1.  Most folks don’t read the full blog post.

This is something that has become abundantly clear when I read comments repeating, over and over, the same thing I already concluded in a post. I promise I’ll NEVER change who I am on behalf of anyone. K, guys? Pinky swear. I’m too fucking stubborn for that. Some of y’all are new, but the rest of you I figured would kinda already know this. In other news, I don’t always read full posts either. So we’re just all awesome that way.

2.  I need to clarify myself a bit better.

Yes, I like white guys. No, I’m not going to keep myself from meeting a black guy, Latino, African, Asian, Persian or any other type of guy JUST because I happen to like white guys. I was actually offended that this is what people got out of that post… and then I remembered it had to be my fault because apparently I didn’t speak clearly enough. Or maybe it’s the above issue all over again.

3.  Some blogs just annoy the shit out of me.

Inevitably, there are just some writing styles that irk me to death. Other times, it’s an inability to provide variety that really gets under my skin. I really don’t need to read or hear about the same subject 20,000 different times.  Snore fest.

4.  Picture blogs make me happy.

I don’t have to read. I don’t have to comment. They help kill my reader numbers pretty quickly. Love.

5.  Bloggy friends are awesome.

Sure, it sounds cornball-ish to have a “bloggy friend” but fuggit. If they’re good people, then they’re good people. And that, my dear readers, is rare to find. I got the lucky end of the stick on that topic.

6.  I can’t always comment.

I’d love to, but sometimes work and life gets in the way. That “mark all as read” button has been my friend on more than one occasion.

7.  I really, really, really appreciate those pass-them-on bloggy awards.

I just don’t post them. I used to and then one day I looked at my blog and thought, “woah – it’s too cluttered.” More importantly, I thought it was too self-congratulatory. I don’t care when I see ‘em on other people’s blogs, but for myself it just doesn’t sit well. So my new rule is only posting the ones that are not meme-like. It’s for this reason I’ve never “payed them forward” either. But I think that’s why I went over and above on 20SB Blogger Compliments. Besides, if I comment on a blog then folks gotta know I like their material. Right?

8.  Speaking of memes – I can’t dig ‘em.

I remember, vividly, when I would post them and think, “yay! bloggy material!!” Except, it really isn’t legitimate bloggy material and I just can’t get down with ‘em. I am of the lame. I know.

9.  No matter how hard I try, I will not remember that perfect blog topic the next day.

Why’s all the good material gotta come to me when I’m about to fall asleep anyway?! I call bullshit.

10.  Nobody reads blogs from Fridays to Sundays.

You know what this means, right? We’re all some serious slack assers at work.

True story.

Back in the day when I still held twenty-thousand mind-numbing jobs all at once, all pertaining to retail, I worked for Britney Spears.

Y’see, I used to be a fragrance model. Yeah. I know. Sounds totally posh, huh? Like I was all fancy schmance and loving life while at it.

Lemme tell ya something. It was anything but posh. Frankly, it was a stupid title to lure dumb people (read: me) into selling perfume that everybody hated.

It started out with crap like Halston.

Wanna know what smells like microwaved doo-doo turds?

Halston.

Wanna know who buys that crap?

Old people.

I have sold everything from Michael Jordan’s cologne to White Diamonds and holey dickballs batman I am glad that shit is over with.

As you may have already surmised, I also sold Britney Spear’s Curious and Fantasy.

Would you care to know what’s extra super duper fun during the Holidays?

Getting reamed by concerned parents for hawking an item that came from “such a whore.” I think I would’ve gladly taken a fiery hot poker up the ass before dealing with the wrath of those overly crotchety military moms. There were a few tirades directed at me as if I was the whore for simply trying to get a damn paycheck. A few times, I almost sent my fist into those women’s teeth. Except for that minor detail in which I’d land in jail.

I can’t hang with jail bird chicks. It’s just not a pretty scene and I’d end up somebody’s bitch in about .02 seconds flat.

I ain’t down for that. No way. No how.

And I realize that technically I worked for Elizabeth Arden, since her company is behind Britney’s fragrances. But that just doesn’t sound nearly as interesting.

So I stick with the name dropping because it makes those five consecutive holidays just a little more bearable.

Just a little.

I am really damn opinionated. As far as I can tell, I’ve been this way since I forced my mom to have me two weeks before she was supposed to. I think I was aiming for Christmas, but missed it by a day.

Whatevs.

The point is that I came into the world on my own terms and I’ve been re-affirming this concept since day one.

Some people can’t dig the opinions. Actually, it’s not really the opinions that bother them, because unless specifically asked, I don’t always share them. The problem is the way I deliver my point of view. Or stand my ground. Or simply say what needs to be said.

There are tons of folks that just can’t dig confrontation. Of any kind. Whether it’s constructive or not. Whether it’s not even confrontational, simply a stating of facts (or facts as one might see them).

What I’ve noticed throughout the years is that men, in particular, can’t dig it when a woman’s got something to say that they just aren’t equipped to handle.

