by Cazzie David
I learned a lot going to sleep that night at four a.m. in a king-size bed to myself while the people who actually loved me were packed like sardines in other beds for no reason. First and foremost, if you don’t know for sure if a guy is going to come over or not, do nothing JIC because he is probably not coming over. Second, I learned that I needed to reevaluate my priorities. I’m kidding—imagine if I had only just realized that? But I did finally start to do it. It’s not like I’m completely healed to the point where I would never wait up for a guy anymore, but I will under no circumstances wait for one dressed and in makeup. Nope. Not me. I’ll wait up until daybreak with my pajamas on and my face washed, because I have dignity now.
* * *
I know I’ve talked a lot about sex in this essay, but I’m not a sex girl, which is something I call a close friend of mine because whenever she talks about it, she makes everyone in the room feel like they’ve never had sex before. Not because the intercourse she’s describing sounds so salacious (it’s entirely standard), but because of her unwarranted decision to talk about it in detail. She’s the self-proclaimed sex educator that no one hired coming at us out of nowhere with statements like:
“I’m just a really sexual person.”
“I love sucking dick. Every guy I blow says I give the best head they’ve ever had.”
“He told me my pussy tasted like vanilla frosting.”
All I can ever say back is a sarcastic “Nice!” because who the hell says those things even if they’re true? No one should ever repeat a compliment they’ve received, and repeating a sex compliment in particular should be illegal.
Everything she says about herself makes me feel like I’m a prim, frigid being. It’s worse when she pressures me to tell her about my hookups. Like when I told her about how I was making out with this guy for the first time and he pulled my underwear down way too soon, how I hated that he did that before my shirt was even off. I felt like it’d be confusing if I stopped him. What was I supposed to say? That I wanted my underwear to be kept on for at least another five minutes? Somehow I feel more naked if my underwear comes off and my shirt is still on than if I was just completely naked. Having just your underwear off is so vulnerable.
“Same! I feel so much more vulnerable when I have clothes on than when I’m naked. When I’m naked, I feel so free and sexy.” Not really what I meant.
But sometimes she’ll say something that opens up my whole world, like what she said to me after I told her why I didn’t end up seeing the guy in Mexico.
“Caz, you are the fuckin’ director. You’re holding the auditions! If they miss a fucking audition, they ain’t getting that fucking part. Oh, you don’t know one hundred percent if you’re coming over? Well, there is a zero percent chance you’re ever getting this pussy again!” Brilliant.
I don’t know why it had never occurred to me that my opinion was also important in these situations. I could find more things to hate than anyone, yet all I did was pray that any guy I was with wouldn’t hate me. Which brings me to the most clichéd notion that has ever existed in terms of being single, because no discussion about obsessing over boys can ever conclude without realizing “you need to love yourself first.” It’s always disappointing when you’re a contrarian and find out that a cliché is at least a little true. But I guess that’s what makes it a cliché.
“Loving yourself” is gross—it’s loving pink and taking glass-clinking boomerangs and it’s nearly impossible for someone whose entire identity is based on hating herself. It didn’t seem right for me. Having a boyfriend was always my preferred version of self-love, which I will henceforth call “not hating yourself” (NHY) so we all cringe less. Being in a relationship is the ultimate NHY because there’s a person who is in love with you, and you get to see that love reflected onto you at all times. In order to survive, you need at least one person to love you. When you’re single, that person has to become yourself so you don’t want to kill yourself. Which is why the corny people who say “Choose to love yourself!” are right; they just fail to recognize that you don’t have a choice. The option is literally love yourself or death.
How do you NHY if your default is always hating yourself? I don’t know; still figuring that one out. Which is probably why everyone says your thirties are better than your twenties, because you’ve gotten the hang of it by then and are consequently aware of things like giving people a 0 percent chance of getting this fuckin’ pussy (did I pull that off?) if they are doing the bare minimum. That all of the dreadful experiences serve to help you figure out what you want and need in a partner, like a guy who won’t sleep with your friends, who values discretion, and who, preferably, understands the importance of using a condom. Sure, I knew I wanted all of those things before living through them, but who doesn’t want a better excuse than loneliness and boredom for dating a bunch of people they know aren’t right for them?
Being single is coming to terms with the reality that one of life’s beautiful surprises is how vexing and life-ruining average dick can be. It’s knowing that if you’re only happy when a guy is texting you, you’re not actually happy. And if you think you’re depressed but then get happy when a guy texts you, you’re not actually depressed. It’s knowing what you are. Which is single. And in the midst of worrying about your appearance, your personality, your sexual chemistry, and the opinions they may have formulated about you, you realize that all anyone is actually looking for is someone who isn’t thinking about any of that at all.
