The city in which I live boasts two parks with lovely, well-populated walking trails that afford perambulators the opportunity to complete their regular constitutionals without fear of being run over by careless drivers, attacked by unleashed dogs or accosted by ill-intentioned perpetrators. The city in which I live has also decided that said parks require some major improvements and, in their infinite wisdom, scheduled the renovations of both parks at precisely the same time. Meaning that both have been fenced off and closed to the public until further notice.
Since the city planners apparently have no regard for my health or safety, I’ve been forced out onto the mean streets to get my daily exercise. Fortunately, it’s not a place known for great crime waves, and in the early morning hours, I figure I’m out at low-tide anyway. So, keeping an eye out for drivers to whom I’m invisible and dogs who might decide to play a game of Chase The Walker (running is seriously not a part of my repertoire at this point … I would lose. Badly.), I’ve begun exploring the city.
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At what point does being single go from a temporary state to a lifestyle to a life? If you’re a rebounder, you may never have extended periods of downtime, bouncing out of one relationship and right into the next one. Or you could be a person who prefers to take a bit of time after the demise of one coupling to regroup before you’re ready to take up with anyone new.
That regrouping time would make singlehood a temporary condition. Just a little lull in the romantical area while you reassess what went wrong in your previous relationship and strategize to not to let it happen again. This is also the time where you likely listen to a lot of sad songs, have imaginary conversations with your Ex about what you should have said during that final argument and fantasize about running into him/her/them with your new, hotter partner while they’re looking particularly lonely and desperate or hooked up with some skank. It’s not a good time to be dating.
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My phone tweedled at me the other day. It attempts to communicate with me pretty regularly, using a variety of vocalizations; but I’ve yet to decipher its many chirps, pings and boops. For all I know, it could be rutting season and the phone is trying to attract a mate.
I didn’t recognize the little bing-bong as one of the regular sounds that mean nothing to me, and when I looked at the phone’s screen it simply read “22.” I thought it was either a default system message or something I’d added under the assumption that, unlike every password and PIN I set, I wouldn’t immediately forget what “22” signified. Continue reading →
As a lesbian who hasn’t been in a relationship with a man since the late 80s, I can’t speak with the same authority on their fun-bits as I can about a woman’s. However, unlike hairspray usage and shoulder-pad size, it’s probably safe to say not much has evolved in certain areas since I last swung Continue reading →