This post started as an exploration of the creepiest places to hit on women, but in light of a few recent events, it turned into a brutal expose on the creepiest of all the social networks. And by expose I mean a rant spurred by my personal experiences on the site. As well as this shining example of why there’s no escaping dudes who feel it is their right to comment on the appearance of complete strangers.
Celebrity couples come and go more frequently than they do in pleb society. Just another reason shit is hard for the beautiful people. We really shouldn’t be invested in these breakups. Or, at the very least, we should be used to them by now. Yet, like most things celebrity, we ravenously consume news of famous failures in love. Except for those who are above it. Good for you! Your life is richer than most.
Making friends as you reach the old and decrepit age of 30 becomes increasingly difficult. Partly because life is busy and other things take priority. Partly because you aren’t thrown together with new people as much as you once were. And partly because, as you get older, you get wise enough to know that everyone is terrible.
All this chatter about Ashley Madison has led to some interesting/infuriating/ad nauseum discussions about relationships and cheating. The defenses of public-ish figures caught in the honey trap range from a very special Mark Driscoll Real-Marriage brand of victim blaming to Shaggy’s perfectly articulated “it wasn’t me.” My favorite, and the one I’ll address here is the age-old “It was just for funsies. I looked, but I didn’t touch.” Anecdotally and sorta newsly this lame ass excuse is presumed to have legs according to what I presume is skeevy men.
The 50s were a better time. Women didn’t have real roles in the workplace and once the ring hit their finger they were out. Safely relegated to home in their position as an actual wife. Now, they overstay their welcome and brazenly make a real contribution to the team. All this collaboration leads to interpersonal connections, which, after 40 plus hours a week, morph into a relationship. A relationship that quickly becomes the much talked about faux marriage.
At one point I didn’t think I was ever going to post this. It was far too dark. Not really in keeping with the tone I had established. Even when I talked about some of the shadier moments of past relationships I tried to keep it relatively light. But after a week conversing with a myriad of women who had similar experiences, I felt more compelled to share my own more publicly. One of the women I spoke with had no idea anyone else could possibly go through what she did. And one is still in the midst of it. It was her story even more than the others that prompted the release of this material. Because I know she represents thousands of other women who are still in it and I feel I have a responsibility to share anything I can to encourage them to get out before it’s too late.
When I finally got mawiaeeed, there were a hundred reasons to keep my last name. Despite fueling immeasurable torment from immature boys, it had been oh so very mine for 30 years. It tied me to a family who had been by my side, dusting me off after boy after boy after boy after boy after boy after boy after boy after boy was gone. (I think I got ‘em all.)
Two years ago today I made a horrible, no good, very bad decision. I was a dirty bird who fouled my own nest. Dipped my pen in the company ink. Messed around with the help. Or I guess he did…Whatever, I’ll speak plainly, I made out with my boss. You have to understand. It was an incredibly romantic setting. I couldn’t help myself.
