Dixie’s Pen Pal
We were pen pals first. He fought insomnia by reading my blog.
Then one day he e-mailed me.
Where are you from in Texas? I just moved here (Philly…Center City to be exact) from New York, but am originally from Houston.
Another question. Do you really think Texas is the Midwest? I guess you have a point if you look at it laterally. But most people from Texas think we are from the South.
Anyway, I just finished reading some of your material. Not bad. I really enjoy your older stuff. It’s much more raw and emotional. In fact, I really enjoy the entry “Bubbly”. No joke.
Ciao
Jay
And it started with that. And 5 weeks later I finally agreed to dinner.
We met at the Piazza. I chose the place. Not only do I love the food at Vino, but I also wanted to make sure I was in a safe place in case this guy was a complete psycho.
“Text me when you want to meet”. He said.
I finally texted him over an hour later.
He texted back. “It takes you an hour to get ready. I’m not even mad. I’m impressed.”
At this, I can’t decide if I want to punch him or marry him.
I got to Vino 10 minutes early. I ordered a Rossini and sat at the bar waiting for him. As soon as he arrived I knew it was him. Like I imagined, he was as smart, as casual, and as well thought out as our e-mails. Beautiful dark hair, scruffy beard, black and white checkered shirt paired with skinny jeans and flip-flops.
He was perfect. If he was a toy, I would never consider sending him back to the manufacturer.
As if his appearance wasn’t enough, his personality ripped me off my feet. He was smart, witty, and kind.
I’m almost sure if I had written a letter to Santa Claus asking for the perfect man, Jay would be the gift left under my tree.
We spent dinner wrapped in conversation and prosciutto wrapped figs paired with Riesling and pizza. Amidst the people and the piazza, I felt like we were the only ones there. When we got the check I prayed under my breath that this wasn’t the end.
It wasn’t. We walked down to Swift Half, where we drank Grey Goose cocktails and lingered in front of the jukebox for hours. Playing songs for each other. The Smiths, The Cure, Bob Dylan, Ray LaMontagne, Lykke Li, The Black Kids, The Kooks, Ludo, Silversun Pickups, Mute Math, and our list grew and grew.
Tipsy, he grabbed me by the hand and dragged me across the uneven bricks to PYT. We ordered ten dollar adult shakes. The Caucasian, to be exact, making Big Lebowski jokes. Then we ordered a Royale with cheese, while laughing and claiming Pulp Fiction to be the greatest movie ever made.
I dipped my French fries in my milkshake and at this he claimed, “you are the greatest girl around.”
With a comfort blanket of alcohol wrapped around me, I blurted out “why? Why did you e-mail me?”
He put down his burger and looked at me straight in the eyes. Big brown beautiful kind eyes. He gave me a look that made me melt.
“Because. Because I have a crush on your writing. I had to know you. You are filled with such emotion. You spoke to me. I had to.”
I stared straight back at him slurping the last few drops of my milkshake loud and obnoxious.
“Oh.” I said as I nodded.
“Drive me home?” he questioned.
I nodded and we both slid out of our booth.
On our way out of the Piazza we shared a cigarette and pet a pitbull. I was happy. I was genuinely filled with joy.
In my car, he plugged his i-phone in, playing role as DJ. Playing music I didn’t know, but fell in love with.
He kissed me goodbye and as he got out of my car. As I pulled away The Smiths came on.
Oh God, my chance has come at last.
Thanks For All The E-Mails
I’ve been getting a ton of e-mails from many of you readers. Thanks for all the kind words! Also, many of you have been suggesting I write more about my personal love life. Well, I have considered it and I will try and post something by the end of the week.
None of my former beaux are safe…
muahahaha…
Au revoir, mon amie
I wrote this a long time ago. But it’s blog worthy. It shows how quickly things come in and out of our lives. How different things are today than they were yesterday…
I had a crush on you for a really long time. It took you four months to finally ask me out. Friends first, lovers now. You know what I do. What I write. You seem to ignore it. Ignore all this bullshit and realize I’m just me.
You make me laugh. You make me think. You showed me new places. You know it’s all about brunch. You introduce me to new music. You allow me to be myself. I catch myself making jokes and I worry that you might think I am a crack head, but you laugh along anyway.
The first time we had sex, I was nervous. I was afraid of you seeing me naked. You laughed, “but I’ve seen you naked before”. But this time it was different. It was real. It wasn’t Dixie, it was me.
I want to love you. I want to be there for you. The last call at the end of your day. The girl you think about in between e-mails at work. I want to be your partner in crime. Your equal. Your best friend.
You’re not looking for experiences because you have plenty. You’re looking for now and for forever. For genuine love and for babies. You want to wake up to freckled face angels crawling around in your bed, and to reach over, brush the hair back to the woman you truly love. Maybe you’ll whisper something to her in French and I hope that when you see her face, it’s me, smiling back at you.
Slow Dancing In A Burning Room
Like a shot of Patron, that sharp smooth chill of Fall has crept up around me. It’s tragic how quickly time has flown by me. And here I am still working an embarrassing menial fucked up job. Trying to save. Trying to survive. It’s hard.
When people ask me what I do I either sharply change the subject or ram it down their throats like the fist of a bulimic. I never know which answer is the right answer.
Once, I got so drunk at Parc, I shrieked “I’m a fucking stripper you asshole! IS THAT OK?”
