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No Turning Back

It’s done… officially ended.  No turning back even if I wanted to.

I settled in at my cousin’s house quite easily, I spent some quality time with the family before they embarked on their trip leaving me to care for the dogs.  I was enjoying the peace and quiet, but I wasn’t completely at ease.
For one, their home was at least a 25 minute drive from the ocean.  As beautiful as life was in the mountains, it was painfully hot and their was no relief other than sitting still in the shade.
For another, the dogs were a lot needier and more anxious than I had anticipated, making it difficult for me to take off on day trips.
And finally, I was completely and utterly alone.  The tiny town was still a 15 minute drive… there were neighbours but they were farther down the hill and I rarely saw them.
With nothing to do and no one to talk to the boredom set in quickly and that boredom lead to loneliness and that loneliness made me think of Nick and how much I missed him.
We hadn’t spoke since I left, and although I knew it was probably a good thing, I wondered what had changed.

A week after my arrival, I heard a small peep from him: “Hey mate, how’s Noosa?” he wrote on my wall.  I eagerly sent him a huge message, filling him in on everything that had happened down to detailed descriptions of each of the dogs distinct personalities.  I even told him how I was getting over a urinary tract infection and how painful that had been.
His only response?  “Well when you clear up, you should get out and have some fun.  You deserve it, don’t let me stop you…”
He’s telling me to sleep with other people?!   I could only assume he had started a physical relationship with someone else and was trying to alleviate his guilt by pursuing me to do the same.
I expressed the doubtfulness of me ever getting laid out in the sticks and he seemed to pity me.
I asked him if he was still planning to come visit me after Christmas.
“I only have two 4 day weekends…” was his (pathetic) excuse.
I could see exactly what was happening, I did understand he was trying to do the best for both of us, so we could both move on, but still it hurt that only a few days ago he was telling me how glad he was to have me in his life.

After that conversation, the silence between us grew.  A few days later, I was chatting with my mom on Skype and she asked about Nick.  “I don’t know anymore… we’re not really talking.”  At that moment, my phone lit up with a message from him.
“Speak of the devil!  Let’s see what he has to say.”  I read his message in my head and then laughed out loud half in disbelief, half in rage.
“What did he say?” my mom asked.
“He’s gotten back together with his ex…” I explained, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “He wants us to keep being friends…”
“Are you alright?”
Thank God I was (somewhat) in my mother’s presence.  We talked a lot about the situation and she kept me calm, but the moment I ended the call, I fell apart.  I cried uncontrollably whenever I thought back to all the times I accused him of still loving her and how he denied it, how he promised he would never take her back and accused me of being insecure.  All those time he would message back and forth with her while swearing they were just friends.  In my heart, I always knew they would end up back together, but I assumed further down the road, maybe after I’d left Australia or we’d lost contact.  Not a couple days after I left town.
I hated her for taking him back.
I hated him for being too weak and pathetic to be alone.
But I hated myself most of all, because my instincts had been screaming at me and I totally disregarded them.  I let myself be swayed by Nick and his friends and my friends.  I let myself be pushed into a relationship that I didn’t want in the first place, only to have my heart stomped on as soon as I began to really feel something.

I drove into town and bought a bottle of wine, a chocolate bar and a pouch of tobacco.
I sat on the patio and chain smoked while slamming wine and listening to Alanis Morissette.  I went on a massive Tinder tear and chatted up all the hot locals I could find.  I talked with a couple friends on the phone and they listened patiently as I ranted about how all men are pigs.
By 9 pm I was emotionally exhausted and collapsed on my bed.  I woke up in the middle of the night when one of the dogs got up.  The first thing that came into my conscious mind was Nick and instantly I felt sadness overtake my body.  Then I felt cold… freezing cold… in the middle of summer in Australia.  I put on sweatpants and a hoodie and doubled up my blankets, I curled up in a small ball for warmth, but still I was uncomfortably chilly.

When I woke up in the morning, I felt like a new person.  My day of mourning was over, I had granted myself just one pity party, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t allow one more tear to fall for Nick.  I got up and did what I always do when I’m trying to turn my thoughts off: I worked out.  For hours and hours.  I also showed myself a lot of love: I made myself some incredible healthy meals, I meditated and read my book, I went to the beach, I did my nails and plucked my eyebrows.  I felt genuinely positive about life.  Nick had done me a favour, I could move on with my life completely and maybe even meet someone new.  I could go back to focusing on myself and my travels, without always having part of my heart back with him.

