Monday, January 08, 2007
( 9:41 AM ) Rebecca
OK darlings, we're going to make this short and sweet.
I have been saying for years now that I need to take Breakup Babe off life support. I’ve kept her hooked up for way too long now. Don’t get me wrong. She is great. She made me who I am today (famous author, glamorous, rich, etc etc).
When I went through the Great Unpleasantness in 2002, she saved me.
For years after the Great Unpleasantess (a couple anyway), I really was Breakup Babe.
Frantic, needy, dating every messed-up attractive guy in sight.
But I don’t think I am Breakup Babe anymore. Not like I’m all happily settled down or anything like that, ooh no. I’ve been in my fair share of stupid dating situations, even to this day!
Yet I have grown up a bit since that period of my life. I’m still frantic and needy and frightened but less so. I achieved my lifelong dream of writing a novel, and that has given me confidence that I didn’t have before. I’m also just older and wiser and ready to stop having a nickname like “Breakup Babe” hanging around my neck.
But I love blogging way too much to stop. So you can still find me blogging at my author web site and on my new blog, Sparkly Sparkly. (Some of you diehards may remember I created a blog with this name way back when I was going through “secret” blog-creating phase.).
I always liked that name so I resurrected it. I like to think of myself as a sparkly person even though a lot of the time I probably am not. But I do wear sparkly eyeshadow sometimes!
In memoriam, I give you the very first BreakupBabe entry ever. Perhaps I'll make all the archives available here once again, but I haven't decided about that. Meanwhile, let's throw some flowers on her grave and go party.
Saturday, August 10, 2002
( 1:58 PM ) Breakup Babe
Had a great time at a big, sensational party last night (except for my bout of uncontrollable, drunken crying ). Unfortunately, part of what made it fun is that I was hanging out with F. I KNOW! I swore up and down I wouldn’t do it, and really I didn’t do anything except let myself be hugged and touched and made to feel generally desirable.
If only it could stay like that. If only we could go out occasionally and flirt and fondle while the lights flash and the music plays, and that it could make me feel good and warn and forgetful, and then we could go our separate ways and the night would just vaporize into pleasant memories.
But of course today, I keep replaying all the pleasant memories in my head, because after all the rejection I experienced from M. in the last two months, it felt so good to have someone actually want to be close to me. And to have someone put their arm around me. I mean, maybe his motives were bad, and maybe he is a “wolf,” like S. used to say, and maybe he’s a wolf who’s preying on me in my most vulnerable time. But I don’t care, when someone puts their arm around you as you walk down the street, it feels loving and protective and it’s all so easy to forget that maybe all they want to do is fuck you and that once you do that, they’ll never put their arm around you again.
And it’s not even a question of whether he’s a good person or not, of if he can be, or he can be a good boyfriend or not, because even if he could be, he wouldn’t be a good boyfriend for me, despite this f***** physical attraction, which has endured over the years. Which is the whole reason I shouldn’t have let it get this far, but WHATEVER. At least I’m aware that I’m doing is silly and dangerous, which is more than I can say for myself the last time around with him five years ago.
But anyway, it was one of those nights where I could pretend (except when I was crying uncontrollably) that everything was all right, when I could --with the help of an attractive boy putting his arms around me and a good friend in a tight red tube top dancing nearby, and too much electric blue alcohol--dance the night away and feel young and glamorous and like the world was my oyster. Ha.
But I know from experience that the feeling of well-being stretches into the next day, even through the hangover and maybe because of it – everything is too fuzzy for you to really face yourself – and lasts maybe until Sunday night, when you go to bed knowing that you have to work the next day, and that work will be a series of anticlimaxes (waiting for e-mail from cute boys that never arrive), and that every moment in the hallway will moment braced for confrontation and laced with grief.
E-mail Breakup Babe