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My Instagram Crush

August 18, 2015 — 111 Comments

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Well, that was bound to happen. After all, I’ve been on Instagram – what, a whole month?

 

What IS it with me and social media? How is it that I can get attracted to someone who I’ve never touched?

I’ve had mad crushes on people I’ve met blogging. Too many.

I fell in love with Jennie Saia after only blogging a few weeks, and only 2 weeks after “meeting” her. I actually declared my love for her in the comment section of a post I felt in every cell of my body. It’s there now, for all eternity – or until she shuts down her blog.

Jennie in real life turned out to be pretty much the same as Jennie on the blog. It’s very disappointing when you have feelings for someone based on how they write, or the personality they portray online, only to find they’re not at all like that when you really get to know them.

The Honoré de Balzac school of “be sexually charming and financially wise in your literary work, while in real life be a complete asshole who dies broke and in debt.”

I suppose I’m guilty of that. My blog persona is much tougher and care free, and way less needy and crazy, than me in real life.

 

I had a pointless, unsatisfying, destructive emotional affair with someone via Facebook. I was ripe for that one.

I’d just spent several months at the receiving end of a vicious hate campaign directed at me because my writing mentor was accused of being a predator and ousted offline. I would have grown attached to Hitler if he contacted me online and acted kind and sympathetic.

Actually, Hitler probably would have been less disingenuous. The whole experience was so bizarre I’m writing a book about it. You’ll have to wait for that one to come out to get those juicy details.

 

I’ve been temped on Twitter. I’ve been direct messaged by some really cute (I guess?) people who wanted to get to know me, but Twitter doesn’t do it for me. It’s like trying to connect with someone in a hippodrome while thousands of people shout to no one in particular “HEY LOOK AT ME HEY LISTEN HEY LOOK AT ME ME ME ME!”

 

I originally opened an Instagram account because I had broken up with Facebook after being booted off. I was told that people connected at BlogHer through instagram.

In the end, anyone I wanted to meet up with I texted, or, if I didn’t know their phone number, we tweeted one another. As a matter of fact, it was fun getting tweets from people like Kitten Holiday so we could announce online in front of all our followers just how awkward we felt at BlogHer:

 

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I like Instagram. I can get in, and get out and catch up with the latest adventures of friends and fellow bloggers. I don’t get sucked into a social media black hole; where I spend 10 minutes that morphs, through cyber alchemy, into 2 hours.

I don’t have much to say on Instagram; most people I follow don’t. A few words to caption your picture, some cool #hastags to encourage people to land on your photo. I have to stop myself from hashtagging every photo I post with “This is how we #fuckshitup.” It would make no sense, but still, the urge is there.

So what do I post? Rock tee shirts of the day, or skull tees of the day, usually. One or two pictures of my face from when I attended BlogHer, the first weekend I had my account.

Because I am a woman, and I don’t post pictures that attest to a husband or boyfriend, I receive direct messages on Instagram from men. I’m always a little surprised. My snarky personality is not at all in evidence; I say very little. I’m not scantily clad; although the very first picture I posted was the infamous one that showed up in the WordPress Reader, me in my bondage bra.

I snapped the pic and posted it because after I checked into the hotel, I realized that walking through the lobby of the Hilton clad in my bra was now off my bucket list, and I felt like commemorating the occasion with photographic evidence.

I ignore the messages.

Usually.

A really good looking English guy with a muscular physique and lots of ink starting “liking” all my rock tees and we followed each other. I say he’s English, but I really don’t know except he called me his “favourite” and I hope he’s not Canadian.

He appears to be traveling the world, or at least Europe, and I believe his home is in England. I’ve no clue. I know very little about him but he’s dead sexy to look at and he has a habit of captioning his photos with rock lyrics.

I’m a nerd with an almost encyclopedic knowledge of rock lyrics. I held back responding to his captions with the next line of the song so I wouldn’t seem like I was being a know-it-all until the day he posted a line from my favorite Patti Smith song, “Rock And Roll Nigger.” He wrote “outside of society” and I responded with “That’s where I want to be.”