I read over his message a couple more times.  I contemplated possible responses.  I could tell him to go fuck himself or I could take the high road and wish him well or I could respond with something short and icy.  Nothing would make me feel better, nothing would affect him and nothing would change the situation.
After a lot of thought I decided to simply not respond, I didn’t have anything left to say and I didn’t want to ease his own guilt by either forgiving him or letting him have it.  When he got back together with her, he knew that there was the possibility he would lose me from his life entirely, and he still made that decision.  I had no interest in remaining friends or keeping in touch, surely my silence would reflect that.  I blocked and deleted him from Facebook and every other form of social media to avoid seeing anymore messages from him.
Unfortunately, I forgot to block his email address, because a couple days later, he messaged me, begging to respond even if just to say I didn’t want to talk.  I quickly blocked that too.

Now I’m here.  I’ve assured myself that Nick did not intend to use me or hurt me, I think he genuinely believed he was over his ex, but what he resisted, persisted.  Still, I don’t need his presence in my life.  So now I’m just here, contemplating my next move.

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Goodbye

I rolled over and slowly opened my eyes, the space next to me was empty.  I supposed it was him getting up to use the bathroom that woke me up in the first place.  It felt late in the day; the sky was bright and it was quiet, too quiet, missing was the sounds of the family going about their day.  I groped for my phone, the digital clock claimed it was only 8:00 am, we had slept for 10 straight hours, yet still I felt drained.

I groggily recalled returning home, although I guess it wasn’t really my home anymore, I felt like an intruder when I walked in the door last night.  I went into the house in search of my landlords so I could tell them I’d changed my plans, but the entire family was out, probably at their daughter’s Christmas concert.
We’d stripped down naked and collapsed on my unmade bed, even though we’d both been exhausted we still made love, his strong warm body on top of mine, his perfect member thrusting deep inside of me, it was all I could do not to look into those blue eyes and whisper, “I love you.”  Then I was on my stomach and he was behind and soon I was coming, my orgasm so profound that for a moment, I left my body.  I suppose sleep came soon after because I didn’t remember much else.

He returned to the room.
“Good morning beautiful,” he cooed softly in my ear.  “I’m going to the bakery for a pie run, do you want anything?”
“Mmmm… coffee please,” I mumbled.
“Coffee,” he repeated with a smile, “Go back to sleep, I’ll be back soon.”
I curled up on my side as my mind attempted to recall the hazy details of the past 24 hours.


It was Friday afternoon, the day before I was meant to leave and Nick had insisted on having a barbecue for me, unaware that I had booked a bus ticket for the next morning.  Driving to his house I felt anxious: I hadn’t finished packing, I had no reliable transportation back into town and the way he and Jill had been talking, I knew they were planning on a wild night.

When we arrived at his house, no one was home so we all broke into his yard and started sipping beers and listening to tunes.  Nick finally showed up with his puppy Otis in tow, others began to arrive and soon the party was in full swing.  We drank, we ate, we drank, we smoked.  At one point, all of us girls went swimming in the pool.  Everyone was fairly intoxicated and adamant on doing cocaine.  Nick went down the street with money and returned with MDMA.  Everyone loudly vocalised their distaste, but we all ended up doing it anyway.  My anxiety soared as I began to peak, I couldn’t sit still, I couldn’t relax.  I kept moving seats and getting up to do things and starting new conversations.  Jill was all over the map, Nick kept wanting to cuddle and tell me how special I was, Don could barely speak, Shawn was too intense, Kennedy had not done M but was stoned as shit, Mel was too high to function and her cousin Sally looked sober, bored and judgemental.
Max showed up with a couple friends and I insisted they drop with us, they even chipped in for another baggie.  I started to feel a little more relaxed.

It was certainly an entertaining night, Jill got into the clothing I intended to donate and we had a fashion show.  We played truth or dare and everyone got naked or made out.  We took turns confessing deep secrets and fantasies.
Everyone was starting to do more, but I was done and falling asleep on Nick’s shoulder, I knew I should just go to bed and get some sleep, but I just wanted to stay in the company of my beautiful friends and listen to the sounds of Shakey Graves picking away at his guitar and crooning, “Some of us were built to roam…”

I persuaded Nick to join me and he laughed when I begun my game of seduction, “Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted to fuck?  We could have snuck off for a quicky…”
“Nothing about this is going to be quick,” I assured him.
We explored each other’s bodies touching and kissing every inch of skin.  I felt dazed as if I was entering and exiting a dream.  After half an hour I dried up and we both just fell asleep.

