A Sort-Of Preview to the Book I’m Writing: Part 3
A sneak-peek into the source material for my novel in progress — AKA the diaries that inspired its creation (7-9 of twelve).
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As mentioned in my last letter, I’ll be sharing the diaries that inspired me to write the book I’m currently working on. There are twelve diary entries total and I’ll be sharing three at a time — these are diary entries 7-9. In the new year, I’ll resume the newsletter with a different topic each week. :)
Without further ado:
A Sort-Of Preview to the Book I’m Writing: Part 3
Casper the Ghost (May 2018)
CONFESSION I ghosted a guy and feel really bad about it.
Okay I actually don’t feel that bad and am probably only writing about it so I can feel better about myself (because I am a terrible human being on the inside but a decent human being on the outside, kind of like when you order a burger and it looks nice but tastes like sh*t).
But modern literature says we should practice self-love, so I should immediately take back describing myself as a shitty hamburger and talk about how amazing I am.
I am amazing.
All narcististic sarcasm aside, I ghosted my first dude, and although that is a huge milestone that I should probably be awarded for (gold base, tarnished with diamonds, if any medal producers are reading this), I do feel a bit shady. But should I? Most of my friends argue “no”. It is a natural part of modern dating, the occasional ghost. Besides, it’s not like he triple texted me for another date. I just left our text thread hanging like rope I will eventually use to strangle my enemies (what? Did you hear something?).
I went on my first date with a guy! Hooray. It felt no different than a regular date. Hooray.
I think going on a date with a guy for the first time reminded me how good at dates I am (Really? Yes.) (You don’t play with your hands awkwardly and twitch your eyes? You seem like someone who would do that. Okay maybe 70% of the time.) All in all, the date went well with solid conversation and laughing. But immediately I thought to myself: it would be so great to be friends! The attraction wasn’t there. But what do you do when that happens? Run?
Jog? Leap frog?
I am probably a huge sack of chicken sh*t for not simply saying “let’s just be friends!” on our first encounter, and I accept that. I am just a little sack of chicken sh*t trying to become a full functioning papa bird.
So instead of dealing the friendzone blow I dealt the see-you-never ghost, went on a trip with my friends, ignored everyone (not just him, when I travel I am GONE) on my phone, and then proceeded to live the busy lives we all live in bustling cities without taking an extra minute to text said guy back.
To be quite frank, I doubt said guy even noticed.
But this is a public statement, pleading guilty of the ghost.
I hope I do better in the future.
Dear Preppy Boys: I’m Open For Business
The blue pill looks enticing, ordinary. It could be Advil, it could be Aderall. It could be a laxative or something for diarrhea episodes white people get when they visit Thailand. But it’s something else—more than a pill.
It’s the pill.
No, not birth control. Not the pill Keanu Reaves took in The Matrix or the pill he should probably now take to keep from aging so fast (wooooooop there it is!). It’s the pill for him.
His pill.
A daily pill he takes to protect his body from unwanted circumstances via magical processes people conjured in a lab. He would describe it in depth, but he doesn’t have the time (and he doesn’t know anything about the science or medicine or fancy molecules behind this pill, in fact he remembers nothing about the periodic table or chemistry or physics from high school and beyond because education is a scam).
All he knows is that the magic substances within the pill disperse into small armies, blockading the most important areas to men like him, mainly: The asshole.
INTRODUCING PREP! Wow side note: I should definitely be working in branded content because this could 110% be an advertisement for PrEP (but it’s not).
I just wanted to document that on June 13th—a warm, breezy, fine summer morning in Williamsburg, Brooklyn—I started taking the medication PrEP. Meaning, I can now sleep more soundly with random men around New York City and be at ease of mind when it comes to haphazardly contracting HIV. WOOHOO! Come at me from behind NYC.
I would like to note that this is a big step in my journey because:
The idea of having sex with a man for the first time is a bit novel and intimidating (okay, more-so the idea of putting something up my assh*le), having to think about contracting HIV (which you are at much higher risk of when receiving anal) is an additional intimidation I do not need.