* * *
Tweets I Would Tweet If I Weren’t Morally Opposed to Twitter: III
I have urban dictionary open and I’m ready to sext
If u (I) have to take a Xanax every time u (I) see a certain guy u (I) probably shouldn’t see that guy
My favorite pastime is reporting all of Emrata’s Instagrams
Every note I get on every script is: She has to find joy in something or no one will like her. And I’m just like, yeah, that checks out
Honestly, if your name is Jim I will never hook up with you
I feel like press for movies has become so absurd—they travel together taking pictures and doing interviews as if they’re the group of people who cured cancer
I never feel less attractive than when I wear my glasses to work out
I will get a C-section instead of natural birth solely to avoid the cliché of my husband holding my hand and yelling PUSH
This is controversial but I really can’t think of anything more disgusting than a mother’s relationship with her adult son.
Placing my cat around my neck hoping she digs her claws into my throat
Straight guys are so easily manipulated. Your boyfriend’s psycho girl “friend” could send him nudes and then write OMG I’M SO SORRY WRONG PERSON!!! And he’ll be like omg the most insane accident happened to her I feel so bad.
I don’t know one straight guy who can differentiate between a natural blonde and a dyed blonde
Straight guys don’t notice fillers or injections of any kind. Even if you showed a guy a staggering “before” picture, he’d say something like “She prob just grew into her face. Kids are super-goofy-looking.”
A straight guy once said to me after we woke up “Ohhh that’s why my sister’s boobs are always coney in the morning” because they don’t have bras on . . .
If you want to look extra slutty, chew gum.
Have u ever put on a sweatshirt you haven’t worn in a while and you’re out with friends and you reach into your pocket and pull out like ten used tissues from a time you were sobbing?
The new normal is wanting to die
Every person has two numbers of the amount of people they’ve slept with. One number is how many they’ve slept with in total; the other is not counting all of the times they really didn’t want to but did it anyway.
Sucking on pistachio shells is the only thing I’ve found that can actually help with anxiety
I have one outfit that I repeat until someone notic
es.
I feel like big influencers have a sweatshop of people to think of Instagram captions for them
Underrated breakup movie is Twilight: New Moon. Really gets the pain
“I never meant to hurt you” is the most meaningless phrase in the English language. WHY WOULD IT MATTER IF U MEANT IT?? I’D RATHER YOU MEANT IT
The easiest way to tell who was dumped in the relationship is by who posts a slutty photo after; whoever posts one was dumped. You do not post a slutty photo after dumping someone—that’s diabolical
The only way to get a good photo is to have someone who’s emotionally invested and cares about the outcome
Does anyone know what it means to enable cookies on your phone and computer ’cause I’ve seen it pop up randomly for the last ten years, what the fuck r cookies and how do I enable them??
I hate my friends’ group of friends so much, they all think they’re alternative ’cause they’ll listen to MGMT and they’ll brood thinking no one understands them but there’s like seven of them who all understand each other
What if I just gave in and made my Instagram bio “Larry David’s daughter”
Why does every model flare their nostrils when flaring your nostrils is the most unattractive thing u can do with your face
The forever scariest thing in the world is feeling around for something you need in the dark
the only thing scarier than feeling around for something in the dark is getting a phone call from anyone
The easiest way to talk to your dead friends is when you’re underwater
The closest thing to feeling what I think it’s like to move around when you’re dead is swimming underwater
If I was in a sitcom I would be the weird girl in the family you cut to anytime the conversation has ended that I wasn’t a part of and I would say one of my various catchphrases: “I’m scared.” “Am I gonna be okay?” “I wanna die.” “I hate everything and everyone.” “So does everyone hate me now or what?”
Pitch: an apocalyptic movie where everyone’s DMs are hacked
Comedians always say something that isn’t a joke and then say, “That’s it. That’s the whole joke.”
People always tweet something and then say, “That’s it, that’s the tweet.”
Jess from Gilmore Girls. That’s it, that’s the tweet.
Andrew Garfield as Spider-Man. That’s it, that’s the tweet. And no, that’s not a joke. That’s not “the whole joke.” He was the best Spider-Man.
What is with the adult friend groups that go to Disney Land? They are wearing the ears. You’re an adult! Disney Land is for kids.
One of the things I hate the most is struggling in the water in video games
FaceTime is a skill and I am bad at it.
It’s so embarrassing to break up. It’s like “Ha-ha, you were so wrong, you thought you guys were right but you were wrong and we all know now, that suuuucks!!!!”
Sweet dreams, fuck reality
Moving Out
She has persistent sleep problems, which may be due to her number of fears. She does not hear voices but “sometimes I’m trying to sleep and if there’s a wind, I’ll think of something else, like someone whispering.”
—Excerpt from neuropsychological evaluation of Cazzie David, 2007
In late 2018, after two years of being roommates with my dad and what started to also feel like wingmen following a few instances of receiving a pound-it when I was left with no other choice but to tell him I wouldn’t be sleeping at home that night, things started to unravel. We began to fight—a lot. Not about the things most roommates fight over, like cleaning up after oneself or being loud and inconsiderate. Instead, we fought about safety. I bet you’re wondering, What’s there to argue about? Who doesn’t want to be safe? Well, my dad doesn’t, apparently.
