What the hell is she talking about? You probably think if you stumbled upon this blog/diary/experiment/rant somehow when you were definitely looking for something else.
But if you are bored and Tyra Banks is on tv, you probably want a distraction, so here's my story.
It's the first day of 2008, 3:30 a.m., I am sober, single, and I don't even think there was an attractive man in the same zip code as me tonight.
I feel like I want to do something different this year. Lots of things different. Mostly though, I just want to find one interesting task/goal/objective and stick to it. Maybe this is it?
I don't want to sound like one of those resolution queens. You know, the ones who keep thinking those same thoughts, making those same half-hearted, empty promises[the finally, finally this year something is going to be different thoughts, not that it isn't great, every year has been truly a blessing for me, but you know how you always hope it could be better and you never stick to your resolutions]. No my friends, I know myself better than that.
I know I will likely smoke a cigarette this year. Sleep with a man that I shouldn't. Get too drunk and make an ass out of myself, at least once. Not start my own business as soon as I should. Keep thinking about that idiot arabic guy who broke my heart two freaking years ago, I mean seriously, sarah...get over it.
No, this year I am keeping it simple. I am going to resolve to actually resolve this year. I am going to find one thing and just try my best to stick with it.
What will that one thing be? Well maybe this might just be the start of it.
Last week, I got two different emails from various people who want ME to write for them... a column about dating.
Oh that is so 2001 is my initial reaction. Sex and the City and all of this stupid wanna-bes who want to be her, think that it is plausible to live in NYC with that sick of a wardrobe on that little dinero, the same ones who sit on poor SJP's doorstep and harass the shit out of her, and even go so far as to wear wifebeaters that said "I'm a Carrie" or the even lame-r ones, "I'm a Charlotte."
Sigh.
I. Do. Not. Want. To. Be. One. Of. Those. People.
I'm already lame enough, I don't need to be pushed farther on the scale of lame-ness.
The thing is that somehow [likely because I am slightly insane] I am drawn to the idea of the whole thing--writing again, sharing my journey, and hoping that perhaps it will give me further insight into myself.
The truth is that I really don't care what others think about my descretions, indescritions, and lack of discretion, but I do care about the journey. And I want it to have as many milestones and moments as possible. And I want to remember them. And I want to write again. And I will definitely be dating like crazy, tis my nature. So it isn't like a ton of work or anything. You see, tons of ands.
So I am going to start here, where no one is paying attention and see if when I have zero readers, if I am comfortable putting it out there and then maybe decide if I am ready to step into the semi-darkened spotlight for a year in the life of being me, stuck in the meat rack.
Ah yes, the meat rack. I don't know what the hell I would call this column if it ever even comes to fruition, but the meat rack is what my grandmother used to always call single bars, where the cheesy men come to hang out and chase the meat. You know, the ones who graze your ass with their hand and pretend they didn't. The ones who look at their chest (even if they are size B) when they are talking to you. Sigh.
So meet rack it is for now.
Bon Voyage...
Let's see where this disasterous trail that has nightmare written all over it will lead.
Sarah
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