Frankly, this is the biggest reason my father and I don’t talk. Growing up, I never held back how disappointing it was to see him so shitfaced and to watch him belittle those that I love the most.

Ironically, I allowed everyone else in my life to walk all over me like a rug. It probably comes as no surprise that this behavior eventually led me to grow one incredibly strong back bone.

I don’t like being fucked with. I especially don’t like seeing people I care for being fucked with.

And I won’t just sit by and watch it happen. Not now and not ever again.

So it should also come as no surprise that the last (brief) relationship I had came to an end for some of the aforementioned reasons.

Maybe I’ve become so jaded by the situations I’ve witnessed that I don’t know how to be anything but strongly convicted. Maybe I come off too tough on occasion. Maybe this is something men just can’t handle.

This then leads me to worry about the future. I mean, I’m inching closer to 30 and it feels more and more like I’m supposed to be in a committed relationship with babies on the brain.

One might suggest that I tone it down a bit. Although, I think those who would say such a thing have neither walked a mile in my shoes nor had the “pleasure” of witnessing what I have.

I guess that at the end of the day – it just means I need to look harder for a man who’s got an equally strong backbone. Someone that is able communicate, even minimally. One that isn’t going to run from a situation because it’s difficult, but actually stand his ground and face it head on. A person that doesn’t duck and hover when shit gets hard.

And who knows? Maybe I’ll find a woman with those criteria instead.

When you’re in the middle of it, the euphoria cursing through your body cancels out every other aspect of the event.

It occurs to you that, yes, maybe it’s a bit weird you can’t stop clenching your jaw. That licking your lips so consistently may not really be normal. That the inability to keep fingers, legs and arms from moving in constant motion isn’t quite right.

But you chew minty gum for that. Because it distracts from the clenching. And you take walks with friends because then your legs are moving for a reason. And you find little things like cloth or paper or pens to roll between your fingers.

You ignore all the things that aren’t quite right for the sensation that everything actually is right. That you’re on top of the world. That you can express every feeling in your mind and not feel ashamed or embarrassed by it. That you’re a part of something bigger and better and more profound.

And it’s fucking amazing.

The highs are the highest of highs. You become more sensitive to every light, scent and touch. Memories are seared into your brain in ways you could never expect. Colors are more colorful. Flavors are more flavorful. Everything is exponentially better.

And you just keep ignoring that something just isn’t quite right.

And the lows are the lowest of lows. These same heightened senses lend easily to the exact opposite of euphoria. You wake up on the floor in familiar places that are suddenly so strange you are thrust into full fledged panic attacks. For days you are unable to keep food down because your body is physically incapable of chewing and swallowing. The sheer and utter exhaustion covers you like a thick fog.

It’s just easier to lay flat. In a dark corner. With three blankets because you just can’t warm up. Maybe four. Ignoring the world and everything around you.

It’s like a self-induced coma.

I never wanted to believe how fully addicted I was to ecstasy. I never expected these kinds of revelations to be told through this blog. I’m almost annoyed with myself for talking about it. I feel like I’ve mentioned it one too many times.

But it’s an interesting place to be. Clean and sober and looking back on it. Seeing so clearly how bad it was, and how much worse it could have gotten.

Being that MDMA was originally prescribed as a marriage counseling drug and made popular by super wealthy men in Texas, I convinced myself that it was much safer than it really was. The biggest problem is that it’s out right illegal. For those that don’t know, this means those lovely little pills of pure bliss can be laced with anything from heroin to methamphetamine.

Even now, as I sit her typing this, I can remember exactly what the first and last time felt like and everything in between. Something about that just isn’t quite right.

And it’s really fucking frightening.

Y’all! I miss college!

There are days when I am all sorts of fond of my “adult status” and the feeling of getting old as fuck. But sometimes I like to reminisce.

I wasn’t the best student. There a many, many boring reasons for this so I’ll spare you the details.

What I really loved about my university years? Fuckin’ around. And no – not that kind of fuckin’ around – but the kind in which I hardly bothered with class. Like, ever. Instead, I went to chill with my best friends and got stupid high.

What is it about collegiate weed anyway? I swear, it comes in special grades not found elsewhere. And the crystals on those suckers! Dear goodness don’t even get me started on that sparkly goodness.

Looking back on it, I realize this was a much bigger waste of money than I’d ever like to admit to, but I don’t particularly care. If anything, it was an entire era of learning experiences.

Our university was nestled in a mountainous region not far from the West Virginia and North Carolina borders. Virginia Tech’s buildings are made from really pretty stone which was eloquently dubbed “Hokie Stone.” The area itself has a mash up of Northern Virginia yuppies, local hippies and everything in between. It wasn’t hard to find vegan restaurants across from hookah bars which were down the street from “glass shops”. It’s a crisp area where the air smells completely different from what I am accustom to.

In one word, it’s magical and I don’t even care how cliche that sounds.

I miss the care free attitude. The days of independence and new adventures. When smoking herbal remedies was totally The Thing To Do.

With age comes more responsibility.

I find this completely overrated.