My dad and I seem to have polar-opposite views when it comes to the protection that’s required when you live in a house. My father, a pretty well-known celebrity living in a large city, acts like he’s a farmer living up in the secluded mountains of Montana, except I have the impression that most farmers at least own a gun. My dad prefers no security whatsoever. He was on Venmo as himself for years until he asked me why people kept requesting thousands of dollars from him. Unless I take it upon myself, doors and windows are left unlocked and the alarm system that is in perfect working condition remains unused. When I tell him that a lot of famous people have a security person and even most nonfamous people have cameras outside their homes, he scoffs.
“Who do they think they are?! Yeah, OOOOH, we’re all out to get you! Ridiculous! No one cares!”
I know I’m particularly paranoid, but I think it’s entirely rational for me to want to sleep with our alarm system on. Alas, all it took was one night of the alarm going off accidentally for my dad to decide that not only do alarm systems not work, but “they are accidents waiting to happen.”
“Their only purpose is terrifying you in the middle of the night for no reason when no one is even there! I’ve been alive for seventy-two years and no one has ever broken into my house!”
If I weren’t so scared of my dad dying, I’d pretend to be a burglar in the middle of the night just to teach him a lesson. Except in that lesson, he’d probably die of a heart attack, and then I would, of course, die of irony.
Living together was initially harmonious. We were never left to our own devices for dinner; we’d complain over coffee in the mornings and MSNBC at night. He’d leave out the New York Times op-eds for me to read on Sundays, and I’d explain to him what memes were—over and over again.
“Dad, the expression on the person’s face is a reflection to the above sentence.”
“Nope. Don’t get it.”
It was all going wonderfully until one day, seemingly out of nowhere, my dad started obsessing over how annoying it was to look around for the key every time he wanted to leave or get into the house. It was a monomania similar to when he became infuriated with outlets being located only behind beds and tables. He’d pace around, yelling: “WHAT ARE THEY, SOME KIND OF MONSTROSITY?! WE HAVE TO HIDE THEM BECAUSE THEY’RE SO UGLY!? WE BEND DOWN, BREAKING OUR BACKS, MOVING FURNITURE TO GET INTO THEM?! ENOUGH OF THIS!” Instead of ignoring this, as one should, he redid our entire electrical circuit so we could have eye-level outlets. When I said they looked bad, he took it so personally, it was as if I had said it about his appearance.
I definitely didn’t help the key situation, I’ll admit. I often forgot mine altogether and would be locked outside for hours, calling him and his assistant twenty times over. When he decided to hide a spare key outside, I never remembered to put it back. I just kept bringing it inside the house with me, locking it in there for the next time I needed it.
One day he decided he had had enough, and I came home to find the lock on the front door removed and replaced with a door code. A door code. Like it was a goddamn therapist’s office. I gasped and rang the doorbell five times in a row. My dad opened the door as wide as his arm was able to stretch, his face beaming with joy, the type of smile I see only when he thinks he’s figured out a small but life-changing solution to a problem.
“WELL, WELL, WELL, LOOK WHO IT IS! WELCOME HOME!” he said.
“Father,” I said, trying to suppress a smile I had only because his was contagious.
“ARE YOU SEEING THIS BEAUTY?!” he said gesturing to the door code. “HOW ABOUT THIS BEAUTY?!”
“Dad. What. Is. This.”
“NO MORE LOOKING FOR YOUR KEY. NO MORE LOOKING AROUND THE HOUSE AND CAR FOR THE KEY. NO MORE LOOKING THROUGH DRAWERS. ONE CODE. NEVER LOCKED OUT AGAIN.”
“I’ve never felt more unsafe in my life.”
Going to sleep every night when you’re as fearful as I am but also live with a dad who has a shocking alter ego of a free spirit is nerve-racking, to say the least. My dad takes what looks like fifty supplements every single day and hasn’t had sugar in fifteen years. The man would sit in a cryo-chamber for six days straight if someone
showed him a study that said it might prevent illness, but he will take absolutely no precaution to ensure neither of us gets murdered. I’d chosen to live with my dad because he was eventually going to die, but over time, it had developed into me living with him to protect him from immediate death.
As the security guard of the house, my job is to go hunt for a killer. When I was a child, I was too scared to go downstairs at night alone, as was my sister, so we made a promise that no matter how badly we were fighting or how comfortable we were in bed, if one of us needed to go downstairs, the other one would go with her. We were scared of anything and everything but mainly apparitions and burglars. These fears mostly still remain to this day, but now I’m forced to confront them solo. I’ve been afraid of coming across something nefarious for so long now that I’ve begun to feel surprised every time I don’t run into an intruder. It’s almost starting to get discouraging, like training in the army for seven years and never getting to go to war. Well, it’s not like that. Soldiers are happy when they don’t have to go to war, and I’m happy that I don’t have to fight a murderer. All I’m saying is that there’s a lot of time put into mentally training and it’d be a huge waste if it turns out to be for nothing. I imagine being ninety years old and seeing the intruder at the bottom of the stairs. “Finally! It took you long enough!” I’ll say.