A few hours later my alarm went off.  The first thing I heard was the sound of heavy rain on the rooftop.  I thought about all my friends passed out around the house, I looked over at Nick, naked and beautiful, peaceful.  I thought about leaving them all to trudge down the street alone to the bus stop, to wait in the rain, to rush into town.  The idea alone nearly brought me to tears, so I did what I should have done in the first place: I called Greyhound and for a mere $6 fee, changed my reservation to the following day.  I cuddled up next to Nick and fell back asleep.

The next time I woke it was to my phone ringing.  Kyle was on the other line, he was on his break at work and wondering if we’d all survived the night.  He was especially concerned about Max who was apparently still up cleaning when Kyle had left for work.  I wandered out to the patio and found him staring off into space, poor guy.  I made him tea and as the others began to stir I made them all teas and coffees as well.  All the anxiousness was gone, even though I’d changed my plans last minute and messed up the schedule of my cousin, who was picking me up from the bus stop and my landlords, who were expecting my suite to be entirely empty.  I knew I should feel bad, but truly, I did not care.
I rolled a joint and we all got good and stoned before Max made us bacon and eggs.  Jill had to rush back to town for work so I offered Max my seat in the car, insisting I could get a ride with Nick.  On their way out the door, we grabbed Kennedy and convinced her to stay and spend the day smoking weed and watching Futurama.

Eventually the sky darkened and we dropped Kennedy at home before returning to my now empty abode.  And now we were here…


I sipped my long black and tried to gather my bearings.  I took a much needed shower and said my goodbyes to the family who I had been sharing a home with over the past 3 months.  I made the bed up nicely for the new tenant and Nick and I loaded up his ute.  In town we walked on the beach for a while and ran into some friends who I bid adieu to.
This was the final day I was meant to have; not strung out on M; not tired from being overworked; not rushed and stressed.  This was the farewell I needed: chilled out and with him… the man I had loved and lost, cried for and laughed with.  This man who’d been such a massive force in my life, who I had forged this intense relationship with.

At the bus stop, he gathered me in his arms.  “I miss you already,” he promised and I fought back tears, because the truth was I never intended to move back and he was one of the main reasons why.  The last couple weeks I’d been with him, yet had managed to keep my distance, but I knew eventually I’d get sucked back in.  I couldn’t stand the thought of feeling such deep pain again; the heartbreak was inevitable.
Despite my best wishes, there was no future for me and Nick and there was no life for me in this place.

Onto the big coach I climbed, while he watched me go.  I tried to be strong and look only forward though my body trembled with sadness.

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The Blister on my Heal

It started as a slight irritation and then grew into a dull ache.  Soon enough it was a full blister, throbbing with pain, oozing with every step.

How ironic that her flip-flops were the cause.
Because she’s just that: a constant hurt that won’t subside.

He lent me the sandals, one day after the dog destroyed mine.
“Just keep them,” he suggested with a shrug.  “It’s not like she’ll be coming back to claim them.”
They were two sizes too big and covered in a hideous pattern of flamingos.  Even Jill commented that they looked wrong on me, yet I continued to wear them.

Perhaps I was too lazy to find new ones or maybe I was just used to being surrounded by reminders of her

When we first met, his closet was filled with all her stuff, everything she left behind and intended to return to, but never did.
When we decided to date exclusively, he removed up all her things and set me a picture of his half-empty wardrobe.  It made me smile briefly, until I realized the clothing had simply been boxed up and pushed out of sight, but not quite out of mind.  Just like her.  The bulk of it may have been packed away but some items still remained.  Her pink heart covered raincoat was still shoved under the seat of his car, a constant reminder of how fresh his wounds really are.

They still talk, comment on each other’s various posts and photos, but I know it’s never about me.  Because in her case, I’m the one out of sight.

Sometimes I wonder if I am the most insecure woman or the most naive fool who ever lived.
I can’t remember ever feeling such intense jealousy and resentment, especially towards a total stranger.  It’s disgusting.

