Unfaithfully Yours

This is the only thing that matters in my life right now.

I swiped right by accident.

I still don’t know why he didn’t just take it off. Macklemore made it very clear that his thrift store purchases didn’t cost him more than $20. Whatever. Poser.

Anyway, I committed myself to a healthier lifestyle; partially due to the fact that I intend to live forever, but mostly because when I had abs and buns of steel, Instagram wasn’t a thing. Otherwise, I’d like to think I would’ve been moderately insta-famous by now. And let’s be honest, what 22 year old DOESNT want to be insta-famous?

When the weather is warm, I miss my winter clothing because I think it's the best section of my wardrobe. I'm at my best when I'm in layers, professional without losing my signature edge. When the weather is cold, I miss dressing like I'm en route to 'chella.

This dog has an unusual set of standards. I mean, I get the fact that you need to date someone who knows how to bait a hook and load a gun; you don’t have opposable thumbs, that’s a fair requirement. I’m not against the 2nd amendment, a fact made obvious by my ex boyfriend who had a questionable affinity for weapons, which I thought was sexy. But most girls from New York probably don’t even know what the 2nd amendment is, We're not hunters. Unless they're from upstate New York, to be honest I'm not really sure what goes on up there. So now you’re asking these ladies to go on Google and look up the amendments to the constitution; who wants to be made to look like an ignorant, potential wet-blanket by a dog? This is turning into a chore. Finally, Free Bird? What backwoods did you crawl out of? Not to mention you look high AF, dog. Go home.

Hold the phone: I’m about to get serious for a minute. When I’m not on Tinder, I’m writing my novel or screenplay. This is a poem I crafted, which I then broke down into dialogue--between the central character and the guy who broke her heart, essentially resulting in her impressive dysfunction--for my screenplay. I wear many hats, and one of them is decorated with an EXTREMELY angsty feather.

Gregory and I met at a vulnerable point in my life. I was just coming off the heels of my date with Omar, who hadn’t called me in a week. It turns out, he went on his school camping trip and fell for the second chair Oboe player who was in the cabin next to his. Second chair, really Omar? I thought you were better than that. I mean, at least I was the first chair flautist in my heyday. Whatever, hoes gonna be hoes. Gregory gave me hope; maybe he knew how to play more than Kiss From A Rose and Hot Cross Buns. He’s 6'5, convenient to my 5'10. He’s from the Big Easy, which is pretty jazzy. He’s spreading positive vibrations for Christ’s sake! It seemed like a sure thing. So we went to this little jazz club in a part of the city I had never been to. He started talking about his dream of becoming an instructor for child prodigies, helping them get to Juliard, or be members of the New York Philharmonic. He whipped out his phone to show me his newest project, a young sixth grader with charisma and gumption. It was Omar. I had a soft cry on my pillow that night as I sat in bed, candles lit, while attempting to play hot cross buns on my recorder. Omar, wherever you are, you’ll always have my heart. Nothing compares to you. Even your rendition of that Sinead O'Connor song.

I like to listen to Drake's Make Me Proud on repeat, just so I can hear the part where he says "And I love it when your hairs still wet cause you just took a shower, runnin on the treadmill and only eatin salad, sounds so smart like you graduated college, like you went to Yale but you probably went to Howard." First of all, it makes me feel a little thug. I'm a white girl from the North Shore of Long Island. So vanilla, so tragic. But then I remember that I'm listening to Jimmy from Degrassi---the same guy who was too afraid to have sex, so he blew up the condoms like a balloon animal. Classic. The feeling is fleeting. Second of all, I love it when my hair is still wet too, because then I don't have to deal with the questionable smell of my heated hair (see my last post). So I get to think to myself, "Wow, Drake and I have a lot in common." Third of all, treadmill+salad=my daily ritual. Once again, I'm a white girl from the North Shore of Long Island who was in a sorority at Villanova University. Treadmills coupled with a nice salad are my passion. Finally, I'm probably the smartest person alive. All in all, it puts me in the perfect frame of mind to wear a backwards hat, a black crop top with matching sweatpants, and take pictures of myself whilst winding and grinding.

My roommates are my parents. I live with my parents.

I decided to hold a photo shoot today, with myself as the subject. Some people might look at my Instagram and think, “Caro, isn’t that what you do everyday?” I get it, I have a plethora of #Selfies on the ‘Gram. My super critical ex-boyfriend really drove that point home a few weeks ago, immediately after saying, “Really C, leather pants again?” Hence why I’m trolling Tinder for someone who gets me. Or at least, someone who fears me enough not to open his mouth about the delicate subject of my narcissism. Anyway, since I used a real camera and not my iPhone, I figured people would just assume someone else had taken the picture, thus tempering the notion that I have an incessant need to show the world what I look like. I’m pretty sure it backfired, but I’m going to continue to pretend that I’m showcasing some other photographer’s work. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. I will now open the flood gates, and post what comes across as “excessive” on the 'Gram.

Because I'm not exactly batting 1000 right now, Ryan The Hypocrite.

Listen, I’ll be the first to designate myself as the “pretentious literary asshole” of the friend group...if I were a part of a friend group. So when I discovered that Benvolio had swiped right as well, I thought to myself, “Finally, someone with whom I can share my affinity for Shakespeare AND the Juggalo sub-culture.” He picked me up in Brooklyn--to my surprise--on a Vespa. I admired his European transportation, but was admittedly self conscious about the fact that he was wearing more makeup than I. Whatever. I hopped on the back and we rode off into the hazy summer night toward the park for a little theater action. As we were crossing the Brooklyn bridge, the Vespa began to make suspicious noises. It turns out, our combined weight was over the limit of what the poor scooter could handle. The engine gave out before we could make it half way across. We never got to see Romeo and Juliette that night, and he made me walk back to my apartment alone, because he said the trek would make him sweat off his face paint. I never rescheduled, despite the fact that I was dying for someone to see Othello with. 

**YOU’RE** obviously not that upset about it, Bacob, seeing as how you continued to like all of my moments.

Omar played a beautiful rendition of Kiss From a Rose for me. Well, for me and the other children’s parents at his sixth grade band recital. 

Matt isn’t my type. Maybe it was the effects of my sixth hour on Spotify’s EDM Radio, or it could have been the result of what I refer to as "swipe delirium". Either way, he was starting to look more and more like Zedd. So I said, “What the hell, let’s give the pre-pubescent looking guy a shot.” I drove over to his place, and upon pulling into his driveway I felt a bump. “Clearly this guy isn’t handy, otherwise he would be able to maintain his own driveway.” I stepped out of the car, only to see one of those cones that you secure around an animal’s neck to keep it from licking the stitches after surgery. That’s when I realized: that bump was the cat from his first picture. I said a prayer begging God for his forgiveness, opened the app, unmatched him, and drove away like a thief in the night. I never found out why his cat needed surgery, but I hope it was for something terminal and that I ended its suffering.