So much fodder for the blog today. SO. MUCH.

Let me just start off by saying that I know the following person, and I’ve known him for 7 years. He’s sort of the one-that-got-away, but that I would never date because he always lets me know it. We have a special love/hate relationship. Which is the worst sort of like.

It’s a never-ending battle of crassness on his part and witty retorts on mine. We are a Greek tragedy. He’s a d-bag most of the time, because he has a giant chip on his shoulder where yours truly is concerned. It is what it is. Maybe some day. Until that time I live here and he lives 2.5 hours away and that’s all there is to it.

And then I got this text message:

Now, I know what you’re thinking. What a dick. Also pretty hilarious and I just laughed.

I’ve also yet to respond to that text and that was approximately 7 hours ago.

Have fun with the lack of response because I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.

Inappropriate Example of Pickup Line via text. This is the shit I deal with.

Inappropriate Example of a Pick Up Line Used at the West Deck:

And yes, my first mistake was going to West Deck in the first place.

Standing at the bar:
Him:(Looks me up and down after doing a legit double-take).
He FIST BUMPS ME.
“Damn girl, you doin GOOD. Can I twirl you?” (makes a spin motion with his hand)

Me: No. You can’t “twirl me.” I feel self-conscious enough as it is, without you obviously ogling my ass while you “twirl me.” GTFOH. See this dress I’m wearing? I squeezed myself into this strapless sausage dress after eating basically nothing all day. I walked here in 4-inch heels and now my feet are killing me. Already. There are literal safety pins holding this dress together where I ripped a tear right above the ass. Do NOT twirl me. I’m scared for everyone involved in that endeavor, as well as everyone within a 3 foot radius of us. Thanks for saying I look good though.
*Fist Bump*

I fell in love this morning. With a blonde-haired wolverine-looking type character wearing Levis, a white tank, a beard, and motorcycle boots. And he was riding a motorcycle down Spring Street.

Never mind the fact that I was in the car with my ex on the way to a “yea I’ll have breakfast with you” pity brunch. Never mind the fact that I didn’t speak one word to him, or even make eye contact. Oh my dear sweet Jesus come baaaack blonde wolverine. I will do terrible amazing things to you. P.S. I like your motorcycle.

P.P.S. do me. ❤

A bit of a background here…you know, to set the stage. I’m a single 30-something, who has been single for about six months now. Trust me when I tell you that I never thought I’d end up here, dropping my glasses into my wonton soup, hanging with my cat on a Friday night and drinking cucumber vodka on the rocks solo at the age that I am.  But, c’est la vie. It is what it is. I have post-collegiate degrees. I’m well-read. I can hold a conversation about pretty much any topic, and I enjoy doing lots of different activities. And yet I’ve been unable to find a significant other that isn’t semi-crazy, or that I didn’t love enough to try and make it last. Example: my last significant other put their head through a wall in a drunken rage. It was then I decided that maybe being single was better, after all.

So, after 6 months of not walking into a coffee bar or library and finding a beautiful/handsome person that was seemingly made for me, I decided to join Tinder.

I.just.joined.Tinder.

There. I’ve said it. It’s out in the universe. Am I ashamed? Slightly. Am I sad? Probably. Do I regret it? Absolutely not.

And I’m here to tell you why. Because after said 6 months of not finding the perfect human being in a New England seasonal town that’s only 11.4 square miles large (thanks Wikipedia), I decided to bite the bullet and try something different. One of my best friends advised me to try it because, simply, it would make me laugh. And it has. Case in point:

Now, to be fair, I’ve only been on Tinder for two days. So I don’t have any hilarious stories of epic Tinder date fails (more to come on that I’m sure). But, so far, I haven’t hated it. In fact, it’s addicting to scroll through a person’s few photos, read their tag line and think “Maybe yea I could,” or “Fuck no that will never happen.”

So I’ve gotten a few matches. And I’ve definitely gotten a few phone numbers. And I figure, why the fuck not? I’m sure of one thing. It sure as hell is nice to be told you’re attractive (even if the person is just trying to get laid), when most commentary in the general area of compliments in the past half of a year have gone the way of the dinosaurs. I digress.

So, Tinder! It’s a whole new worrrrrld. More to follow.

Hello!

So we’ve decided to set up a website/blog dedicated to the trials and tribulations of living in the city-by-the-sea: Newport, RI. Brutal honesty is encouraged at all times. Hold nothing back with a give-em-hell attitude. Personally, I’m pretty excited to see where this is going to go.

Urban Dictionary defines Antisocialite as the following:
(n) A person who defies fashion and trendiness passively, by just being an individual.
The polar opposite of a socialite.
Not to be confused with an antisocial, antisocialites do not shun socializing, but rather avoid using it as a lifestyle (as socialites do).
Also not to be confused with a nonconformist, who purposely does the opposite of anything they deem to be “in” at a given time.

Example:
If you just have to get that new Louis Vuitton handbag with built in poodle carrier, you’re a socialite.
If you hate the world and everything in it, and are too lazy to do more than bitch about it, you are a nonconformist.
If you just don’t give a fuck, you’re an antisocialite.