He wrote that he couldn’t believe I knew that, and I answered that I couldn’t believe everyone else didn’t. It’s a fucking great song.

Seriously. Stop right this second and listen to it on YouTube. There isn’t one single thing I, or anyone for that matter, has to say that is more important than you listening to this song RIGHT THIS SECOND. I would post the video here but then it will show up in the Reader as my post image (ha, in your FACE WordPress, I am on to your trickery!)

It progressed from there. He would post a picture from where he was in the world, captioning it with a song lyric (“Look at those cavemen go”) and I would respond with the next lyric (“It’s the freakiest show”) and so on.

I got a direct message from him and I was instantly nervous. It’s SUCKS donkey balls when you open up a message from a man you don’t know and it’s a dick pic. And I liked his taste in music as well as his tattoos and muscles, so I did not want a reason to dislike him.

It was just this: “You drive me crazy.”

He’s only seen my covered torso. I don’t say anything flirty or sexy in any of my captions. Why was I driving him crazy? Was this a good thing?

So I asked him “is this a good thing?”
Apparently, it was. And so, it began.

 

Why do I develop crushes on people I’ll likely never meet? Won’t ever touch or hug or probably never even hear?

I suppose everyone who’s everyone had an online crush has a reason. For me, it’s safe. I can invest just a part of me, maybe more than I wanted intentionally, but certainly not the same amount I would invest in a real life person I was involved with.

It’s like having a de facto boyfriend, which is Latin for “my therapist is gonna love hearing about this guy.” You can’t get hurt, although in truth I did get hurt with that Facebook debacle, but that was only because he convinced me that we were having a “real” relationship and I bought it.

I won’t get fooled again.

I’m seeing someone in real life. Is it crazy that, at this moment, I like Instagram Man better?

Don’t answer that.

 

Did you ever have an online crush? (You KNOW you have). Was it fun? Can you talk about it even? 
If you can, then talk to me.  I’m listening. 

Follow me on Instagram so I look popular.

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About 2 am the night after I published my story about breaking up with Facebook, I decided to create a brand new profile. I made 4 friend requests and then fell asleep.

I woke up to over 100 friend requests. New travels face on Facebook! I was added to my old groups and I immediately had forty eleven notifications. I started getting tagged in stuff and I think I peed myself a little.

I had been messaged by Lizzi  – and one minute into my first Messenger conversation SOME RANDOM MAN MESSAGED ME.

He didn’t just message me. He CALLED me through Facebook because he and I have so much to talk about, what with us being COMPLETE STRANGERS and me thinking he was MAYBE A TERRORIST (is that racial profiling?)

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My Facebook friends were incredible, posting a ton of “welcome backs” on my timeline. Maybe Facebook is only some version of reality, but whatever it is, it felt good.

 

In several of my groups, women were discussing being propositioned by Brian the Foot Man. That’s actually how he introduces himself. Brian has been skulking around Facebook on and off for years. He messages women and offers to pay them $50 for pictures of their feet.

Mostly everyone is outraged by him. I haven’t been contacted by him yet, and I’m not saying I would do it, but it certainly doesn’t offend me. I’m not sure how he’d feel about my feet. I have really long toes. They’re so long I can curl them around the bars of a jungle gym and hang from them. Not really. But they’re long and can easily be mistake for monkey toes.

At any rate, Brian the Foot Man just doesn’t get my hackles up.

Maybe it’s because I’ve done some really stupid things for money. When I was young I might have taken a questionable job or two. After making ridiculously easy money at a strip club, it’s hard to break out of that life. I had to bust open the sewer pipes at the club and crawl through five hundred yards of shit and raw sewage out into the rain…

Oh wait, that was the Shawshank Redemption.

 

But there have been some really strange things that people have asked me to do for money.