Yet, he’s not without his own fears: that I’ll meet someone else, that I’ll up and leave, that I’ll change my mind.  In the end we both run the risk of getting hurt, we both have the potential to break each other’s heart, but that’s no reason to call it quits.


Since we made that transition into exclusivity I’ve felt bogged down with uncertainty and anxiety.  I’m constantly weighing the pros and cons, debating whether I should just up and leave, or try harder to let my guard down.  I wonder if he genuinely likes me or just sees me as something he needs to lock down.  I’m not an object, I’m not his personal prostitute, and I’m not her or his ex-wife.  I’m just me.  I don’t know how to be anyone else.
I know we have no staying power, but right now, being with him makes me happy.  Too happy.


I’ve thought a lot about it over the last couple weeks and have come to a realization.  The reason my relationships take on the same forms, it because I always get in my head about them.  I can’t decide if I should pull away or totally commit and I drive myself (and my boyfriend) absolutely crazy until it decimates and I fall to pieces, fearful that I’ve fucked up and made the wrong decision.
What if this time, rather than waste so much time and energy thinking about him, I focused it on myself and let the relationship run its course?  I’m happiest when I feel independent, so why not continue to live my life on my terms, whilst having a beautiful boy on the side.  My rules, my schedule, my life and if he has a problem with it, then the door is right there.  I need to put myself first and this so-called relationship second.

Easier said than done right?

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We’ve Come A Long Way

When I first started this blog it was a means to vent about my failed relationship without further annoying my patient friends.
It then allowed me to organize my thoughts and do some soul searching.
Soon after it became a platform to discuss hot sex and cute boys.
The sex dwindled and I started writing a number of hasty, short articles about whatever popped into my mind.
Now?  I don’t know what to write about.  I can’t say what my blog is or where it’s going.  It’s rather representative of my life.  I never know what I want or what path to follow.  Maybe I never will.  But I know I’ve come a long way, even just in the last year.
My mind used to be consumed with thoughts of sex and men and potential boyfriends.
I’m still that crazy ultra-sexual woman, but my thought process has shifted.  I can’t just have sex with someone I feel half-hearted about.
Believe me, I’ve tried.


LipRing was my last and that was once and months ago.  He and I have slept together only a handful of times in the last few months.  After our last encounter, I was determined never to go back.  The sex is subpar and not worth putting up with his weird and rude antics.  There’s very little I like about him and because of this, I barely find him attractive anymore; I’d rather be chaste than have to spend any more time in his company.
Luckily, he also backed off and provided me no opportunities for temptation.

Last weekend our paths inevitably collided.  It was the weekend of Rip Curl Pro and the town was swarming with hot foreign surfers.  I was on antibiotics that would cause me to vomit uncontrollably at even a drop of alcohol so needless to say I was completely sober.  But I still attended the after party, I really wanted to dance and possibly talk to a cute guy.
It was an amazing and fun night.  I love socializing with a clear head and knowing that no one will remember anything I say or do, it’s a powerful feeling.  Naturally, LipRing was one of the first I saw and he was smashed.  He stumbled over and began rustling my hair until I pushed him away and yelled, “SCRAM!”
I did my best to avoid him, but it seemed every time I turned around he was beside me with his tongue down the throat of a gorgeous leggy brunette.
Two days later he started messaging me, whining about how we hadn’t seen each other in so long.
“I saw you on Saturday…” I informed him.  He seemed abashed.

The following weekend we saw each other yet again, only this time my mind was definitely not clear.
He asked me again and again to come home with him and every time I said no.
“I’ll drive you home in the morning!”
“Or you’ll make me walk home again, in the rain…”
“No, I swear I’ll drive you.”
“Even so, it’s not happening.”
Finally he relented and said, “Okay, I guess you have your reasons…”
“I have a lot of reasons,” I slurred, “But none of them matters, what matters is I DON’T WANT TO and so I’m not going to.”
“You’re missing out,” he threatened.
“YOU’RE missing out,” I countered and then did my best to dodge him for the remainder of the night.
When I woke up, I smiled through my hangover.
I was proud of myself for sticking to my guns and going home alone.


