I hate how much I love Aubrey.
Deadline
I remember the day I told my kid sister I was separating from Ex-Mr clearly. We are at Valley Fair, on the top floor of one of the parking garages, just sitting in her car. I stared straight ahead and I shared the entire story without much emotion, straight-faced, without shedding a tear.
She didn’t handle it well. We were her example of love and marriage. We were everything she was supposed to be striving for when it came to relationships, but there I was, all cried out and telling her it was pretty much over. It was if she believed in Santa Claus her entire life and I revealed the fallacies behind the myth. If Ex-Mr and I couldn’t make it after only three years how the fuck was she ever supposed to sustain anything along the terms of love and marriage?
She asked over and over again. I tried to appease her with objective excuses, she wasn’t having it at the moment. She couldn’t figure out how we had failed and how the hell she would ever succeed.
So the truth is I started dating again because I have a deadline.
My sister is getting married in October, she requested I be her maid of honor. Obviously I cannot refuse and naturally I am the best woman for the position.
DUH. *flips hair*
I’ve never had this opportunity before. I’ve never had to give a speech on love, commitments or marriage. I’m not quite sure if I’m ready to deliver it, however—I’ve begun this rough draft in my head. It’s funny, witty and real as fuck. Just. Like. Me.
I realized I need more than a date or a plus one. I need to be in serious love again.
I can write, I can’t necessarily speak publicly. I get nervous. I stutter. I have a difficult time. I’ve gotten better over time but it’s still not one of my strengths. I try though, I really do—but as much as I am confident, I am self-conscious. I’ll take the spotlight, just as long as it’s not literal.
I want someone to take a shot with me before I take the mic. I’ll need him to hold my hand as the clock winds down and it’s my turn to address the crowd. I need to believe in forevers again—because I don’t at this point, at least not for me. I will need the guests to have confidence in me when I say you can beat the statistics, you can grow old together and fuck whatever else comes your way—as long as work on it together. Otherwise… I’m just selling you bullshit.
I don’t want that.
I want to sell you on every single word of my speech. I want be convinced with my own words.
Sadly I can’t do that alone, cynical and divorced. I’m not in a place to reiterate fairy tales or happily ever afters, because I am lightweight broken in this beautiful way that only I can understand—and I don’t mind… I would just like to tell you that I believe again.
Because you won’t believe a word I say… until I do.
I just wanted a burger...
I should probably attempt to date again soon.
*ROLLS EYES HEAVILY*
I swear I was fine, but one day I was at work with my hair at an amazing level of wavy and I was in a dress—for no particular reason. All I wanted to do was research the best burgers in SF and choose a restaurant I’ve never been to. The problem was my friends lack availability on weekday afternoons, before even texting any of them I knew there was no one free.
Sure, I could embark on this new burger mission all by myself. BUT I DO A LOT OF FUCKING THINGS BY MYSELF… I don’t want to go to dinner solo during happy hours. I go on enough solo dates.
This is when I texted various people in NY that I missed them and I cursed the fact that I am so far. This is where New York wins, hands down. I always had someone to accompany me whether it was a coworker, friend, cousin or room mate. My circle was so fucking deep.
I guess Law could tell that I sounded low because he called me and asked if I was ok. I told him I wasn’t asking for much. I’m not expecting husband no.2. We don’t need to discuss cohabitation just yet. I just want a good burger, a friendly face and good conversation. He responded with: “I get it. You’re just seeking companionship.”
RIGHT, at least for now.
I’d say I’m pretty fucking bad ass. I do a lot of shit alone that people can’t fathom and I do it frequently. However once in a while it takes a toll and you wish there was someone across or next to you.
It’s a nice idea. I guess I better start talking to the opposite sex again.
Goal Killed: I met RL Grime
This isn’t that great of a story, however how often is it that you get to meet one of your favorite DJs/producers in the entire world.
Right? Right.
