Who here was there?

It's midnight and I really should be turning out the lights, but I can't help thinking about the fact that when I do, there'll be no one to snuggle up to. Today, as we were taking the train home, post-comedy show (nothing like people talking about their own insecurities to make you self-reflective), I whined to my no-longer-single friend about the desperation-reeking fallacy that is the NYC dating scene. In an aloof tone, she opined, "well, you're starting grad school, so maybe dating someone in the first year isn't the best idea." I was horrified to imagine yet another year of singularity. Though my current shallow expectations of a romantic relationship are based on three simple truths (cooking and eating together, having sex with careless abandon, and playing the role of nighttime body pillow), and I know in my heart that relationships ain't all they're cracked up to be, you'll never convince a single person that it's better to be alone. Sure, there have been times I've sworn myself to celibacy... like this time... but there's nothing like griddle-ing a grilled cheese sandwich for your beloved. And we all reneged on our word time and time again (you're no straight-laced exception, yeah, you) as we slid into yet another hopeless romantic tryst. 

Anyway, time to enter the dreamland of trashy romance novels. Over and out.  

Blogging for Beginners

I've convinced myself that autobiographical narratives are the bane of my existence, forever mocking my lack of storytelling imagination. Who can make themselves sound interesting? Only a narcissist! With that said, I'll begin my totally self-absorbed and mundane musings about my fairly trivial life as a twenty-something in this gigantic city (New York, that is).

After a long day of coffee consumption, writing, and exchanging some of the cheesiest jokes known to man with my boss, I came home with the intent to accomplish some really important shit. Was important shit accomplished? I know, you think I'm going to follow this train of thought into procrastination and inefficacy. But, shit WAS accomplished! Prelude phone call to set up Time Warner Cable Roadrunner Internet in new apartment, check! Completion of several job applications, check! Watching The Bachelorette reunion special as I complete job applications, check! (Come on, Roberto is SO hot, she'd be an idiot to pick the weird-Cape-Cod-guy-with-annoying-New-England-accent over him) Fix up LinkedIn profile, check! Call furniture store to confirm new bed delivery in new apartment, check! Watch The Real L Word online, check!

Speaking of The Real L Word, six episodes in, this lesbian reality (lesbiality?) series has me cursing the day I realized I was into the not-so-fair sex. It also has me cursing the day my parents' separate DNA collided to mold me with all my imperfections. Seriously, did they HAVE to pick all the gorgeous lesbians in Los Angeles and throw them into one televised, Top Model orgy? Thanks Showtime. I wonder how many straight men are watching this - because they should be glued to their couches with a bowl of popcorn. The amount of action these glamazons get makes Jenna Jameson look like the preacher's daughter.

Maybe the grass is always greener on the other side, but something tells me that women do understand each other better than two members of the opposite sex. Case in point, Jill and Nikki. Two sexy Jewish mamacitas who call softly objecting "an argument." Really, girlfriend. I wish all arguments looked like that.

Anyway, more Real L Word relationship analysis to come soon, I'm sure. Stay tuned. It's bedtime for this glama-lesbian (glamsbian?) wannabe.