Blogspot has a lovely little feature that tells me fun statistics about my blog, which includes search words that are leading people here.
This week, someone was led here by searching for the phrase "world of viginas."
Congratulations, brave voyager. I hope you find what you're searching for.
Showing posts with label true life i have a blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label true life i have a blog. Show all posts
14 November 2011
29 August 2011
I have never understood this.
I'm about to show you a pretty clear example of someone who should, by all accounts, realize that I have no interest and give up. I come across people like this in real life (and on this site) ALL THE TIME. I'll be straight up insulting and mean to them, and they'll STILL just keep coming at me. This example isn't even as mean as I'll be to people who do this to me in real life:
Like I said, in real life I'm actually much meaner, and I have never understood why the guys will just keep on trying. But last night I was chatting with an old high school friend about OkCupid, his experiences, my blog, and dating in general, and he did a pretty good job of explaining the phenomenon to me. Apparently, there's a technique used to get people to sleep with you called "negging." The definition, according to Urban Dictionary, is:
This friend from high school, who we used to jokingly refer to as SirHotBodHandsomeFace, thanks to his love of posting pictures of his abs on his Myspace in his younger days, told me that I was negging these boys. I disagree with him, because it seems to me that negging, by definition, requires intent towards the other person. If I was undermining the confidence of men in order to get into their pants with ease, that would be negging. Simply being mean isn't the same thing.
Nevertheless, according to SirHBHF, girls like me give off the impression that we're negging. Guys assume that because we are still talking to them, we must be interested, even if we're flat out telling them that we are in no way interested. They're hard-wired to think that they can accomplish things and get results. It's all about "validation," he says. By withholding validation, we make them crave it even more, and they just try harder.
Now, this still makes no sense to me at all. If a guy was cutting me down or refusing to "validate" me, I'd just cut him down right back or ignore him. Why would you be interested in someone who acts that way? But this is certainly some interesting and enlightening inside knowledge. Thanks, SirHotBodHandsomeFace!
Like I said, in real life I'm actually much meaner, and I have never understood why the guys will just keep on trying. But last night I was chatting with an old high school friend about OkCupid, his experiences, my blog, and dating in general, and he did a pretty good job of explaining the phenomenon to me. Apparently, there's a technique used to get people to sleep with you called "negging." The definition, according to Urban Dictionary, is:
Nevertheless, according to SirHBHF, girls like me give off the impression that we're negging. Guys assume that because we are still talking to them, we must be interested, even if we're flat out telling them that we are in no way interested. They're hard-wired to think that they can accomplish things and get results. It's all about "validation," he says. By withholding validation, we make them crave it even more, and they just try harder.
Now, this still makes no sense to me at all. If a guy was cutting me down or refusing to "validate" me, I'd just cut him down right back or ignore him. Why would you be interested in someone who acts that way? But this is certainly some interesting and enlightening inside knowledge. Thanks, SirHotBodHandsomeFace!
27 August 2011
Another real life story!
This is the story of the Poem Guy.
Last summer, I was working a job in the city that was extremely intense. We didn't have weekends off and often worked 8am-midnight multiple days in a row. As a result, I spent large amounts of time that summer looking exceptionally crappy.
I think I've already pointed out that I have a tendency to attract seriously weird people. Apparently this tendency actually increases when I look like crap, which I might back up with circumstantial evidence later.
One late morning, as I'm attempting to either wake myself from lack of sleep or get over a hangover (we also did a fair amount of drinking that summer), I went to the Dunkin' Donuts on the corner and walked out some short amount of time later with a bag or drink or whatever it was I'd purchased. As I was walking back to work, I got stopped.
Guy: Hey! Hey, hold up!
Me: Um, yes?
Guy: I'm sorry, I just have to tell you that you are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.
Me: .......
Guy: I just couldn't let you just walk away without saying anything, you're just, you're so beautiful, you got those eyes, girl, and that skin, and, and, I see you got your Dunkin' Donuts there, and I'd just, I'd like to be the one buyin' you that next time, you know?
Me: ......
He went on to mumble a lot more about wanting to take me out on a date, and how he was a writer, and he was going to write me a poem. I spent most of the time he was talking thinking about how crappy I looked that day and how bizarre this whole encounter was. He asked for my phone number, but I wouldn't give it to him, so he asked for my email address so he could send me the poem he was going to write for me.
I'm a curious person. And I knew I could have a good laugh at all of this later. So, obviously, I gave him my email address. I went back to work and laughed about it with my coworkers. The next day, this atrocity of a poem showed up in my inbox:
I have not edited this at all. This is exactly how this showed up in my email. I would like to clarify that I do not have green eyes, and I do not cry at night (nor do I "account" such things). Also, when my bangs are tied back, as they were when poem guy met me, I look like I'm twelve years old. F'real, y'all. So I find the little girl comment a bit creepy.