I am a crazy person and genuinely hate medications; I believe that if you do not need to take a medication, you shouldn’t take it. I research every side-effect and potential long-term effect associated with every single medication I consume, and am usually hesitant to start any medication if there is even a sliver of a chance for something terrible to take place. There are, of course, terrible happenstances associated with medications like PreP. But after some comprehensive research, the potential long-term effects (on kidney function and bone density) are only a risk for prolonged use (longer than 1 year). I have decided that 1 year of hoe-ing the f*ck out is substantial. So I’ve overcome my crazy person no-meds-stance on this one.
It makes it so much more real! Do I sound like a 5 year old mixed with a white girl from the valley? Good, that’s exactly how I feel.
Truly, though! I’m going to have sex with a man. Many men. This is real life. I am on a real medication to protect me while doing so. Woop de woop de woop.
Oh, as for the title, I don’t know why but most preppy boys I’ve encountered are hot AF. I like that look, I dig it. Also to look preppy that usually means you have some cash cash in your tiny jort pockets. All good with me!
#treatme
#thendefeatme
Online Dating or Online Bating? (June 2018)
I went to a bar for my friend’s birthday and a group of us started talking about random things. Naturally, as a millennial with an interesting story that must be shared with the entire world and given the global recognition it deserves (obviously), I injected myself into the conversation.
We started talking about online dating: this strange era we all live in where connection, communication, and community has completely transformed with the new digital tools and spaces found in apps, social media, and beyond.
Just—like—what?
I am really bad at it.
I am really bad at all of these dating apps.
A) I don’t understand how normal human beings find the time to use them or check them on a regular basis. I do this thing where I remember (maybe once every two weeks) to check the apps. I swipe and match, message, and then another two weeks go by. What do you say in response, 2 weeks later, to the following conversation? I’ve started immediately asking people out because I know I will not be able to continue whatever menial app-based conversation we’re having.
Hey! Like the photo ;)
Haha thanks, any plans this week?
Yeah going to a few bars for a friend’s birthday and traveling upstate
That’s awesome! I’m celebrating a friend’s birthday too. What do you do for work?
Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. Blah blah blah. You?
(Me not responding for two weeks)
B) The windows in the week where I actually have time to sit down and think about going on a date with a guy or meeting a new person are ALWAYS LATE AT NIGHT. Usually around 11:30PM or later. Everyone on Tinder, Chappy, and Hinge probably think I’m trying to f*ck. I mean, I am. That is actually exactly what I am trying to do. But, not in a sleezy way! I am not sleezy hoe. I am just a busy hoe.
C) Attempting to come across as interesting, funny, or cool online is exhausting. That is why I post ridiculous pictures of myself on one Instagram (@travpiss) and write monologues of streams of thought on the other (@travis_zane). Meet me in person! I’m phenomenal. But please, dear god, do not make me spend time trying to be as great as I am in person online. It’ll never happen. Do you ever hear someone telling a story about their life miracle occurring online? NO! Miracles only happen in real life (I am indeed referring to myself as a miracle).
I’m starting to question if this whole online dating thing should be called online baiting, because, well, it seems to be essentially that. You bait people. Everyone is trying to bait each other. Attractive photos, interesting bios, funny profiles. It’s all about luring people in.
So many people concoct the first messages they send to their matches, word for fucking word. It’s some twisted kind of art form now. As if it was some complicated recipe an Italian chef Dominic created (an Italian chef we would all want to f*ck because Italians are unarguably the hottest human specimens to walk the earth). What were we talking about? Oh.
Right.
My theory that online dating is really online baiting gave birth to the brilliant (some say “genius”) plan titled “D.M.”.
I sent every match I had on Hinge and Chappy the phrase: “Dominate me”. If online dating and online baiting are the same thing, that’s pretty damn good bait right? Just put it out there in the open. A bright red worm in a lake full of fish.
Well, turns out, it works. A handful of guys messaged back. I am going on a date with one of them next week.
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Your favorite capybara ~ AKA Travis Zane
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