I first read this piece when I was coming to terms with my own, actual “crazy” (note to readers: I’m a fan of reclaiming my own cray, but I refrain from putting that on anyone else). Not only is the piece humorous, but it looks at one of the greatest tortures of all: dating in New York City. It still remains one of my favorites because of it’s nothing short of brutal honesty, take no prisoners approach. – Coco Papy Read More Best of P-Mag: Awkwardette’s Ill-Advised Guide to Getting it On: Crazy in Love
I honestly haven’t had a lot to write about lately here on the good ol’ Persephone because what I am expected to write about as Awkwardetteâ„¢ is a lot of stuff I am not doing: having sex, dating, etc. Yes, I have reached the fabled stage of female singledom known as Bitterness. I honestly think about the idea of going on a date and meeting a new guy and going through that drama of giving a shit about what I’m wearing or the words coming out of my mouth and I want to die.
The other day I called up my medical office to make an appointment for a pap smear. A totally routine thing except this time, when I asked for my Nurse Practitioner, Melissa, I heard the dreaded news that she was no longer practicing there. My reaction to her leaving was kind of a surprise. I was legitimately upset. I have been seeing this NP for the entire time I was in grad school (so for a little less than two years). In those two years, she was honored with the difficult-to-achieve title of Awkwardette’s Greatest Vagina-Doctor of All Time. What made her the Greatest Vagina-Doctor of All Time? A few things.
Have I told you lately how I fucking hate OkCupid? Hate it the way you hate a sibling when you’re eight years old, and they keep tattling on you and getting you into all this trouble and then the second your mom turns around they sock you in the arm, but like, when you say something about it, you get yelled at even though you’re totally not the one that did anything wrong. It’s bullshit.
You know how sometimes people say things like, “I’ve been pulling my hair out trying to get this paper done,” or whatever? Well, in my life, it’s not an idiom. When I’m stressed out, I get real and actually pull my hair out. It’s an anxiety-related, impulse-control disorder called trichotillomania (that’s DSM-IV DR 312.39 for those of you who care). I guess it’s a pretty weird thing to have, and most people I know have never heard of it before, so I thought I’d share with you some information and some of my experiences. Read More Trichotillomania: I Pull Out My Hair
There’s been one issue looming over my mind for the past month or so, which runs counter to probably everything I’ve ever said about sex before – When is it appropriate to begin a sexual relationship with someone? If you asked me two months ago, I would have probably said five minutes into meeting someone. The antiquated, Puritanical concept of “waiting” couldn’t get in my way. But after a few encounters with the oxytocin monster and watching my friends deal with guys who bail the second after things get physically intimate, my outlook on the situation has changed.
Have you ever had a hook-up that, while just a hook-up, had your knees shaking the next day just thinking about it? You’ll grin at yourself thinking of all the dirty things you did, and you feel the dreaded heart pangs, and you just can’t get that person off of your mind. I fucking hate that shit. I spend the next day in a long-term post-coital haze. I usually spend this time reading celebrity magazines, and I try to get a mani/pedi, and I shower like 10 times hoping that if I can just get the smell off of me I will be way less likely to remember it, and therefore be 10 times less crazy.
I love access to birth control almost as much as I love using it (read: doin’ it). So when my access to contraception is impeded or threatened, I get as angry as the best of us. I applaud all attempts to end the attack on women’s right to make decisions about her own body and about her access to birth control. Well, almost all attempts.