It was Friday morning (scratch that) afternoon, it was 1 pm when we woke up that day. I went to bed at 6:30 am cause I couldn’t stand the fucking bass in the theater any longer so I retreated to the room. However I didn’t actually sleep until the sun came up when my mind finally found it acceptable to shut down. Our plan for that day was to hit up the Hip Hop pool party because after 2 full days of EDM/Trap your ears/heart need a little variation in sound.
Our incentive to get up and ready was that a DJ named Drakeparty.net was the opener. However due to dragging bodies and forcing ourselves to consume at least one solid meal we missed what sounds like what could’ve been an amazing set. All Drake everything? You’re speaking my language.
By the time we actually finished at the buffet it was about 3 pm and we were still half-dead. I purchased $100 worth of credit on the boat and it was Melissa’s birthday so we purchased champagne bottle no.1 (of 3) and made our way to the party.
We arrived to the welcoming sounds of UGK’s “International Player’s Anthem.” We were thirsty as fuck and Snakehips was spinning cold water. More music. More dancing. More champagne.
By the time we left it was around 5 pm and the group was an acceptable level of drunk. We were somewhere on the top deck while making our way to another stage when I noticed a tall group of white dudes walking in our direction. I’ve been making an effort of trying to note men who look like DJs. I'm always observant/analytical. They’re easy to spot, they’re usually tall and have better style than the general Holy Ship crowd. Also, they’re surrounded by an entourage of people with red badges around their necks. Yes, I’ve been noting this since Day 1 of the cruise. I’m constantly trying to meet opportunity with luck and if I have goals I will try my best to achieve them.
So we’re walking towards this group of tall white dudes who are obviously DJs and I spot him instantly. I don’t even check with anyone. I don’t share the fact that I think the dude that is walking our way is RL Grime. Through my drunken stupor I spot my favorite fucking DJ and I do the stupid thing where you snap and then make a hand gesture where you’re basically shooting a person. Zero hesitation. All action.
“Excuse me, can I take a photo with you?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure”
My drunken level of assertion is amazing, I wish I could channel it while sober. Zero fucks.
At this point I’m internally freaking the fuck out because I already gave up on this mission last night. I was staring at him spinning from a distance and I told myself to get rid of any expectations I had of running into this man on the ship. Fuckit Kate, you’re not going to find him. It’s too crowded here. I had just given up on my goal the previous evening.
I end up rummaging through my backpack for my phone and hand it to a super tall member of his entourage who graciously took a few photos for us. The last thing I said to him was “I’m a really big fan.” He thanked me, we parted ways and then I ended up screaming like a mad woman as I departed.
Goal killed.
I met RL Grime.
Side lesson learned: Sometimes you go left when you could've gone right. Sometimes you linger too long when you could've left half an hour ago. Sometimes you tell yourself to forget about things you want to hinder disappointment. However sometimes life still presents you with exactly what you want.
Hella Heart Eyes
I think its funny how everyone seems to have an opinion on who I should date.
You bring up the same dudes and ask why. Why I can’t make it work or why I’m not interested…
I’ll be real.
I am constantly taking an inventory of eligible bachelors in my mind. Note: I take note of the ineligible ones as well. I note how attractive, funny, cool or stylish I find them and I immediately categorize them into either “interested” or “friend zone” buckets. 90% of the time they go into the friend bucket.
Why?
Cause I want that spark.
I want to have hellllllla heart eyes for you, off the fucking bat. I want a perpetual-never-ending-always-excited-to-see-you-crush.
It might be superficial to garner so much interest for a member of the opposite sex by an introduction and a handshake alone but I want to feel that immediate kick—that instant fire when you make eye contact and say “nice to meet you.”
I guess I’m asking for a lot. I’m just speaking from experience—I never want to convince myself on how attracted I am to you.
Never.
I had a crush on Ex-Mr from the first day of 7th grade until one fateful night where he broke my heart so badly that I could not look at him the same way ever again. Despite 11 years of being together he always gave me butterflies. Even after a decade I could smile at him from across the street be excited to greet him hello.
