Write Like Everyone Hates You

I admit, sometimes I can be a special snowflake. Not a self-entitled one, but a little sensitive. My entire sense of self-worth is wrapped up in my academic career and performance.

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A couple years ago I sent in my first (and at this point, last) research paper for publication in an academic journal. I didn’t figure I’d go straight to publication, but I thought I would at least try. As my grandpa used to say, “The worst they can do is say no.” But there is worse.

Even though I didn’t think I’d make it to publication, I thought I might get enough constructive feedback that I could make edits and eventually be chosen for an issue. I knew my topic had a place in historiography. It was important and no previous research had been done (you’ll have to take my word on it, my dissertation is pending).

As an assistant editor of a historical journal at the time, I knew what to expect from the submission process being from both sides of the typewriter. Even so, I don’t think I could have been prepared for this.

I was still disappointed when I received the “thank you for your submission but…” letter I knew I was going to receive. I also saw that they had included the three reviewer’s comments. That’s what I saw as the true value of this experience anyways. I was getting free research and writing help from professionals.

The first two letters were extremely helpful, pointing out research holes and that I had taken on too large a topic for a thirty page article (they were right). The third letter, however, was a harsher written murder than I had ever endured before.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t told all through my academic career that everything I touched was gold. I had one professor that would get unintentionally tactless and utter phrases like, “is that it?” or “have you learned nothing?” I had one that didn’t have to say a word, all I had to do was look at her face. I was well aware that I was capable of less than stellar work. Plus, I am a Type A person to a fault. If I see the hint of disappointment I automatically assume what I’ve done is terrible and this person will think I’m stupid and hate me forever. I didn’t think anyone could ever criticize my work nearly as harshly as I did. I, again, was wrong.

This third reviewer, we’ll call him Carl, did not provide a sentence of anything that could be used to better myself. It seemed not about my work but personal. The hate he spewed clearly stated that I was hopeless and I should just never try again. I would share the exact wording, but somehow I have lost the letter. I stuffed it in a drawer somewhere and my memory has blocked out where I put it.

Now the disappointment faded and I was just plain hurt. The other reviewers gave suggestions of how to improve with a sense of “try these things, you’ll get better.” But this third one got personal, stating that I was hopeless and should just stop.

Carl seemed to almost have a personal vendetta. I shared the letter with my advisor at the time. He was enraged and called it unprofessional. I asked him if he knew Carl and he said yes, he had a disagreement with this person and that mere association could be the reason for the scathing letter. I’m still not sure if this is true. My advisor was such a nice man he could have just said so to save what was rest of my already fragile ego.

Sure, I got mad. I ranted and raved. Then, when I stopped talking, it got quiet. Except for Carl, now in my head. When I would write a simple book review, he would whisper ‘Why? You know you’re not good enough. You’re an imposter and soon everyone else will know too.’ My book reviews started getting rejected by journals. I couldn’t enjoy sitting and free writing anymore either. I felt that everything I touched was terrible and worst of all, I was stupid.

Now that I have passed my comprehensive exams, I am to start writing my dissertation. Carl is with me every single day. Some days I become so anxiety-ridden I’m not even capable of the simplest topic sentence. I’ve had a few when he’s been a little quieter and I’ve been able to finish a few pages. Then he returns and I have to resist the urge to delete everything.

I had a professor in my undergraduate say that the real reasons students procrastinate is because they are afraid what they do isn’t good enough. I thought he was overly optimistic at the time and the real reason people didn’t do their work until Sunday night was because they didn’t want to, and there were way more fun ways to spend a weekend. But Carl has made me understand what he meant. He was right. I am procrastinating because I fear what I write will be terrible.

Someday, I hope to finish my dissertation and mail that rat bastard a copy of my diploma (also the professor I had as an undergraduate that called me stupid for not knowing what a Roman forum was, and those who said I couldn’t finish it while holding down a job).

I recently read the paper I submitted for the first time since I received Carl’s insults. The other reviewers were right about it being too large a topic for thirty pages and that I should have included more analysis and what I think rather than just telling the story. But overall, I don’t think it’s absolutely horrid, or worthy of hanging up my historian hat. I will actually use pieces of it in my dissertation. Someday, I hope to also publish it as a book in which I will include Carl in my ackowledgements. There’s nothing that motivates me more than someone telling me I can’t do something. Sure, Carl is in my head on a nearly daily basis, telling me I can’t do it. But dear Carl, watch me.

f you

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Why Am I Doing This? A Dangerous Question During Exam Time for Graduate Students

Why Am I Doing This? A Dangerous Question During Exam Time for Graduate Students.

