Confessions of a Recovering Manic Pixie Dream Girl, Pt 1


This is the first installment from BDGS anonymous columnist, "Recovering."

Of course, even the most sex-starved men can only take so much. At the very least, he let me know he was breaking up with me, albeit over AOL Instant Messenger on Christmas Eve no less. I suppose if there’s any lesson to be learned out of this, it’s that staying in a dull situation you no longer want a part of and doing messed up things to “keep it interesting” just because you hate your roommate is not healthy behavior. I think that’s a lesson to be filed under “shit I should have been able to figure out without actually doing it” right along with “don’t have sex while on your period over white sheets.” On the off chance Alan ever actually reads this, I’m kind of sorry about that.


Where should I begin? I could discuss at length the peculiar circumstances of my upbringing, the various neuroses and daddy issues that warped me into the serial bad dater that I am today, but that’s not what you came here to read. In the news world, you’d be more interested in the what, where and when as opposed to the how and why. So, here’s hoping that my confessions not only provide much needed self-reflection and catharsis on my part in the hopes of breaking the vicious cycle, but a few chuckles or bemused grins from those who have either been there themselves or watched a romantic trainwreck from the sidelines eagerly with a bag of popcorn and a large soda.

The title comes from the fact that on numerous occasions, I have been accused of being one of those one-dimensional, yet effervescent creatures, merely a stock character whose motivations only revolve those of the shy, sensitive male protagonist. Well, for once, the story’s being told from my point of view. I won’t promise that I’m a particularly sympathetic narrator, or even all that honest of one. Here goes everything.

1.1: The Awkward Midwestern Undergraduate Years, Alan

It could have been OKCupid. It could have been Craigslist. I don’t remember. What I do remember was that it was my freshman year and I was recently made single after my high school sweetheart broke up with me not so much with a phone call, email or even text message. So what’s a vivacious 18-year-old to do? In hindsight, undergraduate was a lot easier of a scene than post-college doldrums and graduate school, considering I refer to my undergrad as an “all you can fuck cock buffet,” but we’ll get to that later.

The first sign that this was going to be a complete disaster was that Alan had read my rather Spanish last name as meaning I was Latina and asked if I often dated gringos. The second sign was when he figured out I was Asian and commented on my “porcelain skin.” This simultaneously creeped me out and nauseated me because as a lower-middle class Midwesterner, my only encounters with porcelain involved toilets and other bathroom fixtures. That’s right, he was what I would forever refer to as being one of “those guys,” or as the vernacular goes, a guy with the “yellow fever.” To be fair, I have a rather raging case of “matzo fever,” considering I’ve dated plenty of Jews. Alan, however, was not Jewish, although with how lanky and socially-awkward he was, he may as well have been.

If the above two reasons weren’t bad enough, our first date was going to see Matrix: Revolutions. As we walked out of the movie theater, there really should have been a square on the ground reading “Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.”

Yet not only did I see this guy again, I ended up losing my virginity to him. For one thing, I always hated that term. What exactly is lost anyway? Before I rant about the whole cult of virginity and how previous generations backwardly cling to some antiquated notion of purity, I’m going to mention that at some point, I was on my period and he still wanted to have sex. What a keeper, right? That was an interesting morning after, considering we both looked like we had just finished cleaning up a murder scene.

The sex was middling, but of course, I didn’t know any better at that point. I didn’t even particularly like him as a person or find that we had enough to converse about longer than it took to get from his apartment building door upstairs to his bedroom. I also hated my dorm roommate freshman year, so being able to have a retreat with sex on the weekends was nice. For reasons unknown to me to this day, I approached the whole relationship with the “What would Marla Singer do?” approach. I would tell him all manner of things that were either fucked up because they were true or because my brain could even come up with something that fucked up. I would never let him know if I had come during sex and then either go to the bathroom or get dressed and leave immediately afterward. I made it a point that I would never introduce him to any of my friends or family members.