Adventures in (F)unemployment: Part 2- Stop F*cking F*ckboys

It has been a little over three weeks since I lost my job and I feel like (F)unemployment has me doing all sorts of crazy shit lately. And no, I don’t mean like, putting on a “Showtime” show on the L train, or chanting along with the Hare Krishna’s in Union Square. But like adopting a dog immediately after getting fired? Really? Though it is seriously the best thing I have done in weeks I can’t exactly say it was anything other than a rash and illogical decision. But the upside of being (f)unemployed is it has lit a fire inside me to purge all the bullshit from my life that is not serving me in a positive way. It has given me a weird sense of fearlessness that wasn’t there before. But I guess when you’ve already lost your job in a totally unjust way, you figure not much else can go wrong and might as well say fuck it to everything else! First I told the dude I was barely dating I wasn’t going to bother anymore. Then I told another guy I was kind of sort of seeing (albeit casually) for the better part of eight months that I didn’t feel like being his afterthought anymore.  And finally, after years of ignoring the advice of my friends, removed a very toxic influence from my life. That is a lot of positive change on the relationship (or non-relationship?) front for one week. And then it hit me. The common denominator in all my (non) relationships (other than me of course) is that every person I get into a thing with, ends up being a total fuckboy. And after careful thought and consideration, I’ve decided I need to stop fucking with fuckboys.

This is how I came to this realization and conclusion. Anyone who knows me knows I have a long-standing history of choosing the wrong men. I fully admit to having daddy issues and a distrust of most straight men. Which is a whole other blog post. If I wanted to delve into my pre-adulthood experiences I could, but instead I’ll just focus on the post-college years. The first fuckboy case was the Jerk Hut Jerk. JHJ and I met while working at a local gem of a restaurant in Philadelphia called The Jamaican Jerk Hut. I was excited to work there because it had been in Cameron Diaz and Toni Collette movie “In Her Shoes” and they had a wicked back patio that felt like you were hanging out at someone’s summer BBQ blasting Bob Marley the whole time you worked. He was an aspiring actor. I was finishing up my casting apprenticeship and directing my first professional show. We became fast friends and eventually started dating. He was my first real boyfriend. We were only together for about six months when out of the blue he broke up with me saying he wasn’t ready for a relationship, that he wanted to be with me but not just me (classic fuckboy line). This was after we started looking at grad schools together, talking about what programs we both wanted apply to, which cities we could both happily live in, and him talking about us spending our lives together and eventually retiring in Edinburgh after we each had kick ass theatre careers. Ugh. He said he was going through some stuff that he couldn’t talk to me about and that it would all make sense eventually, he just needed time to process it. Cut to six months later, after we had still been sleeping together, hanging out, and borrowing plays off each other when one day after picking up some my plays he tells me he’d been spending a lot of time in West Philly lately. “You’re not the Fresh Prince. Why would you want to do that?” I asked. “Because my son lives there,” he responds. Turned out JHJ had cheated on me when we were together. Knocked a girl up. And broke up with me when he found out the chick was pregnant. She was also ten years his senior. And it was her fifth child by the fourth baby daddy. This fucked with my head (and ego) tremendously. And yet I continued to sleep with him for the better part of the next three months, in between crying into pints of Ben & Jerry’s Ameri-cone Dream consumed sitting in my papasan chair with my roommates repeatedly telling me in so many words that he was a fuckboy and I could do much, much better.