The story pretty much ends there, as I never responded to the email or any of the subsequent ones ("Did you like your poem?"). A few months later, I received a phone call from Poem Guy. I still have no idea how he managed to get my phone number. I tried to stalk myself given my first name and email address to no avail. But after letting him down rather nicely, in comparison, he never bothered me again.
EDIT: It seems I have let my real first name slip. Oh no! Please don't hunt me down and murder me, if you're one of those five people that read this and don't actually know me.
Last summer, I was working a job in the city that was extremely intense. We didn't have weekends off and often worked 8am-midnight multiple days in a row. As a result, I spent large amounts of time that summer looking exceptionally crappy.
I think I've already pointed out that I have a tendency to attract seriously weird people. Apparently this tendency actually increases when I look like crap, which I might back up with circumstantial evidence later.
One late morning, as I'm attempting to either wake myself from lack of sleep or get over a hangover (we also did a fair amount of drinking that summer), I went to the Dunkin' Donuts on the corner and walked out some short amount of time later with a bag or drink or whatever it was I'd purchased. As I was walking back to work, I got stopped.
Guy: Hey! Hey, hold up!
Me: Um, yes?
Guy: I'm sorry, I just have to tell you that you are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.
Me: .......
Guy: I just couldn't let you just walk away without saying anything, you're just, you're so beautiful, you got those eyes, girl, and that skin, and, and, I see you got your Dunkin' Donuts there, and I'd just, I'd like to be the one buyin' you that next time, you know?
Me: ......
He went on to mumble a lot more about wanting to take me out on a date, and how he was a writer, and he was going to write me a poem. I spent most of the time he was talking thinking about how crappy I looked that day and how bizarre this whole encounter was. He asked for my phone number, but I wouldn't give it to him, so he asked for my email address so he could send me the poem he was going to write for me.
I'm a curious person. And I knew I could have a good laugh at all of this later. So, obviously, I gave him my email address. I went back to work and laughed about it with my coworkers. The next day, this atrocity of a poem showed up in my inbox:
Maidens Green
Karen's
eyes a maidens green
Mysterious emeralds
Sparkling........... speaking softly a story of pain
These
greens have seen water many times
She
accounts the night and number of cries
What
happen to the child of light
I saw her
behind door................
The
door Karen keeps closed.......was partially open
There........behind.....was a little girl smiling at me
I have not edited this at all. This is exactly how this showed up in my email. I would like to clarify that I do not have green eyes, and I do not cry at night (nor do I "account" such things). Also, when my bangs are tied back, as they were when poem guy met me, I look like I'm twelve years old. F'real, y'all. So I find the little girl comment a bit creepy.
The story pretty much ends there, as I never responded to the email or any of the subsequent ones ("Did you like your poem?"). A few months later, I received a phone call from Poem Guy. I still have no idea how he managed to get my phone number. I tried to stalk myself given my first name and email address to no avail. But after letting him down rather nicely, in comparison, he never bothered me again.
EDIT: It seems I have let my real first name slip. Oh no! Please don't hunt me down and murder me, if you're one of those five people that read this and don't actually know me.
11 August 2011
And for tonight, a real life story.
I've decided to add a bit more of my actual real life into this blog. By which, I don't mean blathering on about my daily trials and tribulations, but delving into the vat of true real life stories I've collected over the years, many of which involve the affections of dumb men.
This is the story of the eighth-grade stalker.
There is some back story required here. My family moved to their current location from another one far away when I was twelve or so. This meant that in the middle of sixth grade, I entered a new school. A parish Catholic school where everyone was related and had known each other for life, to be exact.
Needless to say, I did not fit in, and this was middle school, so I obviously suffered plenty of abuse for that. I found a group of other rejects to hang out with, and dealt with being the weird ugly smart girl. It was hard, but I convinced myself it would make me a better person. There was even a "We hate Kathryn*" club. Seriously. It was started by the boy who'd been the smartest kid in school before I arrived and usurped his title. He and a group of cronies used to throw balls at my head during recess and play various other juvenile pranks on me. They even started a rumor that I was actually the devil (in fact, I think some of them might have believed this), and used to drop blessed objects and charms around me to see if touching them would make me writhe in pain or spontaneously combust.
I was also a singer. I'm no Alicia Keys, but I've got a decent set of pipes on me. Since we had to go to mass once a week, and there's a good amount of singing at a Catholic service, this was a well-known fact. It was also another prime source of ridicule, but I liked singing too much to care. When I was old enough (here meaning confirmed in the church, of which I am no longer a member), I became a cantor, which is the person who leads the singing from the altar. It was so tragically uncool of me, I'm not sure how I managed to survive. Incidentally, singing became a super popular thing roughly two years later at that same school.
