It’s only been one date and I know I’ll never forget you. You remind me of the male version of me. I recall feeling this way after going out with D for the first time some odd years ago.

Recently, I saw him. I saw my ex boyfriend who once shattered my heart. This time around, he offered me his bag of tricks filled with confusing statements and advice on life. None of which, I’ll ever find useful.

“I do love you,” he tells me.

There we were drinking beer, Sierra Nevada to be more specific, in Fort Lauderdale’s dive, the Poorhouse. After drinking two Sierra Nevadas, he says, “Let’s go.”

He walks me to my car, his hand softly brushes mine. I grab hold of his arm and he spews out what will devastate me for weeks to come.

“I’ve had dreams about you the past six months,” he tells me.

“What kind of dreams?” I ask although I already had a clue.

“Crazy sexual ones,” he replies.

“Oh, ” I respond not really know what to say. “Do you only think of me as a sexual object or what?”

“No, I think your so intelligent and witty, kinky but not obviously, you’re not like anyone else. You’re a good mix,” he tells me.

“Oh, I’m just like everyone else,” I say. It’s true. I’m just another person who wants to love and be loved.

We approach the parking lot where my car is parked. I feel as though we are transported back in time, when we were once a couple. I used to park in that same very spot when we were an item. I stand in front of my car door and he leans in to hug me. We hold each other in a long embrace.

“I don’t want to let you go. I can’t,” I tell him.

“I don’t either,” He says and kisses my cheek slowly moving over to my mouth.

We popped kissed. And the strength I had in trying to restrain myself, faltered. I was doomed. I leaned into him and slowly glided my lips across his. He kisses me back and grabs my hand guided it over to his bulging package.

“Wow, it feels so big,” I say. “Do you want me to text you my address? But are you only in this for…” I ask foolishly intoxicated with lust.

 ”No, this isn’t just about sex,” he says assuring me. But he lied. I knew it and he knew it.

“Is it something more? Like a love thing?” I inquire.

“I do love you.”

And that’s all I needed to hear.  To know, I wasn’t the only one in love. He wasn’t over me. We kissed good night and he never came over.

Earlier back at the bar, he revisited the good times we shared together. He talked about the time we went to the beach-it was Christmas day- and our third or fourth date.

“Remember when we went in the hot tub at Bahia Cabana? That was fun,” he says.

That was the day I fell in love with him. And haven’t ever fallen out of love with him since.

Being a writer, I sometimes suck at communicating my feelings to people. So I pulled out a notepad and jotted down a few points I wanted to share with him:

“You know how I feel,” I wrote.  He smiled. I then drew a heart. How juvenile.

“I don’t know how to get rid of this,” I say pointing to the heart, “I can’t move on. I haven’t been able to experience this with anyone since,” I reveal.

“What?” he asks.

“That connection. I haven’t felt that same level of connection with anyone since I met you,” I say. “How did you move on?”

“Try doing a lot of cocaine and sleep around with a bunch of people for a year. That should help,” he says prescribing me heartbreak remedy. Cocaine and sex.

 Too bad, I can’t oblige. I hate cocaine. But I hate unrequited love most of all. I haven’t seen him since and wonder why he even bothered to tell me the things he said. Was he fucking with  my mind? Or was he simply trying to get one last screw?

It’s a breezy evening in South Florida and no one is home except for me and the pet turtle Soup. Swimming in its aquarium located in our living room, all I hear are the humming filter and gurgling water while I sit at my desk in a nearby room. I wonder if Soup is at all bothered living in its own filth. It lives in a tank filled with cloudy water. As she propels forward, tiny turds float into her face. Now, that has got to suck.

I close the door to the room, shutting out any reminder of the sad turtle and type in ‘Nouvelle Vague’ on Youtube. It’s been a few years since I’ve listen to this group but this evening calls for smooth downtempo.

Meanwhile, the singer’s sultry voice emerges from my laptop speakers. The sky grows dark and it’s not even 6:30 p.m. Damn daylight savings.