Sadly in the last ten years not a whole lot has changed. The thing about fuckboys is that you don’t always know they’re a fuckboy at the start. Sometimes they are disguised as a student in his late 20s returning to get a college degree who is happy to date you until he gets busy with finals and then only has time for a sporadic booty call between exams. Or maybe he’s an aspiring forensic psychologist who wants to join the peace corps, but stills lives with his ex-girlfriend because their lease isn’t up and is sleeping in their basement so he always has to stay at yours. He might come in the form of a sweet and well-meaning IT guy, but when he tells you he may or may not be gay, and fetishizes pre-op trans women.  And if he is a programmer, who on the third date tells you he wants to be exclusive (after prematurely ejaculating and calling it a “bad boyfriend move”) but then continues to message other girls online and dump you via text message a week before Christmas, well… that will certainly be a blow to your ego. A fuckboy could even be disguised as one of your closest friends, spending years telling you how much he cares about you only to repeatedly break your heart. Maybe he even goes on to date wildly inappropriate people after you. And sometimes he’ll even be best friends with one of your oldest friends, and you think to yourself, “FINALLY! Someone who can’t hurt me cause then that will be really awkward because of our mutual friend!” But to expect that much from another person will only leave you disappointed in the end. The point being: fuckboys come in all different shapes and sizes, ages and ethnicities. Even the nicest, most handsome and well-meaning guy can have fuckboy tendencies. But just because someone is nice, handsome, and well-meaning it doesn’t also mean they won’t treat you shitty and lack integrity. And for some reason, every time I think I meet someone who isn’t one, every time I give them the benefit of the doubt that they’re different, that they’re not a total asshole, I am sadly proven otherwise. Perhaps I just need to lower my standard for what I consider basic human decency? Or is it a self-fulfilling prophecy? Am I using Oprah’s law of attraction to will fuckboys into my life? I don’t think that is how it actually works. All I know is that I am beyond over it.

In case you haven’t figured out what a fuckboy is based on my personal examples, or cause you aren’t down with the kids these days, or you know, are my mother (hi mom), I will break it down like this: the word originates from hip-hop slang as an insult to cut someone down. Rapper Killer Mike recently explained in a Slate article that “You can identify fuckboys … because they are always doing fuck shit. Just the dumbest, weirdest, lamest possible shit ever.” Urban Dictionary says a fuckboy is “a weak ass pussy who ain’t about shit” in one definition, and a “boy who plays with your heart” in another.  I think all definitions apply when it comes to dudes doing stupid shit while dating, and how you should or should not treat another human being. So in the context of dating, a fuckboy will ask for pics of you within the first few minutes of any text conversation or introduction. That dude from Tinder who said “hey” as a first line will likely text “pic 4 pic” within the next three. Or better yet, send you an unsolicited dick pic. Or tell you how hot he thinks you are and then ask to Facetime before you go on an actual date, and when you answer all you see is him jerking off. Yeah, he’s a fuckboy. That guy who says he’s really into you but isn’t ready for a relationship or doesn’t want to label things and prefers to keep things vague instead of communicating? Total fuckboy. If you call him out on his shit and he responds with “absolutely, you’re right!” but doesn’t actually change anything you called him out on: fuck.boy. If he doesn’t respond to your texts then texts you days later with “hey what’s up?” he’s probably definitely is a fuckboy. Claims he didn’t get your texts at all? Blames Mercury retrograde? Decides to start using carrier pigeons because he ran out of texts on his monthly plan, then blames the poor overworked carrier pigeon for not getting you that message? HE’S. A. FUCK. BOY.

So how do I, a frequent fuckboy fucker stop fucking fuckboys? And how do I incorporate that sentence into a tongue twister warm up for actors? Both are equally good questions. Do I take a vow of celibacy until I meet my future husband or life partner? As much as my Grandmother would love that, I am not the sort of girl who has been planning her wedding since childhood and I don’t even know if I believe in marriage, so I don’t think that is the best option. Do I take on bedfellows and lovers and compartmentalize my emotions the way males do? Tried it. That does not work for me. Do I resort to a life filled with electronic re-chargeable replacements and forgo the weight and touch of another human? Or do I give up on men all together and turn toward female companionship now that scientists have discovered women are almost never totally straight?  I have no clue. All I have figured out at this point is that this is clearly an unhealthy pattern. I am aware of it. And it needs to change. I am sure at this point, dear reader, if you are still reading, you may think I am bitter towards these fuckboys. And I understand the assumption. Thing is though, I can’t even be mad at them. At least not in the long-term. Because the truest common denominator amongst all these guys is each of them lacks the self-awareness to understand what they’re doing is fucked up. When a fuckboy acts from a place of selfishness, thinking only of their own personal gain, they can’t begin to comprehend that their actions can affect another person. I believe if all singletons stopped playing games and instead acted from a place of love, self-awareness, and compassion, and communicated like an adults about our wants, needs, and expectations, it would make everything so, so much easier. But that might be expecting too much in and of itself. So in the mean time, I’m once again taking a break from dating all together. Having now purged unhealthy relationships from my life that were causing me a great deal of frustration, pain, and disappointment I am free to spend my (f)unemployment looking for theatre work, finishing my script, and training my puppy to be the boss bitch I want her to grow up to be. And maybe with any luck, I won’t be too far behind.

