Say ‘pumpkin spice latte’ 3 times in front of a mirror and a gluten-free-spinning-vegan-white-girl in yoga pants will appear to extol her wisdom on life, the universe and everything.
I say Tindr 3x and a man/boy materializes out of nowhere and asks me out.
(tindr tindr tindr)
I once asked a 22 year old if there was a Tindr for Cougars, he laughed and said “No, that’s just regular Tindr”.
His 22 year old best friend asked me out 4 hours later.
To this day I have yet to make an account. I still might, feels like field research, the fun kind.
My sweetsoulsister in singledom (and blogging about*) it posted the following…
“…and suddenly all those love songs made sense.”
My mind cried out NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, with the emphasis and panic of a man falling down a really really deep well.
But, but there will be no more funny Tindr date stories. Selfish thought for the first one.
Lana Del Rey. You addictive monkey, get the fuck off my girl’s back. Take Justin Bieber and Rhianna with you. Fuckers.
LDR is not the witch I am about to make her out to be, nor is she the Snow White she portrays herself to be…she is the poisoned candy apple, oh ya, covered in melted red sugar. Cavities galore.
I had a Lana Del Ray addiction that coincided with Young Un the first. In fact, the two became so intertwined there was no choice but to amputate, poison ivy grew around us and choked the life right out. All the while singing “will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?”
The answer was a resounding FUCK NO. But maybe…but no but maybe.
It’s the maybe’s in life that will kill you.
Nay fucking nay. I was 40, he was 25 and in the grand scheme of things, not a life partner, just fun for a bit.
“Hot summer days, rock ‘n’ roll
The way you play for me at your show
And all the ways I got to know
Your pretty face and electric soul”
(but but but he did that, and other fun stuff too.)
Alas. My head was so full of bubble-gum pink goo I couldn’t think straight. A goo named Forever, mainlined through LDR’d vocal cords right into my ears. Addictive shit that.
Logical me knows there is no such thing. Me high on syrupy sweet love junk as crooned by Miss Lana? I was the white girl, no yoga pants (his band shirt instead), unable to even.
I’ve been clean for a year now. I can now recognize that post nasal drip that occurs when I am waxing nostalgic. I remind myself of the sleepless nights and the empty pockets of addiction and take a few deep cleansing breaths.
I am kinda digging this new singer Ria Mae… “I don’t want your heart your soul or your hand, I want your body, want your body instead”.
Much better mantra.
- her blog can be found at http://jennandthecity.com/?