Still alive (sort of). Still sexy (sort of).

Still trying to make sense of the bad decisions I’ve made as a result of being untethered (no, really).

This is what I woke up to this morning:

A few things to note:

I will ‘fuck and suck any dick’ (can’t take credit for that snappy rhyming, unfortunately) BUT CALL ME ANYWAY.

My ex (Olive Garden, in this case) is a ‘nasty fucker.’ OOPS. Warn me next time, okay Aubrey’s fake tumblr? Come on, help a dirty cunt out.

I’m ‘fucked up crazy’ which is flattering, frankly, because it means they’ve read at least one of my posts.

I have a ‘slick nastly clit’ which sounds kind of sexy so MAKE UP YOUR MIND, AM I TERRIBLE OR NOT? Please let me know (mail@vaginadrum.com) because I think once you get past the smell, we could really get along.

Now, for a few facts:

No one can ever shame me for having a vagina. It’s absolutely not possible. I’m sorry I wasn’t built to be ashamed of what I am, even if that does involve having a ‘nasty smelling cunt.’ I encourage additional attempts, however. Fail better, you know, all of that.

Whoever created this gem is someone I know. Someone who knows my full name, my ex’s full name, where my parents live (one of the omitted tags) and the fact that I spent time with ‘Pizza.’

All things considered though, a name change to Vagina Drun would be cool.

I originally wrote this on September 3rd of 2010. It is largely an unfinished thought that I am thankfully unable to return to. It’s not about my ex, it’s not about me, it’s about you. If you’re alone, you don’t have to be, is the point.

He would say, “You cry all the time.” And I couldn’t really argue with him. I did cry a lot. I’d think back to times when I didn’t cry all the time and they all had one thing in common – he was absent. I never dared to bring up that point though, because I knew he’d have another response that ultimately concluded in me being wrong. Again.

The thing is – I knew I wasn’t wrong.

Usually, I’d say something he didn’t like and that would be his cue to leave the room. That’s when I’d take the opportunity to cry to myself as quietly as I possibly could. Sometimes, I would involuntarily let out huge gasps, which were ultimately errors on my part. They only acted as further evidence that he didn’t need to waste his time respecting me.

And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to say this. How many times I’ve started and how many times I would delete it all the next day. Because he decided to be nice to me. Or halfheartedly apologize.

I’m not saying this to shame him or gain any sort of sympathy. I have no interest in either of those things. I’m doing it to call bullshit on myself and if I’m really lucky, let someone else know that they’re not alone.

Now it’s time to get out of here and be happy.

But seriously – if you’re alone or sad or happy or just ate a lot of candy and afraid you might get sick: mail@vaginadrum.com

I am here. I make mistakes (understatement) and I can’t promise to fix everything for you. But I’m here.

I’ve been told a lot of things about Vagina Drum and myself, especially now that I haven’t been around as much. A few examples:

1. Change your name, people will judge you.

2. Never talk to that ex of yours again.

3. You need to write more.

I’m sorry to say that I can only fulfill number three. I’m doing that right now.

As far as ditching Vagina Drum – it’s not going to happen. I realize it’s not the safest choice but it’s mine and there have been a lot of wonderful things that have come from it. Like my job, for instance.

But the point of this is to talk about my ex and the relationship that, despite its best efforts, never had a chance . In doing so, I will be as honest as I possibly can. Because everyone reading this deserves that. I deserve that.

I haven’t been healthy enough to cut him out of my life. I haven’t been level-headed enough to actually write about all of it. But I can now say that he’s out of my life. My self esteem and self worth may be absolutely shot from three years of ‘You’re wearing that?” and “No, this is why you’re wrong.”  but when he recently told me, with a smile on his face, that I was too ‘harebrained’ to successfully kill myself, something in me snapped. Not in a violent way. Not even in an angry way. I was, in that moment, given the perspective I needed to realize that this person doesn’t love me and this person doesn’t care about me. That’s okay.

I am admittedly having a hard time writing about my feelings and experiences regarding the relationship. Because every painful memory, every comment made to second guess myself is followed by his voice. A voice that ultimately invalidates me. A voice that let’s me know that I’m wrong to feel the way I feel. A voice that uses my own actions to impale myself on my own less than stellar actions as justification to be treated poorly.

Speaking of which, I’m not perfect. I’ve slung plenty of mud. I’ve cursed and yelled and belittled in order to save myself from falling over the crumbling skyscraper that was our relationship. I am absolutely not without fault. My only goal in writing this is to not do that anymore. There’s no need for it. There never really was, sadly.

I will freely admit that the relationship saw a lot of laughter, love, travel, growth, and shared interest in feeling better about our lives while watching Cheaters. I wouldn’t be writing Vagina Drum if it weren’t for him. I wouldn’t be in San Francisco if it weren’t for him. I wouldn’t have an impressive collection of vibrators if it weren’t for him.