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I am a Ph.D. student in History. I am having an existential crisis. This can apply to people in any type of situation when it gets tough and makes you ask yourself, ‘Why am I doing this?’ Sometimes you don’t have an answer.

To earn a Ph.D. in history at my university, you must take so many semesters/credit hours of coursework, earning a grade no lower than a B. That is not enough to prove your worth, however. You must take three, six hour long exams over three days, known as comprehensive exams (comps). The three exams are your general field (US history), secondary field (American West), and a minor field (Public History).

Why are these so daunting? For me personally, I am not good at tests. Sure, I know the information inside and out but when I am handed an exam I can’t even remember what name to put at the top of the page. I will do reviews, projects, or write you a frickin’ book but don’t give me a test. In addition, I am aware that the exam can ask anything that happened in the United States from 1492 until the 1980s. That’s roughly five hundred years of stuff. And you must know what every historian has written about each era as well.

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Yes, I’m aware it’s a form of academic hazing. It’s weeding out the lesser, supposed to be humbling, etc. As if taking (and acing) history courses for about ten years isn’t good enough. And humbling? What about surviving the professors that routinely made your colleagues cry and whose classes required multiple all-nighters (not from procrastination either).

What I’m getting at, besides being whiney, is today after I found out I must also submit a dissertation proposal during the exact same time as I’m supposed to be studying (and getting signatures from my committee is like herding cats). I made the mistake of asking myself, “Why am I doing this to myself? Why am I even getting my Ph.D.?”

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Most people go to graduate school to get degrees required for higher jobs. I went for my Ph.D. because I had just gone through a divorce, wanted to avoid a personal life, and only knew of adulthood through the lens of a college student. I genuinely love the classroom and reading, any academic pursuit really. If I had unlimited scholarships I would be happy doing nothing but being a perpetual student.

But then there’s real life. The place where I had to quit my dream job I went to graduate school for in the first place because it didn’t pay enough for me to survive on. The place where I work a horrid 40+ hours a week job with a verbally abusive boss before going home to stress over these exams. I’m proud to say that through hard work, scholarships, help, and luck I have no student loans, but I’ve paid dearly for that in other ways. Because I work, I am unable to dedicate myself to publishing (which is the only means to employment, if you can even find it). So why am I doing this?

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In addition, where I live, having higher education makes you more unemployable than a felon. I often lie and leave off my higher education on resumes or I don’t receive interviews or are flat out told I am over-educated, over-qualified, etc. Smart people need to eat too. (I’m serious about the felon part-I know of a registered sex offender that has a job that pays three times as much as mine)

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I wish I could end this post with an enlightened, ‘This is what I reminded myself of why I’m doing what I’m doing’ but I’m not there yet. I don’t have an answer. Maybe I’m doing this because I’ve already worked for three years to get this far into the Ph.D. Maybe because school was the only thing I felt I was ever good at and base my sense of worth upon it.

Perhaps this is why you seldom see sober Ph.D. students when they’re studying for comps.

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The Toenail Birthday, AKA the Worst Pain I’ve Ever Experienced

To take a break from the “oh my god my job sucks and my soul is dying every day” posts, I thought I’d share one of the many awkward and downright painful (on multiple levels) stories from my life. I usually reserve it for first or second dates to make the person run screaming. But today I will share it with the internet. Enjoy. 

On my twenty-fifth birthday, the guy I was dating at the time (we’ll call him Curt) decided to throw me a surprise birthday shindig. No one had ever thrown me a party, much less a surprise one for my birthday and I thought it was super sweet. (Except that my friends know they can’t keep secrets from me so they stopped talking to me after they received the invites to not spoil the surprise and I thought everyone was mad at me for some unknown reason). 

Dating

We meet everyone for dinner (where I was surprised at the restaurant). I had also never gone out drinking for my birthday (I know, I was quite sheltered) so Curt and his friends made it their mission to get me hot mess white girl wasted. They succeeded. I drank a lot at the restaurant (I love fruity drinks) and then we went to a club where I was fed shot after shot. 

Normally when I drink, I handle my alcohol quite well but I usually know how much I can drink and aren’t being handed shots every two seconds. 