The other night, while watching Archer I found myself seriously attracted to Stirling Archer.  Turned on by a drawing of a man, yes it’s gotten that bad.
I considered just finding a decent looking guy, any guy, and seducing him.  After all, there are two Kiwi men who have been pursuing me lately.
One is nearly ten years my junior.  He lives at home, works for his dad and is into extreme sports.  He’s sweet and attractive enough, it could be fun to bed him and show him the time of his life.
The other is a few years older than me and is the definition of an adult.  He lives on his own, is an engineer and a base player.  He’s nice and has a good body.  His hairline is receding, but he’s attractive enough.  He could know his way around a woman’s body and it could be fun.
Enough is the key word.  They’re nice enough, attractive enough, but enough is no longer enough.  I don’t want to settle to appease my sullen vagina.
I want intrigue and passion and excitement.  I want to WANT someone.  I want to be mad with desire for the next man I have sex with.


I was talking to Dillon and as always, our conversation turned to sex.  Dillon admitted he’d been rather slutty lately while I admitted to being slightly prudish.
“It’s not for lack of trying,” I insisted, “I just can’t find anyone who interests me even a little and I can’t be bothered to have meaningless sex with strangers.  What’s happened to me?”
“That’s probably a good thing,” he suggested, “It means you’re growing up.”

Growing up?  I guess it had to happen eventually.


I patiently await the day I meet a person that makes my heart pound and my breath ragged.
Until then, it’s nice to know that I’m happy and content on my own.

My blog may always be a mishmash of thoughts, but at least I’m starting to find my way.

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Dad Bod Bullshit

I tried to avoid it, but I have to put my two cents in on this topic.

While scrolling through Facebook I came across several links with titles proclaiming something along the lines of: ‘The Dad Bod – The New Trend Women Are Crazy For!’ along with a picture of Leonardo DiCaprio looking rather chubby. This infuriated me.
First of all, Leo is the fucking man. He’s suave, rich, handsome and an amazing actor. He could gain 100 pounds and still successfully bed all the Victoria Secret Models. The rest of you: No!

Secondly, shouldn’t we, as a culture, be encouraging healthy lifestyles? I thought we were trying to become a less obese society, lower diabetes and take some pressure off the healthcare system. Telling young men that drinking beer, eating garbage and not exercising will only make them more appealing to the opposite sex is super counter productive.

I’ll tell you why this initially made me mad: Never in my lifetime will an article be titled: ‘Saggy Butts and Bellies – The Body Type Men Are Going Gaga For!’ because we live in a sexist, stupid, hypocritical society and I’ve come to terms with this. But come on! This is just rubbing it in.

I’m at the age where I think dad-types are sexy. Nothing gets me going like a salt-and-peppered distinguished man of a certain age. I am attracted to healthy looking older men. Not dudes with bigger breasts than me, who get winded walking up a flight of stairs and who could potentially suffocate me during sex.

I’m in no ways trying to fat bash or say people who are overweight are lazy. We’re all prone to fluctuating weight. I myself have ballooned, standing at 5’2” a gain of 10 pounds is extremely obvious on me. There were times in my life when all I ate was McDonald’s. If I was stressed or tired or depressed or busy, my physique suffered for it.
I don’t expect the men in my life to have ripped, tight bodies. My ex had moobs and was the definition of ‘skinny fat.’ He was also busy working two jobs while going to school and barely had time to cook or workout, but he wasn’t being an all-out glutton by any means. I’m not perfect. I’ve been known to eat crap, smoke and drink in excess, but for the most part I am conscious of what I put in my body. I exercise, I eat lots of fruits and veggies and I usually only drink water. I do these things so that once in a while I can get stoned, eat an entire pizza, a bag of chips and a chocolate bar. If I want something, I don’t deprive myself of it ever, but it’s the 80/20 approach. I need to counter those bad eating habits or I’m going to have some serious problems in the future.

I’m almost 30, if someone is going to share a life with me then they need to share my semi-healthy outlook on life or they’ll only be weighing me down, literally and metaphorically.

http://theodysseyonline.com/clemson/dad-bod/97484

http://elitedaily.com/envision/leo-dicaprio-is-living-proof-that-ladies-really-do-love-the-dadbod-photos/1021113/

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A Matter of Sheer Convenience

So I backslid.  Big time.  I reconnected with LipRing.