What are the time masters trying to save? Time? Impossible.

I don’t know about you guys but I’d rather have more hours of sunshine during cold months than the other way around. Maybe, we, (and I mean me and my sole reader: Hi mom!) can start a movement to reverse the time change schedule.

In a manner of questioning, what do you think?

 ”Give me the words that tell me everything” -Nouvelle Vague

Over the summer I met Bicycle Dude at a bike block party in Miami. He was a late twentysomething blond dressed in a polo shirt and aviator sunglasses. I wasn’t sure what he was going for with his look: Preppy hip or just simply preppy. I met him over by the bike polo section where upon my arrival he said hello.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he says as if we were longtime friends.

“Good. What’s going on over here?”

“We’re about to start a game of polo. Do you want a beer?” he says grinning exposing his pearly whites.

“Sure, why not.” He hands me a PBR.

We chat about the Miami bike scene and indie rock. We exchange phone numbers. We make plans to meet for a bike ride later that week. He asks how he can find me on Facebook. I said if I add you, we have to hang out in real life. I hate having online friends I never see in actual life. He said deal. A few days later, he meets at my house. We ride around downtown making stops at a cafe and then a beer bar. He hit it off. Say good night. And then I don’t hear from him again.

“What went wrong?” I wondered. Did I say the wrong thing? Who knows. He eventually emails me on Facebook saying hello. At that point, I’m annoyed because he hasn’t called.

“Facebook messages do not replace phone calls. Forget this guy,” I thought.

A few months later, I run into him at the Cut Copy concert where he tells me he’s so happy to see me. I don’t get it. Was he drunk? Yes. He pulls out a flask of Vodka and tells me, “I have the hook up.”

He did. He was cute as hell. Then he asked me, “What are you doing next weekend?”

“I may go to art walk,” I said screaming in his ear while the chillwave opening act performs.

“I love art walk! Do you want to go with me?”

“You want to go as in a…”

“Yes, let’s go on a date. Do you want to?” he says grinning.

I thought why the hell not. Then I told him if he wants to see me this time he has to call. You have to lay down the guidelines upfront with people otherwise you’ll have an idiot text messaging you instead of making a proper phone call. Oh, how technology is ruining romance.

He called and I asked him why I never heard from him after our first date. He had a story. It was believable. He was in between jobs and didn’t have the funds to go out and was too stressed to dedicate time to someone else. Seemed reasonable, right? Then, he tells me he found a job, went through training and is now settled in and comfortable to date, again. OK, cool.

We go out on on three or four dates over a few weeks. We had a nice time. Then, I get extremely busy at work.

“Hey, I just wanted to let you know I’m swamped at work this week. I have a story I’m working on so I won’t be able to hang out until this weekend,” I explained to him on the phone. He seemed to understand.

But he didn’t.

I invited him to a house party that Saturday night. He said yes. He asked me if I wanted to check out Occupy Miami during the day. I wasn’t sure if I could go. I worked late that Friday night and still had work to do. So the following morning, he sent me a text and I replied saying I had to go the office to get some work done.

“That’s crazy,” his text read.

A few hours later, I wrote him, “How’s occupying Miami? I’m at work. Ugh.”

I don’t get a response. I go back to work and forgot about my phone. I was consumed by the story I was working on, trying to make deadline.

Meanwhile, I stressed over churning out copy, transcribing my interviews and putting everything in a nice story format which I ended up bombing. I look at my phone. He sent me a text 24 minutes prior:

“What time are we meeting tonight?” He wrote.

“The party starts around 9 p.m., so we can go whenever,” I respond.

“Please don’t hate me. I didn’t hear from you. I made other plans and will stay in Miami tonight. Please don’t hate me,” he wrote sending me a message I had no idea how to respond to.

What the hell? We had plans. He doesn’t hear from me for a 20-some minutes and makes other plans? Who is this guy?