Can I have that? Actually—can I have better than that? I think I deserve it.
Hella. Heart. Eyes.
Please.
For the record I am perfectly capable of getting these crushes. Unfortunately none of them have been sustainable, yet.
Work
Any man I allow to dance with me when this song comes on should be so lucky... I will work you. Guaranteed.
We just need a face to face, you can pick the time and the place.
Cheers to 3
It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon. After losing my appetite for an entire week I just treated myself to a solo brunch and long aimless stroll through multiple SF neighborhoods.
Now I’m here typing on my laptop and I can’t stop crying. I just got hit with the feelz—heavy.
I’ve been writing this blog for 3 years now, it has consisted of ups and downs, love and loneliness, complaints, trials and victories. It’s a fucking roller coaster, well—you already know that.
I honestly have no idea who reads this or why. To this day I still can’t figure out why you keep coming back… Am I that interesting? Am I that good of a writer? Nah, son. I just have extra time on my hands and an opinion on just about everything. I’m not that entertaining… I swear.
Right?
Personally I think I’m a huge brat, one who could use a little modesty and some deflating of her ego—but you seem to like me as I am. Or maybe you’re just here to see me fail miserably. Fuck, I hope not.
Whatever it is—I still don’t get it, but I’m overwhelmed by emotion at the fact that you hit “like” every once in a while. I’m fucking crying because sometimes I run into a random stranger who isn’t shy to approach me and ask me if I’m “Queen with a Crown.”
I was at the MAC counter at Norstrom a few weeks ago, re-upping on essentials, when the make-up artist helping me did a double take as I gave her my name. I thought it was my fault. Ohh man, was I awkward just now? She came back and asked me if I wrote a blog and if so what the name of it was. As soon as I said: Yeah, Queen with a Crown, she gave me a fat hug and told me how happy she was to meet me. I’ve never seen her before in my life, but she fucking made my day. (Hi, Caroline. *waves*)
I’m just a girl who got her heart broken, patched it up, lived to keep telling tales and now won’t shut the fuck up.
I realize it’s brave of me putting my shit out there, my mother would highly disapprove of this blog if she knew it existed, but she birthed the poster child of Leo’s and HYFR I am going to share my life in the most humorous, sarcastic and realest way possible. That’s just how I live. It’s what I do.
You can either take me seriously, or not…
Apparently you do.
Cheers to 3 years. Thank you for the likes, but more importantly—thank you for the love. <3
Trap Queen: Retired
It’s 1:30 in the morning on a Friday night. I am completely sober.
I just Irish goodbye’d a party of about 14 people deep. I have no regrets. I kinda wish I didn’t go out at all, but I actually love these faces and enjoy their company. I went to be social, I’m just getting to be too old for this shit. Fact: 90% of the people I was with are roughly around the same age and were complaining just as much as I was. I just bit the bullet and dipped before anyone could have the opportunity to try and talk me out of it.
I feel as though the “Can I live?” portion of my “youth” is near it’s end. I’m using the term “youth” as loose as possible. I turn 33 this year and I am internally going batshit crazy at that number.
The desire to go out on Friday or Saturday night is at all time low. I just completed my Party Bucket List. The last remaining piece to that puzzle was to experience Holy Ship and trust me—it was a hell of an experience. Do you realize how much of a feat that is? I have an entire bucket list dedicated to partying—DONE.
I just want to settle the fuck down.
Way. Way. Way. Way down.
You know… Netflix and chill, hobbies, maybe arts & crafts… shit like that. When I was married I did needlepointing. FUCKING NEEDLEPOINTING, YOU GUYS. It was cool, he would sit on one side of the couch, we'd watch sports and I would sit on the other trying to figure out stupid patterns while picking out which thread swatch I liked best.
FUCKING NEEDLEPOINTING. That sounds good right now.
Trap Queen is retiring, officially.
