Dear Next Boyfriend,

This made me think of you.

Dear Next Boyfriend,

DNB,

"Do not marry your fortunes to anyone unless they are willing to be your devoted, synergistic warrior as much as you are willing to be their devoted, synergistic warrior"- Rob Brezny

Yes, yes, and yes.

I want enthusiasm. Excitement. An overload of overjoyed. I want cant sleep wont sleep dont sleep, red, blurred eyes, conversations that go on for days. that veer and rollercoaster between dimensions and diversions and dreams and desires and planes of reality. Jokes and looks and dances in the street, in our sleep, a dueling two step, two step one and two one and...
I want us to think of one another in a context beyond one another.
Can't we be kind? Can't we be generous? Can't we avoid dissolving into lies and deceit and single minded self interest? Can't our ideals be actions?
Can't we talk?
I want us to be paying attention. To notice. To hold a hand when we see it wants holding. Can't we be equals? Can't we be partners?
Can't we be devoted synergistic warriors?

(Cause.. um, I've already got the warrior sword...)

Love,
Tori

Dear Next Boyfriend,

DNB,

If traveling has taught me anything, its this:

You better like grit in your teeth,
calloused feet,
and the taste and smell of garlic*,
if we are ever going to make this work.

I can't wait to meet you.

Love,
Tori

*(and I mean, everything tasting and smelling like garlic. Everything. Ya hear me?)

Dear Next Boyfriend (Past- Present)

DNB,

An excerpt from 2003:

"I find myself waiting for a knock at the door. Someone to walk in, familiar and sure, and to sit down next to me, as if they have before. A stranger who knows the linear inequalities of my face, traces the invisible bruise of muscle and tendon stretched taunt below my skin, holds my hands shaking and tense.

And my name is a pattern on their lips, well worn, wishful, welcome, no longer discordant.
And they keep it close, next to their own. A symbolic symphony."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is strange to not have you here. I feel like I am giant-stepping into my (our?) future soon, with an empty hand that yours should twine and twin with. Though the idea is as abstract as your existence currently is, and despite my complete faith and perseverance in the pursuit of my own desires, it brought me to irreconcilable tears the other night, quiet, shaking sobs in the dark, completely out of character.

We should be shoulder to shoulder, maps laid out, taking notes, charting the stars, deciding and dreaming. "Keep your eyes peeled", you should be whispering, "you don't want to miss whats next."

But each path has a purpose; maybe this one has two: turning thought into action (the dirt in my hands, the concrete pounding shock waves through my legs, the sky ever expanding, stepping off a ledge and finding wings where there once were just weights) and you. Could you be a purpose? I think I'd like to call you "promise", but you are definitely not the "point" (you should know by now, I'll never be that girl).

I think promise fits. Its what I offer, its what I should expect ("We accept the love we think we deserve").

I am though, no longer sitting still, hands clasped and face expectant, awaiting arrival. Soon this promise will be set in motion, covering ground, taking in new territory. Soon this promise will be unstoppable. Soon this promise will grow. These are all things you should look forward to.

"Keep your eyes peeled", I whisper, "you don't want to miss what's next"

Love,
Tori

Dear Next Boyfriend (The Musical)

DNB,

(sung in an incredibly high falsetto, whilst tap dancing and waving my arms all around, in what seems to be a poor attempt to indicate flight/a fancy dress spinning/ a drunk hobo reaching to embrace you):

"So far away
Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
Doesn't help to know you're just time away

Long ago I reached for you and there you stood
Holding you again could only do me good
Oh, how I wish I could
But you're so far away

One more song about moving along the highway
Can't say much of anything that's new
If I could only work this life out my way
I'd rather spend it being close to you

But you're so far away
Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
Doesn't help to know you're so far away

Traveling around sure gets me down and lonely
Nothing else to do but close my mind
I sure hope the road don't come to own me
There's so many dreams I've yet to find

But you're so far away
Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
Doesn't help to know you're so far away".

yeah.

This is the kind of shit you're going to have to deal with on a daily basis.