Anyways, I remember walking into the bathroom of the club. That door served as the end of my consciousness. I remember nothing after that…

white girl wasted

Fast forward to the next morning. I wake up, not remembering anything of the night before except walking into the bathroom. I’m hungover for the first time in my life-my brain is seriously trying to escape through my face. I move to get up to go to the bathroom and feel a stabbing pain in my big toe. I move the blanket to see that it’s wrapped…in toilet paper. 

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I think nothing of it, maybe I just stubbed it on the nightstand again and drunkenly wrapped it for no apparent reason. I go to the bathroom (and my toe is a raging pain) and see blood and a pair of needle nose pliers on the floor…

My first thought, ‘oh my god, I pulled a tooth out.’ I check my mouth, all teeth are accounted for and still attached. Then in a sudden flash of memory (though I wish I didn’t remember it) I remember what happened when we got home the night before. 

At the club I was wearing strappy sandals. Someone had dropped a beer bottle that shattered on my foot and filled my sandal with glass. On top of that someone had done a Mexican hat dance on my toe, causing the nail to slightly detach. Emphasis on slightly-it was still attached to me. 

We get home and my genius (heavy sarcasm here) Curt thought for some reason that unless he removed the toenail I was going to just instantly die. He could have just wrapped it (I asked the doctor what he should have done later). 

So, Curt, being a genius, chases my drunk ass around our apartment with a pair of pliers. He gets me cornered in the bathroom, because, really, there’s only so many places to run in an apartment. I’m sitting in the bathtub and he has my foot in one hand, pliers in the other. I punch him in the face but being only a foot apart didn’t get enough oomph behind it to deter him from his bloody mission. 

He swiftly grabs the toenail and rips. I was blackout drunk and can still vividly remember the pain and screaming. (Why didn’t our neighbors call the cops? I’m pretty sure it sounded like I was being ax murdered). I’m also sure that this is a form of torture recognized in the Geneva Conventions. 

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He then proceeds to “doctor” my wound but instead of Neosporin he puts steroid ointment meant for allergic skin reactions on the toe and wraps it in toilet paper. This means the next morning I have to wash this stuff off the toe and pick pieces of the toilet paper out of the wound. I also have to use the pliers still handy on the floor to pull out the shards of glass embedded in the bottom of my foot from the broken beer bottle. 

Thankfully no permanent physical damage is done-my toenail grows back in six months. However, I won’t wear open toe shoes in public anymore nor can I stand anyone to touch or get close to my feet. I used to really enjoy pedicures but some of the tools look too much like pliers to be close to my toes. 

My friends and I now refer to this incident as “the toenail birthday.” But I learned. I will never again get that drunk nor date anyone that completely stupid. Or wear open toe shoes to a club.

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Self High Five: My Filter Broke at Work

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I’ve posted before about my soul-sucking time as an assistant here. To give you a better verbal portrait of my boss before sharing my triumphant yet gutsy (rare for me) comeback, I’ll give you a little context. He is a narcissist that feels most important when putting others down, specifically by calling them ignorant or indirectly implying it. He also doesn’t articulate what he wants very well. I have followed him from room to room in the office asking him five times in a row which exact file he had asked for because he had simply said “get me the file.” Considering we have four rooms with files from floor to ceiling, that’s pretty f$%^ing broad. Sometimes (ok, maybe more often) if you ask him a question or to clarify his instant reaction is god%$#^ it. 

Now, armed with that information, you are ready for the split second my filter from brain to mouth broke. I think I got a little piece of my soul back in the process. 

The Story

He calls me into his office to say, “Call [name of person] and tell him the attachment to the email didn’t work.”

Me “Ok, that person has sent several emails today and the attachments aren’t labeled so what document specifically do I need to ask him for?”

Boss “The god*&$% document.”

Me, in a complete deadpan voice and expression “You want me to tell him we need the god%$^& document?” 

I realize I’ve said this aloud, even though completely unintentional. But hey, it’s already out of my mouth and I can’t take it back, so I just continue my dead faced stare. He is actually speechless for a few moments, which in itself is an accomplishment. 

My awesome coworker tries to somewhat fix the situation and not laugh “You did tell her to tell him that.”

Boss, quieter “You’re being sarcastic” [Nooo, I’m really going to ask someone that, jeez.]

Boss “Tell him we need the [document name]”

It sounds like a little, insignificant thing but I feel it was a minor victory on multiple levels:

-He got a small taste of what it was like to have profanity coming from someone other than himself. 