I was clearly quite happy to move on to my private all-girls high school and leave that god-forsaken middle school behind. I was also quite vindictively happy that I swept the floor with the founder of the hate club at the graduation awards ceremony, but hey, we all have our petty moments. I kept cantoring at that church because I still loved singing, and was still a practicing Catholic at the time.
Shortly into my freshman year, the letters started arriving. The first one showed up in the regular mail, but without any stamps or a return address. The front said "To: Kathryn*. From: ????" It looked as if it had been written by a second grader.
It was the first of quite a few. After the first one, they usually just showed up on our walkway without warning. They always said similar things, all general stuff you would expect from a secret admirer. And then some. At one point, and I am not even exaggerating here, this kid told me that "I know I don't know you, but I love you." The general gist of the letters was that he had fallen in love with my singing voice, knew that I was absolutely perfect, wanted to get married and have children, etc. I was amused, flattered, and also highly overwhelmed. At fourteen, I was still 100% undeveloped, awkward, and generally not a good-looking kid.
He always ended his letters with clues to his identity. After a few, I was fairly certain he was someone from my middle school, but I didn't know who. Finally, he told me that "I once spoke to you, but you didn't know you were speaking to me." I used my acute deductive reasoning skills to determine that this was probably the explanation of the phone call I had received from a male about children's choir practice (I was the director for a bit, it did not go very well) and the noticeable lack of males actually at practice. I had finally figured out the puzzle.
And that was the weirdest part. Once I knew this kid's name (thanks to CallerID, of course), I still had no clue who he was. He was a grade behind me, and had actually never even once looked me in the eye. I had literally never interacted with this boy even once, and here he was convinced that I was the one for him, for the rest of his life.
The letters altogether went on for roughly two years, and then they stopped. I like to think he moved on, hopefully to someone he knew. Or at least affection based on some sort of reality.
This was the first encounter in my life with blind, obsessive love, and it wasn't the last. For a reason I have never understood, obsessive people are often attracted to me. Even when I was a seriously unattractive kid. Even now, I wouldn't even remotely consider myself attractive enough to garner that amount of fixation, but I still do. People often look at me like I'm crazy when I mention this as being a bad thing, but if you put yourself in my shoes, I doubt you'd like it, either. The undying "love" of someone who doesn't or barely even knows you is nothing to brag about. It can only end one of two ways: either they eventually get very angry with you for not returning their affections, or they get to know you and realize they don't actually love you after all. Neither ending is a good one.
This is the story of the eighth-grade stalker.
There is some back story required here. My family moved to their current location from another one far away when I was twelve or so. This meant that in the middle of sixth grade, I entered a new school. A parish Catholic school where everyone was related and had known each other for life, to be exact.
Needless to say, I did not fit in, and this was middle school, so I obviously suffered plenty of abuse for that. I found a group of other rejects to hang out with, and dealt with being the weird ugly smart girl. It was hard, but I convinced myself it would make me a better person. There was even a "We hate Kathryn*" club. Seriously. It was started by the boy who'd been the smartest kid in school before I arrived and usurped his title. He and a group of cronies used to throw balls at my head during recess and play various other juvenile pranks on me. They even started a rumor that I was actually the devil (in fact, I think some of them might have believed this), and used to drop blessed objects and charms around me to see if touching them would make me writhe in pain or spontaneously combust.
I was also a singer. I'm no Alicia Keys, but I've got a decent set of pipes on me. Since we had to go to mass once a week, and there's a good amount of singing at a Catholic service, this was a well-known fact. It was also another prime source of ridicule, but I liked singing too much to care. When I was old enough (here meaning confirmed in the church, of which I am no longer a member), I became a cantor, which is the person who leads the singing from the altar. It was so tragically uncool of me, I'm not sure how I managed to survive. Incidentally, singing became a super popular thing roughly two years later at that same school.
I was clearly quite happy to move on to my private all-girls high school and leave that god-forsaken middle school behind. I was also quite vindictively happy that I swept the floor with the founder of the hate club at the graduation awards ceremony, but hey, we all have our petty moments. I kept cantoring at that church because I still loved singing, and was still a practicing Catholic at the time.
Shortly into my freshman year, the letters started arriving. The first one showed up in the regular mail, but without any stamps or a return address. The front said "To: Kathryn*. From: ????" It looked as if it had been written by a second grader.
It was the first of quite a few. After the first one, they usually just showed up on our walkway without warning. They always said similar things, all general stuff you would expect from a secret admirer. And then some. At one point, and I am not even exaggerating here, this kid told me that "I know I don't know you, but I love you." The general gist of the letters was that he had fallen in love with my singing voice, knew that I was absolutely perfect, wanted to get married and have children, etc. I was amused, flattered, and also highly overwhelmed. At fourteen, I was still 100% undeveloped, awkward, and generally not a good-looking kid.
