I’ve been living in Tampa, FL, for about six months now, and let me tell you, my day-to-day conversations have certainly deviated from the typical NYC and L.A. banter that I’m used to. To be fair, nothing is off-limits when you work at a bar fueled by espresso martinis.
I take many of these conversations in and outside the bar to heart because they make me think and tempt me to judge. I judge people a lot. Chances are, if you’re reading this, I’ve most likely made a judgment about you at some point. I don’t mean to; it just happens. Like a reflex. Really fast and all at once. Don’t worry. I usually keep them to myself. (And my dog.) Gossip isn’t my drug of choice. Probably because I secretly don’t want people to know how much of an egotistical asshole I can be. I hate that about myself. I judge that about myself. And, with the same gusto that I judge you. Brilliant, no? No.
I’m learning to live with it, though. So I can better let go of it, that is. Somehow, starting to own my lowest self rather than pretend I’m some sugar-coated sweetheart devoid of venom has not only humbled me but is positioning me to become more self-aware and reflective, which, in turn, is helping me become less of a judgmental asshole and maybe, just maybe, even a slightly better human.
Here’s my bootleg equation: I’ll take in your flaws, think some mean shit that I instantly regret, call myself a bitch for thinking whatever that mean shit was, then feel incredibly guilty and ask myself where the hell it all came from, and then use those thoughts as a catalyst for introspection. Nine out of ten times, I’ll come to find that I had been projecting my own baggage on you, and you’re not so terrible after all. As for the lone one out of ten, well, I probably just don’t like you. I’m sorry, but if you suck, you suck, and that’s on you babe. Sometimes, it just is what it is.
This all makes me sound much worse than I think I actually am most of the time. But when I write, I like to play with the truth, and my truth isn’t always pretty. The truth is I don’t always take the high road. And even when I do, my mind naturally wanders down a few back roads first. I don’t think that makes me a bad person, but idk. I guess I feel the need to get this off my chest because now that I’ve decided to share my thoughts online, I have this fear that people will look at me differently (even though deep down I know that truly no one gives a shit, lol). I suppose this fear will fade in time. Thanks for letting me vent for a hot sec. To the juice!ᵕ̈
Now that we’ve got my ugly tendencies and current insecurity out of the way, I want to unpack my most recent intrigue… The Three G’s: God, Guns, and Ghosting, a dynamic trio I’ve been tangoing with for the past week. This falls under the more giant umbrella of Purity vs. Sin, a concept I am still grappling with but am absolutely jazzed to get into at another time. For now, I may only scratch the surface of it briefly through the topics of sex, church, and cocaine through a satirical lens for my own comic relief, so if that makes you feel weird, I’d stop here, lol.
(Reminder: Judgmental Tendencies)
Still, I want to be clear that I understand these concepts are serious, incredibly personal, complex, and vary among different belief systems and cultural contexts.
With that said, here is the roadmap for this unconscious, nonlinear thought piece (My friend said I sound like a huge douche when I say the word ‘piece,’ so I’m throwing it in and making it sounds extra douchey just for him, lol. Moving forward, we shall name her ‘Blog’).
N°1. I will not delve into politics or my personal and ever-evolving belief system about these contentious subjects.
[However, you will not catch me sporting a MAGA hat, I do believe in “God” (or a higher power/universe, whatever you want to call it), and guns scare the crap out of me. So, take that as you will.]
N°2. I will delve into my late-night, drunken sermon with a sexy, devout Second Amendment aficionado who kinda ghosted me-
An experience that puzzled me just enough to finally dig into my curiosity about the Three G’s and their underlying connection that makes this present day trifecta such a hot topic nationwide.
THE STEAMY SERMON STANDOFF
A few weeks back, I was walking my foster dog, Malibu (ADOPT HERE), when a truck halted right in the middle of the street, and a deep voice from a rolled-down window eagerly inquired about her breed. His sudden stop brought me to a standstill. I glanced over, fully prepared to face a local downtown creep from the Tampa streets. However, the man behind the wheel caught me by surprise. His eyes were bright but crinkled at the sides, suggesting a history of smiles and possibly laughter. His smile was genuine. So was his curiosity. I trusted him instantly. Quickly, I smoothed my hair and adjusted my blue, slightly disheveled button-down shirt, with only one button tightly secured, hoping he couldn’t I was still in my pajamas. I smiled back softly. I had just woken up from a late night working at the bar. I hadn’t even looked at myself in the mirror yet or remembered if I had brushed my teeth, but I didn’t care. I was too excited about this early morning roadside meet. I signaled him to pull over so he wouldn’t aggravate the car behind him. He stepped out of the truck, and the morning sun seemed to embrace him in golden radiance as if he were the very embodiment of Zac Effron himself from a scene of “The Lucky One.” That mother fucker, casually blinding me with the sun’s spotlight in all his effortless, irresistible glory, and here I am, clueless as to what I even smell or look like right now.