Seeking a fellow retiree (with good D), who wants to do regular shit like go grocery shopping in the middle of the night and wants to watch Netflix documentaries in nothing but underwear. We can do the most boring shit in the world, as long as you wanna do it with me.
Sleep vs. Write
I told myself I’d attempt to post at least twice a week in the new year. I’ve already failed you.
In my defense I would like to state that I’ve had the most quality and lengthy amounts of sleep I’ve had in a long time. My evenings usually revolve around a workout class, getting high off edibles (to ensure a proper and drowsy sedative state) and binge watching Netflix’s “Chef’s Table” or Bourdain’s “Parts Unknown” until I pass out.
Can I paint you the picture real quick though? Here’s me at 32 watching food documentaries & travel programs high as fuck… contemplating how I can reach a restaurant in the middle of nowhere in Sweden to consume a 30 course tasting menu or mentally adding new destinations to an already mile-long wander-bucket-list. Sometimes I’m even fancy as fuck and I have cheese and wine. This is my life, you guys. It’s good. I enjoy it.
So the problem is that I can’t write when I’m high.
I’m overcome with a crippling paranoia that I sound like a babbling idiot, full sentences are difficult to piece together. It’s impossible. Also, I’m not delusional. I’ve gone back to edit non-posts that were written under the influence of edibles—they make no sense. Allow me to spare you… OR MAYBE… I should just create a “hits blunt” section filled with my super high thoughts. I bet my boys would love that (P.S. Don’t suggest that to me. I’m here to be taken seriously…. sometimes).
I’m often caught with the evening dilemma: sleep or write?
When writing wins it’s usually because I’m feeling some type of way. I get struck with the motivation to break out my laptop at 11pm or I’m inspired by some analogy I thought of earlier in the day. On these nights it’s likely I won’t go to sleep until 1am or later. Often times I’m also just up writing posts that never get published—you should see my drafts folder, its ridic. When I’m really going through some shit the insomnia kicks into high gear and I’m constantly posting. See quote below…
In a way its kind of cliché when you think of the creative process. You think super creative people bank on 8 hours of sleep everyday? You think people who find it easy to fall sleep every night have great stories to tell? Uhh, try not to take that last statement as a blatant generalization, but you get the gist.
Bear with me as I find the balance.
I’m not going anywhere—I have too much to say. All. The. Time.
Context
I was hosting my Day-1 squad at my parents brand new house in Hayward when I realized just how different my world is from those of you who are more in the position of being a wife or husband with kids. When I say “different” I don’t mean that with any negative connotation, I just mean different.
We were making breakfast when one of my boys asks me: “Yo, how do you like your eggs?”
I joked with him: “Uhh, that’s a personal question, homie. Usually you have to take me on multiple dates and sleep over, then if I don’t kick you out you can ask as you make me my first meal of the day.”
I explained to a few of them that breakfast is a right of passage and you must earn that right. Every one likes their eggs a certain way. I’m sure you know exactly how your boo likes their eggs cooked.
Right?
Exactly. You learned over time. You learned when the opportunity was presented to you, you just probably learned a long ass time ago.
I forget that when I write from my stream of consciousness you as a reader may lose all context of the points I’m trying to make. If you haven’t been single in the last decade I’m sure I leave you extremely lost. My world is hard to understand.
You might question why catching feelings are so fucking terrible or why I can’t just be with someone I have such strong feelings for? Why does the entire dating world have a problem with vulnerability? Why do people hook up then decide to be together instead of the other way around?
I can’t give you a general answer.
This shit is infinitely complex and I’m just caught all up in it, to each their own and everyone has their own rationale.
I will tell you this though… when someone comes around and makes it simple for me—that’s game over.
5 Mins or 50
If you haven’t already figured it out I tend to associate negative emotions with weakness, at least when it comes to my own reactions. I prefer to be in-control of my entire spectrum of feelings and if I do say so myself I’m pretty fucking good at keeping things in manageable ranges.