It started off somewhat innocently.  After not hearing from him for almost a month, I got a random message from him:
“Hey, do you still have my USB?  Can I get it back?”
My response: “SERIOUSLY?!
He was all, “Yeah, no rush or anything.  I just remembered you had it.”
I was seriously annoyed.  Not a peep from this guy for God knows how long and now he’s harassing me over some cheap USB stick that he lent me.  Just fucking replace it!
I told him that if he wanted it, he could come get it anytime.  He said he was too lazy at the current moment (even though he lives all of 5 minutes down the street) and that he’d get it some other day.  That further enraged me.
Then, he started chatting me up, asking me how I was doing.  I called him out on it and asked him if he was using the USB thing as an excuse to talk to me.  He swore he wasn’t and that it actually just popped into his mind and he wasn’t sure if I was still in town.
“Whatever,” was my reply.

A few days later, he messaged me to inform me that his roommates were out of town and that Kennedy and I should come over and have a few drinks.  I said that she was at work and I had work early in the morning.
“So?  You can still come over, have some drinks, some sex, see what happens.”
I lost it at him.  I asked him if he really expected both of us to show up at his house and fuck him.
He quickly tried to defend himself saying that he really did want to just have a couple beers and thought he’d ask us if we wanted to do something.  The sex thing was (apparently?) a quote from Anchorman that I totally missed.  He was super apologetic and admitted that re-reading his message, he could see that he came across as an asshole.
I admitted that perhaps I had slightly overreacted and we got to chatting.  Even though I still thought he was a total shit head, decent sex in an empty house was beckoning me.  After several not so discreet hints, I finally told him I was coming over.
“Really?  Even though I’m such an asshole?” he teased.
“I have needs.  But I don’t have to come over…” I told him.
“No, no, I’m just kidding.  Please do!”

The first time we had sex it was boring and over too quickly.  When he rolled off me and asked if I’d finished, I laughed and said, “Believe me, if I had cum, you would have known.”
He looked embarrassed and asked for another try.  We lay in bed chatting and then he got his second wind.  The next sex session was way better and I did finally finish.  When he pulled out, there was quite a bit of blood.  I was mortified and truly had no explanation (sometimes I just bleed for no reason… I’ve been tested for every STD and come up clean, I currently have an ovarian cyst that I tend to blame, but truly it’s a phenomenon I do not understand.)  Luckily, he was really cool about it and genuinely did not think it was a big deal (unlike a guy I dated who after a similar incident NEVER SPOKE TO ME AGAIN.)
I didn’t hang around, I went home as soon as possible.  Then I tried to convince myself that was I was doing was alright, it was just sex and I still had the upper hand.  Right?

Last weekend, it happened again.  We were chatting, both of us planning to go out, both of us pre-drinking alone.  He suggested I come by and have a drink with him before meeting my girls at the pub.  I walked down to his house and we had a couple beers and then I walked into town.  He messaged me and suggested that if I was keen, I could come by his house again on my way home.  I told him I would consider it.  The pub was closing and my vision had become blurry.  Everyone in my group was beginning to scatter and I announced that I was going to visit my booty-call.  All the girls scoffed, “You can’t have a booty-call in a town this small.  Everyone will find out.”
I shrugged, unconcerned since my introverted self is virtually anonymous in this community, and began my sex mission.

At his house, the two of us smoked a joint and then retired to the bedroom.  We hooked up twice and it was pretty good, being stoned made it a lot more fun and the fact that he was a bit more attentive was a nice touch, but I still wasn’t very impressed.  But the best part came after the sex, when our two warm naked bodies fit perfectly together beneath the thick duvet and we fell asleep cuddling to the sound of pouring rain outside.
I realized that maybe I wasn’t keeping him around for the convenience of sex, maybe I liked the occasional attention and enjoyed knowing that there was one person who was maybe, sort of, into me.
It’s sad, because I sincerely do not like him.  He’s not my type at all, I would never consider dating him and I don’t really enjoy the sex, yet I won’t entirely let him go.  Because at least he’s something.
My ex and I broke up a year and a half ago.  In that time, I have met one person that I actually liked.  That was a year ago.  Since then, I’ve met one person that I was attracted to, LipRing.  Now that I know that type of person he is, it’s obvious that he’s not for me, it’s just disheartening.

To make matters worst, when I got up at 7 am for work, I politely asked if he could drive me the 4 blocks down the street as he usually offers and it was pissing rain out.
“I didn’t tell you?  I got busted drinking and driving and my license got suspended for a month.  Sorry.”
“Can’t you just drive me home?  There’s no way you’ll get caught driving in a cul-de-sac, first thing on a Saturday morning.”
“I can’t take any chances, sorry.”
Later I found out that he takes the risk and commutes 40 kilometres to work during the week.  But God forbid driving me home.  Far too dicy.
I’m finally ready to let him go completely.  It’s not summer anymore, all those people I once knew have left.  I have a new job, I’m moving into a new place, I have new friends in my life.  It’s time to leave LipRing in the past and move onto bigger, better things.
I’m not ready for a relationship, but I want the next person that I sleep with to be special.  I want there to be anticipation and excitement.