He said hi playfully to my dogs, instantly making him 10x more attractive, and mentioned that Malibu looked just like his dog when she was a little pup. I gave my little foster mom-ologue, and he took a few cute pics of her in case he found someone looking to adopt. I suggested he take my number to reach me if he finds Malibu a home (or maybe finds himself thirsty and wants to take me out for a drinky drink. Smooth AF.).
We texted a bit. Turns out he lives in my building. After that, we couldn’t stop running into one another. It was weird. Why must the Universe play with me like this? I asked if he wanted to run the dogs at the park later that night. He said yes, and so we did. It was nice and laid back. He is so attractive.
We texted a little the next day, and I offered to watch his dog while he had a long day at work. I do this often for a lot of my friends because, selfishly, it keeps my dog busy and, in turn, elevates my guilt of being a distracted, “boring” dog mom. But with this guy, it was different. He was hot. And from the moment I saw him I just knew something was about to go down. Or end in an awkward exchange causing me end my lease early and move buildings so I never have to look him in the eyes again.
He was excited about the offer. So a few hours later, there I was, watching his dog and my two crazies go after each other’s heads for hours. When he texted to check in, I pretended everyone was behaving, made sarcastic, nonchalant jokes, and even sent a selfie (which I immediately regretted).
Upon his arrival to pick up his dog that night, I offered him some food and a glass of wine, which he gladly accepted. Knew it.
One drink turned into five, and the next thing you know, we have bottles of red flowing, the heavenly tunes of his Christian worship music filling the air (not kidding), and we are sitting on my couch with red cheeks in deep conversation about God and his chilling experiences and love for guns. Woof.
Side Note: Why does worship music low-key slap???
While our perspectives and reality of both subjects couldn’t have been more different (alongside our taste in music), a shared experience bonded us for a brief moment. We both found ourselves navigating layers of inner turmoil that come with navigating whatever this thing called life is. Never mind our fundamental differences; for once, it felt nice not to be an existential mess alone on yet another Thursday night.
As we polished off my last bottle, the hallowed hymns of this worship music began to echo louder and louder inside my head, hammering my brain like that God damn Travis Barker song “Let’s Go.” (You know, the one with Lil Jon and Busta Rhymes where no one takes a freaking breath for three minutes straight? Yeah, just like that.)
I couldn’t help but entrain the thoughts, “Wtf is going on right now? How did we get this deep” “Had Jesus himself surprised us with a lil cameo appearance to transform this shitty Publix bottle of red into holy water?” “Am I a little tipsy-wispy?” Nope, I was inebriated.
We chatted until 1 a.m. and took the dogs for one last walk. Spoiler alter: he did not baptize me with his lips. He, instead, parted ways with a side hug. Which I guess, after 5 hours of such drunken, sober conversation is fair. But, still.
Since then, we haven’t talked. GHOSTED.
Let’s debrief. Was there ever an overt declaration of romantic interest? No. But I find radio silence like this to be super weird and unattractive. Had our connection lasted longer than a week? No. So, in theory, in this Ghosting? Eh… I’m gonna go with no, as much as I want to say yes for dramatic effect. BUT the night did feel intimate enough for such sudden silence to be both awkward and telling. So, let’s meet in the middle and call this Baby Back Bitch-passing. (Get it?! Like bypassing but bitch-passing because he’s being a B. lol.)(I should trademark that.)
Like no offense, but why would two people spend all night sipping wine and going balls-deep in conversation about faith and firearms for hours on end (like five red-light sauna sessions worth of hours, mind you) if there wasn’t a single ounce of interest floating in the air? They wouldn’t. I wouldn’t, and frankly, I think you’re crazy if you would.
On one side of the coin, I understand we barely know each other and really don’t owe each other anything, so come to think of it, an explanation of why you don’t like me after such little time spent together may actually make me feel worse, lol. But on the other side of the coin, silence is a wicked form of rejection, and regardless of how long you’ve known someone, it still stings like a wasp. Plus, we live in the same building, so it’s not like I won’t see him again… Was I that terrible to hang out with that you couldn’t even find the heart to lock me in the friend zone? Even if he did only baby-back-bitch-pass me rather than full-blown ghost me, the sentiment still lingers, and I can’t help but feel slightly embarrassed about our conversation and ever thinking that maybe he was interested in me. And shame. I feel shame. Shame to romanticize a guy that I’m clearly not compatible with yet still subconsciously desire him to give me attention. That’s so stupid. I’m so stupid.