When I can’t handle whatever it is that I am feeling I search for some sort of rational (or irrational) source of blame.
Is it PMS? Is Mercury in Retrograde? Is it Seasonal Affective Disorder? Is it a comedown from an amazing weekend? Maybe it’s just because I came back from vacation and it was time to return to reality or that the weather was dreadful as fuck as I left my apartment this morning.
Sometimes I’ll allow myself to claim one or two of these “free passes” even though I have legit excuses to feel anxious, down or stressed—just so I can feel less of a weak ass in my mind. I realize that’s not the healthiest way to go about things. I should just be emotional when its time to experience emotions… but I’m me—and I want to feel in control. "Feel" instead of "be" because realistically I probably can't be in control, but its likely that I've convinced myself to feel as if I am.
I have been in my feelings all week.
On Tuesday I had to leave my desk in the middle of the day to silently cry in a bathroom stall for 5 minutes.
5 MINUTES, cause that’s all you get…
Melissa was the first person on IG to tag me to the post above. Many days I don’t need the 5 minutes, this week however—I pretty much required a majority of my waking hours. I had to reinforce that it was ok if I felt shitty—BECAUSE LIFE. We're all entitled to a few reasons.... Maybe your beloved copy writer is leaving your workplace and she was one of your few confidants. Maybe you're going through another breakup in your non-relationship. Maybe someone shared specific burial instructions at a super random time when you were already emotional. Maybe you have things like that running through your head. For the record, I'm just sharing possible examples... you know?
Sometimes you need 5 minutes, sometimes you need 50… take whatever you need.
Marriage is Mundane
TK always sends me these articles that cause my brain to explode. I rarely ever finish them but this one resonated heavily with me. I cosigned immediately on both parts, find them here and here.
While I would love to discuss each point the writer makes, I just want to focus on his description of marriage, because that’s what hit me hardest:
So if we want to find a happy marriage, we need to think small—we need to look at marriage up close and see that it’s built not out of anything poetic, but out of 20,000 mundane Wednesdays.
Marriage isn’t the honeymoon in Thailand—it’s day four of vacation #56 that you take together. Marriage is not celebrating the closing of the deal on the first house—it’s having dinner in that house for the 4,386th time. And it’s certainly not Valentine’s Day.
Marriage is Forgettable Wednesday. Together.
I was only married for 3 years. My experience wasn’t lengthy but it was still a hell of an experience. I can’t tell you what we did when we went on vacation in Honduras/Belize, what we ate at Del Posto in NYC or any other specific time we made a conscious effort to get away. No, I'm lying. In Honduras he thought it was funny as fuck that I allowed a tiny spider monkey to crawl all over me when I'm ticklish as hell. That's besides the point I'm trying to make though.
I remember the 20+ times we went to AT&T park in a single season, the fact that I was cheap as fuck and always brought in Panera or Subway sandwiches for dinner because I refused to spend money on stadium food. We’d split his ear buds and listen to the announcers on a yellow AM/FM radio, then we’d make dumbass comments to each other during pauses. I remember the nights we’d swing through the Burger King drive thru on Van Ness after being out all night drinking and his ability to keep my order in check. “You’re going to be pissed at me tomorrow if I let you eat that much.” I remember always calling him from a grocery store to ask him what he wanted me to make for dinner when I obviously already knew the answer. I remember the nights where we’d end up on opposite ends of the couch, him playing video games and me blogging or online shopping. We’d stay there until he fell asleep in my lap, cause his ass always fell asleep first.
It was just routine, not much excitement or a major source to make memories out of, but that was marriage and when it was good… it was fucking beautiful.
Every so often someone wants to have a deep ass conversation with me. “What are you really looking for?” The answer is disgustingly simple. I want someone that I can do nothing with.
So give me a mundane Tuesday or a run-of-the mill Thursday, as long as you plan on spending 3,000 of them with me—I’m good.