But I also wouldn’t have serious doubts that anyone will ever love me consistently and without contingencies. I wouldn’t worry that I’m only attractive while wearing something form-fitting or low cut. I wouldn’t worry I’ll never be good enough for anyone.

He’ll likely never see this or truly realize the depth of the scars that have been inflicted. That’s not the point anyway. They’re mine to deal with now. I just need an opportunity to be listened to. To be truly listened to. To know that I’m not crazy. To know that I have a reason to be hurt. To understand that, despite my sometimes deplorable behavior, he has issues that are not mine to talk about but were made mine to feel bad about.

Still, that doesn’t eliminate the fact that part of me still holds on to this fantasy that he’ll show up to my office one day as I’m leaving, look at me sincerely and tell me that he’s sorry. Maybe he’ll even have one of those foil balloons shaped like a house cat, comically whipping around in the wind as he gives me the only thing I’ve ever really wanted from him. To finally be respected by him enough to have the recognition that my pain from the relationship is not entirely my burden to carry.

And then once he turns to walk away, maybe I’d let the balloon go and watch it haphazardly cut through the sky.

Because I’m no one’s house cat anymore.

When I was younger, maybe from about age seven to age thirteen, I would wish for two main things. A wallet that dispensed endless cash and some sort of something – potion, incantation, electric shock, whatever – that would make me irresistible to all boys. Of course, neither materialized. I had to settle for middle class luxuries like name brand cereal and a garishly pink, phone-shaped phone book – get it – sparsely populated with the numbers of boys who didn’t want me to call.

Fast forward about twelve years and things are a little different. I’m nowhere close to having that wallet, although steady income is certainly close enough for me. As for being irresistible, well, that’s debatable.

I mean, I did just hear from a guy who begged to eat my pussy, cancelled a month-long road trip because he was scared I’d find someone else, and thought I was so ‘amazing’ that someone must be playing a joke on him. All after meeting me once. More than two weeks after rejecting him on all fronts, I wake up to this text:

“It’s Chris. I’d like to see you again. You can be straight up with me and say no. I understand. That’s life but I don’t think we gave each other a chance.”

I think I’ll stop wishing for that potion now.

This morning, I was looking through photos of happier times. But not really because my Photobooth is like a grainy series of ‘Shut-in who wears the same clothes every day and one time, took them off in an attempt to be sexy but that didn’t work because her face is in double chin mode and why didn’t I delete that?’

But I did come across this:

And my heart stopped. Not because it looks like I’m wearing blackface (okay, sort of) but because fuck, I left my sex doll at my old apartment. And I’ve already lost my best friend, I can’t lose my sole outlet for sex, too.

So I panic. And then I email my ex.

No response yet. This might get ugly.

I dyed my hair. I’ve never dyed my hair.

I’ve also never had a breakup as painful as the one I’ve been going through for the past month or more. Or lived alone. Or been this scared. Or lost. Or inarticulate.

But one day, I’ll be okay. I know that much.

On Wednesday, I was on my way to getting a sandwich (avocado, chicken, bacon, BBQ sauce and provolone on sourdough if you want to make me one or something). That shouldn’t surprise you because I’m always on my way to getting a sandwich, aside from when I’m on my way to getting frozen yogurt. But what should surprise you (or a least me, anyway) is that on my way there, I got an email that simply said ‘jobs – are you still looking for one?’

Okay. Two things went through my head almost immediately.

1. This guy wants me to come over to his studio (house with bedsheets for curtains) and take photos of me covered in latex paint, pay me $25 and then at the end, dig through his pockets and only come up with $22.

2. This guy is asking me out of curiosity because he wants to commiserate with me about how he doesn’t have a job either and maybe we can go job hunting together and I can meet his photographer friend who does these awesome nudes with body paint.

I wasn’t really interested in either of those scenarios. But of course I responded anyway with “YES DEFINITELY WHEN DO I START?’ because there was a slight chance that the offer was actually real.

Turns out, it was. Because two hours later, I was illegally parking at Costco and walking to my interview. And I really shouldn’t call it an interview – mostly because I suggested that maybe I could titty fuck one of my future co-workers, but at any rate, they liked me and hired me on the spot. And that’s the best part about this whole thing – they like me (also, income). They know that I choose to be partially known on the internet as ‘Vagina Drum’ and they still like me.

I think.

So, I would like to sincerely (no, really) thank every place that turned me down or otherwise ignored me. If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have landed such an amazing opportunity with such an amazing group of people:

• Yelp (three times)

• Twitter (two times)

• Inkling (two times)

• GitHub

• RocketNinja (I talked about this already but one more thing – RocketNinja, really? Did Jonathan Lipnicki circa 1996 name your company after narrowing it down to the two things he wanted to be when he grows up?)

