blog: 26 and still sleeping with my stuffed cat |

blog: 26 and still sleeping with my stuffed cat

Mary Burd
Vail CO, Colorado

Last night, I went home alone, again. Fine by me. On my walk to work this morning I was still laughing to myself over possibly the top lamest invitation I’ve ever gotten to go home with someone, or rather, have someone come home with me: “I don’t know which bus is mine. I better come with you.” Right.

Just when I thought I’d heard them all, including: “It’s my last night in America” (So? it’s not mine.); “You’ll have the best, most wonderful orgasms you’ve ever had” (Really?); and “If you don’t come home with me nothing is ever going to happen between us.” (FYI: you’re not the only guy on earth).

But what made me quit chuckling was that for some reason every time I go out the guy I’m talking to feels the need to try to get some.

When I complained to my sister about this, she said to quit making out in bars with guys like I need a hotel room. Does laying on top of someone in a booth kissing really say hotel room? Apparently.

So last night I was lips-off-limits. I danced in my own space, most of the time. I had fun. I chatted it up. I smiled. I got asked home. I quit smiling and left. Por que?

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Because ” just because I’m at a bar drinking does not mean I have no standards. I might look naive, mostly because I have the body of an eighteen year old, but that’s doesn’t make me stupid.

I’m a lot more impressed by a guy who asks me how my day was and actually listens when I answer than some Joe Asshole who tells me I look sexy in my skirt. Why would I care what you think of me in this skirt?

So last night when I woke up at five a.m., in the midst of a pounding headache and a bit of seasickness from challenging the New York frat boy who lost his bus to chugging a 24 oz PBR, I decided it was time to take charge and delete all boys phone numbers from my phone whom I might randomly call while intoxicated. You know, at least half my phone list. Why?

Because sleeping alone sucks, but waking up alone is worse.

And because the biggest assholes are the guys that know enough to ask you how your day was and help you down the stairs when they’re icy, and then ditch your ass when they don’t get laid straight away.

Or worse, pretend to be your best friend forever and then blank you the day after.

So maybe I’m not fine going home alone. And maybe I passed out again before actually deleting any numbers from my phone list. But my cat was there when I woke up, and he doesn’t laugh at the fact that my hair sticks straight out in every direction in the morning, or look horrified that I look like the resurrection incarnate at 7 a.m.

And when I’m asked home, I never say I don’t want to.

I always say I can’t.

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