He always ended his letters with clues to his identity. After a few, I was fairly certain he was someone from my middle school, but I didn't know who. Finally, he told me that "I once spoke to you, but you didn't know you were speaking to me." I used my acute deductive reasoning skills to determine that this was probably the explanation of the phone call I had received from a male about children's choir practice (I was the director for a bit, it did not go very well) and the noticeable lack of males actually at practice. I had finally figured out the puzzle.
And that was the weirdest part. Once I knew this kid's name (thanks to CallerID, of course), I still had no clue who he was. He was a grade behind me, and had actually never even once looked me in the eye. I had literally never interacted with this boy even once, and here he was convinced that I was the one for him, for the rest of his life.
The letters altogether went on for roughly two years, and then they stopped. I like to think he moved on, hopefully to someone he knew. Or at least affection based on some sort of reality.
This was the first encounter in my life with blind, obsessive love, and it wasn't the last. For a reason I have never understood, obsessive people are often attracted to me. Even when I was a seriously unattractive kid. Even now, I wouldn't even remotely consider myself attractive enough to garner that amount of fixation, but I still do. People often look at me like I'm crazy when I mention this as being a bad thing, but if you put yourself in my shoes, I doubt you'd like it, either. The undying "love" of someone who doesn't or barely even knows you is nothing to brag about. It can only end one of two ways: either they eventually get very angry with you for not returning their affections, or they get to know you and realize they don't actually love you after all. Neither ending is a good one.
07 August 2011
I'm back!
For a while there, k-mart had no internet. And so, I am now back, and will resume posting. Probably not every day anymore, because frankly, I get tired a lot now, and I just don't feel like spending much time on this anymore. But there will still be updates, probably at least every other day. Starting tomorrow.
People with jobs and/or lives do not make good bloggers.
People with jobs and/or lives do not make good bloggers.
21 July 2011
It's my one week Blogaversary!
A BLOGAVERSARY??!! How romantic!!
I just thought I'd share some quick stats on the first week of CaRI, because I find them interesting. For example, this blog has gotten nearly 1000 views in just one week. Woah. I was expecting something along the lines of 100. But hey, if you like it and it entertains you, by all means, spread the news, y'all.
Overall views to date: 975
OkCupid's analysis of average visitors to my profile per week: 111. This makes no sense because:
Number of messages from different people that I have received: ~180. I can't get an exact number, because I delete them after screenshotting the interesting ones and deleting the ones that don't make the cut. But given that I've got conversations from 93 people saved on my computer and currently have 67 in my inbox, plus inflating for the ones I've just straight up deleted, I think it's a good estimate.
People who have called me a bitch on OkCupid: Surprisingly, just one.
People who have called me a bitch on this blog:Surprisingly, none. ONE!
Country in which this blog is most popular: The United States (shocker)
Country in which this blog is second most popular: Malaysia (Hello, Malaysians.)
People I have seen with Nazi tattoos this week: One.
Number of times I could have had casual sex this week, if I lived where my profile says I do: Countless
Number of times I have wanted to have casual sex this week: Zero.
I just thought I'd share some quick stats on the first week of CaRI, because I find them interesting. For example, this blog has gotten nearly 1000 views in just one week. Woah. I was expecting something along the lines of 100. But hey, if you like it and it entertains you, by all means, spread the news, y'all.
Overall views to date: 975
OkCupid's analysis of average visitors to my profile per week: 111. This makes no sense because:
Number of messages from different people that I have received: ~180. I can't get an exact number, because I delete them after screenshotting the interesting ones and deleting the ones that don't make the cut. But given that I've got conversations from 93 people saved on my computer and currently have 67 in my inbox, plus inflating for the ones I've just straight up deleted, I think it's a good estimate.
People who have called me a bitch on OkCupid: Surprisingly, just one.
People who have called me a bitch on this blog:
Country in which this blog is most popular: The United States (shocker)
Country in which this blog is second most popular: Malaysia (Hello, Malaysians.)
People I have seen with Nazi tattoos this week: One.
Number of times I could have had casual sex this week, if I lived where my profile says I do: Countless
Number of times I have wanted to have casual sex this week: Zero.
20 July 2011
The Laundry Excuse
This is the worst excuse ever to get out of something if you live somewhere with a washer and dryer, unless that something requires leaving your residence for longer than an hour. You know why? Because this is how laundry goes:
STEP 1: Load washer. Estimated time: 2 minutes.
STEP 2: Wait for washer to finish. Estimated time: 40 minutes.
STEP 3: Load dryer, and washer if you have another load to do. Estimated time: 2 minutes.
STEP 4: Wait for dryer to finish. Estimated time: 70 minutes.
Unfortunately, I can't actually take credit for making up this one. My ex used to use this excuse often to avoid having sex with me. And somehow, I was still shocked when I found out he was gay.
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