-He heard what he sounds like because I just repeated exactly what he had said to me. I honestly think he has no clue how he speaks to us. 

-I made him speechless and was doing a little inner badass happy dance.

-I made my coworker laugh, which in that place we are all grateful to any piece of joy we can glean from each other. 

This is what my happy dance looks like. It's not pretty.

This is what my happy dance looks like. It’s not pretty.

New and Away

The week has left me broken and sore

I can’t smell you on my pillows any more.

Time to get back and make me forget

The mess I was before we met. 

It’s more than a simple addiction

But I wouldn’t call it a bad kind of affliction.

No longer any kind of productive

Because just the memory of you is seductive. 

It’s easy to see that I’ve got it bad

After this short time you’re the best I’ve ever had.

But you can trust me not to say a word

Until when you come forward with what needs to be heard.

A pro when emotions need to be hidden

Maybe some day for this I can be forgiven.

Instead I’ll tell you how I feel with my slow blinks

And random thoughts that slip out when we drink. 

I normally write bad poetry only when in the angsty phase of getting over a breakup. I made the best grades in my English and music classes after being dumped. (Some semesters I just needed someone I cared about to dump me). I woke up this morning with this rattling in my head and it’s the first, non-angry thing I’ve ever written that wasn’t forced. I wonder if that’s a good sign for my situation…

I'm a realist.

I’m a realist.

 

Working as an Assistant…and Slowly Losing What’s Left of My Self Esteem

Everyone has had a job in high school, during college, etc. that totally sucked (like fast food or retail) and was meant just to pay the bills or buy booze on the weekends. However, there’s always the dream ( *cough* expectation *cough*) that after college we will never have to do those jobs again because we can use whatever degree we’ve earned to do our dream job. Then you get to the real world…and yeah, it gets a little depressing…time for a shot of tequila. 

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I was actually a very lucky person to get my dream job right out of college. However, after working said dream job for about four years, budget cuts and inflation meant I could no longer pay my bills or buy food on that never-changing salary. After my family scraped together to help me pay a few bills and cutting down to eating only twice I day, I said goodbye to my dream job and looked for a job doing whatever that would enable me to buy food. 

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So I became a legal assistant. I was ecstatic. I could pay my bills for the first time in a long time working only one job and I had always had an interest in law (my degree is in history) so at least it would be somewhat interesting. Man, was I wrong. I’ve worked there for only three months now and I think each day I’ve lost a little piece of self esteem and my soul. 

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I found this great excerpt from Don’t Worry, It Gets Worse by Alida Nugent that I think accurately describes a little of what I experience each day:

“After a few weeks of working at an office, I realized I was becoming the kind of person who was finding joy in the little things-and by little things, I mean meaningless, stupid distractions from my shitty job. A reprieve of going to the copy machine and getting the pleasure of mindlessly staring at the wall for five minutes was magical. Trips to the bathroom were a joyous urination break where I washed my hands until they became pruney. And don’t forget about the absolute thrill of lunch . . . On the occasions that I went out beyond the office doors to buy a salad, you’d think I was being let out of prison after a twenty-year sentence . . . .” 

It hit me yesterday, after being called varying forms of stupid and being cursed at all day long by someone less educated than myself, that I can’t continue to do this job much longer and remain sane. Like Alida Nugent, I’ve been taking breaks to hide in the stairwell on varying floors in my building to get away from it. I go to the restroom on different floors each time so my boss can’t send someone in to tell me he needs me at that absolute moment because he can’t walk to the break room to get his own f*^&%ing Diet Pepsi. 

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I’m not sure what the purpose of this post is, other than venting. But if you are in a job like this, working for a narcissistic, insecure, asshat that thinks of himself as a special little snowflake, know you’re not alone. Tell yourself every single morning before your shift begins and when you leave that you are intelligent, you are a good worker, etc. I find this experience similar to being in an emotionally/verbally abusive relationship. I’ve found myself in social situations where someone politely asks what I do and I simply say, “I’m just an assistant” despite the fact that I’m halfway through a Ph.D. (though a useless one) and am really excited about original research I will begin soon. The person I was with began inputting what I was doing with school and it made me realize that it’s sad another person has to speak up for my accomplishments and that it was a sign that I am slowly beginning to believe I am useless and stupid. That’s not healthy. There’s no reprieve since I work at a small place with no HR department and well paying jobs (aka I make enough to pay my bills) are rare. 