I can’t help but feel a bit edgy about the whole thing. Guns, God, Ghosted. The words repeat over and over again in my head. His quietness speaks volumes. What if we had only talked about movies or food that night? Would we still be strangers? My gut says no.
Guns.
God.
Ghosted…
Guns. God. Ghosted. (oh my!)
The words wrack my brain like an enigmatic puzzle I can’t explain. (That’s a bar.) There’s a common denominator. A philosophical thread, perhaps. Or a psychological solution that I can’t discern.
And then the download begins… Power and Agency: The Interplay.
Guns, God, and Ghosting- the holy trinity of power games where everyone is their own rule-maker, and most days, the only commandment is “Thou shalt play dirty.”
So, still, why the shame? I’m still sitting with this, but right now, I believe it to be because power and agency make me feel uneasy and out of touch with my own sense of self, which is pretty shitty, considering that the world we live in thrives off of it. If I don’t know how to harness my power, do I even have any agency? What is my influence? The older I get, the more the egos multiply and the more pivotal I see this concept to be.
If I don’t know how power truly works or how to harness it within myself and others, then am I forever royally fucked? Will I continue to let myself feel sad about boys that I know are no good for me?
I’m scared that If I don’t figure this out I’ll continue to make poor choices. Like, when Ben #1 dumped me so I started dating Ben #2 thinking that it would cancel out the break up experience in its entirety. Or even worse… go home with one of the regulars at my bar who puff their chest at night and proudly hit their knees at Sunday’s morning Mass as if they weren’t snorting lines of “holy powder” in the stall of a urinal the night before (and post it on the gram because if you don’t, how will the rest of the world know you’ve washed away your tequila stained sins).
All politics aside, there are many ethical and moral considerations that we act on every damn day and define how we use our power to create agency and influence in the arms of an incredibly self-centric world.
How we choose to use and market guns alongside who we let get their hands on one.
If we decide to develop faith in something bigger than us, and how that impacts our emotional and mental well-being.
How we choose to communicate or unilaterally end a connection with the people that we have taken time to get to know in our lives.
It’s like in Kendrick Lamar’s song, “How Much a Dollar Cost,” where he refuses to give a homeless man a dollar only to find that this encounter was actually a personal and spiritual failure of his compassion and empathy (or lack thereof). The lyrics to this song are a poignant reflection of how the complex interplay between power and agency plays out in our day-to-day lives and how our choices can profoundly impact not only others but also our own sense of self and the understanding of our power. What is the cost of a dollar in the face of humanity? I think when use our agency and power to judge and forget compassion (which, like Kendrick, unfortunately, I am also guilty of and am very much working on), the price of that dollar stretches far beyond its face value.
The uncomfortable truth is that I am still unraveling the intricacies of how the world truly operates, and doing that while also confronting the gravity of my choices and missed opportunities to wield my agency for the greater good feels super shitty and confusing.
ALSO...
Side Note: I am genuinely baffled (and a bit resentful) about the fact that I have spent the majority of my academic years cramming my brain with useless trivia like how chlorophyll is a green pigmentation found in the chloroplast of plant cells, yet crucial life skills like managing dynamic interactions between power and personal choice have been tucked away like it’s the governments best-kept secret. I don’t understand. Why does our higher education system set us up to take on the world like we’re running blindfolded in a jungle with a wet noodle as protection instead of a machete? It’s insane.
We see it play out again and again like clockwork. From the workplace to the media, in the turning of family ties to battlegrounds, and even in matters of sex and drugs. Life works in favor of the conscious and the cunning.
I guess this is me coming to terms with it all. The fact that my saintly, high-caliber, Baby-Back-Bitch-passing Hottie and I were never meant to be. And that power, agency, and ethics will be an ongoing journey for me-one that I’m starting to realize demands a deeper introspection of what’s actually at play.
So fam, grab your holy water, and let’s raise a toast to the absurdity of it all. Here’s to making our own rules, embracing the judgments we can’t take back, and choosing as thoughtfully as we possibly can in the future. Oh, and an extra special cheers to the chivalrous boys (and girls) who have vanished into thin air! I was worried they might stick around long enough to actually read the end of this, lol.
You ARE funny and you should consider writing a book. Also: "Somehow, starting to own my lowest self rather than pretend I’m some sugar-coated sweetheart devoid of venom has not only humbled me but is positioning me to become more self-aware and reflective" 🙌🙌🙌
Not a pity heart at all. Chaotically good, and also yikes.