None of it is ok. But I deal. I get drunk and angry and foul mouthed to those that snub their nose at me. It’s hard trying to fit into a society that says I’m wrong. And I hope and pray I graduate soon enough and try to nestle into society before it’s too late…
I love Fall, but for some reason this year its different. Sadder. Lonelier. I think being alone for so long has finally taken its toll on me. Whether you like it or not, seasons don’t wait for you. They don’t care what your feeling or what you’re waiting for. And they come in and out like they do every year.
I log onto my Facebook page every morning and see friends getting married, having babies, living lives. And I have none of that. I know I’m not ready yet. But I wonder if I really will ever get out of this fucked up shitty little existence or if I’ll just watch it all pass me by…
Here’s My Soundtrack Of The Day…
Diamonds On The Inside- Ben Harper
Mad World- Alex Parks
We Get On- Kate Nash
Not Too Late-Norah Jones
Giving Up-Ingrid Michaelson
New Slang-The Shins
Concerning The UFO Sighting Near Highland,IL- Sufjan Stevens
Brick-Ben Folds Five
Be Be Your Love- Rachael Yamagata
Blue Lips- Regina Spektor
Mushaboom- Feist
She Moves In Her Own Way- The Kooks
Late- Ben Folds Five
Miss Misery- Elliott Smith
Ode to Divorce- Regina Spektor
Real Love- David Gray
Need You Now- Lady Antebellum
You And I Both(Live)- Jason Mraz
Barfly- Ray LaMontagne
Control- Mute Math
Forever- Ben Harper
Trouble- Coldplay
The Scientist(Live)-Coldplay
Not Myself- John Mayer
Slow Dancing In A Burning Room- John Mayer
Tools
The few brave souls that risk dating me are all generally the same. They all want to look after me, try to convince me that I’m fucked up, that I am on the fast track to hell, and that they will fix me or save me before it’s too late.
I try to show them that I’m fine. That I am strong enough without them-capable of nurturing myself. So I make myself distant and self sufficient. Functioning only as one and never for two. Being selfish in order to prove that I don’t need to be fixed. Not on purpose, because I love doing things for others, but when pushed to extremes, I go to the extreme. It’s not that I don’t care, because I do, but I believe in putting myself first.
The thing is, they get so caught up in worrying about me, about Dixie; that they forget about themselves. It’s not my fault. I never asked them to carry around a tool belt to try and fix me. I am quite capable of taking care of myself. I was given the skills to take care of myself. Even if it isn’t the sweet pretty life I lead. It’s my job. It’s a game. It’s a fantasy. I don’t bring Dixie home with me. I leave her hung up in my locker.
To me, it’s black and white. I understand the distinction between the fantasy and the emotion. But there are gray areas in people. The part of someone you can never touch; their deeply guarded dark spots. As a dancer, I can’t afford to have gray areas, that indulging greed that lurks.
I think if a man took the time to understand me. To accept the way I am, things would be better. I could loosen up and not have to try and prove myself so much.
I’m proud of my journey. I’m proud of my strength. And one day I hope I will find the man that won’t be trying to fix me or tell me who to be. Because me is good enough.
Richard Brian Penn
If you haven’t heard of Richard Brian Penn, you should kill yourself. Or just go to his site here.
I had the lovely opportunity to have a chat with RBP and The Atomic Bombshell on one of their regular radio shows.
You can check it out here.
*please note I sound like a total douchebag because uh, well, I am one.
Thanks Philebrity!
Philebrity wrote a wee little story about *me*. yay.
Dead Dixie Walking
I wonder if there are any quality people that exist in this world anymore. I find life to be more and more depressing with each passing day. Who can you trust anymore?
I find that the only people I ever meet either want to A) “Save” me B) Fuck me or C) Fuck me over.
“That’s because you only surround yourself with people that are emotionally dead.” My mother says. “They have relationship issues. And you let people take advantage of your kindness too often.”
Maybe I’ve let people in too much. Let them in and kill whatever was left of the real me. Now, I’m left as an empty mannequin. The walking talking Dixie doll.
Maybe my Momma is right. Maybe I have chosen to surround myself with people that are emotionally dead because maybe I too am dead inside.
Toxic Memory
I left work early tonight. Sober and broke. My contacts are dirty. I need a new pair. But perhaps this clouded vision has made things all so clear. I smoked a cigarette in honor of you. I sucked down the nicotine. The black tar flooding pink lungs like you still flood my memory, clouded and dark.
Found this video someone made using Adele’s “Hometown Glory” and my favorite TV show “Secret Diary Of A Call Girl”
Government Sluts
I don’t know why people are so bloody shocked about Governor Mark Sanford being unfaithful to his wife. I am rather impressed with his skills of concealing his mistress for so long and in another country at that. Kudos for being so slick Gov. Perhaps Bill Clinton should have thought a little more into his Monica affair. Clinton could have had a hot Brazilian and his dignity. C’est La Vie.
But back to my point…in my line of work I see plenty of politicians, lawyers, and government workers(one of my regs* is an FBI agent who takes the pleasure of driving up from D.C. once a week to see me). I am telling you those Republicans are a dirty breed. They’re all a bunch of closet perverts.
So don’t be surprised little housewives when a liberal slut arrives at your door announcing she is “here for the gang bang.” ( I love Old School).
*regs- AKA a ‘regular’ someone who comes to visit me or the club on a regular basis.