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Just remember, “You is smart, you is kind, you is important.” And you are much better than these types of people, regardless of how much money they have. Rich white men put their pants on every morning the exact same we do: one leg at a time. Remember that when you become a supervisor. 

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Hooking Up, Dating, or Whatever the Hell This Is

Have you ever wondered, ‘Am I dating this person?’ or ‘Am I their boy/girlfriend, booty call, etc.” Where the hell do I stand with this person? In today’s culture it can be a little less than vague. I mean, because we’re just supposed to automatically know through our powers of mind-reading.

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A Little Background

I married young (stupidly in my case) and never really dated. I just had steady, longterm, monogamous relationships. When I became single I had no idea how this dating thing worked. The last relationship I had that didn’t end in marriage or started to end up that way was in high school. So all I had to go off of is, ‘Well, he didn’t ignore me today and actually drove me home instead of ditching me for his garage band so I must be his girlfriend.’ Not so applicable in the adult world. At least I hope not.

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So Here It Is

I started thinking about this during a recent conversation with a friend:

Her: So you’ve hung out multiple times. Are you dating?

Me: Yeah, a few times. We had a great time. Dating? Wait, what?

Her: Are you his girlfriend?

Me: Um, no? He hasn’t specifically asked me to be…so no.

Her: Well are you at least exclusive? [Dating/sleeping with only each other]

Me: Uh…I don’t know, we haven’t talked about it. [Cue frantic thinking, ‘Oh crap, does this guy even like me?’]

[By the way, I’m oh so eloquent when questioned about relationships, can’t you tell?]

I realized that today men don’t ask the parents if they may visit their maiden daughters in a supervised sitting room nor do they always specifically ask “Will you be my girlfriend?” like in the third grade (or high school). This is often known as the “define the relationship” talk if something like this is discussed. It’s creepy as hell if it happens within an hour of meeting a person (actually had that happen) but after a few weeks/months, etc. one does start to wonder. Eventually I just want to say, “Out with it! What is this?” (I don’t advise you do this so abruptly).

I found this article amusing and quite accurate, at least in my case, with dating/hooking up/whatever today. I’m not agreeing this is the most romantic or thrilling progression, nor always the most accurate for everyone, but it is amusing and I find it applicable to my limited dating life thus far…just damn confused. [For the record, the GIFs were inserted by me]

 

Dating In The Hook-Up Culture: 10 Weird And Confusing Stages Of The Modern Relationship

By Paul Hudson. June 3, 2014. Visit the original article here.

Dating these days is a joke. And not a very funny one at that. I don’t know if it’s because our generation started dating before we hit puberty or whether the Kardashians of the world have ruined what was once a beautiful thing, but the truth is that dating these days is horrible.

Half the damn time you won’t even know if you’re actually dating or not. What was once explainable using a single digit binary code now requires the decimal system.

It’s no longer “Are you dating?” or “Are you not dating?” There are now different stages, one hardly distinguishable from the other – at least while on the inside.

Looking from the outside in, on the other hand, gives shape to the confusing and convoluted dating culture that we have created for ourselves. Here are the more easily recognizable stages:

1. The One-Night Stand.

Regardless of whether you met on the street, in a coffee shop, at your yoga class or in the park, the first date tallies up to one thing: either a successful or failed one-night stand.

It doesn’t matter what the initial intentions are – not as if you know what the other person’s intentions are anyway – on the first date you’re either sleeping together or not. Depending on the results of this stage, you’ll move on to stage 2.

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2. The Second Glance.

Seeing as how you were probably highly intoxicated the first time around, you decide to see this person one more time. This decision is most likely the result of you not being certain whether or not the person was good in bed.

You managed to black out sometime in the middle of it all and can’t figure out whether the person was the best or worst sex of your life. Round 2 it is.

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3. The Booty Call.

You have officially dubbed him/her, or have been dubbed, worthy of sexual pursuit. Congratulations! You can now move on to phase 3: the booty call. Now it is acceptable for you to text this person at odd hours, preferably when you’re intoxicated or about to be intoxicated, to come over.

In this stage, it isn’t recommended that you refrain from calling the person or see him/her without drinking heavily or taking drugs – it may be awkward. I mean, you’ve only been intimate a dozen times or so… slow down already.

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4. The Friend With Benefits.

This is the first stage when you actually matter to the person more than any other slab of meat would. You put in the time and effort, your liver has certainly paid for it and it is now time to finally get to know the person you’ve been having sex with all this time.

