Singled Out: The Not-So Special Lesbian

I've come to the terms with the shocking fact that I am not as particularly unique a human being as I thought I extraordinarily was. While this unexpected news was at first tremendously disturbing to me, I have at last psychologically overcome this unmanageable upset. Well ok, my super sexy therapist made me do it. Supposedly for my own mental peace and serenity --it was a necessary evil.

So now, the thought of it does not trouble me as much anymore. I've thoroughly grasped the unimaginable reality that if I am able to do something outstanding - whether absurdly retarded or admirably commendable - then chances are someone else, somewhere else is doing it as well.

However, where my modest opinion of myself adamantly differs is when I am forced to believe that whatever not-so-unique thing I do is not absolutely special. It's not what I do but how I do it that has literally and figuratively made me "SPECIAL."

You can imagine my astonishment when I recently found out that some of my friends have actually impressively excelled at demonstrating even more special virtues than I - specifically in the desperate hours of the "my relationship is completely falling apart but I'd rather play the denial card and make a total fool of myself to pathetically try to save it" department.

And it all bubbled to the surface a few weeks ago when my lady friends and I convened one evening for a casual dinner at our habitual West Hollywood hangout.
I don't even know how our dinner suddenly morphed into an all-out confessional, but it did. And along with it came a complimentary desert that I never ordered in the first: a big fat slap on my face! These women were on a roll. The stories inexhaustibly kept pouring out of their mouths -- each more absurd and more insane than the next.

Admittedly upset at the fact that some of their tales were superseding in weighing my own exuberant "biggest loser" prowess on the scale of imbecility and idiocrasy, I was for sure convinced that some of them were making the shit up for the sake of sounding interesting - not so much! Apparently my friends can be as much psycho bitches (if not more) as I've proven I can, am and most likely will always be.

What made my "based on a true story" anecdote stand out was that I simply had never before heard of anyone go to the same despairing extent as I went through to re-spark the obviously fading flame from my then indifferent girlfriend. Let's just say that I was no longer standing on the edge of sanity but had irrecoverably crossed over to the other side, with both feet firmly stepping full force into deliria land.

For some odd reasons, after a few intense months dating said girlfriend - let's call her Tyler- she started to exude subtle behavioral signs of disinterest. The symptoms were quite mundanely basic: she wouldn't return my calls; would disappear for hours without an explanation and was not as readily available to spend time with me as in the commencement of our "she's THE one" story.

Granted, I chose to totally ignore the hints she was perceptibly throwing at me and conveniently elected to not see what the reality really was. And because I was unequivocally persuaded that it was impossible for anyone to stop loving me, I reasoned that Tyler had a blindness problem. Obviously, she needed help to see that, despite her belief, she was really into me.

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So I figured that I needed to impress her all over again. I suspected that she had been losing interest in me because I had been negligent of my "executive business woman" fashion style. I had let myself slip into the trivial world of casual wear, evidently to the detriment of the image of who my girlfriend had decided I was. Clearly in this case it was not something I said but everything I wore that made her reconsider staying in the relationship. I had no choice but to go for the kill.

One random Sunday morning, after nervously staring for hours at my cell phone and miserably waiting in vein to see her name pop up on my digital screen, I had a grandiose epiphany! Somehow the maniac side of me decided it would be a good idea to pull a publicity stunt! After all, I'm a publicist and if I can hype things for my clients then I can certainly hype my own ass, right?

I rushed to my closet and immediately changed into my Dynasty's Alexis Colby (aka Joan Collins) super vixen business attire, grabbed my attaché-case and hopped in my Mercedes ...destination: Tyler's place.

My plan was simple: I would call her from my car to pretend that I was returning from a breakfast business meeting -- coincidently occurring within the vicinity of her residential area -- and nonchalantly informed her that I would swing by to say a quick hello.
I was so sure my simulated accidental--very staged --visit was going to work in my favor and that after one look at my irresistibly fierce self she would fall in love with me all over again. Frankly, how could she not? I was quite the sexy bitch oozing power and success!

When she opened the door, a blasé Tyler greeted me with the most loving words: "What's up with the fucking business outfit?"  So ok, that was totally humiliating and not quite the ebullient reaction I was going for.  Naturally, I passively took the punch, and then turned the other cheek and prayed - prayed she would forgive me for not wearing the right shirt because obviously something in my entire presentation was off.

What can I say? Desperate times required desperate measures!

Speaking of desperate measures, apparently my impressively pathetic and hopeless self had some serious competition when it came to the other "best kept secret" accomplishments of my present dining circle of desperate housewives. Yep, in the category of "incomprehensible, absurdly stupid behavior" there were more challenging follies than mine out there - which was very disturbing to me because obviously I was not even the best at being the worst in the art of sucking!

Clearly, the coveted # 1 spot belonged to my friend McKenzie who caught her girlfriend cheating with another girl and found nothing better to do, when alleged lover - whom by the way had recently been deplorably dumped by her own girlfriend - became bedridden with the flu, but to cook her homemade chicken soup and personally hand delivered it.  

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Worried sick about the precarious mental well being of my friends, at my next super sexy therapist meeting, I shared my concerns. She immediately put my mind at ease reassuring me that our level of senility was benignly amateurish in comparison to the professional caliber of say the likes of her. Seriously, her talent is so inhumanly indescribable, it's deserving of a category of its own.

Here's the condensed version of the dialogue that enfolded between my super sexy therapist and her now ex-husband when he returned home at the crack of dawn after being MIA all night:

SST:        "Where have you been? Have you seen the time? I waited all night for you."
Husband:    "Bitch, it's none of your fucking business where I was"
SST:        "I'm sorry baby, you're right. I have no right to tell you what to do
or not to do"
 ----  deadly silent pause ----

SST:        "Did you have a good time sweetie?"

Awww, isn't she "special"?
And she became my therapist because?
Did I mention "super sexy?"

So what if being different is my SPECIAL'ty?

Catch up with Mona on Singled Out.