day went on for at least three... and then it ended, and I got my hair cut, and then we went out drinking at places I do not normally frequent, where I received many invitations to many gun shows. One of which I would have been willing to attend (and will possibly attend tonight), had I not been feeling kind of nauseous at the time. Unfortunately, I forget the name of this gun show. Whatever it was, I think it means something like "Has biceps that are actually bigger than Robyn's head" in Serbian (I know because I measured. I am not being hyperbolic). Yes, I realize that I'm supposed to be all gooey over the manorexics and shit, but honestly they just don't do it for me- I'm kinda shallow- I like my fellas tall, dark, and handsome and muscley. Maybe because I'm kinda mouthy and I like having someone around that, well, you know, can back me up. Also, I like that it completely pisses off the hepcat establishment, by defying that "Thou shalt swoon over the homely" commandment. Anyway, Gun Show ripped my new purple tights, so now I have to go get some new ones.

And that is my story.

Rethought post...

I still haven't been able to figure out how to articulate what it is I mean to say. Which is not an issue I generally have.

I do know that I don't like being a novelty. I feel like that happens a lot because, well- shit, I'm a tall, dark-haired, mouthy, overtly opinionated, very frank Italian girl from the east coast in like, a midwest city full of these super sweet, demure, tiny blonde chicks who like, grew up milking cows and shit and then moved to the big city. I am not something you come across every day here- and yeah, in comparison, I probably seem like the freakin' whore of Babylon. But I never thought of myself in that way before I moved here. It's a difficult transition to make, mentally.

It is weird to me that when I date these super super white guys here, that they totally think that they are doing something risque by hanging out with me. I don't see it that way. I'm kind of used to being the funny girl who says snarky thing sometimes rather than like, Sophia Loren or whatever. I don't know what to make of it. Seriously, if anyone back home saw that people acted like that's what I was, they'd probably fall down on the floor in hysterics. Part of me thinks that I don't really want to date them anymore, because I don't want to feel that way, or be forced to think of myself that way. I want to go back to just being a person.

Prior to moving to Chicago, I had to deal with a lot of things, but not like, assumptions about me based on my ethnicity. I didn't even really feel like I had one until I moved here. I also never had to explain what "agita" means- which, let me tell you, is not an easy thing to do.
I don't know if my cultural issues with Chicago have as much to do with my dago-ness as I feel like they do sometimes. I'm really not sure. I do feel like a lot of people here place a high value on like, middle-of-the-roadness. Like, you achieve some level of special sainthood by no one being able to point you out in a crowd. You're not supposed to draw attention to yourself, really. Which, yeah, is something I do, but not really on purpose. It's just me.

The one guy I did date in Chicago for a long time used to get people, mostly girls, coming at him left and right (who didn't know me) telling him that I was "a really bad person and to stay away from me." Then, he dated a much plainer (trust me, I'm totally being nice by saying plainer) looking girl and thus gained public acceptance. I couldn't figure out why that was then- because I think I'm quite pleasant, but I think I sort of have a handle on it now. It would take more balls than most guys here have to hang out with me in public, because I guess I look less wholesome than the nice, short, blonde farmgirls. Like, they might be more attracted to me, or even like me as a person (gasp!)- but to admit that publicly is tantamount to admitting you like to kill kittens and then masturbate with their corpses or something.

This one time, I was at a bar here, and this girl walked in who was just absolutely stunning. I mean, really, she was just so freakin' gorgeous and well put together that even I couldn't stop looking at her. And I heard these guys next to me talking about her, and the thing that struck me was that one of them said "Yeah, she's really hot, but she knows it." And it was said with such bitterness, you know? Like this girl had committed some terrible sin by not having low self esteem, by not looking like every other girl around. I don't quite get that. But that's the way things are here.

But, at the end of the day, I'm truly happy with who I am. I don't want the way people think of me to affect my feelings about myself.

In defense of my bad self

I went out last night with a friend of mine who likes to refer to me as Evil Robyn- to differentiate me from another Robyn he knows (oddly, I think I have the more complimentary name, but that is beside the point). He claims that I have no sense of morality.

