The other day I shared this post with the women who helped create the list. One woman mentioned one of the biggest cons of the single life: dying alone. I mean, we all die alone, but, if you’re lucky, you’re in the company of another or go peacefully in a hospital bed surrounded by loved ones.

I warn you now, this post is going to be hella morbid.

The conversation delved into the possibility that, should a single person who lives alone, die in their home, would their pet eat them.

I warned you. Hella morbid.

A couple of us agreed, ya, if you died alone in your home, and your furry little loved one was stuck inside with no Fancy Feast or Pedigree around, they very well might eat you. Not that they don’t love you or anything, but, should you expire — and no one knows you’ve expired — and your pet is stuck inside for… heck, who knows how long before your death is discovered, they very well may substitute your carcus for kibble.

I realize some of you feed your pets that organic pet food. Forgive me for using generic brands as an example. I haven’t had a pet in years.

I could tell the thought of dying alone, and not being discovered, was a new sort of thought to this person, now that they’re amongst the single. It’s been a thought of mine for years. I tend to take note when lonely ol’ women are found mummified in their homes.  I don’t have roommates and go stretches without seeing people, so there’s always been a very good chance I could die and no one would know for quite a while.

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Happy Black People Month mother humpers.

I’ve been quiet because, honestly, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with this blog lately. Some days I’m like, “Fuck, you’re depressing.” Other days I’m, like, “Well, being single a decade is MOTHER FUCKING DEPRESSING. Do what you gotta and tell ‘em ’bout it and quit your bitchin’ and whinin’.” Then, other days I’m, like, “Mmm, potato chips.” and just eat delicious food until I snack-gasm and collapse on my sofa in a heap, not wasting a single minute of my time giving a good gadayum about writing anything. Other days I’m, like, “Don’t you want to write about men and sex and stuff?” and then I’m like “Nope. I’m cool on that.” and grab another bag of chips because, I figure, people don’t want to hear about the other boring stuff in my life. They just want to hear when I go on bad dates and give nameless dudes hand jobs. Other days I’m busy working my four — count them FOUR — jobs.

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My ad:

I don’t know about you, but I find dating to be an activity I simply can no longer enjoy, mostly because I go on one date and never see the man again. So, I’d like to skip the coffee and dinner and drinks. I’m a unique woman seeking to spend my time in unique ways.

I’m at a stage I’d like to greater enhance my life and improve the person I already am. I’d like to spend my time doing activities that are fun and that enrich me as a person. I’d enjoy company. The vast majority of my girlfriends are married or in relationships and I’ve tired of doing things alone, so the company of an intelligent and engaging man would be appreciated. If we hit if off and want to do it again, great. If not, it’s ok. We will have spent our time doing something that enriched us as people so we won’t consider it time wasted. We’ll walk away better people for having known each other if only for several hours.

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Since the last post was, sorta, depressing, I’m going to pick it up a notch. I have a number of projects in the works and, needing a bit of inspiration on one recently, I asked some single women to post the pros and cons of the single life. I should say I posed the question to single woman, but that didn’t stop the married ladies from adding to the list, which was helpful, because it was easy to see how they view single life from the other side of the fence.

Below are what they came up with. I added a few of my own which, you can pretty much figure out because they’re either gross or ridiculously morbid, but, very much the reality of my single life. If you have any you’d like to add, feel free to post in the comments section.

I think this list gives a pretty good idea of the ups and downs of single life and what, if you’re feeling low about it, you can think to help pick yourself back up.

PROS OF BEING SINGLE

“Doing whatever the hell I want when I want with whoever I want without someone asking me what the hell I’ve been up to”

“The thrill of the chase”

“Getting to choose how I spend my time”

“Get all my time to myself to read, sleep, knit, watch TV, see friends, sleep with new men”

“Flirting with any and every hottie in my path”

“Traveling is more fun when you’re single”

“Not being asked to pick up the slack around the house or financial responsibility”

“Not being Dutch ovened in the mornings”

“Watching my favorite shows and talking throughout without someone shushing me”

“Truly lazy weekends in my PJs ordering pizza and reading a whole book or watching movie marathons”

“First kisses”

“Snoring without being hit in the face or moved to the couch”

“That amazing electricity and anxiety when making a connection with a new guy”

“Going out at 11pm on a weeknight on a whim if I feel like it”

“Being able to pig out on a dozen cookies or delicious take out without anyone watching you, judging you and becoming grossly unattracted to you”

“Managing my own finances”

“The concept I can date whomever I want”

“Single: less fat”

“That I can have dirty dishes in the sink, and not have to wash them until they disgust *ME*!”