Assholes like him have no place in my life.  Convenience no longer cuts it as an excuse.

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I Think My Landlords Gone Crazy

Since I’ve gotten here my living situations have been unorthodox and uncomfortable. There were those first couple weeks when we bounced from campsite to campsite, running low on cash and getting frustrated with the lack of amenities. We looked on the noticeboard, asked realtors, and sought WWOOFing opportunities but ultimately I felt that word of mouth would be our best bet in finding accommodations. So our first time hitchhiking, I casually mentioned our predicament to our gracious driver.  His name was Blaire, he was a longtime local and super chill.  He said he had a cabin on his property that we could come have a look at.  The next day we stopped by and he insisted we have a couple beers as he showed us his hundreds and hundreds of acres, high up on the hill and overlooking the entire bay.  Blaire was interesting to talk to.  He was a professional boxer, tattoo artist and amateur musician and local royalty (literally.)  He fed us beer after beer and doobie after doobie and even made us dinner.  Every time I tried to bring the conversation to renting the cabin he would change the topic.  He tried to convince us to stay, but finally we managed to leave.  Although I liked Blaire and never felt I was in harms way I couldn’t help but feel disrespected.  We were two young ladies in a new town in a foreign country and this older man is trying to get us drunk the first time we met.  Was Blaire looking to help out a couple of travellers or just looking for some friends?

The next night hitchhiking I got picked up by another middle-aged man named Shawn and his girlfriend Becky.  They were friendly, kind and very fond of Canadians.  They were on their way to have a drink at the beach and Shawn asked if I minded if, on the way, we stopped at his house to pick up ice.  I said I didn’t mind.  While he was in the house, Becky turned and asked where I was living and I explained that we were sleeping in our van.
“You should talk to Shawn, he has a room that he rents to travellers.”
When he returned she brought up the subject.  He gave me his number and told me to be in touch about the room.  I thought it was fate, it all seemed too good to be true. When his number didn’t work I suggested we stop by his house and talk to him in person.  He was welcoming but some of the things he said made me nervous.  He didn’t like closed doors in his house, because he felt they promoted bad energy.  Our room was at the end of a hall and impossible to see into so I hesitantly agreed.  He also REALLY didn’t like other people in the kitchen while he was cooking.  He referred to a situation with Japanese student and casually mentioned that he’d wanted to “rip off his head and spit in his neck.” We weren’t entirely comfortable with the situation, but felt we had no other option.  We needed somewhere to live and we could always continue looking.

Immediately, Shawn was a crazy nuisance.  He had some brain damage from a bad car accident and would forget things quickly.  He micromanaged our day-to-day activities (“You should hang your laundry this way…”)  He spoke very openly about sex, religion and politics and talked over us the entire time.  He was an amazing artist, but he was constantly showing me pieces, photos of his kids, keepsakes.  He never gave me a minute to myself.  He drank too much and would get louder and more obnoxious and then talk extremely close to my face.  He told how his ex-girlfriend was in jail for kicking down his door a few days prior.
One week we lived there and it felt like a lifetime.  How can someone so unbalanced host so many foreigners?  Obviously, it was so he could always have someone around to rant at.

Kennedy had met a girl at work who was leaving town and offered us her room.  We went to check it out: spacious, two beds, lots of storage, a private deck and it was way cheaper.  The house itself was quaint and currently residing in it was a British guy and a German guy, both laid back surfer types.  The landlord, Gerry, lived in a gated-off shack at the back of the property and kept to himself.  He was friendly, soft-spoken, kind of odd, but nice.  The house seemed like heaven after the hell we’d come from.  We moved in and all was good.  Our flatmates would do bong-hoots in the living room and they’d always share this free weed from some mysterious source.
Then, one night we were drinking with a couple friends before going out and had the bong on the kitchen table.  Gerry walked in and told me that there was a cop living across the street who may be able to see into the kitchen and that he’d prefer if we stayed in the living room when blazing.  I apologized, explained that I didn’t know and that we were just about to leave.  But he still reprimanded all of us the next day and threw away the bong and remaining weed, much to the chagrin of my flatmates.  My one roommate, Bob, explained that the free weed came from Gerry, but that he was really weird about it and extremely paranoid. I began to notice how much time Gerry spent puttering around the property, doing nothing.  He talked on about the perpetual pain he was in due to a childhood accident and I began to wonder just how much he was smoking.  When he would dish out weed, he would give it to each of us personally and almost in a rewarding manner.  He never gave any to Kennedy.  I felt like he was using the weed to try and control us.  It felt very wrong.