]I turned in my story. The editor responded with negative feedback. I had to rewrite the piece only adding more pressure to my day. I wanted to freak the effe out. I rewrote the story to the best of my ability. Consumed. Perplexed. I was, like my story, in bad shape.

The next day, Bike Guy deleted me off of his Facebook.

“I know you are busy with work but this is a little too cold,” he wrote in his last text message to me.

“I don’t mean to come across as cold,” I wrote back.

I never did get back in touch with Bike Guy. It was obvious in his world and mine we both work on deadline, but in his world he needs a response to a text in less than 20 minutes and in my world I need someone who understands when I say I’m swamped at work. I’m swamped.

I don’t know about you guys, but I think dating sucks. I know this isn’t a notion that hasn’t been explored before with celeb relationship columnists a la Dan Savage and TV sitcoms like Sex in the City but what I haven’t seen are rants on dating in South Florida.

This, I tell you, is what I attempted to accomplish when I launched this blog in 2007. Now, it’s, OMG, four years later and I have the same jaded view on romance. Perhaps, this is the reason why I’m still single. Perhaps, all the good ones are taken, or, the best matches are living in another state. I think it’s mostly the latter. Yes, I blame geography. South Florida is a sexual playground: a place to vacation, drink and screw. Even if you’re a resident.

But dating does bring me some joy, however, I like sharing my romantic disasters with others. Call it therapy. Call it a hobby. Call it ranting. Whatever. If you’re interested in such drama, then keep reading. I will go on dates and report back to you and maybe together, we can work things out. Leave comments, ask questions, just whatever you do, don’t do what I do and become jaded.

Regards,

Jaded

“I’m jaded, baby, jaded in paradise.”

Since I was 20, I’ve wanted to dress like a Bond Girl and tear up the town in my shiny black stilettos while hovering over downtown in a helicopter just as James himself plants a kiss on my blushing cheeks. Yeah, that’s not going to happen, at least not tonight.

Instead, I’m throwing on a pair of old jeans and black Converse for a comfortable evening out with an old co-worker. She tells me her friend is showing some pieces in a show. So tonight is all about viewing art, laughing and possibly drinking one, or two, maragritas made with fresh squeezed lime juice. I can’t stand that pre-mix chemically enhanced crap most bars sell as margaritas, so tonight we are going to a local Tex Mex joint where we know that they know how to do it right.

Maybe, just, maybe, I’ll go all Bond Girl out, next weekend where I eat men for dessert and save the world from massive threats from aliens.

Until then, have a wonderful Saturday night, whether you’re staying in to catch the game or going out for a crazy adventure.

Live life like it’s going out of style.

In a way, it is. Life is only a matter of the time we have on planet Earth.

It’s almost 5:30 p.m. and I’m still in my pj’s.

I’m work as a freelancer, which means I don’t have to commute to an office - anymore. I still sit at a desk but since I work in The Cloud, I can work virtually anywhere, most of the time. I can tell you that having flexibility in your career is by far the most awesome thing to happen since I’ve changed careers. Having a flexible schedule is so aweome that I work even harder on my projects.

When I worked the traditional desk job, I wanted to roll over and die.

Seriously. The whole corporate structure, where zillions of managers and executives had to approve everything was slow and frustrating. Then there were the sharks, who were just an anoying breed of people hungry to climb the ladder.

Now, I don’t have to deal with rush hour traffic and accidents. The worst, was when I worked in Miami and commuted from Broward. It sucked the energy out of me. The drive stressed me out. I had to weave through crazy traffic to get to my exit. People cut me off all the time without using a turn signal. I was on edge the entire ride.

Yeah, forget about turn signals, Miami! I don’t think people use them in Dade County whatsoever.

“I’m glad I’m a freelance, I don’t have to commute to work.” -Jaded

I’m pet sitting my friend’s cat and it ran away 2 days ago. FML.

“How I wish you could see the potential
The potential of you and me
It’s like a book elegantly bound
But in a language you can’t read just yet” - Death Cab for Cutie