• Path (I hope you at least enjoyed my ‘Hello my future girlfriend or rather…employer’ email subject line).

• Every Starbucks in the Bay Area even the one with that creepy guy who always looks at my boobs. Sorry Nick!

• The Trader Joe’s near my apartment that I think hires exclusively from a prison release program anyway.

• ZeroCater

• VegNews Magazine. I would’ve been awesome at lying to you about the fact that my chap-stick contains no animal fats (totally does).
• Kink.com
• Every post on Craigslist that was vague about being a ‘dynamic company’ with ‘lots of exciting things in the works.’ Thanks for at least not stealing my identity.
• That woman with two snotty kids in need of a nanny who couldn’t be bothered to show up on time for the interview and made me blurt out, “I just love children.”

I still have PTSD just from saying that I love children but I have medical insurance now so there’s no reason to worry about that or anything else.

One time, I read a quote popularly attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt that said, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” I was around 14 at the time and thought it would ensure lots of dates somehow, or at the very least, get people to stop thinking I was a foreign exchange student from Eastern Europe.

But for the most part, it’s a guidepost that has worked well for me. Mostly because everything aside from television scares me, so I’d otherwise lead a life solely dedicated to figuring out which Desperate Housewife has had the most plastic surgery (Teri Hatcher) or why that chick from those Olive Garden commercials seems familiar (Haley from Modern Family).

In addition to my ‘Hell yeah I’ll try that cinnamon roll frozen yogurt’ attitude is the fact that I am brutally honest. Now, when I say that I’m brutally honest, what I really mean is that I probably have some sort of social anxiety disorder where I say things I shouldn’t and then get the urge to eat a lot of french fries.

So, given that information, here’s where I expertly set myself on fire with my brain playing the part of the kerosene soaked blankets and technology as the torch.

Saturday night, I went to a comedy show put on by a group of very nice guys who wear neat hats, make fresh juice and use their apartment (specifically, attic) as a venue for intimate events. My friend* curated a group of comedians from San Francisco and LA to perform and took it upon himself to host.

I was taking somewhat of a risk, since I hadn’t technically met him in person and there was a possibility that he could be completely unfunny. Then I’d have to be one of those assholes who, in response to something utterly humorless, says, “That’s funny” instead of actually laughing. I didn’t want that. But, as it happens, I did want something else.

When the show started, he got up on stage (two rugs stacked on top of each other) and did his warm up. He was actually really funny. And most of his material had to do with his dick or sex or a combination of both. Those three things together, for reasons most likely related to my late night viewings of Shipmates, really turned me on.

And I thought, “I’d fuck him. No wait, I’d totally fuck him.” So that’s what I told him. In an email. I know. But the show was in progress and he was hosting and there was this Serbian guy next to me who kept asking, “What do you like to be doing in the city of San Francisco” and I couldn’t find his phone number so I could do the right thing and call him to whisper it into the phone so I’M SORRY but I emailed him.

He didn’t email me back immediately, but I was okay with that. What kind of freak would do that, right? We talked after the show and I kept thinking, “Does he know about how I want to see his penis and maybe hug it with my mouth a little? Does he? I mean, I thought I saw that he had a smart phone but maybe he has one of those older flip phones that can’t receive email. Yeah, that’s it – he just hasn’t seen it yet. OH BUT WHEN HE DOES, IT’S FUCK CITY FOR ME.”

And anyway, I couldn’t further embarrass myself by asking him something like, “So…did you get that email I sent? You know, the one about how I said I would fuck you and then HA HA I joked about being sweaty? I mean I swear I wasn’t actually sweating because that’s not sexy but I guess this is technically an attic so it wouldn’t be completely unheard of. Anyway, what’d you think?”

An hour or so later, I got my answer. He texted me and said, “Nice to meet you. Have a good night.” Allow me to translate what that actually means:

“Wow so I just got your email and what the fuck is wrong with you? First of all, you’re too tall and I bet your boobs are kind of saggy, too. That bra isn’t fooling anyone. Beyond that, I don’t even know you. Also, you look like the kind of person who listens to Hootie & the Blowfish and that alone makes my penis want to tunnel inside of me and press itself up against my belly button until you move to another state. So, thanks but no thanks. Have a good night.”

In hindsight, I guess I understand that he didn’t directly address the email. If I got an email like that from a creepy internet half-stranger who I had just met, I’d probably run home, put my phone underneath six pillows and then not look at it again until I got the urge to take a picture of my cat sleeping in a really cute position like this:

Either way, I’m pretty sure that when Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Do one thing every day that scares you” she didn’t mean, “Offer your body to someone you hardly know just because he is funny and talks about his dick.” It’s not like that’s going to stop me though. I mean, she was probably a lesbian anyway.

*We follow each other on Twitter