Love,
Tori

Dear Next Boyfriend

DNB,

I have been having heavily decorated, extended play, make out session dreams, usually involving me and a sort of stranger (slightly known) or sometimes Bill Paxton and occasionally, Nathan Fillion. I have also found myself sniffing members of the opposite sex in what I can only assume is some form of premordial, ape-ancestor related foreplay.

This shit is nearing critical mass, and I am forced, once again, to comment on your tardiness.

YOU'RE LATE.

Love,
Tori

Dear Next Boyfriend (Holiday Edition)

DNB,

From a recent email I sent:

"good luck with the holiday bullshit slam. the only thing i like is a) snow because that means b) awesome hats and scarves and c) layering like an old russian woman which always makes me feel like d) i'm playing the "end of days" game which is e) fun.

I didn't get you a gift.

Love,
Tori

Dear Next Boyfriend (the Valentine, Pt. 1)

I have been told, DNB, that my tone with you is, more often than not, harsh/cold/authoritative..in a nut shell: mean. I'm sure if you studied the exit polls of my exiting exes, you might find that a common thread. BUT! The goal is always, ever, evolution and progress to a better state of being. And truly, DNB, it was never my intention to steer ya wrong with my tone, shuga.

So with that in mind, The Valentine (Part One):

I may never make you tea. The tea all the hip kids with their delicate coy sentiments stirred in seem so enamored of, we may never share acuppa.
I will, however, brew strong coffee in a cracked french press at 3am, or smother it with that gas station creamer that reminds us of cancer at dawn on long car rides, or lace it liberal with whiskey for our late night walks home.
That, my pet, is a promise.

Love,
Tori

Dear Next Boyfriend,

sigh.

How I "sell myself" on in my online dating profile:

Three words that accurately describe you:

"Part hill-folk, satirical, and un-foppish"

First thing people usually notice about you?

"Long hair?"

You're really good at:

"Special Voices"

You spend a lot of time thinking about...

"Outer space..... but not like, scientifically..."

sigh

I really should be nicer to you.

Love,
Tori

Dear Next Boyfriend,

**For Tim and Erin- this is the post I've been putting off for weeks, as flikr, for whatever reason, wouldn't upload my Man Nighty Photo- which, I am sure you'll agree, was essential to this posting. I hope you'll eventually forgive me.**

Dear Next Boyfriend,

A few important "Dos and Donts" came to mind recently. I'd like to summarize them here:

Don't- Wear Man Nighties
Do I really need to explain this one?





Do- Be a Non Smoker- or at the very least, be trying to quit. Because then, perhaps, I could be persuaded to enjoy the after-sex cigarette, and only smoke 5 times a day instead of my previous pack-a-day habit.






Don't- Inappropriately Name My Genitalia
Do you really think asking me if you can "eat my kitten' is going to get the job done?






Do-Embrace my fictional 17-year-old adopted son, Tyler. He can be quite a handful, but I try to look past the D.U.I.'s, his meth/red bull addiction, and his two illegitimate children (**pending paternity tests- let's keep our finger's crossed!).





Love,
Tori

p.s.- I am beginning to worry about my ever expanding gaggle of fictional men. I also named the "boyfriend" pillow I bought for Bryan "Edwardo"- and promptly stole him from Bryan. If I acquire a fictional dog, step father, parole officer, or pimp, will someone please host an intervention? Because I don't think I can stop this train once it gets a-movin'....

The Returnining of Dear Next Boyfriend

The Returnining of the Next Boyfriend

So you think you're idling your time away, sending useless blog transmissions into the ever-expanding void of the interweb and myspacetopia. nothing of high import is being conveyed, but that niggling voice in your inner ear that pleads with you to make some sort of nonsensical contribution to the world of words is temporarily quieted with every post, and you can scroll back through said posts a year later and chuckle, usually at your own delusions. but you're in your own little boat, paddling contentedly along, and you think "its okay, because no one is reading this anyways". and everything is fine.


until, that is, you blog-break up with your phantom Next Boyfriend. And people are concerned .Upset enough to call, even, and complain.


so, whomever is reading this (is it only you, tim?), I will be getting back to getting back together with My Next Boyfriend shortly.