Au contraire! See, I admit that I am a bad person- freely- but when I say this, I say it with my toungue firmly in my cheek. It's not that I'm bad, it's just that I am very, very honest. With myself. I don't mean to say that I've never lied, because of course I have, everyone has. But I could never be accused of "being-in-itself" or "being-for-others"- or of having bad faith.

If I am not concerned with convincing others that I am in fact a good person or a nice person, I am more free to be a good person than I would otherwise be. Does that make sense? I like to be on solid ground. I would rather know that someone has a problem with me, and start from there, rather than have them pretend to like me so we all get to be in happy happy land where no one is a jerk. And the thing is- I have the worlds most well-developed bullshit detector. I know when someone is blowing smoke up my ass. And I would rather they did not. For instance- I would vastly prefer it if a guy coming on to me at a bar said "Hey! I have absolutely no interest in your aesthetic opinions! However, you have got a swell rack there and I'd sure like to do ya" rather than feigning interest in anything I have to say (ie: "being-for-others"- acting in the way he thinks I want him to act). Because then we start from solid ground. I am allowed the privilege of making my choices based on facts rather than bullshit.

I don't believe in "niceness"- I believe in "kindness" and I believe that there is a difference.

This, I guess, is where my weird feelings about committed relationships come into play- which, I believe, is the primary reason for my friend thinking I'm evil. Because basically, I've always been irritated by the idea of people being in relationships just to not be alone, rather than because the idea of being with another person makes you nearly physically ill and you do not personally want to do it. Like, I get what people are trying to say when they say that, well, in order to feel that way about someone you have to commit yourself to them first. I don't feel like I do. I am like, awesome at multi-tasking. Like, I've never been able to wrap my head around the concept of cheating, because... well... if I wanted to get with other people, I wouldn't be in a committed relationship in the first place. But then again, I am an especially entertaining person and thus have no issue about being alone. Unfortunately, in order to get anyone to go along with me on this trip, I pretty much have to make them read "Being and Nothingness." Which, you know- is honestly not that great of a time.

I don't feel like I owe people things. I really don't. Maybe I'm deficient in that way. Maybe we just all assume people sort of think like we do- you know- like how if you don't lie, you don't expect other people to? I don't want people to ever feel like they owe me anything. That makes me uncomfortable in the worst way. It's like, I would rather people be decent to me because that's their personal choice, rather than something they feel they have to do.

(Full disclosure- am PMSing and have taken codeine... so this may not make nearly as much sense as I want it to.)

Oh, text messaging!

Oh my god... this is amazingly hilarious. Or maybe I've had too much wine. I merely thank the gods of Gawker for blessing me with this priceless gem.



Oh, 3:44... it's funny because it's true...

I might still be drunk.

1. Star Jones! Getting divorced! Not that I really care, but they mentioned that her real name is "Starlet" and I find that especially hilarious.

2. Dudes in Congo are freaking out because black magicians are stealing their dicks. No, really. Which is probably traumatic for them. But like, if you could have a magical power.... that might be kind of amusing one to have. I'm just saying.

3. Bush quote of the day, via Slate: "Oftentimes people ask me, 'Why is it that you're so focused on helping the hungry and diseased in strange parts of the world?' "—Washington, D.C., April 18, 2008.

4. Wow! Ok, so this is this website... that harasses your exes for you to find out why they dumped you. No, really! I don't see why it's necessary, as I would imagine that it's because, well, you are the sort of person that would enlist the services of a website to help you harass someone to find out why they dumped you. That's your damned answer. You're creepy. Then again, what do I know? That could be a totally attractive quality to some people- I've often noted that my personal insistance on things like having dignity has been troublesome in my personal life. But I'd rather stick things in my eyes. Repeatedly. I can't understand why someone would not find doing such a thing to be abjectly humiliating! Also, honestly can't imagine what I would do were I to someday receive a number of email surveys asking me why I ditched some dude. I would probably file a restraining order.