Something Better

Fuck Buddies. How Sex and The City. Everyone’s had them. It’s the new black or orange, or whatever’s de rigueur these days. It’s like if you don’t have one, you’re like shallow or something, too immature to commit to no-strings sex. Some people call it “friends with benefits” but I disagree, there is a very important distinction: a fuck buddy is not your friend, even though you know his last name.

Sometimes, one gets a sense when you meet someone that this person is not going to be your boyfriend. Maybe it’s in his eyes, or his hair or the way he looks at his mom’s picture on his nightstand when he comes. Whatever. He’s clean and he knows how to push your buttons. And it helps that he’s a proctologist.

It’s fun while it lasts, but it is not without its own pitfalls. After all, it’s not like you sit the guy down and negotiate the terms. It’s not like you discuss when you can call or agree on a cover story in case someone other than him picks up the phone. By definition, this type of relationship is short-lived, although a friend of mine found out after two years that he was just a fuck buddy. He thought the reason he never saw the guy before 11pm was because the guy was into Goth.

Here are some signs that your fuck buddy is getting too attached:

You’re on his speed dial.
You have your own toothbrush at his place.
You got a teddy bear that says “I love you.”

If you see these signs you have to break it off immediately. Be ruthless, like Elmer Fudd. Playing the nice guy will only bring about the need for a restraining order. After all, you were only doing it for the sex, until something better comes along.

I had a dream I was at the ATM and all it would give me was Monopoly money.

I decided to take a contract job this week. I had avoided it because I thought it would interfere with my job search. The thing is, the longer you stay unemployed, the more employers will wonder why you haven’t been scooped up even though your resume sounds impressive. The contract is supposed to be for four months. I hope I don’t have to work there that long.

The commute is long, almost three hours a day. The air is crammed with DJs and their wacky sidekicks talking about the same hot topics, punctuated with the same five songs in between commercial breaks. I am crabby when I get home from work. It’s a job. After all, I’m just doing it for the money, until something better comes along.