 

I absolutely DID blow out the candles on a birthday cake for $100 at Morton’s Steak house in lower Manhattan. I was there with a group of friends after work one night, when a man approached me and asked if I would. Are you kidding? For a hundred bucks I would blow just about anything I had no problem blowing out those candles. I wish I could earn a living doing that, but currently, things are slow in the birthday cake candle blower-outer business.

 

Years ago my girlfriend wanted me to go into the dirty panty business with her. Yes. I’m not sure about these days, but soiled panties used to be a booming business! There was an entire section on eBay devoted just to selling crusty used panties. Every woman at some point in her life considers selling her used panties. Um, doesn’t she?

Before you decide to switch professions, think about what this entails. Let’s say you run ads. How many creepy fuckers are you doing to have to talk to before you make a real sale? And you have to buy panties, pay to ship panties, take pictures of you wearing the panties, wear the damn panties – that sounds exhausting to me. I’d rather earn an honest living, selling my plasma.

Not that any of YOU is curious but if you had questions about this tawdry business you can actually go to Reddit’s online University of Panty Selling which so help me God I wish I didn’t know existed.

 

A really pathetic acquaintance tried to persuade me to have sex with his grandfather for $200 so he could steal the old man’s coin collection.  I don’t know which aspect of this story is the most disturbing. The fact that he wanted to steal from his own grandfather, the fact that he was slated to inherit it anyway, his brilliant scheme of having me bump fuzzies with the old man so he could rifle through his belongings, the fact that I actually considered it…

I kid.

I’m not into the octogenarians. Yet. I said I have Daddy issues, not GRANDDADDY issues. I’m supposed to allow an elderly dude to drive the beef bus to tuna town while his grandson robs him of all his worldly goods? It’s a Viagra commercial gone horribly wrong.

 

And now, drumroll please, for the Grand Poobah of them all.

A man once offered to pay me thousands of dollars for kicking him in the head until he was unconscious.

And this didn’t even take place at a seedy strip club or escort service. I was at an upscale restaurant-bar with a girlfriend having drinks, and we were approached by a charming, 40-ish man who proceeded to wine and dine (and vagine) us. We ended up going back to his Upper East Side townhouse because that’s a reasonable thing for two young women to do in New York – go back to some rich guy’s house to drink 20-year-old scotch and watch bestiality porn he got special, from the Bronx.

He starts pitching this idea to us, which at first made me laugh until I realized he was serious. I wish I could tell you that we hightailed it out of there completely freaked out but we stayed and tried to accommodate him. We just couldn’t.

Ohh, not because it was debauched and vile. Because I had on the wrong shoes. You need some serious athletic shoes to get the kind of running start required to kick someone unconscious. You can’t mince across a parquet floor in spiked Jimmy Choos and expect to work up enough momentum to knock a motherfucker out.

The deranged thing is that this man wanted a weekly, ongoing arrangement. I can’t even begin to understand it, and all kidding aside, I just didn’t have it in me. YOU try kicking someone square in the face, someone you’re not married to, and see how easy it is. It’s NOT.

So, Brian the Foot Man seems kind of tame to me. Not that I would sell him pictures of my simian feet. I’ve just been asked to do far more bizarre things.

Has Brian the Foot Man contacted you yet? What weird things have you done or been asked to do for money?
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

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Some of you know that I was kicked off of Facebook for using a pseudonym.

I planned to just go back with a new profile. But things started happening. Interesting things. And I discovered that I didn’t want to go back right away. I wanted to explore what was happening in my life.

I also wanted to write about it. And I couldn’t go back to Facebook until the story was done.

It’s up today, on Hastyword’s blog. My beautiful Sisterwife invited me to be part of her #BeReal series – and life without Facebook forced me to #BeReal in a way I never expected.

Come visit me over there today. I’m closing comments so you’ll comment there.

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Outing Myself

January 24, 2014 — 120 Comments

meanpeople

A blog is a great place to hide what a

MESS

I am this week.

With my carefully constructed cyber facade you don’t get to see that I’m

Disoriented. Panicked. Anxious.

My hands are tingly; almost numb.

I’m making a whole lot of typos.