Adventures in (F)unemployment- Part 1: Clearing out your emotional baggage

So quite a lot has happened since my last blog post. So much so that I feel the only place to really start is by saying much to my chagrin, I was recently terminated from a job after spending the better part of three years with the same company. Terminated almost a year to the day that I was fired for having an anxiety attack at my previous job. So needless to say October is not turning out to be the best time of year for me in New York. However, I did also adopt a kick ass little puppy who I have named Bettie Page, so I’m trying to turn things around for the month so next year I can just remember it as her adoption anniversary month instead of the month where I was wrongfully terminated from jobs.

Since becoming (f)unemployed I have had  a lot of time on my hands to train Bettie, nap, and apply for jobs I actually want to be doing- you know, like theatre related stuff. It has also given me a lot of time to catch up on new and old TV shows, refocus my energy and try to clear out some emotional baggage in the process. Because if you’re given the opportunity to start fresh and focus on what you really want, you can’t do that when there is a bunch of emotional bullshit holding you back. That is just a fact. Case in point: telling a guy you are kind of dating that you aren’t going to text him anymore because he doesn’t invite you to do things. This may seem very trivial. And in the grand scheme of things it probably is. I will likely forget his name by this time next year. But old me would have just kept texting him asking him to hang out. (F)unemployed me doesn’t want to waste time putting energy into someone who will text me with a random YouTube link but can’t ask me out for coffee or to a movie or even respond when I ask him to hangout. That time and energy could be put into writing more blog posts, finishing my play, finding the perfect job, or you know, going on dates with dudes who actually make an effort. Since I told him this, I haven’t heard from him. This was over a week ago now, and if I don’t, that is fine. Because there is no point spending energy on those who give you nothing back.This guy and I went on a handful of dates. He was not someone I was in love with or emotionally attached to beyond “he seems cool and I would be down to get to know him more.” So telling him I’m not going to waste my energy pursuing him seems like a small step, but it needed to happen in order for me to take a much bigger one.

You see, I have this theory that everyone has someone in their life, whether an old friend, a family member, or ex who has a hold on them in ways that logic can not explain. Like their opinion of you is the only one that matters, you care about them even when they treat you like shit and so forth. For me, it was a guy in London who I counted amongst one of my closest friends, though to say we were “just friends” would be inaccurate as well. Because if you are really “just friends” with someone you probably wouldn’t spend all of your conversations with them arguing to the point where they bring you to tears before you’re about to go out on a date all the way across the Atlantic. Or if you’re only “just friends” with someone, telling them how much you love them, miss them, and wish you could be with them in New York could be considered misleading. And yet he did all those things on a regular basis this last year. Our dynamic was far more complicated than anything I can put into words, but I will say it was not healthy. At. All. To be emotionally manipulated time and time again, to be lied to for years on end, to be used as a crutch for someone else’s ego is not what someone does to his friends. And yet, he did those things to me. And it was ruining me. It was affecting my ability to move one. To maintain friendships. To know my true worth as a human being and friend. This person’s hold was Britney level Toxic. And I spent more time and energy that I care to admit overanalyzing our situation, each of his texts, his messages on Facebook, each drunken night that would end in some confession of feelings and me crying and us making out. And after awhile, even if that person is thousands of miles away in another country, you just start to realize that spending all your time and energy on someone like that isn’t healthy. And sometimes when you are in that situation the best thing you can do is one: be aware of it, and two: try to get the fuck out of it. To stop playing into an absurdist fantasy where you magically end up together and live happily ever after. Because fairytales and Hollywood happy endings don’t exist, and as much as I love me a good romcom, our situation was probably closer to a psychological thriller and no one ends up with a happily ever after in one of those.