(which is, if taken out of context, a truly bizarre and fucked concept, which could only exist in the vaccum of interspace. swwwweeet.)


Count your lucky stars, Next Boyfriend. Because we were totes through. I was on my way to Next Next Boyfriend, otherwise known as ReBound Boyfriend, less commonly called Back Up Boyfriend, which is just a guy you keep around as a friend in the off chance you might just be that drunk and lonely and sad and lazy enough someday, and you want to be prepared for that occasion.

Dear Next Boyfriend,

I came to a sudden realization last week. I have no time for you. So, pet, I must insist that you desist and cease to exist (har har..oh). Its sad really, but its all for the best. With the music babies just awaiting birth, the gaming nights full of cthulu crimes to be solved, the secretly public displays of enraptured and ruptured heatstrings and heartbeats to be attended to, and the writing, the writing the writing of it all, I just can't squeeze you in.

Come calling when the winter hits, and all I crave are long nights in sweaty sheets surrounded by videos and food cartons. We will smoosh our combined heft together then, and dream up big dreams for future use.

I'm forrrreverrrrr yours, faithfully,
Tori

Dear Next Boyfriend,

You're late. You were supposed to meet me here at least a month ago. Lucky for you, I'm easily distracted by Harry Potter books, dnd with special voices, and recording myself singing sounding like its my man-twin (who, by the by, I am naming Darryl). But seriously, get a move on.


Love,
Tori

Dear Next Boyfriend,

Dear Next Boyfriend,

I've decided to throw in the towel, and give up every semblance of ever trying to be in anyway remotely "cool" ever again- although most would argue that I gave up that ghost long ago ("remember whose hobby was rock polishing when they were young, dear tori?") and they would mostly be right.

Anyways, in homage to that decision....
My DnD character is a 12th Level Elvin Cleric, a Temple Whore/High Priestess in service to the Great Cthulu. She has an electric mace, and I named her arranged marriage, pre "call of Cthulu" husband after "Zoot" from "The Tribes" (of the fun lovin "Power and Chaos" Loco Tribe).
Jeremy walked into work yesterday and said, for the first time ever, "hello, cleric , and I almost cried. Tear of joy though, tears of motherfucking pure baby virgin joy.

Love,
Tori

(PS: During my stumble drunk the other night, I decided that the real test of our longevity will not be your acquiescence to my...well...inherent evil, but if you promise we can have sex at least once while listening to Al Green's "Lets Stay Together" on repeat. Oh, but on that momentous occasion, I have to be 16 again, we have to be on a beach (but yet still in my bed?), you've got to be sporting some bitchin' white sunglasses, and maybe have a little white zinc lotion on the bridge of your nose. Yeah. The details were a bit..blurred.. but you get the idea)

Dear Next Boyfriend,

I appreciate your willingness to join our DnD group, and your readiness to sum up all my dice rolls (I will bring a calculator next time) without poking fun at my stumped expression at such simple equations. Your presence makes my Tuesday night questing all the more meaningful.

Also, major props to your tolerance of my recent Doris Day obsession. I can't help the fact that "Everybody Loves a Lover" pretty much sums up my entire existence as of late. It's like a drug, sweetness, a drug I just can't shake on my own.

Love,
Tori

Dear Next Boyfriend,

Neither "28 Days Later" or "28 Weeks Later" are zombie movies.




If I have to go into the whys and hows, we are totally breaking up.

Love,
Tori

Dear Next Boyfriend,

I am vehemently anti-robot. I do not want one that runs around without eyes cleaning my floors the instant it "senses" dirt, and I certainly do not want one that looks near life-like and takes out my trash/performs various sex acts. I also do not want one that is micro sized, and can be inserted into my blood/cells and travel around, destroying or creating as it sees fit; its possible ability to erradicate cancer is irrelevant in that it must then also contain the power to create cancer.

I have seen the relevant films, sweetheart, and I have studied the literature. I know that, through our lack of foresight and our overwhelming, blind desire to play "god", we will eventually become nothing more than fodder for the robot's "machine". Robots, therefore, are a deal breaker.

Just thought you should know.

Love,

Tori