For once, I’m grateful for spellcheck. I normally never use it. I actually didn’t know it was even up there, until about a week ago.

Clueless. Yeah. I’m like that.

 

I was accused this week of being a liar.

Everyone who knows me knows that I suck at lying.

“Mom, what’s gay sex?”

“It’s when two men insert their penises in each other.”

“Where?”

“Wherever they can.”

 

I am, however, guilty of lying by omission.

What I present to you here is funny, cool, snarky, New York tough, great mom, wild Samara.

Sometimes I just SUCK.

Sometimes I’m close to CRAZY.

Sometimes I’m MEAN.

 

Let’s start with this “You’re such a great mother” thing.

This blog post my kid did. Yes, he was awesome.

But by 10:30 last night?  Two hours past his bedtime?

I was ready to beat him over the head with my laptop.

But since this is the yelling generation, not the hitting generation, I said,

“Dude, I’m exhausted.

He wanted to look for more kraken pictures.

He needed just the right kraken picture, because nothing is worse than a bad KRAKEN picture in a blog post.

“You have GOT TO GET TO SLEEP ALREADY!”

“Mama, scroll back –

“NO.”

‘But there were –

“NO!”

“But I-”

“Seriously. GO the FUCK to sleep!”

Dropped an F bomb. BOOM.

Yeah. I’m like that.

 

We have a lot of fun. I am definitely a “fun” mom.

Just last week, I made him run around the car at a red light at a very busy intersection.

BUT

It’s not fun around here if he brings home a “B” on a test.

I don’t stick toothpicks under his fingernails, but I don’t say, “That’s great! Maybe you’ll get an “A next time.”

HELL no.

I say, “What did you get wrong? Let’s look at it right now.”

As in, right now.

This is called Tiger Mom-ing.

Yeah. I’m like that.

 

I once heard him tell his friend, “I like to do well in school so I can eventually compete in a global economy.”

He’s TEN.

 

I make my kid do homework all summer.

Yes, you read that sentence right.

He gets to have fun. Go to camp. Romp in the dirt, pick dingleberries out of his ass, collect farts in a jar – whatever it is boys his age do all day.

He also has to do homework. Every day. 30 minutes.

Because I’m the mom, and I say so. That line of reasoning.

Also, because there is a documented loss of retention in school age children over the summer months.

Even during the summer, we visit the library every week to take out books.

You know who’s in the library in August? Me, Little Dude, and 6 Chinese families.

 

It’s not just school work I torture him with.

I’m like that about everything.

He studies Tae Kwondo.

When he competes, I make sure he trains hard.

“Master B says, as long as we all have fun, we all win.”

I HATE that “everyone’s a winner/give everyone a trophy/ let’s just cut the balls off society” attitude.

“Oh really? Well, if winning isn’t the point, why don’t you all just hang out and spar at the dojo all day? Why even bother to compete?”

Once, at a competition they paired him with a kid who was several inches taller.

When the match began, my kid instinctively took 2 steps back.

Oh, HELL NO.

Afterwards, I said, “Don’t you EVER back away from an opponent during a match. EVER.

When that match starts, the first thing your opponent should see is YOUR HEEL coming at HIS FACE. You got me?”

Yeah. I said that.

 

He brings home a trophy every time. But still.

Should I be saving for his college education? Or his therapy?

 

MY New York BFF said the Polar Vortex Collapse is responsible for a whole bunch of shitty things converging in a horrible way for me.

Sickness. Death. Financial problems. Huge domestic blow ups. Work related crises.

When everything falls apart at once, so do I.

I don’t do multiple crises well.

I can only hold it together to make a pretense of sanity for my kid.

 

I’m not sleeping.

I wish I drank or smoked weed. Perhaps that would take the edge off.

I don’t like alcohol. I get drunk off of 1/4 glass of wine.

Can you imagine me getting sloppy drunk, alone? That image would make a carefree person suicidal.

I’m not opposed to weed. It’s not a gateway to make me start banging dope.

But this urban dirt weed?

Forget it.