But how do you move on while also trying to maintain a healthy friendship with said friend? Well, having tried and failed at doing so this last year, it has become clear to me that not only was I delusional in thinking I could do that, but it is absolutely impossible.  So instead, at the urging of your best friend, you decide to finally remove them from your social media, un-friending them on Facebook, unfollowing them on Twitter, and hope that is enough. Is it? I don’t know yet. It is a step I just took this week. Which I probably would not have been able to do had I not taken the mini-step with the guy I wasn’t even dating.  I do know however, that the simple act of pressing the unfriend button was emotionally very difficult and tear inducing. Which was partly frustrating because hitting unfriend is literally just pressing a button, but thanks to the wonders of social media and it’s influence on our lives it was so much more. In pressing that button I was admitting defeat. It was like saying everything we had gone through in the past five years was for nothing. We didn’t end up together. He wasn’t “the one.” Our love wasn’t special. He wasn’t my soulmate. And as much as I hate typing out each of those trite cliches at some point over the past five years I had thought them all. Because everyone wants to believe when you meet someone and fall for them and can’t be with them right away, it doesn’t mean you won’t be forever; that at some things will work out. But sometimes they don’t. And that is okay.

Now I am not at all suggesting that I am magically fixed having deleted this person from Facebook. That is not how emotional baggage works. I do think however, that in taking this step I have just lightened the load a little bit. I no longer have to see his new girlfriend tag him in photos and think “that is supposed to be me.” I no longer has to see her tag him in tweet after tweet about life being like a movie and how everything is perfect and how he’s the best boyfriend ever. ALL OF THE EYE ROLLS. If I can’t see it, it can’t affect me. Yeah, it probably won’t be immediate, but sooner or later he will just be this guy who I used to care about deeply. He will be just a guy who really fucking hurt me. Just a guy from my past. Who, for better or worse helped shape me into the person I am today.  And all that other enlightened Oprah feel good shit. In the mean time, I’m going to continue to lighten the load during this period of (f)unemployment. Out with all the things, the people, the baggage, the shitty day jobs, and all the other bullshit that prevents us from being the most boss ass versions of ourselves. Because even when you literally have all the time in the world, ain’t nobody got time for that.

My Sobering Revelation

Today marks four weeks without alcohol. Just a few days short of one month, and I finally feel like I’ve adapted to not drinking. My decision to stop drinking was a long time coming. About five months ago I went out with friends from work and drank a few of my go to beverages: Jack and diet coke. I’ve been drinking since I was 14 so for me Jack Daniels is basically water to me, though be fair, even to a seasoned drinking they would argue it is just a poor whiskey and like water full stop. But what I mean is I can drink a lot of it without getting out of control or too hung over.  When you’ve been drinking as long as I have you know what you like, what will absolutely wreck you, and what allows you to enjoy the social aspect of drinking without the costly day after hangover. JD was always that drink for me. I could easily drink a handle of it with a two liter bottle of diet coke on a night out and feel absolutely fabulous the next day. On this particular occasion one of my bartenders offered to buy me a drink. Naturally, I asked for my usual and he returned with something mixed with full sugar coke that definitely was not Jack Daniels. After that and a shot of Jameson I felt more drunk than I should have been after a few and opted to go home. I chalked it up to being physically tired from a busy shift at work and emotionally exhausted from a Facebook conversation with a friend back in the UK. While in the cab I felt nauseous. I didn’t think much of it until I started throwing up first inside, then outside the cab window as it cruised down Broadway in Brooklyn until I could keep it down enough to ask him to pull over. He obliged, and I continued to throw up for a good five minutes. When I was feeling better we made our way to my apartment, I paid him, apologized profusely, and ran inside because I felt it coming up again. I threw up a few more times before passing out, like you do. The next day I had possibly one of the worst hangovers I had ever had. None of my hangover cures worked. My greasy breakfast sandwich from the bodega made me feel worse not better, and my purple Riptide Rush Gatorade came back up as quickly as I chugged it down. I texted my bartender to see how he was feeling, told him about my journey home and joked that he must have roofied me because JD doesn’t do that to me. His response was “Oh it wasn’t JD- that was Brandy.” I don’t drink Brandy. Bourbon, yes. Tequila, yes. Vodka, Yes. Beer, yes. Wine, yes. Rum, sometimes. But Brandy? Fuck no. I hate the stuff. I’ve never had a good experience with it and this hangover solidified my hatred even more. The next few days my anxiety was through the roof. I was getting frustrated with everything at work, constantly snapping at people, and felt more on edge than my usual anxious self. Tears were coming and going through no fault of my own triggered by the most miniscule things.  I had two panic attacks over what? I can’t remember. After initially getting past my hangover I thought to myself: I need to stop drinking if I want to get my anxiety under control. I knew it wasn’t great for my anxiety. It is a depressant after all. I took required D.A.R.E and Alcohol Awareness classes as a kid, and the health education classes where they tell you how shit drinking is for you. And while they warn you of the pressures of drinking at high school parties and how dangerous it is to drive home while drunk, they don’t really cover just how normalized drinking is as an adult. And though I may have started drinking as a teenager, it is drinking as an adult that has gotten me into the most trouble.