One night we were all a few drinks in and Jordan and I were sitting on our deck having a smoke when we heard Bob and his girlfriend having loud sex.  As it was a common occurrence, we tried our best to not listen and to finish our conversation.  After they finished we heard a shuffling in the bushes below and realized it could only be Gerry, perched silently next to Bob’s window, listening.  That slight rustle was all we needed to hear and we both immediately knew the implications of what was happening.  Our mouths dropped and we look at each other in horror and disgust.  I refused to even look down beneath the deck, for fear of what I might see…
In the morning I tried to convince myself I’d imagined it, but it was no use.  We both agreed to tell Bob, but were terrified.  How would he react?  Would he tell his poor girlfriend, who was staying with us?  Maybe he wouldn’t even believe us.  Surely he would be upset and may even confront Gerry.  Most importantly, would we get kicked out for spilling the beans?  We had no lease, no contract, no legal rights.  I wanted to tell Gerry he was a disgusting pig, but I was afraid of being homeless so instead I took the cowards way out so as not to rock my own boat.  I felt small and powerless. Kennedy and I wussed out on telling Bob several times until finally he came into our room and asked, “Seriously, what is going on?”
With a trembling breath, I recounted what we’d heard.  He listened solemnly and sadly admitted that he wasn’t surprised.  He tried to make an excuse for Gerry, explaining that his shed was located in that area.  We were surprised by his calmness, but relieved.
The next day when Bob walked in the door, he was shaking with anger.
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me all day and I’ve gotten more and more pissed off.  I don’t know what to do.”
I wanted to cry for him and his beautiful girlfriend, newly in loved and marred by a total lack of decency and invasion of privacy.  In the end, he moved out with his girlfriend.  He tried to convince us to move into their new house and away from Gerry, but the rent was too high.  Kennedy, and I, resolving to always keep out blinds closed, convinced ourselves we were okay. For a while, things were fine.  Two new people moved in and the weed suddenly stopped flowing. I was sitting on my bed watching a movie when there was a knock on my door.  It was Gerry.
“Hey, I need a ride out into the country, I’ll give you money and weed if you do me this huge favour.”
“Sure,” I agreed reluctantly.  “When, tomorrow?”
“In an hour.” It was nearly 9 at night. I tried to back peddle, claiming I had no gas, but he insisted there was a pre-pay pump on the way and he’d fill the tank.  He started gathering a shovel, a flashlight and his bike.  Were we going to bury a body?  Or beat someone up?
“I need to know what you’re doing if you want me to be a part of it,” I told him.
“I have weed hidden in the country and I would rather go at night to collect it.”
Cool, weed I can deal with.  It’s actually pretty smart that he has plants scattered.
How wrong I was.  There were no plants.  He had his weed hidden, buried underground in a random field in the middle of nowhere.  He wouldn’t even let me see where, he made me drop him off and then meet him down the road.  Then, he asked me to drop him off way out of town and not tell anyone what we’d done.  Obviously, I recounted the events to Kennedy and Ben as we smoked the weed I’d received. Gerry had mentioned in passing that he was going to put the house on the market.  The next morning and without warning he turned up with two realtors, woke up Kennedy and asked to come into the room.  Needless to say, she was furious and we started discussing finding some new digs. Gerry was surprisingly absent for a few days, but today I finally saw him and his face was all scratched up. “I was in the hospital,” he said without me asking.  “I thought the cops were after me so I swam across the channel and ran 10k, naked.  I went a little crazy.” Understatement of the year.  He tried to blame it on low blood sugar or some bullshit. I’ve lived in so many homes in so many cities and the most messed up living situations I’ve ever encountered have been here and back to back.  What is with the people in this place?  What is this all leading to? Surely, my landlord has gone crazy.  And it’s on to yet another home…