I used to know people from Northern CA. Near Humboldt County. Do you… know where I’m going with this?

They were purveyors of the Kind kind. If I could have THIS kind of clean, uplifting brain tingle, then perhaps.

But I’ll be damned if I’m going to call one of the cast members of The Jersey Shore to sell me some Swamp Grass.

So I can pollute my lungs with with paranoia-inducing chemicals, and reflect for hours upon all my conspiracy theories, convinced that the CIA is tapping my phone.

So, I just,

LOSE IT.

 

I had no patience for my students this week. A CRUCIAL week.

When a student didn’t know that “It was his 16th summer” meant he was 16 years old,

I rolled my eyes at her. A real visible hairy eyeball.

Yeah. I did that.

I wanted to tell her to forget going to college completely and suggest cosmetology school.

Except my hairdresser is very smart and that would have been an insult to her profession.

I almost suggested the pole. She’s very pretty.

I stopped short of that. I actually bit my upper lip so hard, it still hurts.

From 2 days ago.

 

Someone I know was recognized in a positive way this week. I’d felt wronged by him in the past.

And because I was hurting for a completely different person, who is suffering at the moment,

and because the two things HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH EACH OTHER,

except that they both dwell in MY head,

I bombarded the first person with horrible, scathing emails. Many of them.

Yeah. I did that.

 

My college BFF didn’t too so well on her first chemo. She’s supposed to have months of treatments.

She ended up in the hospital after her first.

I’m not sure why, but she didn’t call or text me. She posted on Facebook that she was in the hospital.

I don’t go on Facebook.

Facebook is a Whore.

I have a business to run. A child to tend do. Live people who I have to work in front of, every day, NOT a computer screen.

I can’t frolic and cavort on Facebook every day. If I could, I’d be on my company’s Facebook page.

Not my personal one. Which I haven’t been since 2011.

I don’t have time to gape at vacation albums; the cyber depiction of America’s Relationship with Credit.

Not my blogging one, which doesn’t exist, because of that pesky business/child thing.

My ex goes on Facebook. Of course he does! He texted me. “BFF is in the hospital.”

I was so freaked – and angry – at her for not letting me know.

Because it’s Samara’s World! And her cancer is all about ME, goddammit, me!!

Not about the fact that she may only be alive another 6 months.

I texted her, “What the FUCK is going on? You’re in the hospital? Why didn’t you text me? I don’t go on Facebook, how the FUCK am I supposed to know you’re in the hospital?

Yeah. I did that.

To my best friend with cancer.

I didn’t think about why she might have done it,

or even that, whatever she does, it has to be okay.

Because she’s probably dying.

 

What if, I died tomorrow, and this had been my last week on earth?

Holy Shit.

This would NOT be the way I want to go out.

It would be like, getting hit by a bus and dying just as you’ve been released from jail for stealing White Castle hamburgers.

 

Little Dude came over to practice his solo for temple tonight while I was writing this.

I had no idea what he was saying. I don’t know Hebrew.

 

Temple was a nice comfortable 55 degrees this evening. My vagina went numb.

Jews are nothing if not frugal.

 

I cried like a bitch, watching him up on the podium, cause in less than 3 years, he will be reading from the Torah.

And 5 years of Hebrew school and Friday night services will culminate in his Big Moment.

He led the Congregation on his page.

 

Was it a coincidence that his page from the prayer book was

“TO LOVE AND CARE”?

and we read the English back to him:

“We thank you for implanting within us a deep need for each other, and for giving us a capacity to love and care.

May we always be grateful that we have one another and are able to express our love and acts of kindness.

Keep us gentle in our speech.

May we waste no opportunity to speak words of sympathy, of appreciation, of praise.”

 

Maybe, It was my reminder to pray tonight. To be a better person.

I’m so glad I get another chance.

To be

The person I can be. The friend I can be. The mom I can be.

Or maybe

It was a just nice to be somewhere where they serve a lot of cake.

We love cake.

 

Have you ever felt like you just screwed up really badly? With everything?

Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

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