Drinking has been a huge part of my social life for roughly 18 years. It started out in high school drinking in local playgrounds and in the bedrooms of my girlfriends when we had sleepovers, hoping that the parents wouldn’t catch us. It continued through college in our dorm rooms and at parties, with various nights having different themes such as Margarita Mondays or Thirsty Thursdays, or Survivor nights where we’d gather and play a drinking game alongside the reality TV show with Natty light. The house I lived in the summer between Junior and Senior year had a customized beer pong table named after the house, and when we were all 21 our senior year of college we’d sneak off to the bar between classes to do shots of tequila before heading back to class. I worked in restaurants and would get post work beers with co-workers to bitch about our managers. And I drove home under the influence more times than I care to admit, as more often than not our idea of a designated driver was just whoever drank the least that night. Post-college drinking got a little classier. But not completely. I drank on opening night parties as an apprentice making a total fool of myself. I drank on dates, saying horribly inappropriate things to embarrass myself. I drank with friends and co-workers on the regular. I drank at brunches and dinners out, nice wines and cocktails, as well as shitty beers with shitty well whiskey shots in awesome dive bars. I drank at my local bar in Philadelphia as I wrote all my grad school applications. I drank at the pub after class with my fellow directors. I drank at the pub talking shit about music with friends. I drank the nicest cocktails at the best bars in London. I drank more than my weight in pints while there. I drank cheap beer in Thailand and Cambodia. I drank some of the best beer I’ve ever tasted in Berlin and I can’t even remember the name of it because I drank so much of it. I drank JD and diet cokes at a rock bar in Croatia. I drank cold beers while overlooking the New York City skyline on my roof. I drank whiskey with my roommates while discussing the merits of non-monogamy, and this is just one of the thousands of conversations I’ve had while drinking, some that I remember much clearer than others. I drank. And I drank a lot. And I never thought it was an issue. I never once thought to myself “I think I may have a problem with alcohol” because of the simple fact I knew I could stop at any point and could easily go days without drinking. It was primarily a social thing for me. Yes, there were times where I drank on my own to escape my problems, but that was normal right? I didn’t wake up and need to have a drink to stop shaking or get through the day, so in my head there wasn’t a problem. There is a funny thing that happens when you decide to stop doing something you think you have absolute control over. You realize that while you may not fit the cliché profile of an alcoholic that you learned about in D.A.R.E all those years earlier, you do not have a healthy relationship with it and may just be using it to numb a lot of the issues you don’t want to face, anxiety included. And that has been the last four weeks of my life.

Drinking a massive beer in Switzerland

   The most beautiful White Russian I ever tasted at an old soviet bar in Berlin.