Talking is recommended, but beware of throwing any romance into the mix. You’re friends. Not lovers. Keep all the lovey-dovey romance stuff to yourself and, whatever you do, do not look him/her in the eyes when in the midst of coitus. When you’re done, finish with a firm handshake or a high five.

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5. The Date.

Not sure how you did it – most never make it this far – but you did it… you are now going on your first official date. You’re not yet “dating” in the traditional sense, but you are going on dates.

I understand this can be confusing, but what about this process isn’t? The first couple of dates are crucial as they will decide whether or not you will be moving forward to the following stages or if the two of you will be “too busy” to see each other in coming weeks.

This is one of the trickiest stages as often it can lead to being bumped up a few stages ahead of schedule. Or, as I have already mentioned, it could be the end of the road.

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6. The Fling.

After a couple of dates, it turns out that you aren’t really interested in each other. You enjoy sleeping with each other and even enjoy each other’s company, but you can’t see yourself together in the long run.

The feeling is mutual – you both know that whatever it is that the two of you have going on won’t last very long, but you decide that you want to have fun while it does. Flings are fun and usually harmless. However, this stage can look a lot like stage seven: the stepping-stone.

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7. The Stepping-Stone.

This stage is like the fling stage with one critical difference: Only one of you knows that the relationship won’t last. While you might be beginning to consider the other a real partner, the other thinks of you as a means of getting into someone else’s pants.

Well, maybe not exactly a means of getting there, but a comfortable resting area while you look for a better watering hole. You like the sex and you even like the person you’re having sex with… you just don’t want to be with him/her for the long haul.

You consider this person a necessary stepping-stone before you can settle with the right person – or he/she considers you as such. One of you is going to get hurt after this process… but you may have skipped it entirely and moved on to stage 8.

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8. The Backup.

You have now been dubbed – or vice versa – good enough to be with. Unfortunately, you’re not good enough to be with right now. You’re good enough to keep around in case things don’t work out with anyone else, but to date you, really date you, at the moment would be silly.

These sorts of relationships get incredibly complicated, neither party really knowing what is going on as neither wants to completely let go.

The good news is, you have a safety net to fall on in case nothing else works out. Or at least you do at the moment. No one wants to be a backup indefinitely.

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9. The Boyfriend/Girlfriend.

Wow. I mean, seriously. You should be proud of yourself. Making it all the way to official status in our day and age is impressive – well done. You can now throw on the romance and allow yourself to finally have feelings for the individual.

You can start to be yourself and begin to actually care for the person you have been “intimate” with for oh-so very long. The only thing that you should keep in mind is that getting here doesn’t guarantee that you graduate from the dating scene to marital status.

In fact, most relationships of such caliber fail miserably. But cheer up! You can at least update your Facebook status and make all your friends jealous!

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10. Lost In Translation.

This isn’t so much a stage as it is the platform holding all these stages. In this day and age just about everything gets lost in translation, but mostly because there is very little communication to actually translate.

Most people keep themselves closed off and sheltered, regardless of how intimate they’ve become with another person. Everybody is afraid to get hurt and afraid of possibly, inadvertently, giving up the opportunity to get into someone better’s pants.

Most of the time you won’t know what stage you’re in, were in or are headed to. You won’t be sure if the person cares about you or is only using you for amusement. The theory is that, with time, you’ll either find someone who won’t take you down this road.

Maybe it will come with maturity. Maybe you won’t be alone forever. Or maybe you’ll get to run through these stages for the rest of your life. No one knows! That’s half the fun!

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In Marriage

A rough, soul crushing week causes lots of introspection. Unlike my last life-altering experience, I’m making it a goal to no avoid writing about it. It’s a three day week so more is to come. Stay tuned!

harleyquinnly

20140524-223504-81304359.jpg“I have always been petrified of marriage – absolutely afraid. I’ve felt like once I would get married, someone would want to change me, and I would have no choice but to become this locked-up specimen in a box. I’m worried about losing my freedom of expression. People who meet me go, ‘Oh, you’re really fun and wild’. Then as soon as they get to know me, they go, ‘Well don’t do that’. And then I don’t do it. And I become this separate person from who I was. Then I resent the person who was trying to change me.”

Sandra Bullock

I don’t believe marriage is a horrible thing, but with the wrong person it can chew you up and then spit you out, forever leaving scars. Though those scars may fade, they’ll always be there.

To those of you who are in a happy, healthy relationship/marriage, count yourself…

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