“Freedom”

“Time for self, time for friends”

“Peeing with the door open or in the shower and not giving a fuck “

CONS OF BEING SINGLE

“Having to carry my own shopping bags”

“Cooking for one person and eating leftovers for days on end… or just eating quesadillas and grilled cheese standing in the kitchen”

“Not having someone to hold my hair back while I puke”

“No one to hold your hand through difficult diagnosis, illness, surgery, emergency room visits, scary situations”

“Sometimes, you have mediocre sex with someone new and you don’t want to see him again”

“Traveling kinda sucks when you’re single if it’s to remote places where the best thing to do is explore with someone else

“Not having someone to tell me I don’t look fat”

“Not having someone other than myself to talk with about movies, TV shows, etc.after they’re over”

“Taking the Christmas tree down and having it fall on my head” (sic)

“Having to drive every damned where all the damned time”

“In relationship: more fat”

“Not having someone to kiss goodnight”

“Lack of sex”

“Not having a date to the office Holiday party”

“Hate not having a dude that can do the things that, no doubt, I can do myself, but hate doing it cuz it’s ‘man’s’ work”

“Loneliness”

“Finding a pair of men’s underwear in your laundry, but not knowing who they belong to”

“Just having a hug or a shoulder when you need one”

“Knowing my deceased/elderly parents won’t be around when I find a partner. Never being walked down the aisle and given away by my dad. My folks never having the opportunity to see me in a wedding gown or as a happily married woman”

I’m going to refer to an oft repeated, and quite apt,  quote by Vicki Gunvalson: “My love tank is empty.”

And, one of my favorite RnB songs, by a group named Brownstone, that I heard today on Pandora and got me to thinkin’.

Five miles to empty
My heart is running low
I need a good man to fill me up

Most long-term single’s love tanks are empty. You can attempt to sipon some fuel and see if you can fill it a little bit to keep yourself keepin’ on:  have a one night stand with that dude from the bar or  hang out a few times with that guy who has the handle-bar mustache and a liking for Mumford and Sons until he stops calling. But, when those encounters are over, and you’re there, solo, again, you’re running on empty. And, we all know, things can’t run on empty.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, a friend will come along, see you’re stalled and give you a little love fuel to run on until you can siphon some fuel from another source to keep yourself running.

What’s all this tank and gas shit have to do with anything?  Well, it’s how I’ve been feeling about friendship as of late. And a metaphor for how I’ve been feeling about my relations with my friends.

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I met a dude last year. I’ll call him No Name. Sometimes No Name and I hook up and stuff.  When I say “sometimes” I mean, twice. When I say  ”stuff” I mean sometimes our privates enter into non-penetrative activity . No Name is a smart dude, mildly attractive in an ambiguously ethnic kinda way, funny and a great conversationalist. We talk all the time. Via text, not like on the phone or anything. That would be annoying.

No Name and I have always had the gift of gab together. Where we met (which is a place people go to plan doing the sex) we talked a shit load about a shit load of things (but, oddly, never actually about doing the sex). It was clear, though our conversations — which were over a course of, I’d say, two or three months — we had very similar issues:

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Last night was one of the difficult nights, though I know it was made worse by hormones which are all out of whack at the moment. These episodes are usually punctuated by my surfing Craigslist Women for Men ads and, after finding a very small 2% of which I can actually respond due to one preference or deal breaker or another (theirs, not mine),  I create my own ad. Two to be exact.

One ad is short, simple and with no mention of my ethnicity, body shape to avoid flagging. Mind you, this isn’t one person flagging. This is a TEAM of people taking me the fuck down. Don’t get all weird or defensive about me on this. And don’t be all Becky Unicorns and Rainbows and shit thinking it’s a man flagging it to up his chances with me. It’s not. There’s a place on Craigslist somewhere that talks about flagging and they let people know, straight up, look, sometimes racists and mean people flag shit because they don’t like the way you look. I’ve dealt with it. You can too.

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I’m going to talk dates, second dates, specifically, because they’re a rather foreign concept to me. In the nine or so years I’ve been single I’ve had, technically, four second dates. One was with Smokey, but his Peter Pan sensibilities  regularly challenged what we were doing as “not, technically, dating” for three years so, I guess, technically, that wasn’t a second date.

The second second date was with a guy I knew much too briefly to create an alias for. Our first date was wonderful. My first dates, usually, are, or so I perceive. I’m not one of those women thinking a date was awesome when it really wasn’t. Most times, they call back requesting a second date. Half of that time, the second date is actually planned. Like this dude.  We spent our first date out on the town enjoying a Bay Area Art crawl, grabbing food from carts,  having cocktails and listening to music at a local bar. Our second date was dinner a few days later, followed by cocktail and a bit of making out. I saw him once more before his mood changed; he’d brought a pillow for an impromptu sleepover at my house. Afterward, he began to create excuses as to why the dinner he’d offered to make me at his home one evening soon was, suddenly, something he was unable to do. In cases such as these I did what I knew my role was to do, go silent. When he did, confirming his disinterest, I moved on with life. I kept his fucking pillow though. That thing is soft a shit. No wonder why he carried that thing around with him and brought it to random bitches houses. It’s the primary pillow I sleep with now — three years later. Not gettin’ that back, son.

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Every single word I wrote is now a thing of the past. Gone. Disappeared into the abyss. I could go find most of it on my old Facebook posts, but what would be the point of that? I’m not that woman anymore, so what she said may have mattered at the time, but certainly doesn’t now. It was difficult losing all of my writing at first, so much so it brought me to tears several years ago. I mean, most of my tears were over me being a dumbass too lazy to back up my work, but, today?

It’s a clean slate, a new day, a fresh start and any other saying used to signify a new beginning. I think I’m funnier now anyways, at least, in my head I am. I haven’t really written any single-woman shit of significance in over a year so I may not be funny at all. I may just be that crazy woman laughing at the thoughts in her head on the train.

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