It has only been through not drinking these last few weeks that I’ve been able to examine my relationship with alcohol with a clear mind. For example: when it comes to my relationships, you know, those of the biblical nature,  (STOP READING NOW GRANDMA) none of them have ever occurred for the first time sober. That isn’t to say I haven’t had absolutely any sober consensual hook-ups as an adult, but they are few and far between from those where alcohol was a key component. From losing my virginity to a guy I’m pretty sure was gay while absolutely shit-faced off a bottle Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum, to waking up repeatedly having slept with someone I shouldn’t have after one too many Jager Bombs at the pub, from unintentional one night stands with guys on the first date, to sleeping with someone because I thought it would make for a hilarious story later, from drunkenly hooking up your best friend and having your flatmate walk in on you, to having sex with someone before you’ve even figured out what they mean to you, from new relationship sex, break-up sex, or I don’t really want to hook up with this person, but they’re here and we’re already naked so I guess I will sex, alcohol has been a major player in that aspect of my life. And while I consider myself lucky because I’ve always been careful, I‘ve never had an STD or been knocked up (knocks on all the wood), after a certain point, when you roll over unsatisfied, basically hating yourself, and discover the person you’ve just banged is five years younger than you and their favorite band is The Goo Goo Dolls and they proceed to throw on their song “Slide” and sing to you while still naked in your bed, you start to question whether or not this is a healthy thing you’re doing. Not that that happened to me, or anything. Or that I judge people based on their musical tastes…

The Bourbon Vanilla Milkshake I had on my 31st Birthday in Brighton

I still have a lot of issues to work through when it comes to my relationship with alcohol. But I’m choosing to remain sober for the time being while I do that. One, I feel more productive and creative while sober than I ever did while drinking; I am writing more and more these days, whether it is a snippet of dialogue for a play or songs and bits of poetry for raps or even cover letters for directing jobs. When I think of all the days I wasted being too hung over to create it depresses me. No more of that shit. Two, it allows me to focus on getting in better physical and mental health. They say that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Cliché as the saying may be, it is true. I cannot expect to lose weight, get in shape (which does not necessarily equate to wanting to be thin by society’s standards) and take better care of myself if I continue to drink daily, eat poorly, and not exercise. I’ve been doing that for far too long and I am at a age where I need to take care of myself before it is too late and I’m fucked for life. And three, I need to make better choices when it comes to men and who I sleep with. Because as sex positive as I may be, I’m not trying to become any other kind of positive, pregnant, STD or otherwise. If I end up getting trashed on a first date, and laugh my ass off with a dude, I will likely think we have a connection, get excited by that, be excited by my attraction to him, and sleep with him. I often discover later they are not that funny, or attractive, absolutely flakey and typically turn out to be assholes. By not drinking I don’t run the risk of drunkenly creating the possibility of a relationship with a dude in my head only to be disappointed by them in real life when they smash and dash. And if I do make a poor choice or decide to do something for the sake of comedy, at least I don’t have alcohol to blame.

Drunk off a lot of wine on opening night for How to Succeed… I get silly.

A lot of people keep asking me when I will start drinking again. Right now, I don’t know. I set out with the goal of not drinking for a month, and I’m almost there. Now that I am focusing on getting my health in order I want to keep going with it because I know it will make eating right a lot easier. I am far less likely to stop for fried chicken in route home from the bar if I am not drunk trying to soak up booze to make for an easier hangover the next day. Does that mean I will never drink again? No clue. I may slip up. I may have a glass of wine one with dinner one day when I really want one or I might not. Unlike a lot of people, I actually love the taste of alcohol. Not all of it, but you grow fond of the good stuff when you learn how to drink well when you’re friends with brilliant bartenders. But for someone who has identified as a drinker for so long, I am enjoying the clarity that comes with sobriety and the break it is giving both my liver and my bank account. My anxiety feels under control, and I am in a positive, healthy mindset, one where I care enough about myself to take better care of myself. And so far, that is worth more than all the awesome cocktails, ridiculous stories, and debauchery put together. More than anything I’m just curious to see how this works out moving forward.